“Yeah, but like you said, you owe me.” Cabe hit the button to call the elevator car and turned back to his client with a smug, bitter grin. “And when Flint finds out you’ve got a kid and I knew about it, I won’t have a job for very much longer. So I don’t think it’s too much to ask that you line me up a nice cushy safety net in the meantime...”
◉
10:00am – FLOOR 38. BUSINESS/CASUAL.
The note in Cabe’s cloud calendar was nonspecific, as usual. For the C.E.O. of a company that had used the slogan It’s All In The Details for five years, Elliot was ironically vague in a lot of his communication with very key members of his daily team. The meeting had popped up in his alerts as new around half-past-nine, right as Faraj was bagging up Greek takeaway boxes for recycling and Ronnie was swapping out one of the plasma screen’s cables in order to hook up Faraj’s old Gamecube, in hopes of maybe a few calm hours ahead now that it was past midnight on the eastern seaboard.
Cabe made the announcement that he was apparently needed for WrightTech-related hoopla upstairs, and amidst a din of whip-cracking noises, he excused himself from their boardroom H.Q. (which he had to admit, the Geek Squad was making feel more and more like home every single day) and made a quick detour to their temporary living quarters upstairs on the lowest of the three residential levels of the building.
The halls and walkways of floors thirty, thirty-one and thirty-two had the atmosphere of a luxury uptown hotel rather than a business district work environment. Apparently, they were serviced by a legitimate hospitality subsection of the company operating in coordination with the restaurant, bar, health centre, child-care facilities, and nightclub on level two.
The floor underfoot was plush-carpeted with a sea of intricate purple and black hexagons of all different shapes, sizes, and styles, the doors hardwood with chrome fixtures and hexagonal plaques to indicate the suite number. Apparently, some of the higher-up employees or those whose presence was required here at very bizarre and erratic hours preferred to rent a unit at what Cabe considered (as a self-professed cheapskate) a very reasonable rate for what they were getting. Sometimes, they were just offered to business associates as travel accommodation.
Between them, the three floors comfortably and spaciously housed thirty smaller suite units and nine executive suite units, which were about double the size of the regular with extra fittings and amenities such as (apparently) a jacuzzi and laundry facilities. Each basic suite unit came with a comfortable Queen bed and dresser separated from the rest of the room by a Japanese-inspired folding wooden panel.
On the other side of the divider was a three-seater couch and armchair, coffee table, and wall-mounted smart television. Next to the television, sliding glass doors which led to a small but pleasant balcony. Across from the balcony was the charmingly modern kitchenette designed so that every inch of space was used for maximum efficiency with an island counter, full refrigerator, coffee maker, stovetop, and oven. Triangulated between the bedroom area and the kitchenette was a desk, ergonomic chair, telephone, and the espresso door which led to the bathroom; a large mirrored wall gave the cosy room a more open feel, and the curved shower rail did the same for the tub when the woven lilac curtain was drawn across.
Cabe had marveled at the accommodations when he had first inspected them on Friday, stunned at the elegance and class of even the smaller units. He never thought he would actually be lucky enough to get to stay in one.
30L and 30M were the two units Elliot had given W.A.R.D. to use while they were working quietly alongside him. As two people who shared a value their senses remaining unoffended, Flint and Ronnie had wound up sharing a suite; apparently he had insisted she take the bed and was bunking down on the couch. Cabe and Faraj, who had been working together for years at this point and were close enough to be brothers, each claimed a side of the bed and a drawer in the dresser (their sleep schedules still hadn’t synched up for more than twenty minutes yet), and the couch was currently buried in layers of their clothing and equipment.
Cabe used the small, dongle-like chip he’d been given on the second floor to access his and Faraj’s room. It had an adjoining door to Flint and Ronnie’s room, which was currently open. He could see his supervisory agent curled up in his suit on the couch, the television playing CNN but muted.
Humming something annoyingly familiar that he couldn’t quite place his finger on but had been bothering him all day, Cabe stripped off his tee-shirt and jeans, tossing them (mais oui) onto the couch and heading for the bathroom. His new WrightPhone charger was plugged into the wall by the sink, so he took the opportunity to give his mobile a quick juice. He just about had enough time to shower, dry off, dress, and probably two minutes to quickly iron a shirt if there weren’t anymore clean ones currently hanging in the closet...
The force of the water was divine. It had only taken Ronnie a few hours to figure out the shower-head was actually WrightTech design in collaboration with Kohler; there was a section in the middle that paired with the Bluetooth on their phones and played music as a speaker. Everything about the suites was designed to show the beauty and wonder of just what a little electronic engineering magic could do to your world. Like water that sang to you while you showered, and wall sconces suite-wide that you could control using an app you downloaded for free.
Cabe checked the length of his beard hair in the mirror as he toweled off to Weezer. Acceptable, especially considering he would be spending the evening in the presence of a man who made it acceptable by the example he set with his own facial hair. He used the disposable razor in his glass to tidy himself up a bit and padded into the main room in search of clothing.
If Faraj hadn’t been the shortest of the three men, his keen fashion sense would’ve made him a prime target for jeans-napping. Thankfully, it wasn’t going to come down to combing through Flint’s slacks for something a man in his twenties-to-thirties wouldn’t be caught dead wearing; Elliot had offered to have their dirty laundry cleaned that morning, and everything he needed was waiting for him in the closet.
Five silk dress shirts he didn’t want to know the value of were draped neatly on their hangers, next to two considerably less fancy ones which probably cost about a tenth of the price. He deliberately avoided eye contact with the tie rack as he pulled a cloud-colored twill Wrangler from its wooden hanger, shrugging it on over bare skin. In the aftermath of the Gulfstream incident, he’d crawled into his old, faded, road-worn brandless, nameless favorite jeans, the ones with more holes than pockets, and holed up stubbornly in the executive staff room so that he could check in on Elliot between meetings and ensure his charge was still one-hundred per cent okey-dokey. Elliot, who at least appeared to be coping with what they had just endured together with a touch more grace than his bodyguard, had simply scowled and told him to put on pants that weren’t falling apart if he was going to sit on the good furniture and behave like an actual human being. Two hours later, a junior clerk had appeared with a paper Levi’s bag for him containing two pairs of 501s in terra gray and a dark stonewash, along with a note reading:
Every man should own a good pair of jeans. -EW
Tugging the gray pair on over his boxer-briefs, Cabe threatened his cuffs with the tiniest spritz of cologne and slid his feet into his more polished shoes to add a bit of business to the mix, and checked his appearance in the bathroom mirror as he was buckling his watch.
And that was why he hated suits, right there. Because he would always look sharper and more put-together in a button-down and nice jeans than he ever would in full black tie.
As an afterthought on his way out, he grabbed the matte periwinkle tie that was hanging over the bathroom door and roll-folded it to tuck into his back pocket. Just in case his version of business/casual and Elliot’s version of business/casual were two entirely separate things.
The private third elevator (the inside of it, in case he needed to be more specific about how he was riding from now on) carried him up to floor thirty-eight.
Cabe had learned by then the exact rhythm of this elevator, and was able to time it perfectly so the doors to the bottom level of Elliot’s penthouse suite opened at exactly ten o’clock.
The man himself was standing behind the bar, clad in what appeared to be the remnants of the day’s work: a loosened, plum-colored tie so dark it almost looked black in the dim light, black slacks, and a crisp white shirt which somehow managed to look perfectly pressed even after what was probably hours of meetings. He was currently distracted, straining something from a sparkling Martini shaker into two waiting glasses as his head bobbed barely noticeably to the jazzy French art-pop playing very low in the main sitting area.
“Ah, there you are, Peaches.” Elliot didn’t glance up as the elevator doors parted at the centre, focused on the purplish liquid as it half-filled each triangular cocktail glass. “I like that you’re on time, it means the drinks are at the perfect temperature.”
“Sir, have you ever considered having yourself assessed for alcoholism?” asked Cabe as he stepped out onto the hardwood and crossed the floor to sit (for the first time consensually) at the bar counter. Opening with a light-hearted joke felt good in light of everything dark and humorless that had happened between them over the past fe,w days, and the gift of Elliot’s genuine laughter made him feel even better.
“Coming from an Englishman, I might have to take that seriously.” Elliot garnished each glass with a dark, plump cherry and offered one to his bodyguard. “This is a gin and creme de violette cocktail, cheap and cheerful, but it’s honestly one of my favorites. It’s an old classic, first published during World War... One, I believe. It’s called Aviation.” He flashed his teeth at the older man a wry smirk. “I thought it was fitting.”
Cabe resisted the urge to shudder. “Like a glove. Sir.” He lifted the cocktail glass with as much class as he had and sipped at the misty, lavender-colored liquor. Even for someone who wasn’t the world’s biggest gin fan, it was actually quite enjoyable.
“I didn’t buy that shirt for you.”
“No, it’s mine. I brought a tie too if it’s not fancy enough.” Cabe sipped his drink again. “Is that how you greet everyone, sir? Give ‘em a quick once-over to see what they might be wearing to impress or flatter you?”
“Not once I’ve known them for a few months. The beginning parts of relationships are always the most exciting, wouldn’t you say? Figuring each other out?”
“So to you, expanding your business is like... psychology porn?” Cabe asked, one side of his mouth twitching up into a smile. “I can see why you and Ronnie hit it off.”
“Ronnie’s not my type.” Elliot finally circled around the bar to claim the stool beside him, and Cabe took the opportunity to glance back at the elevator doors.
“So, are we meeting the client here, or are we gonna be traveling?”
“No client. Just you and me.”
“Oh! I –” Cabe executed a bit of a double-take, placing his glass back down on the countertop that was currently supporting a fair amount of his slouched weight. Elliot just laughed at his reaction, shaking his head.
“You’re really that surprised?”
“Not that you would wanna spend time with me, more that you’re done work for the day and it’s only ten.”
“I cut myself some slack and told Emiko to rearrange some things. I had a long weekend.” Elliot lifted his own glass between them ever so slightly, his eyes – usually cool chips of ice, though they seemed warmer now, deeper, like water – raising to meet Cabe’s.
“To you, Agent Sparrow. And to me. I meet about a hundred new people a week, and I can tell you with confidence that it isn’t often I meet someone I feel I can honestly and truly trust. I have a...” Elliot grinned to himself, “an annoying gut instinct, very strong. Emiko hates it, she tells me it’s going to be the death of me one day, but it’s never steered me wrong yet. It was what originally told me I could trust her as more than just a family friend. It was what encouraged me to have faith in Lara Flynn when those few close to me feared she would use a familial bond to manipulate me or extract money and influence.”
Elliot sighed, running his free hand through his bangs. “And it’s why I want to make sure you close this case knowing you have a permanent and non-expiring job offer – as my own personal security asset, here, at WrightTech.”
Cabe gaped at him, not entirely sure what kind of a face he was making because it had gone almost entirely numb. “Bloody... fuck. I, I mean – that, that’s fantastic, really fantastic, and I appreciate it a helluva lot, I really do –”
Elliot was nodding, smiling, holding up his hand to stop the other man. “I know, I know. You’re loyal to your post, I get that. It’s one of the things I like about you. The reason the job offer is non-expiring is because I want you to know that if for any reason your employment with W.A.R.D. becomes strained or difficult, you have a fall-back option. A safety net, if you will.”
“I... I really appreciate that, sir. I really do.”
“How’s the drink?”
“Um.” Cabe ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth as if trying to decide. “Ginny? In a way I’m surprised I actually like?”
“Almost like flying on the Gulfstream, then?” the billionaire retorted, his words colored with humor and pep. He huffed out a sigh and shook his head. “I’m gonna miss that bird...”
“A three-year waiting list, really?”
“Three years, for a new jet.” Elliot nursed his beverage glumly. “I didn’t even have to wait that long to get a child. A small replicate of my own self.”
Cabe laughed openly, several of his key muscles groups uncoiling as his body began to relax. He spent so much time on his guard these days, it was easy to forget how to switch all of the automatic and subconscious stuff off. “Quinn... she’s a beautiful kid.”
“She’s a smart kid, and a creative kid, and that always comes before how beautiful she is when you’re talking within earshot of her, got that?” Elliot declared very quickly and curtly, quirking one plucked eyebrow as he drummed his fingers against the polished top of the bar. “The world’s gonna say enough about the way she looks without her family doing the same.”
“I’m family now?”
“We’re all family here at WrightTech,” the young businessman said without a hint of cheese or sarcasm. “It’s how we’ve managed to survive so long.”
“How many people here know about your real connection to Quinn?”
Elliot shrugged. “Very few. Mr. Dhawan in security, Emiko, my Veep. That’s about it. Anybody who works closely enough to me to suspect anything thinks she’s the child of a board member being groomed for the executive lifestyle.”
Cabe’s chest deflated weakly as all of the air rushed out of his body. “A kid, though? I mean... I was told to expect some surprises, I was told you’re a total and utter bell-end, but this is so out of left field I’m worried that the only reason I haven’t told anyone is because I still don’t really believe it myself!”
“It was a decision we both made,” Elliot explained casually, without any desire or need to hide anything about it anymore. “Lara wanted a child but was too focused on her work to want to date, and I was sort of in the same boat as her, with the added strain of not wanting to force my child through the same publicity hell my father had laid out for my mother and me.”
Elliot’s face was completely serious, his eyes hovering on Cabe’s glass. “It just made sense. We did everything naturally, and worked through a single lawyer. Against the better judgement of everyone else around us, we just... trusted the good in each other.”
Cabe smiled, albeit a little sadly. “How was that?”
“Interesting. Agreeable.”
“She seems like a nice woman.”
“One of the best.” Elliot swirled his glass a little back and forth, letting the lilac fluid lap up against the sloped sides. “Quinn’s going to be a lot like her, I can already see it. She’s got that same spunk, that same can
-do attitude. She’s a little artist too, just like Lara. She mails me paintings and drawings every week and I cover the walls of her bedroom in them.”
“Her bedroom?” dared Cabe, but Elliot was already nodding at him.
“Yes, Peaches, another hidden room. It’s behind the den and doubles as an entry-resistant safe-room, I’ll show you how to access it before you leave tonight.”
“I’d appreciate that,” the agent said, trying not to sound exasperated.
“You can see some of her work, it’s remarkable. And I’m not just saying that as an obsessive father who thinks a splattery blob with lines on it is a Picasso.”
“Art’s her thing?”
“Art, and questioning absolutely everything that exists in the world around her,” said Elliot with a chuckle. “She and her mother are both creatures of dreams and spirit and philosophy, I’m a creature of science and logic.”
“That must make family dinners a freaking hoot,” said Cabe, draining his beverage and eating the cherry. Elliot was watching him with a strange shimmer in his eyes, one leg folded neatly over the other beneath the lip of the bar counter.
“So no science camp or N.A.S.A. internship for Baby Wright?” he asked, playing with the stem of his glass between his hands as he leaned both arms forward on the bar.
Elliot shook his head. “Could not be less interested, though we’ve had some intriguing discussions when it comes to the use of technology for artistic purposes. Actually, a couple of the aesthetic layout changes in the new O.S. were her idea.”
“I’m sorry, she’s how old again?”
“She’ll be five in July.”
“She – oh.” Cabe cleared his throat, exceedingly awkwardly. “Wow, so –”
“You’re adorably flustered, Sparrow.” Elliot grinned at him. “Yes, she was born a few weeks after the Megaflare. We were in southern California, we were fine.”
“Still, that... that can’t have been easy.”
Black Tie: Book One of the Sparrow Archives Page 21