Page 46 of Shockproof

“Can you tell me about the conference call you had last night with Wiz and Blu?” Hanging the dress on the back of the door is followed by sliding over to the spacious counterspace to give my makeup the appropriate touches now that I have a color to work with. “Anything I should know?”

“How did you know about that?” My boyfriend strolls out of the closet area with his attire draped over his forearm. “You were supposed to be asleep.”

“And you were supposed to be in bed beside me.”

Culpability quickly appears and disappears from his stare.

I lean over to apply eyeshadow at the same time I ask, “Wiz finally get somewhere with the information on the flash drive?”

“You know that technically talkin’ to the clientabouttheir assignment goes against protocol.”

“So does bending the client over the sink to bang her while she brushes her teeth, but you do that, too.”

Arrogance and amusement reign supreme yet again as he begins getting dressed. “Turns out there are five corporations involved in your attack.”

“Five?!” Poking myself in the eye causes me to squeak in between repeating my squawk. “Did you say five?!”

“Affirmative.” He continues his casual movements. “However-”

“I better like this however.”

“However, they’re seemingly all thesamecorporation. One just leads you to another. It’s just one giant circle jerk with no way to separate the operations from one another.” Slater smooths out his underwear inside his navy-blue suit pants. “Which irritates Wiz almost as much as us.”

I resume gently sweeping my lids on a hum of acknowledgement.

“The next POA is to have him cross reference bank account statements and employee records from each individual entity in hopes of uncovering some sort of lead for us to follow. Unfortunately, that in itself is probably a long process, and once you add in the upcoming holiday, it’s only gonna be even longer.”

“You should tell him to pull the executive employee signatures from each company and do a comparison analysis.” Using my black eyeliner is attached to me expressing my reasoning. “While their names might not match, their signatures may. If they do, it means they’re the same person, using different aliases.” I apply it to the other side. “People who often have to operate under various personas will change their hair and their eyes and their accents and pretty much everything under the sunexcepttheir handwriting.” The exchanging of one product for another mindlessly occurs due to being so caught up in my explanation. “It’s such an unconscious action that unless it’s specifically brought up as part of the things for a person to camouflage, they often don’t. And sometimes even when theydothere are little things, they impulsively can’t stop themselves from doing because signatures – similar to fingerprints – are really quite unique. You know graphology may be considered a pseudoscience, but I have found many of the theories and principles discussed to be quite relevant and like crazy fascinating. And some of the articles in the math and psychology journals thatsupportthose theories are riveting.” By the time I’ve finished with my mascara I locate his sparking stare in the mirror which prompts me to ask, “What?”

“You’re jus’ so fuckin’ brilliant, Angel Cake, that sometimes I jus’…can’t help but listen in awe.”

Blushing suddenly becomes the only thing I’m capable of.

Ugh.

How does he always find a way to do that?

Isthatalso a sexpionage skill?

Should he write a training manual on it?!

“I’ll have Blu contact Wiz with that information.” Slater reaches for his shirt on the hanger dangling off the edge of the counter. “See what he can do with it.”

“Think it’ll help?”

“I think it can’t hurt.”

Grateful to be helping with the situation – even if it’s only from a far distance – I happily finish slipping into my outfit while allowing my boyfriend to shift to the important subject matter of the day.

The long stressed over engagement shower.

We run over the event’s itinerary, oscillate correcting pieces of each other’s attire, get my beautiful new bracelet clasped on, and eventually exit the apartment within the allotted timeframe. The lack of traffic downtown and on the highway on our way out is a welcomed surprise. Our conversation along the drive to the suburbs right on the outskirts mainly consists of me claiming we’re missing items and my boyfriend lovingly reassuring me that we aren’t.

“Are we having Italian?” Needlessly adjusting the halter top portion of my dress happens for the fifteenth time. “Like lobster ravioli? Orbruschetta with those thick mozzarella pieces?”

No answer is given.

“Is it bacon wrapped scallops?” Fidgeting with my clutch attempts to distract me next. “Or maybe oysters? God, I hope it isn’t oysters. All the slurping and the smell just churns my stomach thinking about it.” Reangling the bag is followed by a small gasp. “Unless it’s fried oysters. Ilovefried oysters.”

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