Ren The Complete Boxed Set

by Sarah Noffke

  “And I also said to bring Antonio in. We needed to question him. We needed to see why he had so many resources and so much power. Why he was bent on so much destruction. Now we won’t ever know,” Trey says and suddenly he sounds tired. The guy works nonstop and worries incessantly. It shows in the lines on his face. Maybe I should tell him.

  I sigh. “I cut off the head to the beast. What else do you want?”

  Trey shakes his head. “I want to understand. The news reporters can’t see everything. What if Antonio was part of something bigger?”

  Antonio was a half man, half gorilla who ran a terrorist organization called Group X. Trey wants to understand the motivation behind a bunch of people who spread anarchy and hate, but that’s a worthless effort. Some people are just bent on destruction. And Antonio was better at it than most. His attacks overwhelmed the news reporters. Nothing else came in during the time that he reigned.

  “Do you see mass bombings happening around the world, Trey? No? Are there sniper attacks going off in every major tourist attraction in the U.S.? No? Well, then I think I did my job. I got rid of the baddie. You’re fucking welcome,” I say, lacing my arms in front of my chest and sitting back casually. “Now take me off probation and give me a real case, one where I can use my damn abilities.”

  Trey blinks at me slowly. He’s deliberating. Something shifts on his face but he knows I see it and that’s why he drops his eyes to the desk. “The Group X case isn’t why you’ve been getting level one assignments.”

  I narrow my eyes at him, flare my nostrils. “What?” I say in one long growl.

  “Ren, your physical exams have been showing a growing concern.”

  Each month, everyone employed at the Institute goes through a quick exam. Blood is withdrawn. Vitals checked. I’ve been doing it for almost two decades. It’s never been a concern for me. “Why wasn’t I made aware of this?” I say, sitting forward.

  “I figured I could make changes to your workload, and then along with your new relationship status, we’d see natural changes,” he says.

  Yes, this is the “Trey Underwood” method. He employs a Head Strategist, but he’s really the wizard behind the curtain. I’ve always known he was “taking care” of all of us, ensuring we had what we needed to flourish and perform. “So you’ve been withholding important medical results from me?” I say.

  “I’ve been keeping them, trying to help you plan a solution,” he says.

  “I can’t find a fucking solution if I don’t know there’s a problem, Trey!” I yell, feeling my voice plug my throat, seeking to burst it.

  “That’s just the reason I didn’t tell you about this. I knew you’d either be too flippant about it or too stressed. And I’ve been trying to naturally ease your tension, hence the reason for the level one assignments,” Trey says, looking suddenly more weighted.

  I slam my hand on the desk and tap my fingers, but now with a menace behind the movement. Each tap is a part of a Morse code of threats and by the look Trey is giving my hand, he knows it. “Tell me what’s going on,” I say.

  Trey holds up his palms in surrender, his eyes meeting mine. “Well, since the decreased workload and your social status haven’t fixed the problem, I’m obligated to share this now.”

  I don’t respond with words, but rather just growl. He almost smiles.

  “Ren, you have, and have had for a few months now, stage two hypertension.”

  Air rushes out of me as I slap my hand against my knee and release a loud laugh. “Oh, you old son-of-a-bitch, I thought I had something serious.”

  Trey blinks at me impassively. “Ren, that is serious. Did you hear me? You have stage two—”

  “Yeah, I think I’ll add it to my resume. It makes me sound smarter. And I’ll be updating my nonexistent resume now, since I’m quitting. There’s no way I’m working for someone who withholds my medical information from me. I’m subtly referring to you, Trey…or would you rather I call you God?”

  He tilts his head and gives me that “why can’t you ever be serious” look. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to create extra stress,” he begins. “Your medical tests had just come back with the spike in your blood pressure. I was going to make recommendations, but then Dahlia reentered your life and you took a job as an agent. I thought it would naturally take care of itself.”

  “But it didn’t…” I say, tucking my chin and regarding him under my red eyebrows.

  “No,” Trey says at once. “It’s gotten worse based on your last evaluation.” His eyes are on a folder, which no doubt has all of my exams in it since I started at the Lucidite Institute some nineteen years ago.

  “So that’s the reason for the bullshit cases,” I say, throwing my hands in the air, piecing together why I’ve been dealing with pesky assignments for three months.

  “Ren, this is a big deal. You’re strong as a Dream Traveler, but stress can kill anyone at any age. And you have to know that I can’t risk losing you,” Trey says, that always sincere look in his eyes. It’s quite endearing.

  “Is this when you tell me you have a secret crush on me and you’ve sent an agent to take Dahlia out, so we can be together…finally?”

  He blows out a breath. Another look that says, “for once be serious.”

  “It’s not going to work between you and me. I’ve never liked blonds, you know,” I say, with a wicked smirk.

  “This is when I tell you that you have to try some anger management, Ren,” Trey says, not giving me the scowl I deserve. Maybe if I make one more homosexual statement he’ll grimace a bit. “Your problem isn’t diet. Your tests prove that. It’s stress. You allow the world to get to you and it’s going to take a toll on your heart.”

  “Can I really help it that the world is full of a bunch of wankers who have nothing better to do than intersect my path all bloody day long?” I say.

  “Ren, how you respond to people will dictate your overall health,” he says.

  “Oh dear God, are you asking me to be nice? Because we made a deal, all those years ago. You told me I didn’t have to be—”

  “Ren…” Trey says, cutting me off. “I’m telling you that if you want anything more than a level one case then you better get yourself in check. I’m not signing off on anything until your blood pressure is normal.”

  Even in this moment I can feel my blood pounding in my veins. It has been like this for months, waking me out of my dream travels. I thought it was all the sex, but apparently it’s all the incredibly stupid people, slowly giving me congestive heart failure. I’ve spent all these years saving the human race and this is the thanks I get.

  “What I think you need is to employ a few strategies,” Trey continues. He’s in his element now. “Save some needy soul” mode, except I’ve never liked the idea of being saved. I’ve said that before, and it’s still true. “I’m confident if you try a few things it will have the right results,” he says.

  “Which are?” I say, sensing this is going to involve some Zen bullshit.

  “Well, medicine would be the first place to start. I should have had you on it when the problem first arose, but like I said, I was hoping it would go away naturally,” Trey says.

  “Meds?” I say, rolling the word around on my tongue. I guess I could take a pill every day. Makes me feel old, but I am in my mid-forties, so maybe I am.

  “Yes, and then may I also suggest you try yoga,” Trey says.

  “And, Trey, may I suggest that you fuck yourself,” I say. “The only way I’m doing down dog is if I’m giving it to Dahlia.”

  Trey actually rolls his eyes at this, but gives no other indication of frustration. “Well, if you won’t adopt a stress release technique then I’m going to order that you see the Institute’s therapist. I think that talking about your stresses would help.”

  “A shrink?” I say. “You want me to spout my problems to some bloke with credentials? Are you insured against such things, because the last guy I saw in a therapy session is now in
a padded cell.”

  I can tell Trey wants to shake his head at me. Instead he says, “Dr. Raydon is one of the best. I trust he can help you find ways to combat your anger, which is what this is really about. You have an anger management problem.”

  “Anger management problem?” I pull forward at lightning speed, slam my fist on the desk, and narrow my eyes at Trey. “Fuck you! My only problem is that I have nothing better to do than hang out in this hell hole with you.”

  A smile cracks on Trey’s thin lips first. I’m grateful when it surfaces because I’m having trouble keeping my own smirk hidden. Trey then bursts into an easy laugh. He’s the only man besides my old buddy Jimmy who I ever laughed with. I still miss that bloody bastard every single day.

  Chapter Three

  My nostrils pinch when I enter the house. This is followed by three consecutive sneezes. Damn the stupid air fresheners in this place. On the way through the corridor to the study I sneeze five more times. The door squeaks when I open it to find the only piece of furniture in this mansion that doesn’t make me feel like a pretentious American.

  “Come here, lovely,” I say to the worn plaid armchair. It doesn’t move so I walk until I’m close enough to throw myself down into it. This chair is the only thing Dahlia allowed me to move into her house. She said my stuff was too masculine. God-fucking-forbid I have manly tastes. At least I’m not allergic to my stuff. Her drapes and furniture are swathed in floral scents like she’s trying to convince herself she’s a pixie living in a bloody garden. She’s actually a pop star living in Santa Monica. I rub my hands over the frayed fabric on the arm of the chair. “You’re the only one who gets me,” I say to the furniture.

  “You’re talking to yourself again,” Dahlia says, leaning into the entryway. By the looks of the fitted coat she’s wearing she just got home too. I never know when to expect her. I guess I could ask but I like being surprised.

  “I’m not talking to myself. I’m talking to the chair,” I say, giving her a sly smile. She’s probably been working for twelve hours and still she looks fresh with her bright complexion and silky dark brown hair lying over one shoulder.

  “Oh, well in that case, that’s not weird at all,” she says.

  “Can we get that perfume out of the house?” I say, my eyes watering from a sneeze threatening to rip out of me again. I press it away and shake my head.

  “No, we can’t. I told you, sneezing is good for you, Ren,” Dahlia says with an amused smile. “It keeps you humble.”

  “Good thing you went into show business and not medical science,” I say. I’ve been living with Dahlia since that first night I came back to her after I abandoned her over eighteen years ago. Apparently I’m still in the dog house and that’s the reason she’s getting her way on every-bloody-thing.

  “I’m starving. Follow me to the kitchen,” she says and then pivots at once and trots off.

  I roll my eyes, but peel myself out of the chair and trudge after her. “Slaves held in work camps are starving. Crash victims who are stranded in deep snow are starving. I’m guessing you’re probably just slightly hungry. What’s it been, eight hours since you ate?”

  “Nine,” Dahlia says as she pulls off her jacket and tosses it on a claw-footed chair in the corridor. She’s wearing that black dress. The one that’s too short, too tight, and too low cut.

  “I thought I told you that wasn’t appropriate to wear outside the house,” I say, unable to keep the mischief out of my voice. “I’m pretty certain I forbade it.”

  “And I believe I told you that you’re not my daddy,” Dahlia says and swings around, halting with her hands fixed on her narrow hips. She’s also suppressing a playful grin.

  I don’t stop until I’m two inches from her and then I gaze down, giving her a chastising look. I don’t say a word. Dahlia is expecting a crafty retort, but I know what my eyes will do to her if I stay focused.

  Right on schedule she softens a bit. Then Dahlia grabs my tie, tugging it slightly. “Oh, fine. If you think this dress is too provocative then I’ll save it just for you.”

  I keep my eyes pinned down at her. Playfully she slaps me on the chest and pulls again at my tie, encouraging me down lower as she tucks her chin to the side. I allow it, not stopping until my lips are almost touching her cheek.

  “I missed you, Ren,” Dahlia says, sliding her arms around my neck.

  “I know, how could you not?” I say, kissing her jawline twice before finding her ear and gliding my nose across her lobe.

  “Didn’t you miss me?” she says between indulgent breaths.

  “Didn’t realize you were gone,” I say and run my mouth down her neck. Her perfume doesn’t make me sneeze. It does something else to me entirely. My hands are on Dahlia’s hips when she pushes me back, turns, and strides off for the kitchen, her steps a little impatient.

  She pulls the double doors of the pantry back and stares into the massive closet with a curious look. “Are you hungry?” she says and disappears into the dark space. I wait until she resurfaces with a bag of pretzels.

  “Not if you’re cooking,” I say, eyeing the bag like it’s rubbish.

  When she opens the bag it makes a small “pop” sound. Then she sticks her nose into it, inhaling the smell of salt. “How was your day?” Dahlia says and pulls out a pretzel.

  I yawn. “Fine. I saved an old bag from death, killed a guy who probably deserved it, oh, and I forgot to look at those samples you left out for me,” I say, in one long bored statement.

  “What? Are you serious, Ren?” she says, dropping the pretzel back in the bag, a look of horror on her face.

  “I know. I know. But you knew what kind of man I was when you took me in,” I say, ready for the explosion.

  “A forgetful jerk who can’t do the simplest thing, that’s who you are,” she says, her scowl deepening. “I’ve been asking you to look at those flooring samples for a month. If you want a say in how this house looks then you’ve got to put in the effort.”

  “I do want a say in how this monstrosity of a house looks. Like less flowers and paisley prints,” I say.

  “No on that one. You were outvoted,” she says.

  “It was only you and me voting,” I say.

  She raises a challenging eyebrow at me. “But you get a say in flooring,” Dahlia says and pulls a pretzel out of the bag again.

  “Oh, and I forgot to mention that the reason I’m getting shit cases is I have hypertension,” I say.

  She now takes a bite, severing the pretzel in two. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised,” Dahlia says dully. “But they just caught it, right? That’s good.”

  I shake my head and step forward, pinning my elbows on the kitchen bar. “Stage two, actually,” I say and then sneeze again.

  Dahlia pops the half eaten pretzel back in the bag and lays it on the counter. “Ren…” she says in that voice she likes to use.

  I pull a handkerchief from my pocket and wipe it across my face. “Trey thinks it’s caused by a poison in this house I’m being forced to breathe.”

  Dahlia doesn’t glance at me as she retrieves a glass and then fills it at the sink. She doesn’t say a word until she’s taken a few sips and placed the glass back on the granite countertop. “This is serious, Ren.”

  “Ohhhh, you too?” I say, shaking my head. “You and Trey should start a ‘serious’ club. You can sit around talking about morose subjects and being fretful about the long-term implications. Maybe you can braid each other’s hair too.”

  “So what does he want you to do?”

  “Take some meds, see a shrink, implement some stress management strategies.” I say all this in a flat monotone.

  “Stress management? Like meditation?” she says.

  “What kind of bloody hippie do you take me for? Hell no, not like meditation,” I say with offense. “Like sex, Dahlia.”

  She cocks a single eyebrow at me. “Sex? Like more sex?”

  I shrug, feigning indifference. “If that’
s what it takes. I mean, you don’t want me to die.”

  “Depends on the day,” she fires back immediately.

  I push off the bar and walk over to her. “It’s the doctor’s orders. Not mine.”

  “Well, I’ll do what I can, but I’m going on tour in a week. So I can’t help you out then,” Dahlia says.

  My mouth drops open. “What? What do you expect me to do then?”

  She’s the one to shrug now. “Get some hookers. I’ll pay for them.”

  “I don’t have to pay for sex. I can make just about anyone shag me. And you know I don’t want someone whose thoughts I can hear when I touch them. I only want you since you’re immune to my telepathy,” I say.

  “Well, then go with me on tour,” Dahlia says.

  I narrow my eyes at her. “Right, because being around an amphitheater full of stupid teenagers won’t give me more stress.”

  “Well, those are your options,” she says matter-of-factly.

  “Hookers or being a diva’s boy toy. I think I’d rather die,” I say.

  “Then may I suggest that…” She drops her hand into my jacket pocket and pulls out the bottle of pills Trey gave me before I left the Institute. Dahlia holds them up and shakes them in front of my face. “You better start taking your medicine, old man.”

  I snatch the pills from her. How did she know they were sitting in my pocket? “I’ll show you old man,” I say.