Raincheck

by Colleen Charles

Neon shudders like he’s auditioning for a walk-on roll in Hamilton. “It’s not my fault that my mother binge-watched Friends while she was pregnant with me,” he mutters.

  I snort a laugh in and grace him with an exaggerated eye roll.

  “It’s better than Waverly.” Neon shoots back. “That sounds like a nouveau riche housing development.’

  “Just keep mouthing off to me, Neon.” I raise one eyebrow toward my hairline and let my eyes threaten him with a fate worse than death. “And I’ll fire you. And then you won’t be able to afford that server upgrade you’ve been whining about for months.”

  “Fine, fine, it’s a perfectly beautiful name, just lovely and peachy keen.” The toothy grin he gives me reminds me of the Cheshire cat.

  Fake. As. Shit.

  “Now we’re getting into borderline sexual harassment territory.” I smirk at my lone employee with all the empathy of a black widow about to strike. “Next thing I know, you’ll be telling me to smile.”

  “Fuck off,” he mutters. “And just so you know, you couldn’t find anyone to replace me. I graduated magna cum laude, remember? From Cal Poly.”

  “Yeah, you’ve only told me like, three thousand times.” Trying to hold my irritated face doesn’t last long – after a few seconds, I break and start laughing. As much as Neon gets on my nerves sometimes, I’m glad I hired him. He’s the closest thing to a friend I have here in Vegas, and I know we’re a good team. Plus, he’s a genius, and I know he’ll bring things to Haven that I can’t bring myself. One of the tenets of good leadership is surrounding yourself with good people who bring something to the table you don’t.

  “So.” Neon leans closer and smirks. “How was it?”

  I stare down at the screen of my laptop, looking over an algorithm.

  “Hello,” Neon whines. He reaches forward and grabs my computer. “I asked you a question.”

  I slap his hand away and yank it back. “I’m working!”

  “Yeah, well, I’m nosy.” Neon closes my laptop, setting it just out of my reach.

  “Obviously.” Just the memory of Hawk’s arrogance makes my nostrils flare. A shiver starts at the base of my spine and courses its way upward, but I tamp it down. Anger, nothing else. “It was fine. He was really mad when he left because I told him to go fuck himself.”

  Neon snorts. “The balls on you, girl. Seriously?”

  I stare at him. “Yeah, seriously. And why is it so hard for everyone to believe that he’s an asshole?”

  “Uh, I don’t know.” Sarcasm drips from every syllable. “Maybe because he’s like, the god of the local scene here. He’s done things that most coders have only dreamed they could do.”

  “Well, whatever, fuck him. I want to take him down.”

  Neon gives me a strange look, and I can tell I sound like a crazy person. A typical scorned female. And that’s pretty close to the truth. But I can’t admit it to him because that would be revealing too much.

  “I’m serious.”

  “I know. I just don’t know why.”

  My mind races as I search for some excuse that isn’t going to sound ridiculous.

  “You are going to tell me at some point, right?”

  “He’s just...an evil dick and an asshole,” I say helplessly with a shrug. “I don’t really think I have to expand on that. Do you?”

  “Well, yeah.” Neon sounds almost offended. “Waverly, look...if I’m going to keep working for you, don’t you think you should tell me? There’s obviously something more to this. Did you have a run in with Hawk?”

  Deep down, I know he’s right. Hell, everyone should know – if only I could tell the whole world. I tug on my lower lip with my teeth as I try to figure out how best to tell him without making myself look like a petulant child.

  “It was a few years ago. I met him at Defcon. He was speaking on some infosec panel – I don’t even remember what it was about now.”

  Neon narrows his eyes as he leans back in his chair and crosses his legs. “So, that’s not a crime.”

  “I’d known about him for years.” As the memories overtake me, I close my eyes and think back to that fateful day. “I mean, he’s like a god of hacking. Everyone knows his name. Or at least his handle.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, I went to the panel. And I waited like, three fucking hours to meet him afterward at the meet and greet.” I lean back in my chair, licking my lips. This ache inside my chest becomes unbearable as my heart shatters all over again. I’ve done my best to push the shame and regret of that day out of my mind. “And that cost extra, by the way.”

  Neon frowns. “You can afford it, Wav. That’s not it at all.”

  “You’re right. When I got up to talk to him, I told him everything I knew – that he’s a total guru – and I asked him to be my mentor. I’d graduated at this point, obviously, and I’d just figured out that I wanted to spend my life in security. I thought he’d be the best person.”

  Bitterness creeps into my tone, and I can’t shove it away even though I try. God, how I try. I don’t like feeling weak, and Hawk Stryker made me feel like a newborn baby left on the church steps.

  “I’m guessing he said no.” Neon reaches into an open bag of chips and takes one, crunching it slowly in his jaws without taking his eyes off me. “But that’s not a crime, Wav. Us techies like to fly solo. You can’t hate the guy for that.”

  “He told me to put on my ruffled toddler panties, and to go hack an Xbox.” Anger explodes out of my mouth. “He didn’t even listen to one word I said. After he got a look at my white hair and tiny body, he thought I was some grade schooler fresh off the playground. If he’d listened to me, he would have known that I’m talented. And smart. And past the age of fucking consent.”

  “He was probably really busy that day.” He grabs the bag of chips and bounces it on his lap before taking another handful and cramming it into his mouth. “You’re really taking an offhand insult hard, girl. That’s not like you. Shake it off.”

  “Like hell he was,” I growl. “It was the end of the day. You know the only thing going on after that panel?”

  Neon’s nervous look serves as his only reply.

  “After parties,” I snap. “That’s what was going on. Ragers. He couldn’t be arsed to listen to me because he had to lick some hooker pussy.”

  “Okay, well, yeah, that was a pretty dick thing to do,” Neon says. “But I don’t think he’s usually a jerk like that. I mean, he’s a pretty popular guy here. He wouldn’t be so widely liked if he made a habit of being an asshole.”

  “Just because he’s smart and talented doesn’t mean he’s nice,” I wail. There’s been this hole inside me since my encounter with Hawk Stryker. And I don’t like it. “He brushed me off like I’m nothing.”

  “Well, he didn’t know you.” Neon chews thoughtfully on a chip. “I’m sure he wouldn’t say that now.”

  I press my lips into a thin line. “Yes, he would. I think he’s a chauvinist pig. He thinks anything with a vagina can’t be a force to be reckoned with in cyberspace.”

  Neon looks awkward, and I decide that I’m done with the conversation. Getting up from my seat, I grab my laptop and a cold soda from the fridge before heading downstairs into my lair.

  “Hey, where are you going?”

  “To work,” I call over my shoulder. “And I suggest you do the same.”

  I don’t want Neon to know, but just talking about Hawk and the humiliation from Defcon sinks me ever downward into a dark mood, and I want to be alone with my work. Even though it happened years ago, thinking about it makes me burn with shame. Not just because of Hawk’s cruel words, but because of how it made me feel – like I was some worthless child who didn’t know her way around a circuit board.

  After Defcon, I felt defeated. I didn’t want to go home to San Francisco without good news for my father.

  So, I didn’t go home. I stayed in my college apartment until I moved to Vegas, vowing to become Hawk’s direct
competitor. And while I always knew I had a chance of succeeding, my ‘meeting’ with Hawk earlier really helped it sink in. I can defeat him. I’m smarter than he is, and since he doesn’t take me seriously, he’s going to be in for one hell of a surprise.

  The thought makes me grin, and with that in mind, I turn my attention to the blank screen of my laptop and start to type.

  Rat bastard’s never going to know what hit him.

  Chapter Seven

  Hawk

  “Damn it all to hell!”

  The cry thunders from my lungs like a shout of battle, and I slam my fist down on the table hard enough to send pain shooting up my arm and my drink skittering a few inches.

  A blank screen formatted like a table shouts at me with white space screaming to be filled. There’s a row where names, dates, and genders should appear.

  But there’s nothing there – it’s all empty.

  It’s useless. I’ve been trying to hack into the Alabama state medical records for days, and nothing until now. And now that I finally got it...it’s a whole heap of worthless crap.

  This has to be a mistake. I can’t believe it. I pulled records for five years, including my birth year, and they were all populated...except for the year I need.

  The year that will give me my mother’s identity.

  Frustration jolts through me, and I want to throw my laptop across the room until it smashes into a million little pieces. Deep down, I know that wouldn’t do anything to soothe my frustration, only put me out a few thousand bucks. But the throbbing anger compels me to act out, like rash actions are my only choice in this fucked up situation.

  With a huge sigh, I reach for my phone.

  “Siri, call the American Medical Association of Alabama.”

  My phone dials a number with a strange area code, and I swallow a bundle of nerves before holding the phone to my ear. It’s weird to think that my mother could have had this area code – these three little numbers could have been a part of her daily life for years.

  “This is Jeanne, how may I help you?”

  “Uh, hi, I’ve got a question about medical records.” Butterflies flutter in my stomach. It’s strange – as comfortable as I am typing, I’ve never felt comfortable talking on the phone.

  “Well, this is the right place,” Jeanne chirps in a thick drawl.

  “I need to order a copy of my birth certificate for, uh, a passport,” I lie. “I was born in Alabama in 1988.”

  “Well, let’s see what we can do,” Jeanne says. “Do you mind holding?”

  Before I can reply, a click snaps through the line, and bad Muzak fills my ears. I take a deep breath as I try to calm the ferocious pounding of my heart. I couldn’t do it with hacking – but maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance I can still access my own information.

  “Hello, sir?”

  “I’m here.”

  “What year did you say you were born?”

  “1988,” I repeat. “Why?”

  “Do you happen to know which county? Or better yet, which hospital?”

  “I was adopted,” I say. “And I don’t know anything – other than that I was born in Alabama and I’ll be thirty next year.”

  “Well.” The pause says more than the word. Something I’m not going to like is about to come. “I’m afraid there was a really bad fire, happened just at the end of eighty-eight.”

  “What?”

  “This was before we had any kind of electronic records,” the woman continues. “Sir, I’m real sorry. I don’t think there’s anything I can do for you.”

  “You’re saying...the records are gone? You don’t have any backups or anything?”

  The woman gives a nervous little laugh. And in the notes of that tinkling sound, the possibility of finding my birth mother heads straight down the drain along with hairballs and grimy water. Like a metaphor for my life. “No, I’m afraid not. I know it’s a real darn shame – you know, my niece was born that year too.”

  Fuck your niece, I think as a feeling of defeat washes over me. Now, what the hell am I supposed to do? I have no idea where to go from here. All I know is that until I find my mother, I’m not going to be able to move on with any work-life balance. I resist the urge to lose my temper on the empathetic woman. I’d spent the better part of my adult life proving that I wasn’t a worthless piece of shit. Not stupid. Not dispensable.

  “That’s too bad. Is there anywhere else I can call?”

  “Well, you could call social services, but I don’t know that they’d have anything like what you’re looking for,” the woman says. “But you know, if you needed to talk to someone, they have free counselors on the line, twenty-four seven.”

  With a heavy sigh, I close my eyes and drop my face in my hand. I can’t help but feel the pain, the dull ache in my heart that’s as unsettling as the noose of lonely around my neck.

  “Sir? Sir, are you still there?”

  “Yeah,” I grumble. “I’m still here. You sure there’s nothing you can do?”

  “I’m real sorry,” the woman repeats. “The fire was such a tragedy.”

  “Thanks,” I mutter before hanging up and slamming my iPhone down on the table, letting all of my frustration fall on the great slab of oak, the useless phone call ringing in my ears. That’s ten minutes of my life I’m not getting back.

  I should’ve known. I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up that there was some way, some small part of the universe that would allow me to find my birth mother after all. Of course, there was a fire.

  The universe hates me.

  I turn in my computer chair and face my large monitor. The empty table on screen mocks me, and I close the page with a face of disgust.

  Now that I don’t have many concrete options left, there’s only one thing I can do. Ever since I came to Vegas with the idea that my mother could be here, I’ve been trying to figure out the best way to find her. After searching through online groups for Alabamian transplants, I got the idea to start hunting around social media.

  People – especially women – of the generation old enough to be my mother liked talking online about where they’re from. I’d seen it many times, ever since one of my old hacker friends would start tweeting about Maine every time he got drunk. One of his late-night bootie calls gone wrong actually gave me the idea, although I hadn’t realized it until much later.

  Frowning, I log into one of my many Facebook accounts. None of them are real, of course – there’s no way I trust that site and their issue with information leakage – but I’ve hacked into the front-end of the site’s userface and made it possible to use as a directory. I set my location to Vegas, then search posts within the past twenty-four hours for mentions of Alabama.

  I lean closer as the search results pop up on the screen. There’s only one – posted by a Darlene Menson. Her profile picture shows a middle-aged cartoon woman holding a big glass of wine and wearing polka-dot sunglasses.

  “Can’t believe I’m missin’ the Sugar Bowl! Roll Tide!”

  I smirk and click on her profile. It can’t be this easy after everything I’ve been through, can it?

  Bingo.

  ***

  An hour later, I stand in front of a flimsy door with my knees threatening to buckle. Dust blows around in the sky, landing on the little trailer on the outskirts of Vegas. Desert stretches for miles behind it, desolate and dry. It must be the reason my eyes sting like nettle – at least, that’s what I tell myself as I raise my fist to knock on the door, ignoring the tremble in my fingers.

  “I’m comin’!” Heavy footsteps and a drawling voice sound from inside. “Hold your horses!”

  The door swings open, revealing a pudgy woman of late middle age with greasy dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her eyes are quick, dark, and intense – just like mine – and a spark of hope ignites in my chest as she looks me over from head to toe.

  “Can I help you?” She steps closer and narrows her eyes. “And please, don’t try sellin’ any of that ener
gy efficient shit. I fell for that scam last year. Couldn’t buy my favorite pork rinds for months.”

  “I’m not selling anything,” I promise. “I just want to talk to you. You’re Darlene, right?”

  The woman looks wary as she nods. Realizing that I must be scowling, I force my lips into a smile. It feels unnatural, especially now that I’m so nervous, but it does the trick – the woman relaxes a bit.

  “Okay, mister.” She glances over her shoulder. “But you can’t stay for long. Them OC housewives come on in an hour.”

  Darlene leads me inside the trailer. On the inside, it’s much neater and cleaner.

  “Do you live alone?”

  Darlene frowns again. “What, are you one of those census people? I don’t pay no mind to the government. Ain’t never done nothin’ for me.”

  “No.”

  “You want somethin’ to drink? I got Coke.” Darlene motions to her kitchenette. “Or water.”

  Even though my mouth feels like an hourglass broke and the sand poured inside, I shake my head. “No, thank you. Is there someplace we can sit down and talk?”

  Darlene looks skeptical, but she leads me into the living room and settles into a giant armchair before turning off the television. The only place left to sit is a small loveseat, and I lower myself down, awkwardly crossing my long legs so they don’t bump against the coffee table.

  “When did you move here from Alabama?” I ask.

  “Hmm,” Darlene says as she cocks her head to the side. “You know, I think it was almost five years ago. I came out because my nephew – he’s a lot of trouble, that one – got kicked out of his school dorms, he needed somewhere to live.”

  “And you stayed?” Emotion rises in my chest like a flag of hope – I feel like Darlene skitters practically on the edge of mentioning her lost child.

  Darlene doesn’t answer. She takes a pack of cigarettes from the table and packs it against the hard, wooden surface before unwrapping the cellophane.

  “You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?”

  “No,” I say quickly. “Do whatever.”

  Darlene lights up and takes a deep drag. It’s all I can do not to sigh my impatience as I watch her puff in silence.