Rogue: Chapter Two

    The next morning, I forced myself awake. I'd slept a tortured sleep, with undefined bad dreams and twitches at every sound. Some things mark you for life. I'm marked enough by Earth that I have to have city noise to be comfortable, and my hindbrain panics when it stops. Of course, some noises sound like threats.

    I ate a couple of bites of cheese, didn't bother showering as I was going to be getting filthy in dust. Hard work with the machines makes me feel good, and I had enough contracts.

    Andre always wondered about my low profile. I lived simply, owned the building through a combination of scavenged military funds left from Earth, savings and lots of long days. I didn't need a lot of income, and didn't need to expand. That kept me out of sight and safe. I lived upstairs, worked downstairs, and kept everything Spartan and simple.

    I walked quietly downstairs, though Chel had long since left for school. It was habit. I'm only noisy when I decide to be, and was very soft footed even before training.

    Naumann's card was still on the desk. It read "Alan David" with no last name, and had a contact code. I sent him a brief note with a fake name and appointment time for 30 segs. I wanted him to have to rush.

    Out in the shop, I powered up a pantographic coordinate mill and gave it a pattern to work from. I watched it cut and twist and shave, following whatever pattern its AI found to cover the entire surface of the model as efficiently as possible.

    While I meditated to crumbling chips and peeling shreds, a woman walked in. Decent looking in the angular style, dressed in business casual—white tights and sleeveless turquoise tunic with a coat draped. She had dark collar-length hair with a chestnut tinge restrained with a band, sharp shoulders and oval hips. She was lighter-skinned than typical, faintly olive rather than tanned or dark. Pert. Cute. Small. She might mass 65 kilos and wasn't over 165 cm. She had a bearing that told me at once who she was. That and a doccase.

    "I'm Dan Lockhart. Can I help you?" I asked.

    "I'm Cynthia Charles. I'm looking for a Kenneth Puvalis," she said, giving the name I'd provided. Yes, she was my assistant. I should have been happy. I wasn't. Naumann had set me up with a woman who was no doubt competent, would blend in most places, and was very pretty. It was that last part that made me suspicious. Why pretty? Luck of the draw, or did he have plans to hold her over me? And even after all these years I wasn't keen on attractive woman as assistants. Call it a psychological issue.

    Actually, that's exactly what it was. She had poise, exuded confidence and competence, and that was why she was here. My own nerves were the problem, not anything or anyone else. Still, I coded the door for "OPERATING" and turned back to her.

    "That's me," I admitted. "And you are?"

    "Sergeant Instructor Silver McLaren. I suppose I'm reporting for duty." She handed over the case. I didn't waste time checking it. It would have the cash I asked for.

    "Good," I said. "I never want to hear that name or rank again. Did our employer brief you?"

    "Painfully," she admitted. "It doesn't sound like a fun gig." She looked me over. I could tell she wasn't very enthused, and my terseness wasn't helping her. That wasn't my problem right now.

    "It never is," I said. "Did you volunteer? Or were you persuaded?"

    She thought about that for a moment. "I did volunteer, but I suppose he was persuasive. Good for career, interesting experience, all that."

    "So decide right now if you're a real volunteer. There's no turning back." Oh, shit, I hated this. It was déjà vu of forming Team Seven. Come with me, kid, it'll be a hoot! Trust me. Big rewards if you survive.

    "Oh, I'll do it," she said. "That's why I enl…signed up. This is just different from what I expected."

    "Fair enough," I said. "Get used to strange things quickly. Did he tell you I'm not real keen on the mission?"

    "He sort of intimated that, yes. And told me of your background," she added.

    "Yes?" I prompted. There was a question hanging.

    "Nothing," she said.

    "You want to know what it's like to kill billions of people and why I'm still sane afterwards," I told her. "If we're going to work together, we need mutual honesty. What you like to eat, how you feel, what type underwear you wear, everything."

    "Okay," she said. "So what was it like?"

    "It was terrifying and revolting beyond words. And I haven't yet decided if I am sane. What type underwear?"

    She looked startled, smiled faintly and said, "Blue Wicklon thong today. Is that a hint as to how personal such questions are?"

    "Score one," I said. "I'm deranged, prone to nightmares and violence, resentful, morose and old inside if not outside. We're going to track down one of my friends and kill him for the sin of competence in the free market, for killing people who most likely deserved to die. If he finds us first, we die. If we get caught, we get nailed under whatever local laws we have. That could be Mtali or Earth. Mtali would be disgustingly unpleasant for you; they don't like women. Earth would be lethal; they don't like Freeholders or our type specifically." I didn't say "Special Warfare." "If you can handle all that, we have a job. If not, say so now." My face was in a slight snarl from stress, and I left it there. I needed to see how she reacted.

    "It's a job," she said, though I heard the last word as "mission." She was handling cover fairly well. "I can handle it."

    "Right," I said, taking that as intent. I wanted proof, though. And I needed to know how she'd hold up. We could get departure orders tomorrow. Or right now. "Tell me your training and experience." I still hadn't asked her to sit down. We were standing between two of the mills, not visible from the door. She let herself stand with her back to the door, though. Not a good sign.

    She took a slight breath and said, "I started in Field Improvised Electronics, which I maxed. From there, I took supplementals in Mechanical, Explosives and Demolition, and Cover and Intelligence Assets. I got eighty-five percent on the test for E and D. The rest I maxed. I was teaching Mechanical until I got detached for this. I've been to the Operative Support Course and Blazer Field Support Course."

    "Service time? Duty stations?" I prompted.

    "Five years, three months. I did a detached tour at the Lab on Gealach, a tour with Second Special Warfare Regiment and a Temp at the Hirohito Embassy." Her presentation was comfident and smooth.

    I waited as she matched my stare. The seconds stretched out. She twitched first, that tiny signal that says confidence has cracked.

    "And what else?" I asked.

    "That's my career, sir," she said.

    There was just a hint of defensiveness in there, and I went at it with my attitude as a pickaxe.

    "So, a bunch of nothing," I said, sounding disgusted. It wasn't as bad as that, but she was a bit cocky about a career that included no combat. I had to hit that right now.

    "I wouldn't call it 'nothing,' sir," she said.

    "I would," I said. "Labs, training exercises and diplocrap. Very good prep for undercover stalking. This isn't a dinner or a clever little gig building a recording device to fit in a corsage." She started to protest and I continued, "Skip that, let's see your work. You teach mechanical?"

    "Yes, sir."

    "So build me a pistol. Ten millimeter Alesis caliber. Here's the tools," I said with a spread-armed wave around the shop.

    She looked around, fixed me with her eyes and asked, "Is this a test?"

    "Yes," I said. "My ass depends on how well you do your job."

    "Hmmph," she said, but turned to the machines. That tunic was cut low, showing off a lot of nicely toned back. "Will standard polymer and metal suffice, or do you want ceramic?"

    "Easiest and quickest job you can do that is reliable."

    "All my work is reliable," she said frostily.

    "I'm sure it is," I said. "It's not the technical issues that really concern me."

    She was facing my primary prototyping mill, now, nodding in familiarity. She brought up power and started asking it questions. "So what is your concern?" she asked, head turning only slightly over her shoulder and voice raised over the hum of the machine. "You think I'm going to freeze up?"

    "Well, you've never been shot at before, have you?" I asked.

    "Sure, in live fire exercises," she said. She sounded proud of it. "I've heard a few cracks."

    "Right, but no offensive fire," I said.

    "No. But I'm sure I can deal with it." I could see the indulgent smirk even with her back to me. It was a nice back, too. Dammit, she didn't look like Deni, why was she reminding me of her? And she was too cocky, but it was all façade. Damned youngster.

    "Well, that's the test, isn't it?" I said. She was still facing away from me. I crouched about twenty centimeters to get a good angle, then drew and fired. I still had one of those punk's guns from that mixup that had started all this. I'd been carrying it as a curiosity.

    BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! Five shots, unsuppressed, echoing in sharp cracks and tinny pings from all the metal surfaces in the shop. The first was about ten centimeters above her head. The second went past her right ear. After that, I kept them wide in case she dodged. They tore chips out of the upper wall above the stock rack.

    Arms flailing, she came up on her toes, caught herself on the horizontal motor arm and staggered back. She whirled, eyes meter wide in horror. "ARE YOU FUCKING INSANE?" she shouted.

    Well, she recovered quickly from shock. Good.

    "We've already established that," I answered her, hand low, pistol pointing at the ground. "That's not the issue. Now you've been shot at. Next time, instead of jumping, take cover. Then consider doing something about it. That's today's lesson."

    Panting hard, she leaned back on the work table, hands gripping the edge. "You are off the fucking edge!" she said, sounding terrified. "You are a major space case!"

    "You're welcome," I said. I kept a flat expression. This was the first test of many.

    "I cannot work with you like this," she snapped. Her face was hard, mean. "You are seriously out of it."

    "And how crazy would I be if I wasn't fucked up after what I've done?" I asked rhetorically. There was an embarrassed silence for long seconds. "Go," I said with a shake of my head. "If you can't handle me, you can't handle our target, and you can't handle the environment we're going to be in."

    "What?" she said, sounding as if she hadn't understood me.

    "Go," I repeated. "I'll have him send me someone else."

    Raising her voice in anger—or was it from temporary hearing loss?—she said, "I am assigned to this task, I will do it."

    "I thought you'd decided I'm a loon?" I asked.

    "You are," she said. "You are totally round the bend. But the job's got to be done. I will not quit."

    "Want to bet on that?" I asked. "I don't. It's my ass, and I'm not trusting it to a quitter."

    She took a deep breath to steady the heaves she'd been having. "I may talk about quitting, but I never do," she said. "I was last ass in my company the entire way through Basic, but I made it. I didn't know how to swim and damned near drowned, but I did it. I had to go through survival training twice because I flubbed the orienteering test. I wet my pants and cried in the Black Ops support course, but I stuck it out. We had a blowout my first day on Gealach and three people died, but I stayed there. I rant and bitch, but I don't fucking quit and you can't make me." There was palpable defiance and aggression there. If I wanted her to leave, I'd have to pick her up and throw her out physically. And she knew I could do it and didn't care.

    I couldn't help myself. I grinned. I had the real core of her here, and it was an honest soldier. Everyone gets scared. Being scared isn't the problem. Letting the fear take control is the problem. "That's what I wanted to hear. Now get that gun made."

    She looked confused for a moment, then acceptance ran across her face. She shook her head and sighed and got to work, but she kept her gaze angled so she could watch me, and shifted as I did so I was never out of sight.

    She really did learn fast.

    The pistol she finished a div and a half later was ugly, but certainly functional. I'd given her a task I could do myself, so I could grade it. Combat worthy it was. Without proper tempering and finish it might not last 500 rounds before failures became a problem, but that was plenty for a field expedient.

    "Good start," I said. "I need to plan some stuff. Come back at three divs and we'll pick up then."

    "Yes, sir," she agreed.

    I left her hanging until she grabbed her wrap and pouch and headed out.

    Yeah, she'd probably do. Now I had to get in the mindset of her being an expendable asset. I hadn't had to do that for years.

    Shit.

    She left, probably to get lunch and a drink or a hit of something to unwind from being shot at by deadly lunatic, one each. I checked on the job the CM was handling, watched it feed a piece automatically, caught the one it had just finished, inspected it and left the machine to run.

    Then I drew up plans. Training us, easy in concept, it would just take practice and effort. Locating Randall, that would take intel and patience and thinking. Building an initial kit of ID, weapons, accessories for our pursuit, with a lot of holes because of unknowns, that was her job under my direction. Tentative plans for escape and evasion after killing him, largely blank. Well, I had to start somewhere.

    So much for zen and machine tools. My brain was heavily involved in tactical calculus. I enjoyed it. That angered me.

    I was only too glad when she returned.

    "I need a pair of climbing gaffs, low enough profile they look like dress sandals."

    "That's a new one," she said. "Very creative." Her moue was almost a smile.

    I deliberately turned and left her to it.

    I watched from the far side of the shop as I messed about with the optical etcher. She was sure and comfortable with the machines, even for a new concept.

    When she was well occupied, I turned smoothly, drew and fired again. I put the first round low over the machine because my own guns are a lot better than the crap those punks had. Quieter, too.

    She dropped, drew and shot back. I made a surprised but instant dive behind the laser flatcutter.

    Let me be specific. She dropped, rolled, disappeared behind the mill and poked back around just enough for her left eye and the weapon. The weapon was a Benelli Model YYZ eleven millimeter compact. She was wearing form-fitting tights and a low back, sleeveless tunic that came just below her hips. Where in the hell had she stashed that cannon? I hadn't seen any kind of holster on her.

    Her aim was pretty accurate, too. One shot dinged the floor to my right, then she held her fire. "You can come out now!" she shouted, sounded smug and cheerful, muttering an added, "Asshole," that I wasn't supposed to hear and pretended not to.

    "Better," I admitted. Better, hell. She'd been fast enough I only got off two shots, and one had been nowhere near her. That was pretty damned effective.

    "I told you I could handle it," she said, panting. There was a scrape on her right elbow and her tights were gray down the side from her dive for cover. Neither was bothering her. Good. She started reholstering the pistol in a small of the back rig under her tunic. It's not the safest carry, if you get knocked down on your spine, but it's not bad and it can be very discreet.

    "Fine," I said. "Come into my office for a moment." I turned, she followed. "Door," I said as I entered.

    She really wasn't going to like this, but it was another test of attitude. As she closed it, I grabbed her.

    I'm not as spry as I used to be, but I am still strong, know how to use leverage, and don't hesitate. I gripped her wrist, pulled and twisted. That left me standing in T-stance for balance, with her backwards over my left knee. I batted her left arm aside as she yelped, and relieved her of the pistol. It went on my desk. A bit of clutching that wasn't sexual even though it came close found nothing stashed near her groin. She had a good Branch Shepherd Knives 10 cm folder clipped down her right sock, and another, smaller one hooked on her bra between her breasts. She had a collar tab knife, the type that are very popular among wannabes and not much good, but can still cut, in the neck of the tunic.

    "Tell me if I missed any or I'll go probing," I said.

    "Ouch! That's it!" she said. "Spare magazine in the holster."

    I twisted her back to her feet, a process that confused her. She'd been swept over, held immobile by her own mass across my knee, now was back on her feet and disarmed and intimately if professionally felt up. It had taken me seven seconds. I said, "Yeah, that was pretty good shooting. Right up to the point where you got captured." She could be proud of what she did, but she wasn't going to get cocky or I'd slam her down.

    She calmly looked at me and said, "I think I understand now."

    "You have a start," I said. "I believe I can rely on you."

    "Good to know," she said, and fixed me with a stare. "When do I get to know I can rely on you?"

    That surprised me.

    "That's a good question. I don't have an answer, but we'll work on that."

    Yeah, sure I was over being an introspective narcissist. I'd completely missed this being a two way matter.

    "You've driven home that this is going to be truly succulent," she said, sounding very much like a sergeant.

    "It always sucks to be us. Learn that now. Tonight you start sleeping with me."

    It was her turn for that completely shocked look again. "Excuse me?"

    "If we're going to be a couple for cover purposes, you start looking like my lover. I didn't say 'Sex' I said 'Sleep.' But we stay close."

    "That makes sense."

    "I snore."

    "I guess I'll manage."

    Chel came home from school about then, through the back door. She took in a quick glance, nodded almost imperceptibly as she came to a reasonable but wrong conclusion about either business or pleasure in progress, and started to head past with just a "Hey, Dad," and a nod.

    "Wait, Chel," I said. She stopped and turned. "Silver's here on business. Military business."

    With a cautious twitch of an eyebrow that's going to rip some guy's heart out soon, she extended her hands to shake and threw in a couple of centimeters of bow. "I'm Chelsea Lockhart. Pleased to meet you," she said.

    "Silver McLaren." Silver gave her just as much grip and bow. Not many people do that for adolescents.

    As Chel queried us with a glance, I said, "I've got something to take care of in a few days. Silver will be assisting me."

    "Off planet?" Chel asked. Dammit, why did I have a smart daughter? Then she, the only one who knew me well enough to read my cold face, said, "Out system." It sounded like a dirge the way she said it.

    "'Fraid so," I said. "But Silver's going to be here. Undercover. As far as anyone is concerned, she's a fling with me, okay?"

    Her eyes widened slightly and she said, "Okay, Dad. Am I supposed to like her or hate her guts?" She smiled slightly. Silver chuckled.

    "Might be best if you hated her. It'll account for any stress around here."

    "Okay," she agreed. "I suppose you'll tell me what I need to know, and I shouldn't ask questions or spy on you?"

    "Who are you and what have you done with my daughter?" I replied. It wasn't much of a joke. Chel has been a snoop her entire life. A pretty good one, too. She improves as I whack her when I catch her.

    She grinned. I hugged her, and the warmth calmed me down. She really is the only thing that keeps me sane, and alive. She has a good grip, too.

    "You can eat at Andre's or the Access tonight. I need to go out with Silver."

    "Okay, dad," she agreed. "Thanks. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

    "Yeah, that's funny when I tell it," I said.

    Thanks, kid. Not that I was planning on anything, but that would have been a dousing with ice water.

    She tripped out, through the stair door and up to our residence. When I started, I was afraid living in an industrial area would be tough on her, but there are other kids in the area, a park, and while her school handles a lot of transients, there are a few locals. She did okay.

    Idly, I realized I could now cash in the two unlimited tickets I'd kept on hand in case I needed to escape in a hurry. Nor did I need to live next to the port anymore. It was relaxing and uplifting in a way.

    After, of course, I killed one of my friends.

    I never wanted a normal life, but there must be a moderate middle somewhere.

    I turned to Silver/Cynthia, and said, "Let's go shopping. Got a list?"

    "I've been working on one," she agreed. "Cash cards for Earth, mixed currency and cards for Novaja Rossia, Caledonia. Cash and bullion for Mtali. Two hundred K each. ATF Outfitters should be delivering Stash Luggage brand bags this afternoon, if your daughter will sign for them."

    "She will," I agreed. Yeah, she's a good kid.

    As we walked to my site van, she said, "I have clothing for me. Athletic, casual, business casual for here, Earth and generic colonies. I can't do a non-English speaker's accent worth a damn. I have a couple of formal gowns and a tux. All the shoes are built for use and looks. Expensive."

    "So we go shopping. I want disposable handguns, reliable but cheap. Taurus or similar. I want a takedown riot gun. Get the Merrill. Collapsible hunting rifle I can use for sniping. Probably the Chandler. I'll take care of that one. Any electronics you might need, and something to stash them in, obviously. Whatever you need for an ID kit, and some cracking tools."

    "That and hand tools, and some surgical gear for manipulation, and I'll stock up on makeup. How many phones do you want?"

    "I want six sets each of ID, phones and comms. Make us a married couple, a dating couple and a business couple."

    "I'll get local ID from a bank, too."

    "Good," I agreed. I wasn't sure Cr5 Million would be enough by the time we were done.

    Something hit me.

    "What's your status for this? Orders? Temp Duty? Discharged?"

    "We discussed that, the…boss and I," she said. "Seemed safest to say nothing. My unit was told orders will follow later. Captain Hull was told to forget about it, so was the first shirt. I guess they're hoping this is short enough it doesn't matter much."

    "Unlikely," I said. "Seventeen days between planets, and we might need to hit five or more planets. This is a long temp."

    "We'll do what we can."

    "Yeah. I just remember all the compromises last time. They didn't help."

    The van is unmarked, a bit older, completely nondescript. My meet and greet vehicle's a basic high traction small truck, like everyone else around here uses. I'm invisible.

    We were silent a few moments as I pulled into traffic, then she spoke.

    "Dan," she said. I made eye contact.

    "The Earth Insertion is testable material at the schools now. It didn't go perfectly, but you're regarded as brilliant for how you pulled it off. Entire courses changed to incorporate your doctrine."

    I suppose she thought that would make me feel better.

    What I heard was, "We're raising an entire generation of elite troops to be programmable killing machines who think of wiping out planets as a job, for which they expect reviews and promotions based on their body counts."

    I guess my complete lack of an expression clued her in. We traveled in silence.

    I wasn't angry with her. She couldn't know, it was impossible for her to know, and I hoped she never did. She was also genuinely trying to open up to me as a person. It might be an attempt at friendship, it might only be so we could operate better as a team, but it was honest either way.

    I was going to have to find a way to connect with her. At the same time, I was pathologically afraid to do so, because she was expendable for this mission, and I might have to do so.

    I understood the reasons Randall had to be eliminated, even if I didn't like them. Sooner or later his actions would come back on us. That would endanger everyone in the Forces. So it was critical that I stop him.

    Logically, if she could distract him long enough for me to get a shot off, I had to do it. The end result of that would probably mean she died.

    I wasn't going to let that be personal. She was a tool, and had to stay that way.

    I didn't want to be sociopathic.

    I drove, we'd go into stores, split up and buy supplies. I haggled enough where I could to either be in character for those who knew me, or not appear blatantly desperate to those who didn't. At the chain outlets, I just offered basic pleasantries, paid cash and left.

    Within a div we had a respectable haul of mostly non-descript hardware in the van. Any home hobbyist would have been busy for weeks. We'd have days at most, to convert it all into easily and discreetly transportable components. Some of the electronics, especially, would result in criminal charges on Earth or places like Mtali.

    As she climbed in with an armful of packages from Universal Fasteners, I said, "Dinner."

    "Thanks," she said.

    "You'll have to pretend to like me."

    "Will this involve you shooting at me?" Her tone was sarcastic and unamused.

    "Not during dinner," I replied.

    She didn't reply. Not verbally.

    There was a Timmons Meat nearby. The elk steak was adequate. The vegetables were crisp. The beer was commercial but respectable. We looked enough like a working domestic couple to pass. I probably wasn't known here, but there was always a chance, and a good cover benefited from practice.

    Back at the shop, we unloaded it all into the dock area, stripped what packaging we easily could, and finished around midnight. It was a productive enough day.

    "I'm going to get cleaned up," I said.

    "Go ahead. I'll finish checking some of these boards first."

    "Got it."

    My side of the residence is a great room with a kitchen and bathroom at the south end. Bed in the corner, office along one side with comm, chairs toward the middle and empty space on the west for exercise or whatever. Chelsea has a smaller suite across the hall. I have two spare rooms for guests, which I've never had, or storage. I don't have much to store, though.

    I stepped through to the bathroom, tossed my clothes at the automatic washer, a great invention that, and got clean. Finished, I pulled on shorts and T shirt, came out and hit the comm to clear out leads and messages. I'd have to come up with a reason for shutting down for several weeks, that was believable. I'd divert some business to a couple of competitors I respected. Existing jobs would have to be completed, though.

    She came up while I worked, and headed into the bathroom. I noted it without any comment, and took care of two inquiries, a request for quote and some random comments on social trees. I don't do much with them. Dan is a loner.

    A few segs later she came out clean, damp and naked. We're not a psychopathically modest culture, and we were both soldiers. Or she was and I used to be. Nudity isn't really an issue.

    Or it shouldn't be. I found myself very disturbed. Not aroused—that might have been expected. Just disturbed and wrong feeling. In fact, I felt worse for not being aroused, because her body was perfect for her. Everyone comes in their own shape, and hers suited her. Olive skin and dark hair, smooth, slightly angular lines, that tone of youth. If I'd seen her in a club when I needed some comfort, I'd have zeroed in on her at once.

    I went about getting undressed myself, mostly. I sleep in a T-shirt and briefs because I chill easily. I was about done when she said, "Okay, Goodnight." She slid under the covers, rolled her back to me and went to sleep.

    I didn't. I wasn't comfortable.

    Oh, I had a field-supported mattress that would flex for contours and not transfer any vibrations from the other side. The room wasn't soundproof, because I like sensory input of my environment to feel safe, and I'm used to city noises, or woods noises, desert, ship, whatever. That wasn't the problem.

    Sexual tension. There it was now. Out in the open. At last. I'd slept alongside women soldiers before, but usually in sleeping bags or curled up in cloaks. I tried to recall a mission where I'd done this, and couldn't. I'd had a couple of short relationships when Chelsea was younger, but nothing recently except the occasional friendly fling or professional escort, who left at once. Occasional sensory environment fantasies with friends on the nets who knew me only by a nickname were not the same. The last woman I'd really shared a bed with I'd been involved with socially and professionally, and was the mother of my daughter and now dead. Hell, long dead. Ten Grainne years, fifteen Earth.

    Next to me was a highly toned young woman, with an attitude and look I liked, near naked and within arm's reach. I couldn't touch her for all the obvious reasons. And the purpose of this exercise was so people would think we were sexual. That, and it created a better bond for the masquerade psychologically. It had all the advantages of a real relationship, without the sex. That was exactly the problem.

    I lay there for most of a div, 2.7 hours, sweating slightly and not sleeping. No, I could not "accidentally" grope her. I couldn't snuggle. I couldn't do anything that would give my body a hint that anything was going to happen. It was strictly a cover. My body didn't believe it. Then I realized my brain didn't, either.

    Eventually, I got up and headed through to take a long, hot, soaking, mind-numbing shower. It almost worked. Eventually, it did. Then I came back and slept, exhausted, as far away from her as I could get and still be in the same bed.