Читать книгу Hello, Gorgeous! - MaryJanice Davidson - Страница 19

“You—you—you—you—you—”

Caitlyn studied her nails and decided she could go one more day without a touch-up. “Me—me—me—me—me what? Can you hurry this up, please? I’ve got to be at Mag in another half hour.”

“He’s not dead,” the Boss growled.

“Well, he was sleepy when I left…”

He cursed her, but since she was raised by an alcoholic Air Force sergeant, she was used to it, and could barely conceal a yawn. “And now I’m done, right? Right. And by the way, it was a major creep-out to have your driver bring me here. Like you don’t have my home address? So, I’ll—”

“We’ll be in touch,” he interrupted. “But you should leave—before I shoot you in the head.”

“Why?” she asked suspiciously.

He balled up an interdepartmental memo and took a bite out of it, then spat the paper wad into his wastebasket. What a revolting habit, she thought, amazed.

“Because I’m really annoyed that you didn’t kill that kid,” he snapped.

“No, why will you be in touch?”

“Oh, you know. This and that.” He grinned, showing flecks of paper on his teeth. “Maybe you’ll need a tune-up.”

“One job, remember?”

“I never forget anything.”

“Well, thanks to you guys,” she said bitterly, “now neither do I.”

“You just never know what may come up,” he went on cheerfully. A cheerfully psychotic asshole in charge of a top-secret government facility. Oh, this was gonna be one for the journal. “Nobody can predict the future, you know. Not even you, sunshine.”

“Do not call me sunshine. And could you go back to yelling? I find it less creepy than your fake ‘we all get along great’ thing.”

“And you’re getting only half your salary for this one,” he added, “since Terrance Filit is still alive.”

“Oh, I’m getting paid? Right.” She mulled that one over for a minute. Drawing a check for this crap was something she hadn’t considered. Of course, government salary. How great could it be? But still. The bennies were probably pretty good. “This is my cue to say Keep your dirty money, except my rent is late.”

“Half,” he said again, looking meaner than ever. “And the next time I send you to neutralize somebody, make sure they go to sleep dead, okay?”

“I have no idea what that means, but fortunately, there won’t be a next time. Right? Right. Besides, if you don’t quit bugging me, I’m going to tell.”

“Tell?” He eyed the crumpled-up memo, then threw the whole thing in the garbage without eating any more of it, to her relief. “As in tattle? You’re going to tattle on the O.S.F.?”

He was so sneery about it, she hesitated before saying, “That’s right. I’ll tell everyone what you guys did to me. Without my permission, I might add. I mean, come on. Monitoring police bands and hospital radios? And scooping up the first almost-dead person you find and infecting her with God-knows-what? Who does that?”

“We do,” he said. “Check our charter.”

“I’ll—I’ll call a press conference and—and you’ll be toast.” As if she had the slightest idea how to call a press conference. Maybe she’d just take a jaunt down to the Star Tribune offices and do a demonstration for them. Then they would call the press conference. Right? Right.

The Boss was laughing at her. His eyebrows had smoothed out, but his face was still an alarming shade of brick. “Tell!” he gasped, waving at her. “Tell!”

“Excuse me?”

“Tell whomever you want. Tell Stacy. Tell your mailman. Tell your landlord. Tell the president, that fucking moron. We don’t care.”

“Well, why don’t you?” she asked, nettled.

“Caitlyn, dear child—”

“Do not call me that.”

“—what would they do? Even if they believed you? Do you think Stacy would tell the world even if she had the faintest idea how? Do you think your mailman gives a ripe shit? I’ve got a little test for you—tonight, when you’re out having drinks or premarital sex or whatever it is you do to pass the time, yell to the bar that you’re the product of a secret government experiment. See what happens.”

“But…” She was totally floored. She had figured the Boss was evil—he wore too much brown—but she never would have guessed he was suicidally careless. “But in the movies, blowing your cover, that’s always a huge disaster. It—”

“Sunshine, do you see a movie set anywhere?”

“Do not—”

“This is real life, and let me tell you something about your fellow homo dumbasses: they’re too wrapped up in their own problems to give a fuck about anything that may or may not have happened to you.”

“I’m sure that’s not right,” she said stiffly.

The Boss shrugged.

She stood abruptly, resisted the urge to grab him by the ears and pound his head into the desk for ten, maybe twenty minutes, and walked to the doorway.

“Don’t screw up next time!” he called after her.

“Blow me next time,” she muttered.

She thought she heard laughter when she headed into the stairwell, but though she strained, she couldn’t make it out. She decided it was her imagination.