by Sara Forbes
I haven’t spoken to Jack since our heated call earlier. That’s a conversation that needs to be done in person. If necessary, I’ll punch some sense into him. He’s often talked about me going down a slippery slope to hell. Well, looks like he’s on one too, the only difference being, he doesn’t even realize it. I curse the day we met Paul and Egan and agreed to invest five hundred dollars in Bitcoin.
Turns out I don’t have to wait long for that conversation. I’m in the back of a cab heading for my hotel after the tournament, thinking of Cara’s face, when Axel-F blares out on my phone.
“This better be good,” I say to my brother. I crook the phone to my ear, hand the driver my gold credit card which miraculously still works, and get out of the taxi. “I want a meal and a shower.”
“I don’t want to know,” he says. “Look, we’re flying out to you. We’ll be there in ten hours. Will you be showered by then?”
“We?” I ask.
“Mia and I”
“Okay. Fine. Why?”
“Intervention.”
“I’m in the Radisson,” I say wearily. “Ask for me at reception.”
The only reason I’m letting them come here to nag at me is that I’m going to convince them they’re the ones who’ve got it all wrong.
***
“But I trust her on this,” I insist to my twin that evening. We’re sitting on two armchairs in my hotel room. “Cara took a massive risk telling me about her client. She gave me an exact date. Nobody can argue that wasn’t a leap of faith on her part.”
“Tell me anything else you know, Felix.” Jack sighs and takes off his glasses to clean them—a classic nervous tic. “It’s hard, being the bridge between you and the rest of the guys. We almost didn’t let you in.”
“Meaning what exactly?” I regard him across the coffee table that’s laden with room-service taco chips and dips that Mia ordered but none of us feels like eating. This isn’t the way I expected the conversation to go. Jack’s talking about a “we” in relation to his billionaire buddies, not as “we” as in him and I.
“I wasn’t supposed to tell you this,” Jack says, “but I’m going to anyway. Egan didn’t want you in the club.”
I shrug, pretending not to care.
“When he called me,” Jack continues, “about attending the London meeting, he said you were a loose cannon, you’d spent all the Bitcoin you thought you’d owned, you weren’t committed to long term goals and couldn’t be trusted.”
The awfulness of this sinks in gradually, settling deep in the pit of my stomach where similar insults lie. I should be immune to this by now but I guess I’m not. “Are you saying it was a test? The whole thing? This is even more fucked up than I thought.”
“No, not at all. It wasn’t premeditated. But it proved a handy test case for Egan. He’s, um, choosy with his disciples.”
“Disciples,” I say, “interesting choice of words.”
“Apparently Paul vouched for you, saying you could be useful, in your way. And Egan always listens to Paul. He eventually came around to the idea that you’d make a great public face. The way Paul reasoned it, people suspect our existence anyway—the way physicists suspect the presence of black holes—again, Paul’s terminology, not mine—and he said they’d get obsessed if they couldn’t put a face to the legend, kind of how people get obsessed with Satoshi, the elusive founder of Bitcoin.”
“So okay, Paul got me in the back door to the club. Whoopie doo. Should I kiss his nerdy ass next I see him?”
“I seem to recall you being happy enough to accept the cash they poured into your empty bank account, and Cannes isn’t the worst place to spend a few sunny days, nor indeed, Vegas when you’ve got a bespoke lambo to drive around in. So, get a grip, Felix. Be grateful. Don’t disgrace yourself more than you have to.”
“Grateful?” I ask, astonished. “I should be grateful that your gang demolished the investors she’s working for, a mom-and-pop outfit, who wanted to cash out futures? Please tell Egan and Paul to do something good with that that extra cash because it’s hard won.”
Something must hit home because he doesn’t have an immediate comeback. Instead he reaches for a taco chip and munches on it his face screwed up in thought.
“Okay,” he says. “I know it’s been hard for you. But I trust these guys, Felix. The more I hear, the more I’m convinced. Liam’s organization is trying to free prisoners in North Korea. We’re talking about people who’ve committed such crimes as possessing a mobile phone and making an international call. Rescuing them is the kind of amazing thing you can do when you’ve got critical mass, power, money. You have to think of the bigger picture. Cara will be fine. Her client will be fine. Her client’s clients...”
“You don’t know that.” I say. Jack’s falling into the time old pattern of being the big brother; knowing better than me about absolutely everything just because he happened to pop out of the womb two minutes before me. All I can say is, he must have absorbed a lot of wisdom in those extra two minutes.
Mia enters the room again, in from a jog around the block—her attempt at staving off jetlag. As an actress she’s disciplined about staying in shape. Jack and I both sink back into our chairs and raise our beer bottles to our mouths.
She grins, taking a seat on the end of the bed. “You guys. Sometimes I wonder if you’re even related. Other times, it’s just the hair color and Jack’s glasses that set you apart.”
“Mia.” Jack says, “Please tell Felix he’s making a mistake dating Cara Cole. He won’t believe it coming from me.”
Her dancing green eyes assess me in that wise way she has even though she’s twelve years our junior. “Cara, yes, last year she pretended to be interested in being my agent. She appealed to my ego. She made me feel like I was someone—with talent, with an ability to be more than the struggling actress I was. She’s really, really good at that. You’re dating her?”
“I was trying to,” I scowl at Jack
“But can you trust her?” Mia asks.
“See?” Jack slaps the arm of the chair triumphantly.
Mia sits forward. “You know she aban—-”
“Abandoned you on an island? Yes, I know! I get it. I’ve heard that story a million times.” I say. “This is different.” I rise and pace around the Persian rug. “That was Cara doing what she had to do to get information. And it worked. It proved your innocence, Jack. She’s a professional. Don’t hold that against her. Plus, she was mourning her father at the same time!”
They’re both quiet. They exchange a look.
“So, she went from investigating you to suddenly being your girlfriend?” Jack asks. “And you’re still giving her information.”
I rub my neck. “Well, yes. It’s called trusting your partner.”
Jack rubs his jaw, shaking his head, and glances at Mia. “This is what I was afraid of. Felix, this chance to do something positive in the world—it speaks to me. I can’t turn my back on it. I’m committed out of choice, not any sense of duty to Egan or anyone. I’m sorry. If you’re going to keep supplying information with Cara then…”
“Then what?” I growl. “You break contact with me?”
“We can still talk, but not about this stuff. Not ever. We’re acting at cross purposes, don’t you see?”
“So that’s it? I suppose I’m never going to see any of that money.”
“No, Felix. But it never was about the money I hope.”
I shrug. I sure liked that safety net. But more than that, I liked the sense of being important to the group. Now I’m truly on my own.
Mia casts me a sympathetic look and then turns to Jack. “Does he have to be completely out?”
Jack’s stubborn face has made an appearance. “While he’s with Cara, I’m afraid so. But who knows how long that’ll be.” He clamps his hand on top of hers. “We should go.”
And they up and leave, just like that, as quickly as they arrived. I stare at the uneaten food abandoned on the table fo
r what seems like hours, too lethargic to clear up, too numb to move. The only reason they came is because they felt confident they’d be able to talk me out of seeing Cara. They probably relayed that confidence to Egan to stop him from cutting me out with no explanation. Well, the outcome is all the same because never once during the conversation did I contemplate giving in.
I’m out of their group. I’m the pariah. I can’t rely on anyone backing me up anymore, not even Jack. He’ll probably get in trouble with Mr. Dictator if he even talks to me. I’m on my own now, but the price for staying with Cara is worth it.
17
CARA
IT’S BEEN A WEEK since I saw Felix in real life. Text messages and Skype sessions have kept me going, but it’s not the same as touching him, feeling him, tasting him. He seems much more subdued through electronic media then he is in my memories of him.
But the day is finally here that we meet again and I’m as nervous as a teenager on her first date. I decided I couldn’t wait. I wanted to see him on day one of a specialty tournament in Reno. He’s flying in directly from Nice.
I’m glad to get away from LA and my office. Goodman is ignoring me but already one client has contacted me in a terse email declaring that my services were no longer required. Not because his firm has a grip on their cybersecurity issues but because, I suspect, they want to take me off the case. It’s hard not to make a connection between this and Goodman. But I have no concrete evidence so I’ll reserve judgement until I do and just try to get on with things.
I’ve been scouring internet sites for new clients. The rate per hour is shockingly low now that the market is flooded with amateurs. I still haven’t broken it to my sisters that I’m going to have to sell off Dad’s office just to stay afloat. It’s heartbreaking.
At the hotel reception they give me the key to Felix’s room as he’s at the tournament, He organized it this way so I could freshen up after my journey. I could have simply joined him direct at the tournament with my travel bags but I want to look my best for him.
It’s not a luxury suite, just a normal double room. Still pretty nice though. I wonder whose money is paying for it—his own or his billionaire consortium’s. There’s little else in the room. Felix’s suit and shirts hang neatly in the wardrobe. I take a sniff of his cologne in the bathroom and the fresh lime fragrance instantly reminds me of him. Then I take a shower.
I hear the door open through the sound of gushing water. He’s earlier than I expected. I rush to dry off and pull on my black camisole top and shorts.
“Cara?” He steps around the corner and my heart gives a thump at the sight of him—dashing as ever, with the widest grin on his face. We crash together and kiss violently, knocking over a table lamp in our frenzied progress across the room toward the bed. We collapse onto the sheets, our limbs entangled, our mouths battling
I climb onto him, straddling him, pinning his arms down. I pull off the camisole I so carefully selected and then my bra, giving him access he wants. His hands cup my breasts and he massages me until I’m wet and ready.
We pause to shuck off our shorts and jeans and underwear and then I sheath him and slowly ease myself down on him. It’s efficient and animalistic because we both need it so bad. When he’s deep inside me I ride him, ride him hard, feeling the frustration burn away with every frenzied buck of our bodies
“You feel so good,” he gasps, his face contorted with the agony of prerelease.
I chant his name as I thrust my hips into him for the final moments before climax. Then as I feel him releasing inside of me, I shatter too, and fall onto his chest.
I wake some time later. We’re lying entangled on the bed, the gentle breeze from the air conditioner wafting over our naked skin. Felix is asleep, his chest rising and falling in a slow uniform pattern, his smattering of chest hair golden in the sunlight. I could just lie here watching him and be content forever.
But then there’s a terrible sound. A digital tone blaring out. His Axel F ringtone.
Felix opens one eye. “Oh God, no.”
“Jack?” I venture.
“Yeah, I’m not answering.” He reaches blindly to the night stand and clicks the phone off.
The silence is no longer as peaceful as it was.
“Does he still hate me?” I ask.
He props up on his elbow and stares deep into my eyes. “No, Cara, and I don’t think he’s ever hated you. But it’s going to take some creative thinking to make him trust you right now.”
He cradles my cheek in his palms. His eyes scour my face as if he’s committing every angle of every feature to memory. “They’ll realize eventually. I know it. For now, we have to make sure you find new clients.”
Poor Felix, I know he feels partially responsible for the Goodman’s crash and burn. I’d prefer he just forgot about it and got on with his own life though. It’s not like he’s financially secure himself much as he likes to kid himself that he is.
“Yes, if I find three good clients, I wouldn’t have to move out of Dad’s office.”
“What?”
“Oh yeah. The office might have to go.”
“No, Cara.” He sits upright. “That’s not gonna happen. We have money.”
“We? Who has money?”
“Well, I do, I mean.”
“When you win, yes, but there are times when you’re bankrupt too.”
“God.” He punches his fist against his forehead. “Okay, yes, that’s true too.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. It’s the nature of the business you’re in, that’s all. We’re not all destined to become insurance sellers. Anyway, I can deal with this myself. That’s the way I’ve been brought up. I’d have it no other way.”
“I’d have you no other way,” he says. “But I want to help. Please just promise that before you ever sell the office—before you even think about selling it, you’ll come and tell me?”
“Okay.” I smile because his concern is truly touching. Promise.”
18
FELIX
CALL IT INTUITION, but I know I’ve lost even before Belkov flips over his cards. Three queens, two tens. It beats my measly two pair hands down. And until this moment, I hadn’t realized how much I was banking on winning.
“Some you win, some you lose, Palmer,” Belkov sneers, unable to conceal his glee. I’ve never hated him more than now, and that’s saying something.
It’s safe to say I’m gutted. Not because it’s a huge amount of money, which it is, but because it’s coming on top of a loss in Cannes. I wanted to build up a little nest egg in the bank so that if the worst happened, Cara wouldn’t have to sell the office. At some level I also wanted to prove to her that my way of life was a valid one. But no, the supporting evidence is scanty, your Honor.
I want to get out of there fast as I can, before reporters and vloggers and bloggers can descend upon us. Luckily, the competent security guys make it easy for us to exit unmolested—in through a back room, then down the stairwell straight down to the parking garage.
The bitter truth of it all is I’m stuck for cash. There’s still the lambo which Jack hasn’t mentioned so I presume I can sell it on the black market, but that’s it. I need a new survival plan.
It would be so easy to rely on Jack as I used to, in lean times such as now, but I don’t want to go down that road.
I meet Cara for lunch. I don’t say much during the whole meal. I don’t have much to contribute to the world today. If she picks up on it she doesn’t say anything. We go for a walk in a gallery. The relaxed, quiet atmosphere we enjoy there finally loosens my tongue.
“I feel useless today,” I tell her as we sit on a bench in front of some Kandinskys. “I could have beaten Belkov but I don’t know, I just read the last round wrong. It’s made me question…if I’m doing the right thing with my life.” I exhale heavily. It’s a hard thing to admit, probably because I’ve been defending it against Jack’s disapproval for so long. Maybe, just maybe I was protesting too much
.
“I keep thinking about the girls,” she says.
“The girls?”
“The girls on the road in Cannes.” She eyes me. “Had you forgotten?”
“Uh, what about them?”
She shakes her head. “I have nightmares thinking about that. What a scary experience for them. They were that close to being mown down. You averted a disaster.”
“Yeah…so?”
“Yes, but how did you do that? How did you even see? React?”
“I was just looking in the right place.”
The way Cara’s looking at me is making me uncomfortable. Life is too short to dwell on parallel universes with other outcomes. That way lies madness.
“I’d have frozen in panic,” she says. “As would most people.”
“I don’t think dwelling on such things is a healthy strategy.”
She shakes her head firmly. “Dwelling on such things, the things that other people ignore, is what gives me an edge.”
“Yeah, well, you gotta be able to sleep too.”
“You just don’t want to admit it, do you?”
“Admit what?”
“That pressure brings out a side in you. A side that can be used for good.”
The way she says it stings. Like she thinks I use my skills for the opposite of good. Maybe to her it’s true. To a lot of people, actually, gambling is the devil’s work. But I don’t exactly see “private investigator” coming top of the schools’ careers lists either.
“So, do you get much pressure in your job?” I ask.
She smiles grimly. “Most of the time it’s sitting in cars or watching server logs. Waiting for people to make some kind of move. Most pressure comes from trying to acquire new clients in the first place and balancing the expenses with the income.”
She pulls her mouth to the side. “In fact, Goodman doesn’t think much of me at all. He thinks I’m a useless PI, a parasite on the memory of my father.”