Page 42 of Fire
“Told you so,” he said.
Tobias glared. “It went okay once. That doesn’t mean you get to?—”
“Actually, that’sexactlywhat it means, that I am a goddamn genius who you should listen to every time.”
“—be insufferable about it,” Tobias finished. “But fine, you get one good gloat.”
“C’mon, admit it. I was right. You’re a freaking adorable drunk. The kind that gets all handsy and likes to talk about his favorite paintings. Real scary.”
Tobias made a face at him, even though he could feel his cheeks redden. “It’s not something I want to make a habit of.”
“Sure,” Jake said. “I get that. But are you worried about it anymore?”
Tobias thought about it. He still didn’t want to be even a little tipsy whenever there was a chance of a fight. But he could see the appeal of making the world feel less real, less threatening. And to be honest with himself, he wasn’t afraid anymore that his own drinking would bring out something ugly.
“No,” he said. “I guess I’m not.”
Jake lifted his orange juice with that easy, cocky smirk that drove Tobias half-crazy and half in love every time he saw it. “Happy twenty-first, tiger. May you see many more oceans.”
Tobias smiled back at him and raised his own glass. “Here’s to many more birthdays with the best thing in the world.”
“Really awesome cheesecake?”
“You.” Tobias sipped his drink, savoring the joy that lit up Jake’s face.
9
Director Jonah Dixon had just wrapped up yet another budgetary meeting with bureaucratic pencil-pushers and military liaisons, and he was nearly out of the building when he was stopped by the sound of his name. His first name.
The call came again. “Jonah!”
The Director didn’t recognize the voice. He turned, wary tension sliding into his spine. One hand drifted casually to where he would have had a gun, if he was allowed to carry one in the United States Capitol building.
When he saw the source of the call, the tension dialed down. “Mr. Waverly,” he said, less a greeting, more an identification. There were members of Congress and ASC veterans who would have run from the expression on his face, which could not properly be called a smile.
Mr. Updike “Dick” Waverly—he sometimes joked that he was a man with no first names—smiled back and kept his distance. They knew each other, as much as any member of the press could know the ASC Director. Waverly suspected that if he tried the “Jonah” bullshit again, he’d probably end up violently mugged in a D.C. alley or quietly asked to FREACS for semipermanent questioning. Still, he’d made his point. “I have a scoop for you,” he said.
The Director blinked. “That’s not the way it usually works, is it?”
“Nope. Today’s your lucky day.” Waverly extended an unmarked DVD in a cheap plastic sleeve. “Or maybe yourunluckyday. I suppose it all depends on your perspective.”
Jonah Dixon eyed the disk the way another man might a domesticated snake. “And why would I trust any information from you, Mr. Waverly?”
“Because, Mr. Dixon, I like to watch you writhe.”
“It’s Director,” the Director said. “You really shouldn’t try to intimidate me, Mr. Waverly. It won’t end well.”
“Who’s trying anything?” Waverly asked lightly. “Just stating a fact. As to why I’m giving this to you, let’s just say I’m looking forward to you owing me a favor. Possibly a senatorial-sized favor.”
Director Dixon took the DVD and ran one thumb over its white cover. “Don’t worry, Mr. Waverly, I pay my debts.”
That was definitely a threat.
Waverly grinned back at him. “I count on it, Director Dixon.”
* * *
That night,alone in his bare-bones suite routinely swept for bugs, the Director slid the DVD into his entertainment system. His walls had good soundproofing, but he kept the volume on the TV low. He would have played the disc on his computer, but he didn’t trust Updike Waverly not to have planted some kind of virus.
