Page 19 of Space Junk: Houston, We Have a Hottie
For the nextfew hours it’s nothing but blueprints, slide shows and conferences with different departments. The Russians are on the telecom, calling in from their flight control room in Moscow.
Among all this, Rose has texted me quite a few times.
How she knows about Flynn giving me a ride, or my hot co-worker Ian, I have no clue. For someone so young and sweet looking, she’s kind of scary.
My eyes keep drying up. Sealed and secured government buildings are known for their dry, recycled air. It’s like working on an airplane. It also doesn’t help that I’ve had a long day. After a long night. And I hate coffee.
Sean doesn’t have that problem. He pours himself another cup. I’ve lost track of how many he’s had, but the pot has been refilled more than once. “Look, a usual EVA takes weeks to plan, if not months. So I know this is a lot to cram in, but let’s not rush and make mistakes. The astronauts are sleeping at the moment. Let’s reconvene early tomorrow and get them in on the discussion as well.” He gets up and stretches. I can hear his bones creaking from across the room. “For now, we continue with the plan to load The Progress up with replacement software when it launches to resupply the station in two weeks.”
Despite what a lot of movies or books say, you can’t just tell an astronaut to suit up and head out the air lock into open space. Suits have to be charged and oxygen tanks hooked up. Space walks need planning and engineering teams need to be consulted. Ten days is about the fastest a spacewalk could be safely scheduled. At NASA, no one messes with safety procedures.
* * *
I’m walking again.
And though it’s dark outside, it’s still hot. I didn’t feel right asking Ian for a ride home. He sat next to me the entire meeting and brainstorming session. That’s normal, but it didn’t feel normal. Not since the Flynn and Ian stare down.
I jump up over a curb and run my hand along the twelve-foot-high chain fence, topped with barbed wire, that marks the perimeter of NASA. There are only two exits and entrances to the site. One on the east side, and one on the west. My apartment is west, so I’m walking my way back to the security entrance by badging.
I take a left onto the road by the security huts, hitting the sidewalk. The guards are busy with cars coming and going. NASA never sleeps.
“Yo.”
I stop mid-step.It can’t be. Slowly, I let my foot drop to the pavement and pivot, the worn bottoms of my Converse smoothly making the turn.
But it is. Flynn is leaning against a car, his arms crossed. This isn’t the car from this morning. This one is green, but just as badass. More badass, really. Bigger. It’s another vintage car, and I recognize the Mustang emblem on the front. That much I know. Though the BOSS 429 inscription on the side means nothing to me.
It isn’t even running. No growl to set off my tingles. And yet my downtown is wide awake just looking at it. Who knew I had a thing for cars?
I walk over to him. “What are you doing here?”
He straightens up beside the car. “I heard from a little birdie that you were gonna walk home.” He saunters forward, erasing the distance between us. “At night.”
“Rose,” I sigh. She’s continued to text me throughout the day, wanting updates on when I’d be finished working. I should’ve known she had ulterior motives.
“Yep.”
“Listen,” I start, trying to find the courage to look into his eyes and failing. “It was really nice of you to drive down here,” I tell his shoulder. “But I’m a big girl. I can walk a couple miles to my place.”
“Uh huh.” He points to the tingle-inducing car. “Get in.”
His brisk attitude finally draws my gaze to his. “Excuse me?”
We have a bit of a stare down until he breaks eye contact to run his hand through his hair, clearly exacerbated with me. “I’m sorry I was such an asshole earlier, okay?”
When I still don’t move, this time from speechlessness, he sticks his hand out in the direction of the car and jiggles the keys. “Please?”
“Fine.” I wave my hand in acquiescence and accidentally hit his outstretched arm. The car keys fly out of his hand.
And down a storm drain.
“That didn’t just happen.” I look from the grate to Flynn then back again. “That can’t have just happened.”
Flynn tilts his face up to the sky and sighs.
There is a beat of silence before I go into fix-it mode. “I’ll call Triple A,” I say, fishing in my bag for my phone.
Flynn lowers his chin back down and cocks an eyebrow, watching me rummage through my purse. “If you were going to walk home, your phone should’ve already been in your hand. In case something was to happen.”
