Page 115 of Only the Wicked
“Nonplayer Character.”
“What?” ARGUS has nothing to do with the gaming industry.
“It’s Miles’ terminology. People without real decision-making power. Look, I know how it sounds?—”
“Ah,” I say, seeing a different side of Rhodes. “So the peons? Is that relegated to anyone within your corporate structure or does it apply to anyone without a B portfolio descriptor?” There was a time when a millionaire wielded power, but thanks to inflation, power now falls to those with limitless wealth, the billionaire class.
He smashes two pillows and pulls back the comforter, sliding into the bed.
“It’s not like that.”
Hmm. No, I’d say it’s exactly like that. And if others within his company have the same elitist attitude, is it such a stretch that they’d find ways to further monetize the power of ARGUS?
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead. “It’s Miles’ word. Not mine.”
“Yet you used it.”
“To communicate with him. To make a point. He was putting way too much weight in what…” He stops, clearly realizing that he was about to confirm he’s no different than his partner, and sees the value of some people to be less. With a gruff exhale, he looks to the ceiling and says, “I wish we could just go back to the watering hole. Swing from a vine. Skinny dip.” He directs his gaze at me, but there’s an unseeing quality to his expression. “I loved that day.”
“We can’t go back. It wouldn’t be the same.”
“I know,” he groans, annoyance etched in his scowl.
But does he really get it?
“We can’t go back,” I say, feeling the need to make this clear, “Because now I know there are snakes.”
Chapter
Thirty-Two
Sydney
The suite feels different in daylight—less intimate, more exposed. Morning light slants through the partially drawn curtains, illuminating the luxury that suddenly feels excessive. The Washington monument gleams in the distance, a reminder that in Washington, power and secrets are the true currency. Even the air feels different—the faint scent of the hotel body wash lingers on the sheets, mingling with the subtle note of room service coffee that someone has arranged on the credenza by the window. And beside the room temperature coffee, there’s a handwritten note.
* * *
Went for a long run. Back after lunch.
* * *
A long run. I trained for a marathon in the past and recognize the terminology. Maybe he’s currently training, or maybe he has a favorite twenty-mile course in D.C. Or the more likely scenario, he needs air and distance.
A lot happened between us yesterday, between me coming clean, our agreement to take it casually, and whatever that was last night. The sex was intense—almost desperate—like we were both trying to exorcise something. In my experience, that kind of intensity signifies the spectacular end of something that never had a chance.
My training emphasized compartmentalization—keep the mission separate from personal feelings. But the line between Sydney-the-operative and Sydney-the-woman has never felt so blurred. My hand unconsciously touches the spot on my neck where Rhodes’ lips had been hours earlier, and I force it back down to my side. Focus. The operation parameters changed. That’s all.
After a shower and slipping on leggings, a sports bra, tee, and running shoes, I head down to the lobby for fresh coffee. On the way down, I shoot a text to Quinn.
* * *
Me
Team still here?
* * *
I need to update everyone. The surveillance gig is up, or at least, my part is. I wonder how we’ll adjust.
