Page 22 of Jonesing for a Spy

Well, those bad guys. The rest are under our noses. And they look just like me.

I’m taken from my musings when he folds the comforter back and slides into bed, pulling his glasses from his face and placing them on the nightstand. “Come here.”

“I’m not a snuggler.”

“Humor me.” He extends an arm and, with a sigh, I roll into his chest and wrap his torso with my arm.

His body is a work of art. And not like a twenty-five-year-old who shreds for a month at the gym to bulk up, but in the way that he takes care of himself and has for years.

“Tell me about yourself, Strider.”

His sigh is not what I expect. Neither are his words. “I’ve played it safe my whole life. I envy your bravery to look at what you don’t want and your willingness to change it.”

“I blew out my knee on an op. That’s not exactly the same thing.”

“Are you happier now than you were?” His arm squeezes my hip.

I nod against his chest but add a “yeah” in case he doesn’t know what I’m saying.

“Could you be happier still?”

I nod again but offer nothing verbal.

“Be brave and chase it, Freckles. You’re worth it.”

We fall into companionable silence, and after three orgasms, and the lone martini, I’m lulled into the warm cocoon of Strider’s body and fall sound asleep.

There are no nightmares. There’s no flailing and fitful sleep. In fact, when I wake in the morning, I haven’t even rolled into the cold spot as I have every morning since I was discharged from the Army.

But Strider is gone.

On the nightstand where he dropped his glasses last night, there’s a note.

That wasn’t a date. Not that I’m complaining, but remember that implied promise of a meal? I’m calling it in. Tonight, my your at the big house. I’m cooking. Do you have any allergies I need to know about? Text me if you do.

I didn’t want to leave without kissing you goodbye, but you looked so peaceful, and something tells me you needed the rest.

P.S. I confiscated your battery-operated boyfriend. Ransom note forthcoming.

He what?

I flip back the covers and rush to my bathroom. Sure as shit, the place where Kevin, my vibrator, spends his time, is empty.

Strider Anderson held me as I slept, wants to cook dinner for me, and kidnapped Kevin. What the hell’s a girl to do with that kind of conundrum?

This girl has a job, so putting Kevin and upcoming meals aside, I do my morning routine, log onto my work computer, and begin reviewing notes from my last assignment.

Yep, Mom got the guy, but it turns out his intel was less than stellar. Small player, small time. Not what we needed to make the case. Definitely not what we needed to close it.

The national electric grid is weak and vulnerable. And it’s wide-open on the back end for all manner of digital attack.

Malware. Ransomware. Foreign government takeovers. All are right there for the taking. Hell, we gave them the back door when their processors were equipped with Wi-Fi chips.

Seriously, how many administrations okayed or didn’t consider the risks? This goes back to before I was born. And the manufacturer is in a nation hostile to our goals. Right or wrong, they can access. A genius with a smartphone can hijack the whole grid and ransom it for some digital currency while they get rich and remain off the grid. Pun intended.

So having those conversations in rural Alabama with electrical contractors is bold. It’s brilliant. And it’s incredibly telling.

They’re no longer hiding the goal. They’re out in plain sight, saying the quiet part out loud.