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“That’s where I store my schoolwork.” We got caught in highway traffic. It was a Saturday night and everyone was headed into Los Angeles. Cars were parked alongside the highway. Night surfing was popular here, especially when the moon was as bright as it was tonight.
“Is Malibu the plagiarism capital of the world? What I think you mean is that’s where you keep the poor kid who completes all your assignments. Or maybe that’s where Franky lives?”
I snorted. “You have an overactive imagination.”
“Guilty as charged. I’m a writer, after all.” Ciaran said the last part with a tinge of self-consciousness, like he didn’t want to acknowledge the fact, or didn’t believe he was an actual writer.
“What kind of stories to you write?” I asked. Ciaran did a double-take, judging my level of seriousness. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but let’s turn it into a dare, shall we?” Ciaran scoffed at that but didn’t outright decline, so I added, “My dad told me you were a budding novelist.”
“That’s him repeating my mom’s words,” Ciaran said conversationally. “She has a lot of faith in me.” He was silent for a few moments before he continued. “Mom always made sure I had what I needed to write. Books, writing materials, even a laptop when we couldn’t afford it.”
“Your mom sounds cool,” I said, and again Ciaran studied me.
He relaxed back into the seat. “I’m writing a story about a badger detective on the hunt for thieves who stole all the poker chips from a Vegas casino.” Instead of looking at me, he stared out the window as we passed by the Santa Monica Pier. The Ferris wheel’s lights swirled in a dizzying motion. Neon lights of every color burst through the night sky. Shades of yellow, pink, and blue illuminated Ciaran’s profile. “I already know the story sounds stupid so you don’t have to ridicule me.”
“I’m not.” I laughed but didn’t mean it in poor spirit. “I guess I wasn’t expecting the part about the detective being a badger. You mean like the animal?”
“Yes,” Ciaran said. A small smile played on his lips. “Not only are they excellent poker players, they can sniff out secrets, which also makes them excellent detectives…fictionally speaking.”
I imagined an upright badger wearing a dapper suit, writing down notes in a flip notebook.
“Casino heists. A badger detective. Ciaran, it’s going to be tough keeping my secrets safe from you,” I joked.
“Lucky for you I don’t actually care about your secrets.”
Ciaran said it with such disinterest that it couldn’t help but sting.
“Tell me how you really feel, man,” I said, stealing a glance at him.
Secrets. That was the other reason I was curious.
Whoever Drew was, Ciaran wanted to keep that part of his life to himself. The green snake of jealousy wrapped itself around me.
I’d seen their messages. There was something there—some sort of relationship—and early messages were reciprocal, meaning Drew’s message to Ciaran revealed his interest. I didn’t get a chance to read it all word-for-word, but certain words rose to the surface when I’d skimmed the text string. Words like, “sexy” and “cock” were easy to spot at a glance.
But something changed between them. Ciaran’s texts to Drew clearly indicated his interest was still current. Drew’s response was, well, sadly lacking in substance.
“Like you care,” Ciaran said. “You’re just here to babysit me.”
“You’re the one who insisted on coming along tonight.” When I steered onto Airport Road, I hoped it would escape Ciaran’s notice, but he was taking stock of our surroundings with eagle eyes.
“Are we going to the airport?”
“Yes.”
“Are you secretly a rideshare driver who gives passengers a thousand bucks if they answer trivia questions correctly?”
“No, but that’s a cool idea.” I flashed my credentials at the service entrance of the airport grounds and drove toward a private hanger closest to the U.S. Customs offices. From the outside, you’d never know what the buildings were for.
“Yeah, but you’d actually need to possess a modicum of intelligence to accomplish that,” Ciaran said.
“Ouch.” I parked at the dimly lit hanger.
It was close to eleven at night and quiet. This particular part of the airport was in a blind spot, meaning no cameras were focused in this area.
“You told me to tell you how I really felt, or did you mean for me to worship you like a militant sycophant?”
“No thanks,” I choked out. “Your type of worship sounds, uh, painful.”
