The Experiment

by Holly Hart

  “They were recruiting veterans, oh...sixteen, seventeen years ago.” He sips his Coke. “Just come off a twenty-year stretch in the army; not a lot else going on. It was that or my dad’s auto shop.”

  “Not a huge fan of exhaust fumes and axle grease?”

  From the face he pulls, I’d guess not.

  I push my greens around my plate, trying to look nonchalant. “So the big takeover—how’d that happen?” I spear a chunk of cucumber. “I mean, three grunts ousting the CEO: who does that?”

  Starkey stirs his drink with his straw. It’s an oddly delicate gesture, and weird on him—like Clint Eastwood eating a candy cigarette. “It wasn’t like that. Nagler was getting older, and they had the tactical experience, the background....” He frowns. “And they didn’t oust him. He moved into international recruitment.”

  “International recruitment....” Nope. Still doesn’t make sense. This is the fault line under the empire: this is how I’ll pierce my contract. Something hinky happened here, and this guy knows what it was. “Come on. They had something on him, didn’t they?”

  Starkey sits up straighter, suddenly on full alert. “Don’t ask those kinds of questions.”

  “Relax. I’m kidding.”

  “I’m not.” Lunch is apparently over. He grabs a napkin and wipes the chicken grease off his fingers. “Listen: shop all you want. Go to some parties. Enjoy the lifestyle.” He wads up his napkin and tosses it in the trash. “But don’t get too curious. Mr. Brightman’s a private guy.”

  Yeah. Most criminals are. “Sorry. It’s just incredible, someone so young pulling off that kind of—well, not coup, right? Promotion, then?”

  Starkey shifts in his seat. Sucks his teeth. He looks stressed. Like he’s already said too much.

  “All right, all right—new subject.” I have nothing to say to this guy. “Ah...how about those Knicks?”

  He snorts. “Right.” His phone beeps, and he makes a show of checking his messages. “I’m to take you to the salon, to prepare for a night out.”

  “Where—?”

  “Oh. And don’t think I haven’t realized this was all a ploy to grill me.” He gestures at the table, the food, the bags stowed behind his chair. “You even need any of this stuff? I knew something was up: you haven’t called me Jeeves all day.”

  “You hate that a lot, don’t you?”

  Starkey rounds up the last of the bags. “Suppose it could be worse. I mean, you got your Lurch, your Igor...Jeeves is at least competent.”

  I could torment Starkey a little less. He’s just an old soldier, riding out the back nine. He didn’t sign up for this crap.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jack

  Twenty-one hundred hours. Stella’s resisting my efforts to delay her on the red carpet, get her to pose for a photo or two. She’s locked onto some guy in a tacky green tux, someone she’s blogged about before. Probably hoping for a scoop.

  Fuck that. I nudge her. “Wait.”

  She half-turns my way, still scoping out His Nibs. “Hm? What for?”

  “The Times wants a picture. Don’t you want to make the society page?”

  Apparently, she doesn’t. “I...my mom’s out of town. I wanted to talk to her before—”

  Too late. The camera flashes, once, twice, three times.

  “One more time—very nice! And from the side?”

  If looks could kill....

  “And...smile?”

  She bares her teeth.

  “What’s your name, miss?”

  “Does it matter?”

  I pull her close: “Play nice.” Her elbow digs into my side. I squeeze her good and tight.

  The guy holds out his recorder. “Didn’t quite catch that?”

  She leans in. “I said Stella Rossi.”

  “Well, you’re a beautiful couple! Just gorgeous. Thanks a lot: these are great.”

  “Any time.” I offer her my arm, and we pass below the arch. “Sorry about that.”

  She’s still not looking at me. Casting about for that guy.

  “Listen, I can make a call. Keep your picture out of the paper.”

  Stella turns my way for the first time since we got here. “You’d do that? I mean, thanks. Not to be a jerk, or anything: just, my mother doesn’t know, and she’s kind of buried, right now....” Her shoulders sag. “This isn’t the time.”

  I get that. “No problem. But you have to play along with these guys, up to a point. Smile and wave. Let their editor be the bad guy.” There’s a loose bead on her sleeve. I pluck it off. “That’s how you keep them from going after the limo crotch shots, you know?”

  “Limo crotch shots, right.” She’s distracted again. “Listen, I’m running out of material, and I’m sure you’ve got to make the rounds. Meet by the bar in an hour?”

  Works for me. I do need to press some flesh, and it’ll be easier if I don’t have to introduce my new squeeze a dozen times. I lean in and kiss her forehead. “Go on, then. Have fun. I’ll order you a...?”

  “An old-fashioned. Thanks.” And she’s off. I don’t even rate a kiss back. Oh, well. The night is young. I’ll get a lot more than that by last call.

  Magnus sidles up from nowhere. “Trouble in paradise?”

  “Huh?” I look after Stella. She’s embracing Green Tux Guy. Touching his arm. Laughing. “Oh. No. She, uh...knows people here.” Green Tux Guy grabs some ZZ Top reject by the hand, pulling him into the huddle. I turn back to Magnus. “Didn’t know you were coming.”

  “Mary wanted to.”

  “And where’s she?” I can’t see her anywhere.

  “Half her fucking sorority’s here, from NYU. What are the odds?” He claps me on the shoulder. “But, hey, at least she didn’t ditch me for a leprechaun. Right?”

  Right. Asshole. “Well, I better do the rounds.”

  “Yeah. Catch you later.”

  I keep tabs on Stella as I go. She doesn’t just know people. She’s friendly with everyone. Hadn’t realized she was that well-connected. Makes sense, though: an outsider would get busted pretty quickly doing what she does. She belongs, without standing out. It’s the perfect cover.

  I time my arrival at the bar for twenty-two ten on the dot. Stella’s three minutes late, and arrives with Magnus in tow. “Look who I found!”

  I push her drink down the bar, forcing a smile. “What are the odds?”

  He snaps his fingers at the bartender, polite as always. “Hey! Another of these.” He points at Stella’s drink. “And some olives.”

  Eugh.

  I shift closer to Stella, hoping to shut Magnus out. “So? Get what you needed?”

  She grins. She’s got a glow to her, whiskey and excitement. “And how! This place is a goldmine.”

  “Looked like you found a few friends.”

  “Well, you know...small town.”

  It really isn’t. Stella’s hiding behind her drink. Protecting her secrets. I prod some more. “Where’d you go to college again?”

  “Oh, out of state. And long ago.” She nods at the bartender. “Could I get a soda?”

  And she’s doing it again. Lying—or telling half-truths. “Yale and Columbia, wasn’t it?”

  “I don’t count Columbia. It’s barely an Ivy.”

  Nice save. “So, what did you—”

  “Blah, blah, blah. What’s with the small talk?” Magnus bulls his way into the conversation. “Can’t believe this place. D’you know, I’ve never heard of half these people. It’s a goddamn millennial convention up here.”

  “Aren’t we technically millennials?” Stella flashes the sweetest of smiles. Don’t think she likes being interrupted.

  “No. Fuck off. We’re actual adults. At least, me and him are. Served our country. Made our fortunes. Like our dads...would’ve done, if they’d had two brain cells to rub together.” He’s drunk, headed for sloppy drunk. Excellent. “What about you? You a patriot?”

  “I’m—”

  I cut her off. Too many ways this could g
o bad. “’Course she is. Red, white, and blue all the way.”

  “What he said.”

  “You better be.” He’s bearing down on her, oafish and drunk. Just what this evening needs: booze and politics.

  “I assure you, I—”

  “I mean, you come into this country, you... You’re given every opportunity—college degree, nice apartment, anything you want....”

  Anything you want.

  I blink hard. Grip my glass. Two versions of Magnus waver in and out of focus, one flushed with drink; one pale, smeared with soot and ash. He laughs. Frowns. Holds up his hands. I shake my head and focus.

  “Go ahead, Charlie Leader. Over.”

  I stare Magnus down over my rifle. Over my drink.

  Fucking focus!

  “Charlie Leader, this is Sunray. Acknowledge, over.”

  “This isn’t what it looks like.” Erik pulls off his balaclava—him too? “Look, meet us back at base camp. By the water tanks.”

  “Charlie Leader, report. Over.”

  “Don’t you do it.” Magnus is...he’s....

  Wagging his finger in Stella’s face, like a drunken uncle.

  ...edging forward. Holding out his hands. “You tell ‘em what you think you saw, you fuck us all. You, us, everyone. Just meet us. Hear us out. You can ask us whatever. Anything you want.”

  I lower my weapon. “Sunray, this is Charlie Leader. We’re clear in 19 Alpha—repeat, 19 Alpha clear of personnel. Over.” Magnus hisses through his teeth. “About time. Thought you were—”

  He’s shaking my shoulder. “—even paying attention?”

  “Huh?” I feel sick. Disoriented. I take a gulp of my drink to wash down the bile.

  “I said, isn’t she fun to fuck with?”

  “Who?”

  He waves his glass at Stella. She’s looking at me with clear concern. “Who else?”

  “Pff. Whatever.” I knock back the rest of my tonic water. “Sober up. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

  Magnus bridles. Time to leave him to it. I hold out my arm for Stella. “Coming?”

  She winks at Magnus. “Well, it’s been a slice.” For once, I appreciate her sarcasm.

  I steamroll through the crowd, using my size to its full advantage. It’s gratifying, the way they part like skittles. Before I know it, I’m practically charging through the throng, dragging Stella behind me. But I can’t stop. I need some walls between us and them. Privacy. Space. I plunge down a darkened hall. Shoulder through the first door I see.

  Stella flicks on the light. We’ve found a changing room: rows and rows of lighted mirrors. Pots of stage makeup. Racks of costumes.

  “What kind of party is this?”

  “Reception for, uh...some kind of opening night. Play, I think.” I drop into the nearest chair. Fumble for my watch. Twenty-two thirty-six. I watch the second hand go around.

  “You all right?”

  I nod. Clench my fists. “Magnus. He’s a goon. Not always, but when he’s had a few....”

  She starts to massage my neck and shoulders. Her hands are cool. Feels good.

  “Keep doing that.”

  Stella digs in deeper, getting those knots. “You’re shaking.”

  “Irritated.”

  “Hm.” Not sure she’s buying it, but she keeps rubbing anyway. I relax my hands, and the shivers stop.

  “Would you have wanted to see the play? Before the party?”

  “Maybe,” she says. She’s under my jacket now, working my upper back. “Depends what it was.” She flattens her palms, puts her whole weight into it. I’m practically melting. “Don’t worry about it, though. I can tell you hate these things.”

  “Hm?”

  “You’ve been checking your watch all night.”

  Oh. That. “Nah, that’s just habit. I like schedules. Neat transitions. Ten-minute blocks.”

  “Bit OCD, huh?”

  OCD? Really? “No.” I shrug her off. This—this pisses me off. “Why’s everything got to be a disease these days? You want to keep your life squared away? You can’t just be organized: you’re obsessed. Or you walk out of a combat zone with a chip on your shoulder, you can’t just have combat fatigue, or even post-traumatic stress. No. It’s a disorder, now, like... You can’t have a normal, human reaction to anything?” I’m almost shouting. This isn’t the best demonstration of sterling mental health. I breathe deep, hold it, exhale. “Haven’t you noticed, though? Respond to anything in a way that bothers someone—someone with no idea, who’s never lived in your skin—and there has to be something wrong with you. You don’t get that?”

  Stella pulls up a chair next to mine. “No—no, I do. Like, a woman gets mad, she’s hysterical. Has ambitions, she’s a narcissist.”

  “What, you’re not a narcissist?”

  She throws a powder puff at me. It smacks me on the nose, sending up a cloud of talc. I sneeze.

  “I have a schedule, too,” she says. “Not like yours, but if I’m not up at six, my whole day feels off.”

  “Five, for me.” I reach for her hand. She lets me toy with it, rubbing circles into her palm. “Nice skin. Bet you’re soft all over.”

  “Bet I am, after all those spa treatments.” She stretches. Her skirt rides up, revealing the top of one stocking, a single silk garter. “Thanks, by the way.”

  “Don’t mention it....” I drop her hand and drag my knuckles up her leg instead. It’s her turn to shiver. I take my time following the contours of her stocking-top, tracing each lacy rose in turn. I can feel her skin through the holes, and it is soft. Smooth and hot. She’s breathing faster, eyes half-mast. I grip her thigh and squeeze.

  “Oh....” She tilts her head back. Parts her knees.

  I stand up. “Well. We should head back.”

  Her eyes fly open. “Now?”

  I smirk. “That’s for the OCD thing.”

  Stella’s jaw tightens. Oh, yeah. She’s mad. Used to doing the teasing, no doubt. Never been on the receiving end before. I lean in, close enough to whisper in her ear. “What would people think, right?” Her hand’s at her side, curled into a fist. I coax it open. Guide it to my cock. “Kind of a compromising position, wouldn’t you say?”

  She snatches her hand back. “I’ll show you compromising.” She’s laughing, though, not truly angry.

  By the time we get back to the party the crowd’s thinning out. Mary’s corralled Magnus, and Stella puts herself between them and us. So she’s not a complete bitch. Not always, anyway. That reminds me—“You’ve been checking me out on Wikipedia. Blakemoor, too.”

  She hooks her arm through mine. “It’s impressive. Not a lot of people could pull off what you did. So young, too.”

  I shoot her a sharp look. Can’t tell if she’s praising or taunting me. Hinting at something. But she couldn’t know. And even if she suspects, what’s she going to do? Crack my safe? Waterboard Starkey?

  “Right place, right time,” I tell her.

  “You went for it, though. Most people wouldn’t.” She glances at Magnus. He’s barely upright. “Most people, you can show them a hundred doors, and they won’t go through a single one.”

  Maybe she is being nice. I slip my arm around her waist. I’m tired and I’m worked up, and damned if she doesn’t feel good.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Stella

  We leave the party at midnight on the dot. I’m pretty satisfied: I’ve got at least a week’s worth of blog material, including several fashion disaster shots—plus, I’ve enlisted a few friends to do some digging. Nothing that could get them in trouble: a little background on this Nagler guy; the terms of the Blakemoor handover. Of course, since I can’t exactly have them call me with the scoop, I’ll have to rely on luck. Keep going to parties; hope I run into them again.

  Jack was full of surprises, too: didn’t know he could be that playful. Or that honest. We’ve been teasing each other from the start, but I thought I caught a glimpse of something real in that dressing room, and again in
the car on the way home. We talked about vacations we went on as kids—Florida for him; Civitavecchia for me—and for once, there didn’t seem to be any agenda.

  But what the hell was that, at the bar? He was full-on gone for a minute: lights on; nobody home. Probably does have post-traumatic stress. Combat fatigue. Whatever he wants to call it. One more thing to watch out for. I chuckle at the idea it might’ve been triggered by Magnus. Post-Magnetic stress. Whatever happens, I’m not spending a year with that troll.

  As soon as it’s quiet, I slip out into the hall. I’m not ten steps from my room when Starkey pops out of his, looking rumpled in gray flannel pajamas. “Going somewhere?”

  Fuck. Either Starkey’s got ears like a bat, or there’s an alarm on my door.

  “Thought I’d watch Netflix on the big TV. So I can see without my contacts.”

  He follows me down the hall. “What are you going to watch?”

  “I don’t know. Thought I’d browse.”

  “Mindhunter’s good.” He plunks his ass down. “I’ll watch with you.” Translation: I gotta stay up and babysit you, we’re watching what I want to watch.

  So, no midnight excursions. I’d hoped to check out the door alarm. If I could get the make and model, and if I could get to a public computer, I could figure out how it works. Find a way to defeat it. I’ll need an escape hatch one day.

  And...we’re watching a show about serial killers. Outstanding. I shoot Starkey a dirty look, but he’s either totally into it or pretending I don’t exist. I lean back and resign myself to at least two episodes.

  And then it’s morning, and I’m waking up to Jack elbowing me in the ribs. I jolt upright. “What—what are you doing in my—?” Oh. He’s not in my bed. I’m on his couch.

  “You shouldn’t keep Starkey up all night.”

  No. No, I shouldn’t. “What’s his name, anyway? His given name?”

  Jack’s brow furrows. “I want to say...John?” He clicks the TV off. “No—Wayne. Definitely Wayne.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Nope.” He stretches. “It’s one of those gruff, manly, Old West names. You can’t just say it. You’ve got to grunt it, like...Starkey. James Starkey.”