by J. A. Huss
Donovan laughs. “I totally get it.” Then he goes serious. “But I know her. Fairly well. She’s been on the island for about six months now. Her house mother threw her out and… this is pretty much her last chance.”
I cringe, reconsidering my choice.
“But don’t worry. I told her about you.”
“About me?” I point to my chest. “What the hell could you have told her about me?”
“Just that she could do worse. And you’re young. And obviously not looking to…” He juts his chin up. “You know.”
“She’s ten.”
“Yeah, well. They like them young.”
I close my eyes and shake my head.
“So, listen.” Donovan touches my arm. “I heard some rumors about you.”
I open my eyes again. “What kind of rumors?”
Donovan’s crooked-smile response makes my heart skip. But only once. “From who?”
He shrugs. “I have feelers out there.” Then he leans into me again. “But you need to be careful with her.”
“Who?” I ask, because I have to. I’m not gonna admit anything to this kid. Not about me, not about him, not about his father, or my father, or the things I’ve heard. And I’m sure as fuck not going to admit I had anything to do with Santa Barbara or Sasha Cherlin. But that’s what he’s getting at.
Donovan smiles. And even though he’s only fifteen, I have to give credit when it’s due. He’s fucking smooth like that whiskey in his glass. “Just… lie low, man. Don’t do it again. And don’t ever talk to her again, either. She is the whole reason snake girl is in a world of shit.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Zero Project is a failure. You know that, right? Indie—that’s her name, by the way. She’s one of the last. There’s maybe half a dozen younger than her. Mostly babies, but the older ones didn’t pan out like we’d hoped so they’re just shutting the whole thing down.”
“So she’s a waste of my time and money? Is that what you’re saying?”
“No. I’m not saying that.” He looks away, takes a sip of his drink, then side-eyes me. “But you gotta train her, Adam. Right from the start.”
“I have Core McKay waiting for me back home. He’s taking care of that.”
“McKay, huh?” Donovan considers this. “He’s not a bad choice.”
“You know him?”
“Not well. But I’ve read his file. Patient. That’s always a plus when dealing with kids like Indie. But he’s… young, ya know? You might consider someone with more experience under his belt.”
“He’s older than you.”
“He is. But he doesn’t have my connections.”
“He’s only a year younger than me.”
“Or your connections either, for that matter.”
“So what are you saying, Donovan? I should buy her? Or not?”
“Buy her. One hundred percent. I kinda promised her I’d make sure she went somewhere good. Just… be careful. Her kind… they’re… fragile.”
I sigh and run my fingers through my hair, wanting this whole trip to be over. I’ve been renovating the family home since my trust fund matured two years ago and it’s finally fucking ready. All I want to do is go back there and settle in to… something. Something normal, and predictable, and easy.
And snake girl is starting to sound… well… not easy.
“Did you hear that I’m off to medical school?”
I pull back from my thoughts. “Yeah? Good for you.”
“Duke. Not too far from your stomping grounds.”
“I guess. Not really a day trip though.”
“I’m not driving, Adam.” He laughs. “Private jet.”
“Sucking down all the old money now, are ya, Donovan?”
“My trust matured when I finished undergrad.” He holds up his glass. “Here’s to early graduation.”
“Nerd.” But I laugh. “It’s smart though. If I had your brain, I’d have done the same thing.”
“The reason I bring it up isn’t to brag. It’s to make you an offer.”
“What kind of offer?”
He leans in. “A mutually beneficial one.”
I pause here. Because maybe I don’t know Donovan all that well. I wouldn’t even really call us friends. But I know his type. I know his bloodlines. The Couture family is involved in some deep-ops shit. For sure, all of the Untouchable families are in the deep-ops shit. But this goes further than that.
They are the shadows behind the secrets. The reason behind the lies.
My father was a cleaner and that certainly qualifies as deep-ops. The Coutures were cleaners too. At times. But they were assassins, and zookeepers—obviously—and heads-of-state in several powerful governments. They have been breeders too. It’s like that family has its baby toes in all the little Company pools.
So when a Couture sidles up to you hinting at a mutually beneficial deal, you never really know what that means.
“OK.” I look Donovan in the eyes. “You gonna explain that?”
“I have to… perform. Ya know? For the powers that be. And they want another addition to the PSYOPS project.”
The PSYOPS project is all about mind control and fucking with people’s heads. That’s how you raise up a psycho assassin like James Fenici and make him kill people for you for the better part of fifteen years before he loses his shit and goes off the rails. “Hmm. That surprises me after what happened in Santa Barbara.”
“I know. Me too. I’m not really into it, to be honest. I want things, Adam. In LA. Plastic surgery, specifically. I want a house on Mulholland Drive, and an office in Beverly Hills, and a weekend home in Malibu.”
I almost find this funny. And I’d tell him that to his face if I thought it would help me. But letting secret-keepers in on the fact that you know their secrets? That’s not wise or productive. So I say, “Well, go buy that shit, then. You have enough money.”
“Doesn’t work like that. Not with me. The next step in my trust fund states I need an MD/PhD, and I have to practice.”
“Sucks to be you, I guess.”
“But here’s my idea. You let me do a case study on little Indie to impress the higher-ups in the Company and I’ll keep her on the straight and narrow.”
“How’s that gonna work?”
“Therapy sessions.”
I think about that for a moment and shake away a chill clawing its way up my spine. “What do I get?”
“You get a well-behaved little psychopath who will do everything you tell her to.”
“I thought you liked this kid?”
“I do.” He says it a little too loud and a few men nearby turn to look at us. Donovan and I both hold our drinks up to cheers them. “But nothing’s for free, right? I give her you. A good home—heard about the reno, by the way. Sounds fantastic. And she gives me her mind.”
So that’s his angle. He wants to practice PSYOPS techniques on her. For a minute there I thought good old Donovan here had an altruistic side. “I’ll think about it.”
“What’s there to think about? You need her to work, I need a research paper, she needs a friend.”
“I don’t even know if I’m gonna buy her now. You’ve done a pretty good job convincing me she’s a bad idea.”
“Well… think on it then. I’ll be here. Watching.” Then he fuckin’ winks at me, points to his head and says, “I see everything, Adam Boucher. I know more than you think.”
He walks off, already calling out someone else’s name, and leaves me to ponder what he sees.
Or rather… what he’s seen.
I think he knows.
I think he knows my secrets the way I know his. And even though his father died with mine when that shit show in Santa Barbara went down five years ago, he still wants to be on my team.
I buy her.
There’s no way I’m leaving this island without buying her.
She sets me back almost three million dollars because there are other men who want her
. Men not here on the island, but who bid with proxies, and who have decided my filthy-mouthed snake bait should go home with them instead.
I consider walking away. I almost do, twice. But then I imagine that creepy little girl being out there on someone else’s team and I raise my auction paddle again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
Donovan is at the party on the Company superyacht afterward. Still yucking it up with everyone, still smiling, and still creeping me out.
No one trusts the PSYOPS docs. No one. Their mission in the Company is to fuck with the heads of kids, turn them into little killers, and keep them sane until they burn out and need to be cleaned up by teams like… well, like the one I’m trying to put together, actually.
But his little I-want-to-be-a-Beverly-Hills-plastic-surgeon plan isn’t fooling me for several reasons.
One. He’s not gonna get a chance to put that plan into motion. Not the way things are now. Because plastic surgery was never his path in life and he knows it. Which means he’s either lying about his so-called dream or… he wants to take the whole thing down just to make it happen.
We have that in common. My path wasn’t the one spelled out for me either.
But he’ll be in PSYOPS, regardless.
Best-case scenario—he’s only in that line of work for several years. Then we take care of business, the Company collapses, and he’s free.
Worst case—the Company is business as usual, he stays there forever, and I’m stuck with him and the properly PSYOPS-ed little snake girl for life.
And I just don’t like that idea.
Aside from the fact that I just bought a kid in a slave auction, I also just bought a long life of… not easy. Not normal. A long life of looking over my shoulder at this girl.
Because I don’t care how well behaved they look on the outside—the Company assassins on the inside are damaged.
And this girl is no ordinary Company assassin. She’s a Zero. Like James Fenici. Like Nick Tate. Like Sasha Cherlin.
Like I almost was.
There is no way to fix the fucked-up inside this girl’s head. Not once the work has started. All you can do is manage it. And I know she’s only ten, but she’s been through some kind of training. Probably failed out of it and that’s why she’s here before her time.
I know this because I was destined for that Zero program too. And even though I can play a good game and make people think it’s all shipshape up there in my head… it’s not.
It’s all very hazy. Very messy. It’s chaos, if I’m being completely honest. And while I have no problem lying to other people—it’s not the lies we tell each other that kill us in the end. It’s the lies we tell ourselves.
So I try not to lie to myself if I can help it.
I know what I am. My head is nothing but a swirling storm of unfinished training and business.
I didn’t finish college. There were issues with me and the other kids in school. I didn’t grow up like they did. Oh, I have the same money. Same privilege. The best connections and I’m smarter than most. Not as smart as Donovan, but not many people—even specially bred ones like me—achieve that level of genius.
I was being trained by PSYOPS before my father pulled me out of the program at age ten and even though they never finished me, it was enough to keep the chaos inside me alive.
Still, I manage. I haven’t had a slip up in years now. So there’s hope, at least. A small, sliver of hope that Indie can be as normal as I am.
I almost laugh out loud when I realize I just referred to myself as normal.
No one involved in making me who I am would ever call me normal.
But at least I will get her. I will understand her. And if Donovan can unfuck her head a little, and McKay can teach her what she needs to know to get the jobs done without stealing her soul—then maybe this will turn out OK?
A little while later I’m handed a tri-fold… menu? It looks a little bit like a multiple-choice test.
How would you like your girl dressed tonight?
A. Long, fantasy gown with flowing skirts.
B. Pastel-colored lingerie.
C. Black and/or red lingerie.
D. Please do not dress my girl.
I’m left wondering if option D means ‘leave her naked.’ Or ‘don’t put any of this sick shit on her, she’s ten, for fuck’s sake.’
I err on the side of caution and go looking for Donovan. I find him off in a corner texting on his phone, but he puts it away when he sees me approaching. “Mr. Boucher. Have you made up your mind?”
I hold the menu out for him. “I don’t want her dressed in any of this.”
“No?”
“No. She’s fucking ten. I want her in shorts and a too-big t-shirt. Sneakers on her feet. I want her to look like my little sister. I need to take her home, Donovan. We’re leaving as soon as the papers are signed. I want to be back in New Orleans no later than tomorrow afternoon.”
“I can arrange that for you. No problem. But have you thought about my offer?”
I have been thinking about his offer. Because I will need him—or at least someone like him—if I want to keep this kid in line. Donovan Couture is the only PSYOPS agent available at the moment so I tell him, “I’m gonna say yes, but it comes with conditions.”
Donovan looks eager and happy. And I have to say, even though he comes off as just another fifteen-year-old nerd, this dude creeps me out almost as much as my little snake girl. “Name them.”
“You stay away. You’re not on the team.”
“I will require a paycheck.”
I wave a hand in the air. “That’s fine. But you only come around when I call you. Got it?”
“I can work with that. As long as the visits are regular. She needs consistent guidance.”
“Maybe every three months.”
“That’s reasonable.”
“And you only stay one weekend.”
“Fine. Anything else?”
I draw in a deep breath, then tug at the tight knot of my tie at my neck. “You record everything you say to her. And you leave those recordings with me.”
“I, of course, can keep a copy for myself?”
I shrug out some reluctant acceptance.
“Then we have a deal.” Donovan offers me his hand.
And for the second time tonight I shake it.
CHAPTER THREE - INDIE
Nathan St. James was the boy next door.
I didn’t understand what this meant when we met. So I didn’t know it was a thing until many years after we had become our own thing when I picked up a romance book at a garage sale about a young girl who falls in love with the boy next door.
I think I read that thing cover to cover dozens of times since then.
Adam threw the old copy out, or maybe it got lost sometime in my early teens. But I never forgot the title and every time I wandered into a used book store, or I was browsing a bookseller at the flea market, I would look for it.
I’ve had three or four different copies over the years. The cover changed once. I bought it with the new cover because it was only forty-five cents. But I didn’t like it as much. Just didn’t do anything for me the way the original did. Because the original people on the cover kinda looked like me and Nate.
She had long blonde hair, like me. And blue eyes, like me.
And he had sun-kissed skin and dark blond hair, like Nate. And brown eyes that weren’t really brown, but almost the color of an almond shell in the shade. And I thought that was some kind of sign. Because I have never ever seen another boy with almond-shell-colored eyes like Nate had. He said they came from his great-grandfather’s werewolf blood. Ha ha.
But I didn’t care where they came from, I just loved them so much.
Nathan St. James was my boy next door. He was my first friend, he was my first kiss, and later, when we were older, he was my first love too.
Nate and I met about three days after I ha
d moved in with Adam and McKay on Old Home Island when I was ten years old. It wasn’t really an island because when I think of islands I think of oceans. I come from an ocean island so I know what islands are.
We didn’t live on the ocean, we lived on the Old Pearl River in lower Louisiana. But it felt like an island because the river wound around two sides of Adam’s property and there was a small duck lake on another side. So Nate and I just called it an island anyway.
He lived on the other side of the duck lake, which was on the west side of my island. I could see his house from my bedroom window. It was a brick house the color of the rusty mud in the Old Pearl River when the water level was low. And his bedroom was in the attic. His window was small but when I used my night vision scope, I could see him walk past the window from time to time.
I lived in the smallest room on the second floor of Adam’s old family home. It had old-time wood paneling painted white—McKay did that for me. It had an old claw-foot bathtub in the corner and a small sink, but no toilet.
Even though I laughed at that tub the first time I walked through the door, I loved it. And I took a bubble bath nearly every night once I settled in.
My bed frame was made of old iron that used to be painted white, but the paint had been chipping for decades before I showed up. The sheets were the softest white cotton I had ever felt in my life, and there was a blue quilt as a bed cover. An old, soft quilt that many people had used to keep warm in the past.
There were little pillows on the bed, propped up in front of the real pillows. They were also quilted and handmade. All of them had large flowers pieced together with geometric shapes of varied fabric on the front. And on the back, there was a checkerboard of all these same fabric patterns.
The floor was old bare wood. But it had been polished and sealed before I got there so there was no chance of splinters. And there was a big, round coiled-rope rug on the side of the bed that matched the blue and white color scheme of the room. Half of it was hidden underneath the bed, so when I swung my legs out of the bed in the morning there was a perfect half-moon of blue below my feet that made me think of the sea.