Page 106 of Never Forget

SCOTT

Unknown: Find the red coffee cart with the faded green awning on the southwest path between the fountain and the chess tables. Get a pretzel and a large hot beverage and find seating nearby. He will find you.

The text comes just as I’m walking under the arch into the park. I stop for a moment to read it, then look up and around. I’ve only been here once before, years ago, but the directions are specific enough. Taking the path to the right of the fountain, I follow the shadier walkway, looking out for the specific coffee cart he mentioned.

Just past a bronze statue, there are multiple street vendors parked along the path. Most of them have lines two or three people deep, but a little further down on the right is a small red cart with a green awning faded by the sun. None of the other carts in the vicinity match the description, so I walk up and order a pretzel and large, hot coffee despite the cart vendor reminding me it’s almost ninety degrees out today. I shrug and pay the woman, holding my purchases awkwardly in front of me while I look around for a place to sit. I find an empty bench under the canopy of several large elm trees and take a seat.

My ass has barely touched the bench when another text comes through. Balancing my pretzel and coffee in one hand, I pull it out and groan. At least he isn’t trying to get me to go to another location again.

Unknown: You’re looking a little sweaty. Stand up and use the bottom of your shirt to wipe your face.

Considering he was already very specific about what I should wear to this meeting: a white tank top, bright-colored running shorts, and flip-flops, I figured there might be a song and dance to prove I’m not wearing a wire. I had to find a department store this morning when I got into the city because I didn’t have any of those items. Luckily, I booked a room for the day so I would have somewhere to leave my things, as I was instructed to carry nothing with me but my phone and cash.

Doing as instructed, I stand and lift the bottom of my shirt higher than I actually would if I was truly using it to wipe my face. For good measure, I turn while doing it, giving whoever is watching a full view. My shorts leave very little to the imagination, so hopefully they’re not expecting me to drop trou right here in the park. I really don’t feel like getting arrested today.

“Alright, alright. Stop showing off.”

The man who sidles up next to me looks like he’s in his early forties, wearing a bowler hat, an open short-sleeved button-down shirt with a dingy tank top underneath, jorts, and a pair of camo boots with the words ‘Fight For America’ written in gold along the outsides. He has stringy, dirty blond hair coming out the bottom of the hat, and a spotty mustache above his thin lips.

Something about him is… I don’t know how to explain it. Sickly. Like, he’s physically fine, up walking and talking, but also he looks like he’s secreting some kind of mucus—like a slug. Or maybe he’s a frog person. I’m pretty sure that’s one of the conspiracies out there. Or is it lizard people are walking among us and something in the 5G turned the frogs gay? I can’t remember. Whatever it is, that’s what’s wrong with this guy.

“You’re Scott?”

“Yes, and you are?”

“Curtis Howard,” he says.

My eyebrow raises.

“Oh, so you’ve heard of me, have you?”

It’s hard not to roll my eyes at his self-important chuckle. Instead, I reach out my hand as though I am truly honored to meet him. He smells of rubbing alcohol, and his hand is just as clammy as I thought it would be. He’s trying far too hard to squeeze my hand to show off his manliness. I pretend I don’t notice, even though what I really want to do is squeeze his hand back and make him cry.

Yeah, I’ve heard of Curtis Howard. He’s a lowlife conspiracy blogger who runs a gossip site known to be an echo chamber for neo-Nazi propaganda. He’s also the piece of shit who hacked Jesse’s cloud and posted his personal information and explicit private videos and pictures online.

He has a lot of audacity meeting me here when I’m pretty sure he’s in the middle of a battle with the label’s legal team.

“I’m not into all that homo stuff, but I’m going to need to make sure you’re not wearing a wire,” Curtis says, putting his hands on his hips. “Don’t worry, I’m not looking at your junk. I don’t swing that way.”

“I get it,” I say through gritted teeth.

Doing my best not to actually show him my junk, I discreetly stretch the waistband of my already obscene running shorts, running my fingers along the inside and back. Holding my phone and cash in my teeth, I turn my pockets inside out, then turn around and lift the back of my shorts as much as I can.

“Yeah, yeah, I think that’s enough,” he says, looking disgusted. “Let’s have a seat.”

“I’m pretty surprised that I’m meeting you here,” I say, rolling my head around to crack my neck free of some of my tension and overall ick.

Completely by accident, I stumbled into the exact right way to break the ice. “Really? I thought you’d be used to celebrities given your line of work.”

Of course he considers himself a celebrity. He really thinks he’s hot shit, doesn’t he?

“Former line of work,” I say with some edge to my voice.

“That’s right. Francis said you had a falling out with your lover-slash-boss,” he says in a blatantly judgmental tone.

“It sounds worse when you say it that way.”

“Your previous employer who took advantage of you and forced you into his sick perversions, then. Is that better?”