Page 18 of Antihero

She checked an actual watch that she was wearing on her actual wrist. “We’re ten minutes ahead of schedule. I have my truck gassed up and ready downstairs. We can switch vehicles at the Encino safe house. I’ve already Wazed the route to the airport, no traffic events. I have two sets of spare license plates ready to—”

“Joey. We don’t need to do all that. We can just drive to Aragón’s private hangar and leave your truck there.”

She deflated slightly. “Copy that. I’ve squared away a professional sitter for Dog so there won’t be any disruptions on our mission—”

“This isn’t technically a mission.”

“—and I left three emergency contacts if anything comes up relating to his care so I won’t be distracted from the mission.”

Evan had rescued the Rhodesian ridgeback from an underground fighting ring and given him to Joey. At first, in an attempt to avoid growing attached to him, she’d refused to call him anything but Dog. Her ploy had failed disastrously but the generic name had stuck.

“Josephine. It’s your dog. You should have your phone on. And what’s with the i-banker cosplay?”

“I have to hold focus. The Second Commandment: How you do anything is how you do everything.”

“We might need some new Commandments.”

At last her young professional façade faltered, old-school Joey excitement shining through. “Really? Seriously? New Commandments? Can I choose one?”

“No,” Evan said. “And aren’t you going to give up and name Dog at some point?”

The scowl came up and all of a sudden she looked like an angry seventeen-year-old again instead of Joey 2.0. “What am I supposed to name him? Chester?”

“Yes. Chester. That’s the only option.”

She stormed past him into the great room, a wisp floating free of the topknot and standing on end from static electricity. “No proper noun can suit him. He’s archetypal. He contains multitudes. He’s my person. He’s Dog.”

Evan said, “Right.”

“But I am relieved I can keep my phone on,” she confessed, scratching at her topknot and unleashing a loop of hair that dangled artlessly to her shoulder. “The stupid dog sitter didn’t even know how to clean ridgeback ears and we all know the yeasty nightmare that can turn into.” She made Gross Yeast Fingers, which so far as Evan could tell had zero relationship to the actual composition of yeast. “So I had to teach her how with the squirt bottle and then Dog did his shaky-shake and got, like, ear juice splattered all over me so I had to shower again and this is, like, my backup suit. But you could still be, less, dunno, discouraging about my promotion.”

After her stiff entrance, jabbering about feelings and fungal dog ears felt bizarrely welcome.

“You’re not promoted. There is no promotion. You’re just tagging along.”

Unfazed, Joey rolled her eyes. “O-kay. Whatever you want to call it. But I for one am going to be more professional on this mission—”

“It’s not a mission.”

“—and I think we could both benefit from taking stuff to, like, the next level. Like: a rebrand.” The stray wisp standing out from her head waggled in the air-conditioning like a streamer.

Evan checked his Vertex fob watch. They were no longer running ahead of time. He started for the door but she didn’t catch the cue.

“I for one am making some changes. No more Dr Pepper and Red Vines.” Joey tapped her portfolio briefcase. “I packed antioxidant trail mix.”

“Proud of yourself for that, are you?”

She flushed slightly but kept on. “And you could stand to clean up your act, too. Cut out booze, maybe.”

Pausing at the door, he glanced back at her. She looked so earnest. He let himself take her in, all the parts of her, the striving teen and the emerging adult and the little kid beneath it all. Over her right shoulder rose the glass-walled vodka freezer vault, its shelves lined with the purest spirits from six continents.

“I can’t quit drinking,” he said, unfurling an arm to usher her out. “I’ve invested too much money in alcohol.”

9The Human Bullshit

Evan stretched out on the luxury jet’s queen-size bed, hands folded across his stomach, meditating to the soporific rumble of the engines.

A knock on the flimsy door separating the airborne bedroom from the main cabin.