Page 15 of Chief-of-Security

“I’m sorry.” Her words tumble over mine. “Wait. Why are you sorry? This is my fault.”

Someone bumps into her, knocking her against me. On instinct, I grab her waist to keep her from falling. “I shouldn’t have said anything in front of Derek, not without talking to you first. That asshole just really gets under my skin.”

Her body is firm and lithe against me, her waist so tiny, my hands can almost circle it completely. Fuck, what am I doing? I’m too big, too rough, too old, too much—I’ll break her.

Those big green eyes that take up most of her face stare up at me, her hands gripping the edges of my leather jacket. “It’s my fault. If I could just tell him to leave me alone, you wouldn’t have had to rescue me. I just…” She doesn’t finish her sentence, just stares off over my shoulder. “I wish I was braver.”

Without warning, she rests her forehead against my chest. I’m so shocked, I don’t move away. I feel her inhale deeply, her fists resting against me, trapped between us. With a huge exhale that doesn’t seem possible for someone so small, she relaxes against me for an instant before straightening up. “Goodnight, Julian.”

She dashes across the street just before the light changes. Cars surge between us, and I lose sight of her as she heads into the parking structure.

What the fuck was that? And why do I feel like I’m missing something obvious?

Six

Frankie

I’m hiding around a corner, machetes at the ready, waiting for the asshole I’ve been chasing for the last five minutes to come within reach.

“Come here, you purple lump of dick,” I mutter as he lumbers toward me. My palms are sweaty from holding the controller so tight, and my stomach is bloated from the salty bag of chips I finished off a few minutes ago. When I started eating them, I thought the carbs would settle the butterflies that have been dive-bombing around in my stomach ever since I walked away from Julian a couple hours ago.

The buzz of my smartwatch against my wrist distracts me long enough for the alien to get past me.

“Dammit!”

“Noooooo!”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” The angry ranting continues, cutting in and out as other voices in my ear grumble.

“Yo, man, what gives?” The calm tone of Carter, our de facto leader, cuts across the grumbles. “Dude, Pickett, shut the fuck up. Who missed that last drop point, huh?” His question is met with silence. “That’s what I thought. Okay, let’s regroup and try again.”

I cough, covering the mouthpiece of my headset. The mic modifier I bought does a good enough job to convince everyone I’m a teenage boy, but other noises give it away if I’m not careful. “I gotta go, sorry guys. Tomorrow?”

“Sure thing, Frank.” Carter switches to cussing out Pickett for some other offense as I log off and push away from my desk.

Slipping behind the divider that marks my “bedroom” off from the rest of my studio apartment, I slide my arms out of the oversized hoodie I’d been wearing and pull it off. Swapping it for the long-sleeved “UCLA Alumni” shirt I stole from my older sister Sheila, I hurry into the bathroom to finish preparing myself physically, and mentally, for the next hour of my life.

I have five minutes to check that the concealer I carefully applied over my black eye this morning is still in place so my family doesn’t freak out. I inspect it in the mirror, the purple and yellow bruising below my eye making it slightly darker than the other. My pale skin isn’t doing anything to help. Sighing, I gently dab a little more makeup on and powder it. If anyone asks, I’ll just blame it on a long day at work and pray that the filter on my webcam hides the rest.

Running a brush through my hair before I scramble back to my desk, my phone is already buzzing with incoming texts.

Mom: Zoom is up

Grady: Be there in 5 mins

Shelia: Baby just peed on me, give us a minute

Mom: Francesca, are you coming?

I type out an answer while I hunt in my email for the link to join my family’s weekly catch up. The Brady Bunch grid of everyone already logged into the Zoom chat my parents insist we do every Monday night pops up on my screen. Megan, with her brown hair and thick glasses, perches on the couch beside my parents, her focus on the phone in her hand. She and Eleanor are the youngest of us, the last two still living at home.

There’s a black screen with a photo of Bianca taken a few months ago at Thanksgiving in one corner, the quiet sound of typing coming from her square. “Sorry, guys, I have a paper due at midnight. Don’t mind me,” her disembodied voice says.

My brother Colin and his husband pop into the screen, their two spoiled dogs wedged between them on the couch. “Anything interesting, Bianca?”

“Ummmm, comparing the mythologies of Ancient Greece and Ancient Mesopotamia to their climates?”

Eleanor’s not on screen, so I hold my phone in my lap, typing below my desk, where the camera can’t see me.

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