Calculated Exposure (13 page)

“The dance department?”

Curt shrugged. “They’re flexible.  But really, I’m getting too old for this shit. Hold on.” He pulled out the phone vibrating in his pocket and said a tiny prayer it wasn’t another news agency. He’d gone an entire two days without a peep from them and hoped the furor was all dying down now. “Hello?”

“Where’s my goddamned contract, Curt Ryan?”

He squeezed his eyes shut and groaned. “Hello, Bridget.”

“Are you interviewing at other places? Is that what it is? Waiting for an offer?”

“The only interviews I’ve been doing have been in regarding certain Guard shenanigans.”

“I’m not seeing the problem.”

“Okay, try this on, then. At this point, I’m a little concerned about the sorts of employees Prizm is taking on now. I heard that you have a former computer hacker on staff.”

“We do. Several actually. Know what they do all day?”

“Hack shit?”

She sighed. “What were you saying about being less of an asshole? I’m not convinced.”

“Sorry.”

“If you’re so damned curious, I’ll fill you in. Our experts consult with companies and show them how to make their private databases more secure. They know how to fix problems because they know how to cause them.”

“And where do I fit into that?”

“I read your PhD work, and I’m not talking about the stuff in the journal, either. I’m talking about the project you scrapped before you did the one you go around doing presentations on now. I’ve got contacts
everywhere
.”

“Who is it?” Grant mouthed.

Curt covered the mouthpiece and whispered, “Remember Bridget Rose? My internship supervisor?”

“Ah.” He spun a finger in a circle next to his temple and made wild eyes.

“Exactly.” Curt took his hand off the mic. “Bridget, there’s a reason that work didn’t see the light of day. If your sources are so good, you’ll know that it got rejected for, oh, how’d they phrase it?” He clucked his tongue while trying to remember the exact wording. That project had to have been started two presidents ago.
Ah yes.
“Condoning illegal activities?”

She sputtered. “Fortunately for you, I happen to know you were being completely theoretical. You think like a criminal without actually acting like one. That’s why we need you. What can I do to get you to send those forms in before the close of business tomorrow? Come on. Throw me a bone.”

Curt covered the phone again. “She’s asking what I want to get me to sign.”

“Vacation time.”

Curt nodded and dropped his hand. “Four weeks vacation instead of three.”

She groaned. “How about three weeks plus one week work from home?”

“That’s hardly the same thing.”

“Four weeks vacation, but we move your start date up to December twenty-first.”

“Jesus. I’ll barely have a diploma in hand.”

“Is that paper supposed to suddenly raise your IQ a few ticks?”

“I see your point. Fine. Four weeks vacation and December twenty-first start.”

“I’m punching the elevator button right now to head up to HR. They’re gonna forward a new contract to you. Sign it and get it in by noon tomorrow or I will personally put on a pair of sneakers and kick sense into you. Do you hear me?”

“Loud and clear.”

“Ta-ta.”

Curt shoved his phone back into his pocket. His face must have told a tale, because Grant erupted with laughter.

“Leave it to you to get hired by someplace like that.”

“You do realize what that’s going to look like with everything that’s gone on with Mum?”

“Yeah, I know what it’s going to look like. I suggest you stop giving a shit what it looks like. Now, what was this you were saying about a stable home life? That doesn’t sound like the Curt I know.”

“Doesn’t sound like the one I know, either.”

Grant chuckled. “Oh, you’ve got it bad. You really
like
this chick. Wow, Mr. Misanthropist. Looks like Beauty’s taming the beast. I’m glad to be witness to this transformation, because if someone had told me, I would have called them a liar.”

Curt ground his teeth and scrolled through the jukebox offerings. Nothing there was worth breaking a twenty for. “Fuck you, Grant.” He pushed his glasses up his nose and studied his old friend’s expression.

Grant was way too amused.

Smug bastard.
“Is there a cure?”

“Yeah, there’s a cure. Do you want it?”

“Don’t know. What’s it involve?”

“Easiest way? Death. The other remedies are slow and painful. One or both of you will get hurt.”

“Shit.”

“Are you two going to gossip like a couple of old hens or are we going to lay the bon-bon rule?” Seth barked.

Grant scrunched up his face, and Curt mouthed the odd statement to himself. They said in unison, “
Laissez les bon temps rouler
.”

Grant rolled his eyes. “God, he still sucks at the colloquialisms. Do Russians not have idioms or what?”

Curt shrugged.

Grant patted his shoulder and said, “Look, my advice? Don’t be like me and wait eight years to act. Decide now. I know feelings are hard for you, but you’ve got some, and you don’t have to worry about using them all up at once. If you want her, make sure she knows it.”

“Right. Right.” Curt sat, wrapped his fingers around his beer mug, and tuned out Grant and Seth’s playful banter as he considered his friend’s words.

He was supposed to meet Erica at her place after work the next day. They were going out. On a
date
. And it’d been his idea.

A buzz from his pocket. He answered.

“Yeah?”

“Curt Ryan? Ariel Smith from the
Galway News
. Would you care to comment on your father’s upcoming release from prison?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“You didn’t know?”

“No. Should I have?”

“Oh dear. Well, he’s getting out Monday. Rolled over on his entire Guard station. Named names. They’re letting him go as part of the deal. Do you have any idea where he’s going to go?”

Curt disconnected and dialed his sister in Cork.

* * * *

Erica had never wished harm on anyone, but she thanked the god she wasn’t sure existed for laying Tate on his ass all week. From all the reports she’d been hearing about the whiny bureau chief, he had the worst bout of early flu in
Times
history. Upon hearing the first report of his incapacitation, Erica had bribed the switchboard operator with the biggest bag of peanut butter M&Ms she could find. It’d been a blissful week at work without him breathing down her neck or her extension lighting up with his calls.

Erica practically danced out of the newspaper office after filing her photos that Friday. With Tate down for the count, that meant he wouldn’t be showing up at her apartment door begging to be let in. That meant she wouldn’t have to explain to Curt why the man kept popping up, although Curt hadn’t really asked. Any other man would have asked, wouldn’t they? She didn’t know. Maybe he didn’t need to fight over a woman. Or maybe he didn’t care?

She paused in front of her Jeep door, fondling her keys and considering that. Goddamn it, she
cared
if he cared. She’d tried to compartmentalize it and make it just about the sex, but that didn’t work. That would have worked if he’d been average, or at least disappointing the second time out the gate. He wasn’t. He was a catch, but a slippery one.

Curt was, once again, sitting on the railing when she arrived at her apartment.

“I need to make you key or something,” she joked as unlocked her door and leaned onto the knob. She realized her gaffe and cringed as she walked into the dark unit.
Too forward. Too desperate. Chill.

“Don’t sweat it.” Curt closed the door behind him and tossed his overnight bag into the corner. “I probably need the fresh air.”

As she tucked away her cameras, she couldn’t help but to notice his agitation. It was a quiet one, but still obvious in the way he slumped on the sofa, cracking his knuckles and staring out the window. What had happened?

She opened her mouth to ask what was wrong, but caught herself. He didn’t want to talk about feelings. No man did. Her father never had, nor had her brothers. She hadn’t given a shit about Tate’s feelings beyond ensuring she didn’t push him to his brink. Besides, Tate didn’t have feelings so much as he had temperatures. He was either cold, lukewarm, or hot.

Instead of probing, she sidled over to the sofa and sat so her hip grazed his.

He managed a weak smile as he pushed his hair out of his eyes.

“Uh, ready to go out?”

“Yeah. Did you come up with someplace or do you want to brainstorm?”

She leaned back and crossed her legs, letting her foot bob up and down as she assessed his blank expression. He could have been anywhere for as excited as he looked. Even in a math lecture. Nah, he probably would have been jazzed about a math lecture. She tried not to feel offended. After all, she was trying to read him without a glossary. How did people crack these romantic codes? Gain insight on the person they were interested in?

She scoffed inwardly.
They probably ask their friends. I wonder if…
She tried to sound cheerful, pushing the complicated stuff aside.

“Maybe what I had in mind is a little corny, but I saw this today.” She leaned forward just enough to access her back pocket and pulled out the folded square of newsprint.

He took it from her and studied it quietly. After a moment, he raised a brow and one corner of his lips crooked upward. “You serious?”

She shrugged. “I’ve always been curious.”

He laughed so his smile finally reached his eyes, and her breath caught from that small thing. Something about cracking that crusty exterior of his was invigorating. Addictive, even. She wanted to do more of it.

“For you, then, darlin’.”

* * * *

The little club was crowded. So crowded, in fact, they’d taken one step inside and Erica immediately decided to beg off. “If you want to do something else…”

“’S alright. Used to it with the sorts of places Seth and I frequent.” He craned his neck and scanned over the packed tables in the dim, packed lounge. “Come on. I see some space.”

She didn’t. “Where?”

“Come on. Trust me.”

Trust him?
The command made her run cold momentarily. Hadn’t Tate said the same thing? Look where that had gotten her.

His smile softened and he squeezed her hand. “Erica?”

He didn’t mean anything by it. She really should leave the head-shrinking to professionals. “Sorry. Lead on.”

He maneuvered them through the tables with a seemingly practiced expertise, never dropping her hand even when they were forced to turn sideways to wedge themselves between two poorly-angled four-tops.

Does this count as PDA?

He led her to the front-most booth on the left side of the room, which was currently occupied by two college-aged women, one on either side.

“I’m sorry to put you out,” he said, looking from one to the other and putting a little extra flavor in his brogue.

Erica stifled a giggle.
A master at work.

“Are you waitin’ on someone else to join you, or is it alright if we share one side of your booth? We won’t talk you to death, I swear.”

The redhead on the right flapped her jaw wordlessly a few beats, then stood. “Sure, sure.” She joined her friend on the other side of the table, and Erica slipped into the spot the girl had abandoned.

“Thanks, I didn’t think this place would be so crowded,” Erica remarked as Curt slid in beside her, studying the display of his cell phone with a scowl.

“Mm-hmm,” the blonde across the table replied while nodding over her beer. “It’s kind of our fault. We’re marketing majors and we needed a project, so…”

Erica tuned her out and just nodded and smiled as Curt squeezed her knee under the table.

He indicated his phone when she looked at him.

“Sorry.”

She raised a brow, not understanding.

He bobbed his head toward the door.

“Oh! Sure, sure. Do what you need to.”

With a nod, he slipped out of the booth and made a beeline for the exit.

A waitress showed up. Good. No need to worry about making awkward small talk with the coeds. She ordered sandwiches and beers for both her and Curt, hoping she didn’t get it wrong. He had said he’d eat anything once, so he probably wouldn’t balk over a simple club sandwich.

With the waitress gone, Erica turned to the women in front of her and smiled. She’d never been good with small talk, which was why she frequently refused cocktail party invitations and avoided other places where women congregated. The way some women could prattle on and on about seemingly nothing flummoxed her. Or maybe it was that she didn’t consider herself interesting enough to talk about. When people found out she was a Cuban refugee, they wanted to cross-examine her about it, but the truth was, they were always more interested in that bit of her history than she was. For her, immigration had just been a fun nighttime boat ride.

“Uh.” She crooked her thumb toward the stage. “So, why this band? Why not someone local?”

The blonde put her hands up and rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Okay. So. Like, long story.”

Shit.

“The Celtic Society at the university has a pretty robust membership, and…”

Erica tuned her out. She nodded at what seemed like the appropriate times and occasionally cut her gaze toward the door for signs of black spectacles or a messy blond mop-top.

Come on, Curt
.

The girl was still talking when the fiddle player on stage led the band into a jaunty tune. At least that gave Erica a reason to turn and watch the stage. She didn’t have to pretend all that hard. She tapped her foot to the beat, appreciating the energy of the septet’s rollicking performance, even if she wasn’t familiar with the tunes. They were good.

Her music preferences tended to lean heavily toward bombastic pop ballads, but she could imagine herself dancing to the folk tune at a wedding. Not that she’d been to a wedding in recent memory.
Did people still dance at weddings?
Just another side effect of having such a small inner circle.