Page 39 of Knocked Up by my Best Friend's Brothers

I need something to distract me from the anonymous letter in my pocket.

11

Christa

Nathan is going to be mad when I don’t return to his office in fifteen minutes. It’s physically impossible for me to do that because I’m already halfway across town with a different address in my GPS navigator and a bear claw resting on a paper napkin on the passenger seat next to me.

My heart beats a thousand miles a minute while I work my way through the thickening Thursday morning traffic of Downtown Portland.

Pulling up outside a brownstone on 27thStreet, I take a moment to pull myself together. The letter is still in my pocket, the words screaming at me. I can’t sit on this. I have to figure out who wrote it.

“Deep breath,” I tell myself as I get out of my car and nervously look around.

Everyone is suspect now. Every passerby and cyclist. Every car that slows down, even though there’s a red light just twenty yards away. Everything is out of order. Wrong. Frightening. I didn’t miss this feeling, not one bit.

Slowly, I go into the building and head for the end of the narrow hallway.

Apartment 6B.

They know I’m coming. I knock. The door opens, and a familiar faces pops into my frame. I burst into tears.

“I wish I could say I’m happy to see you,” I say.

“Hey, hey, chill,” Spike replies as he gently pulls me into the apartment.

He closes the door behind me and puts his bony arm around my shoulders as he escorts me into his living room. I’m speechless as I look around the room. Dozens of computer screens, three different internet routers chirp while six desktop units run in exquisite tandem. Software windows run smoothly on half the screens. Chat windows fill three others. Two LCD screens are dedicated to surveillance cameras.

Spike’s desk is just a cornucopia of half-empty soda cans and snack bags. The smells alone are overwhelming.

“Holy hell,” I gasp as he guides me to the chair next to his and sits me down. “Holy frickin’ hell, Spike. What have you been up to?”

“I could ask you the same thing, showing up here like this.” He chuckles and measures me from head to toe. “You’re looking fabulous, by the way.”

“Oh, please. I’m a mess.”

“A hot mess. Emphasis on HOT,” he quips, then runs his slim fingers through the pale pink mop he probably calls hair.

“And you look as anti-everything as ever,” I mutter with a dry grin.

Spike offers a shrug in return. “Honey, I haven’t changed a bit. If anything, I’ve gotten worse.”

“Worse than getting expelled from high school for hacking into Mr. Flanagan’s computer to steal the math quiz questions?”

“Hell, yeah,” he replies and lifts the left leg of his jeans to show me an ankle monitor. “Technically speaking, I’m not allowed within fifty feet of a working computer,” he adds and points to an iPad currently gathering dust on the armrest of a grimy, dark green sofa. “Technically speaking, I’m only allowed to use that, which has federally encrypted protocols that stop me from accessing certain networks and websites. I’m only supposed to use it for my Social Security and banking stuff. And online shopping. Online shopping is okay.”

“I need a minute,” I say as I try to wrap my head around everything he’s just said.

Spike gives me that minute, affectionately watching me while I look around and try to remember the last time I was here.

“I’m sorry about your mom,” I tell him. “Teagan told me. Heart attack, was it?”

“Yeah, five years ago,” he says. “I got this, though,” he adds, pointing at everything around us. “The bank took everything else, but this was in my uncle’s name, so they couldn’t touch it.”

“I’d heard you’d run into trouble, but an ankle monitor and electronics interdiction? Dude, what did you do?”

“Plenty,” he laughs. “Broke into the federal government’s database more than once. Unfroze some SNAP funds for peopleI knew. I wreaked havoc for a long time before they picked up on it, but I promise you one thing, Christa. Everything I did was for the good of the people.”

“You’re a regular Robin Hood, eh?”

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