Page 78 of Creeping Beautiful

Indie has a session with him twice a day now.

I don’t like to think about it. And actually, I’m not even that worried about Indie. She’s been the model—ward? Dependent? Protégée?—since I came home from the hospital.

No. My immediate problem right now is Nathan St. James.

Every time I’m out walking in the gardens and see that stupid little brick house, I want to blow it up with that fuck of a kid inside.

Today is the first day that Indie has been allowed to have him over since I caught him trying to shove his hand up her shirt two months ago. This was McKay’s idea and Donovan concurred that it was a good one, so I didn’t even bother fighting them on the matter.

So right now, as I look out the long wall of windows, I can see them sitting on lounge chairs, under a huge umbrella, in front of the pool. Talking. Laughing. Eating tomato sandwiches that McKay made for them before he started making ours. It’s not warm enough to swim, and it’s drizzling a little, but the pool is heated so they could if they wanted.

Indie is wearing cut-off denim shorts and a faded red hoodie with thick, fancy, white letters that say Flower Power across the front. She has her long blonde hair pulled up in a ponytail and large, dark sunglasses obscure her eyes. Her knees are pulled up and she twirls a purple and yellow pansy in her fingers as she talks, shooting Nathan shy glances every few seconds.

Nathan is wearing jeans, white t-shirt, and a red-and-brown checked flannel that reminds me of old, dried blood. He doesn’t have sunglasses on, so I stare at his eyes as they laugh at Indie’s jokes, narrowing down and crinkling at the corners.

I think I hate that kid.

McKay is suddenly in my face, setting a sandwich on a plate down on the side table next to the couch. Donovan takes a seat next to me, his sandwich in his hand, already half eaten. McKay sits in the chair across from me and obscures my view of Indie and the fuckwad boy next door. He props his ankle on his leg and points to Donovan. “Go ahead. Tell him what you told me.”

I look at Donovan, wondering what this is gonna be about. Already weary of the conversation that hasn’t started yet.

He looks back at me for a moment, like he’s not exactly sure who I am anymore. “The Company is gone, man. I’m talking these people have disappeared into the woodwork completely.”

I hate that look. Anyone who has ever been in a serious accident understands this look. Anyone who was ever been… reduced knows this look. It’s a look that says, Are you sure you’re OK? Are you super, one-hundred-percent positive you’re OK?

And they’re only lookin’ at you like this because they know damn well you’re not anything close to OK. I take a deep breath because I know Donovan is just concerned about me. “So?”

McKay leans back into his chair. “So we don’t have any jobs.”

“So?” I ask again.

Donovan takes over. “Well, we could have jobs. If we wanted to go freelance.”

“What do you care?” I ask him. “You’ve got a job in LA.”

“You have to do something with Indie, Adam. You can’t just lock her up here and expect things to turn out OK. She needs focus. And I’ve got a shit ton of contacts who still need things… taken care of.”

I squint my eyes at Donovan, wondering what he’s not saying. “Clean-up?”

Donovan shrugs. “Among other things.”

“What other things? Stealing? Killing?”

“All of the above.”

I look at McKay. “Is this what you want to do now? Just… go out on our own?”

“What else is there to do? I mean, we could retire, I guess. But dude, I’m twenty-seven years old. I’m not ready to retire. And unlike our nerd friend here, I haven’t been preparing for a life outside the Company. We have to do something. And what is Indie gonna do? Go to high school? Get a fucking college degree in assassination?”

Donovan laughs and I scowl at him. “It’s not funny, Donovan. It’s a real fucking question.”

Was Nick Tate some kind of soothsayer? Some kind of psychic? I’m not sure. All I know is that he was right. Indie is not OK. Indie will never be OK. And even if McKay and I wanted to… I dunno. Go out and get jobs. Or do nothing. She doesn’t have that option. She has no purpose aside from what she was bred and trained to do. And when I bought her, I knew what that meant. It meant from that day forward, until she dies, she is my responsibility. I have to be there for her whether I want to or not.

Because she is unfit to live in society. We don’t talk about it much, but we all know. She is Nick. She is James Fenici.

She is not Sasha Cherlin.

So it's either be there with her. Every day, all the time. And put her first. Or… kill her. Put her down, as we say in the Company. And I’m not even close to being ready to do that.