by Lia Riley
“Hey, hey, settle down.” I wrap around him, slip my hands in his back pockets. “I know, I know you don’t. But, holy hell, Bran. People want you to go on late-night shows and everything.”
“Not happening.”
“But think about it, you could get exposure for what’s going on out there, the whale hunts. Help the Sea Alliance spread the word.”
His gaze narrows, green eyes radiating an intense strength of will. “I said it’s not happening.”
“But—”
His hand on my hip slides to my waist. “They want a hero. That’s not me.”
“I disa—”
“Ms. Stolfi? Mr. Lockhart?” An Eastern European accent rumbles. I turn and look up, and up. A giant looms over the parking lot, swathed in an impeccably tailored suit, aviators, and black silk tie. His hair is buzzed close to his broad skull, and the head of a Chinese dragon is elaborately inked on the side of his neck. “Mr. Zavtra waits for you.” He turns, not waiting for us to follow.
O-kay. This situation has left the station and we’re officially on the way to crazy town.
“We’re talking about your hero issues later,” I mutter, trying to keep up with the giant’s brisk pace.
Bran grimaces like I just suggested an in-depth chat about the benefits to drawing and quartering in medieval England.
Zavtra Tech looks more ominous and soulless the closer we approach. Sure, there’s a lawn, and immaculately landscaped gardens, but the green space feels perfunctory, unnatural.
“Never forget,” Bran fires back. “Knights might try their best, but sometimes, the dragon wins.”
The security guard bypasses the impressive front entrance in favor of a nondescript side door. He swipes a key card and we’re inside. I glare down the intricate tat on his bull-thick neck as we approach the chrome elevator.
“Not today,” I answer.
Chapter Fourteen
Bran
Talia and I stand on one side of the elevator. The Polish security guard—whom I fight the urge to refer to as Tiny—hulks in the opposite corner. Maybe if I taunt a little he’ll pound me with one of those meat slab fists, put me out of commission. Might be better than the alternative. Who the hell knows this Zavtra wanker’s angle?
Talia glances at me, worry stamped on her expression. She wants to disagree that I caused the accident. I’d love to give her everything she wants, but I can’t wish away how things happened Down South. It was my fault. My inexperience nearly killed a woman and now idiots want me to pretend to be a superhero. The idea makes me want to spew my guts out.
We reach the top floor and Talia’s friend, Beth, is there when the door opens, smoothing her sleek bob. She’s beautiful in a predictable, well-groomed way, everything in place, boring as batshit. She engulfs Talia in a shrieking hug, the way girls do when they haven’t seen each other in ages. Tiny and I stand to one side while they hold on tight and execute a twirl. He still wears his shades despite the absence of natural light. I take mine off and shove them in my hoodie pocket. I have enough fake celebrity in my life without needing to posture.
With all this media nightmare garbage, am I going to need to lawyer up? I owe Dad ten grand already. He insists on referring to it as an advance on my services, not a loan. I’m getting pressured to work for the foundation. There’s a part of me that knows I’ve got sound ideas, that the start-up money Dad sank into the organization can be put to good use. But I’ve devoted over five years of my life resisting the Lockhart name, and everything it stands for. Environmental pillage. Legal but ill-gotten gains.
No. No lawyers. The last thing I want to do is draw on more family resources. I need to keep my head down, wait for the next celebrity to climb from a car without knickers and divert the attention. But bloody hell, Talia has a point. People are interested in me. What if I turn the tables and beat them at their own game? Could I manipulate the situation to make the public knowledgeable about the issues despite themselves?
“Bran?” Beth says, like she’s said it before. “You listening?”
I blink. Everyone stares.
“What?”
“Z says you’re to enter alone.”
I take in the double black doors. “Who’s Z?”
“Zavtra? Aleksander Zavtra?” She adds a silent duh to the end of the word. “Thank you, Katya, that will be all.” She dismisses the gigantic man with a curt smile. He gives a silent nod, steps into the elevator. The doors shut and we’re alone. The anteroom gleams white, with one wall a glass pane that looks out to a massive, open-plan office filled with people behind desks, scurrying around, chatting.
“That guy was huge,” Talia murmurs to Beth. “Creepy.”
“I know, right?” Beth shudders. “He is Z’s bodyguard.”
“This place has a weird vibe.” Talia shakes her head. “I don’t like it.”
“Don’t worry, Z’s not scary.” Beth’s nervous laugh doesn’t comfort. Neither does her surreptitious glance to the surveillance camera. She dips her chin down enough that her chin-length hair covers her features.
Whoever he is, the bloke’s definitely a type A megalomaniac. Takes a special variety of wanker to flaunt his name on the side of the company building so large it’s visible from rush hour traffic. I don’t give a toss if the guy is a recluse and this is a big opportunity. The way I see it, he’s a phony. The less he reveals himself, or talks to people, the more everyone will think he possesses profound deepness. No doubt it’s the opposite.
Beth checks her watch. “We have another eighty-five seconds until you can go in.”
“Are you bloody serious?”
“He said ten-thirty a.m. Z…well…he appreciates punctuality.”
“Does he have OCD?” Talia asks with forced casualness. She keeps her condition secret from her friends with amazing acting skills. I prefer the real Talia, warts and all. I’ve had enough fake perfection in my life.
“No, I don’t think so. He’s…precise.”
“What’s up with the pauses?” I ask.
Beth examines an invisible wrinkle in her skirt and pretends not to hear. She carries baggage from this guy. The assistant’s desk is empty.
“You work here?”
“No! I’m downstairs, in public relations, but filling in at the moment. The last assistant left abruptly.”
“Zavtra has a lot of assistants?”
That earns me a sharp look from her.
I look up at the camera and stare down the lens. It watches us like a black, blank fish eye.
“He requested to meet you in person, Bran.” Beth’s breathy voice drops lower, husky with an odd intensity. “This is a big deal. Huge. He never meets anyone face-to-face.”
“Why?” Talia pushes. “Is he deformed or something?”
Beth checks her watch. “All I did was watch the clip of Bran online.” She notices my frown and gives me an apologetic face. “It got e-mailed around a couple days ago. The women here think you’re way cute. Some of the guys too.”
I snort.
“He doesn’t like to talk about it.” Talia pats my back.
Bloody oath I don’t.
“Anyway, I told someone I knew who you were, I mean, we’re at like one degree of separation, right?” There’s a hairline scar next to Beth’s eye. Is that from the accident? Talia said she was in the car when her sister crashed, but that she never speaks about the day, says she can’t remember anything.
Beth’s gaze shutters when she notices my examination. She’s good at hiding her feelings. Takes one to know one. Talia’s the opposite. Her face is a billboard. She tries to remain hidden, and to others it might work, but for me, I can read everything. I always could. I have the key to her code; it’s what drew me in from the start.
How can people talk to her, even just walk past her, and not fall in love in an instant? She’s a rainbow ending in a pot of leprechaun gold. How can’t they see? How don’t they know?
“Time.” Beth strides toward the closed doors with c
lear relief at being able to execute the duty.
She knocks three times.
“I can just go in.”
Beth holds a hand in warning. “Wait thirty seconds.”
“Hey.” Talia steps beside me. “Maybe I should come with.”
Beth shakes her head. “Just Bran. He was very specific.”
“What’s he like?”
“He sounds definite.” Beth twines her fingers through her hair, gives the camera another furtive glance. “It’s time you go in.”
“What do you mean sounds like?” I place my hand on the door.
“I’ve never seen him. He either messages or calls. Katya is the only one allowed in there on a regular basis. It’s time. Go.” Beth nudges my shoulder. “Oh, and Bran?”
“Yeah?”
“Good luck.” The deep uncertainty behind her murmur sends the hair on the back of my neck skyward.
I push inside. My eyes don’t have enough time to readjust before the door shuts.
The floor-to-ceiling windows are dark from light-canceling blinds. Instead, the office is lit from six mounted flat screens. Each one highlights my face, paused during the promo clip. Gives me the same slow-motion feeling I’d had in those first few seconds the accident unfolded.
The sound of slow, mocking applause. “Quite brave.” The voice comes from behind me.
I spin around. “More like a bloody idiot.”
“Brandon Lockhart.” A guy slouches in the shadows against the far wall, dressed in the same style as his security guard. His face is obscured because he chose the darkest part of the room to lie in wait. A deliberate act. He misjudged his audience. My father hardened me against strong-armed intimidation tactics. “You captured the public’s imagination.” There’s a vague Russian inflection in the growl he gives the consonants, also a hint of British poshness. “Eager to capitalize on your fifteen minutes?”
“Is that why I’m here?” I shove my hands in my hoodie and hold my ground.
“What do you think?”
“Mate, if I had the answer, would I ask?”
“You don’t like talking in circles, do you, Lockhart?”
“No. Not particularly.”
“Rather be out in all the California sunshine with your girlfriend?” There’s a glimmer of amusement in his tone. He enjoys needling me.
“I’m not here to talk about her, that’s for sure.”
Zavtra raises his arm and there’s a barely audible click. The same six flat screens switch to the anteroom. Beth brews Talia an espresso from a fancy coffee machine. Talia glances at the doors, the same ones to my back. Unease is plain on her face even as she tries to follow her friend’s rapid-fire conversation.
“Pretty but average.”
My unease distils to anger. Good. I’m better this way. “You like having a mouth?”
“Ah, there it is. The temper.” Something about his haughty laugh, it’s familiar but unclear—a shadow moving behind a frosted window.
“Do we know each other, mate?”
“Natalia Stolfi. Smart, not brilliant. No rare beauty. Nothing exceptional.”
The screens flick off. “Why the attraction?”
Is this bloke for real? I lock my arms across my chest.
“I ask a simple question.” He inclines his body toward me. I’m impressed by his presence despite the considerable space between us. He gives the impression that his every movement is one of careful consideration.
“Prepare for disappointment.”
There’s that bloody familiar laugh again. “Aren’t you curious about why I am interested?”
“Not particularly, people are nosy fucks.”
“A million dollars.”
“I’m not following.” I hate feeling like I’m missing out on some inside joke.
“A million dollars for you to tell me why you bother loving that girl. You do love her, correct?”
“Piss off.”
“Two million.”
“You’ll pay me two million dollars to explain why I’m into my girlfriend?”
“I will.”
“That’s a shit ton of money.”
“To some. So you agree?”
“No.”
“You’ve refused your more than agreeable trust fund. With no job, or graduate program, what shall you do with your life? Go on another reality television program? I won’t make the offer a third time. This is your last chance.”
“Good, I’m sick of refusing.”
“Very well.” His voice is exactly the same, low, easy, deceptively friendly. “How is it? Knowing all that money is gone?”
“The same as two minutes ago.” And it’s true. Since stepping into this trippy environment, nothing seems real.
“You and I, Lockhart, we aren’t so different.”
“Sorry, mate. I can’t agree with anything approaching confidence.”
He starts to walk, staying close to the wall. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
“No.” But I’m trying…
“You even stand like a cocky motherfucker. Quite impressive. You always were self-possessed.”
“You sound like a fan.”
“Me, oh yes, you could say that. Maybe your first.”
It’s there, the memory swims below the surface, I grab it with both hands. “Bloody hell…Sander?” It can’t be, but somehow…it is.
“Took you long enough.”
“Dude, bloody hell. The theatrics, I should have known.” I move to tackle him, but he steps behind his desk, not in a hurried motion, but enough that it’s obvious he deflects the physical contact.
“Rather thought it would be obvious. You’ve lost your touch.”
My old boarding school roommate has added a foot and a half of height, and fifty kilos in weight. No longer the skinny bespectacled kid who got the everlasting shit kicked out of him during Year Eight camp. His father’s a Moscow-based oligarch who rose to power under Yeltsin with whispered ties to the Russian mafia. Rumors flew around that Sander’s mother was a prostitute.
“Sander Dubrovksy. You are the famous Aleksander Zavtra.” I can’t hold back the laughter. “No shit. Hell, dude, it’s been a while.”
“Nine years.” He smirks.
“What happened with school? You vanished.”
“Many things.” His cocky grin disappears. “Then I came here for study at Stanford. Silicon Valley presented itself and look, I’m a regular California dude, am I not?”
“Riiiiight.” I check out his darkened lair. “Get out much?”
“I’m a busy man.”
“So am I, Sander, but—”
“Z. It’s Z now.”
“You want me to call you Z?”
His face is expressionless. “I do.”
“I…what the hell, man? What’s up with the Stalinist surveillance? Is it true that you don’t come out?”
“I go out.”
“Beth said she’s worked at your front desk for two weeks and hasn’t seen you.”
He waves his hand in an act of dismissal. “The eyes see what the eyes choose.”
“You always were one for riddles.”
“And you were always one of the few people I liked. With my little camera, I noticed that girl out there, Bethanny,” he pronounces her name like it costs him effort. “She watched this video on her computer. Kept rewatching. I suppose I was curious.”
“The watcher watching a watcher.”
“And there you were on the screen, fucking Lockhart. I asked her who that was and she responded it was her friend’s boyfriend. A simple matter to connect the pieces.”
“Why didn’t you just ring me?”
“People change.” He sits in a fluid motion and steeples his fingers. “I wanted to see if you were still the same guy. The hero.” He pronounces the word like it’s a joke.
Which it is.
“Wrong guy, mate.”
“Maybe to most. But you were a champion to me, when it counted.” He tapped the side of
his temple. “I don’t forget debts.”
Sander was a skinny kid with too many freckles, a big mouth, and a talent for poking people where it hurt. Kids at school camp were sick of his quick wit and took a hazing too far. I heard what happened in the canteen and found him when no one else could. It wasn’t hard. No one took the time to think it through. Search parties were organized. The teachers assumed he’d fallen in a ravine, wandered into the woods.
No. Not Sander.
He was in the camp director’s office preparing to unleash a computer virus designed to wipe out the financial records of the entire grammar school.
I calmed his ass down and the next year we roomed together. People didn’t mess with me and so didn’t bother with him. We were best friends, in our way. I didn’t nose around with whatever he did on the computer, and he didn’t ask me dumb questions. Neither of us ever discussed families. When Year Eleven came, he didn’t show to school at the start of term. I never heard what happened to him, although I soon stopped wondering. That was the year that Adie Lind arrived from Denmark. I got distracted falling hard and fast in first love.
“You were a friend.” He spins a pen between his fingers. “I haven’t had many.”
“Sander, Z, whatever, look—”
“You are as I remember. I’d like to make you an offer.”
“If it’s anything like the bullshit you just tried to pull with Talia—”
“No.” He gives me a real smile and there he is, Sander—the wired, excitable kid too smart for his own good.
“Hang on.” I glance back at the television screens. “If I said yes before, would you have given me two million?”
“Sure.” He shrugs. “But I wouldn’t have offered you a job.”
Chapter Fifteen
Talia
Let me get this straight, Zavtra the Creepy is an old school chum?” I don’t even bother to restrain my chuckle. We sit in the backseat of a giant, gas-guzzling SUV as Katya, the hulk of a security guard, returns us to Bankside as promised. “Why aren’t I surprised?”