No More Mr. Nice - By Renee Roszel Page 0,46

closed his fingers in a clawlike maneuver. “This drug company wants a computer program that’ll help them pick up molecules and move them around so they can improve medicines.”

“But molecules are too small to move with your hand,” Molly said, a confused frown puckering her forehead.

“That’s true,” Lucas agreed, giving the girl an approving nod. “So my job is to make imaginary molecules that are big enough to move with this glove, and to see through this helmet, so the computer can then work microscopic tools that do the same thing to the real molecules.”

“No jive?” Moses exclaimed.

“No jive,” Lucas echoed, pleased at the boy’s interest. “The drug company hopes this new technology will help reduce the costs of products.”

“Cool,” Molly breathed. “You’re almost like a saint to be working on something so wonderful.”

Lucas halted in the act of taking off his glove, and shot her a startled glance. “I wouldn’t say I’m very close to sainthood,” he hedged, embarrassed by the young girl’s admiration. “It’s my business to come up with computer programs.”

“But you do such awesome stuff, Mr. Niceguy,” she objected passionately. “You’re a totally awesome man.”

He felt a prick of guilt as he turned away to finish removing the glove. “What is that you two brought?” he asked brusquely, anxious to change the subject.

“We, uh, thought you might be hungry,” Molly offered, still sounding too impassioned for Lucas’s peace of mind. He turned to stare somberly at her. She held out the plate, but did not move forward.

He realized now why neither of them had come any closer. To a fourteen-year-old, his equipment no doubt looked like the inside of an alien spacecraft. “I am a little hungry, at that,” he admitted, feeling the weariness of the past several weeks lying heavily on his shoulders. “Thanks.” He got up and indicated a table and four chairs in the corner near the door. “I’ll eat over there.”

Molly and Moses, hurrying along the far wall, beat him to the table and had set down his sandwich and mug by the time he got there. Lucas was surprised to see he’d been brought a cup of cocoa instead of coffee. “Looks good,” he offered less gruffly, realizing how really hungry he was.

“Mrs. Glen thought you might be ready for something,” Molly said, taking a step back, as though she still feared he might reach out and slug her for tossing his computer into the lake.

After seating himself, he ran a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes. “Tell her thanks,” he said, tiredly. Then, looking at the boy, he asked, “How are you feeling, Moses?”

He shrugged. “Like a dumb-butt, but I ain’t cold anymore.” He elbowed Molly gently. “We both feel pretty stupid.”

Molly bit her lower lip. “Yeah,” she added shyly. “Spitball told me those little computers can cost a couple of thousand dollars—” She broke off suddenly, as tears flooded her eyes. The storm of emotion was so unexpected, Lucas was taken aback. He flinched, lowering the sandwich he’d been about to bite into.

“Hey—” He reached out and took her hand. “Cut that out,” he cautioned gently. “We had a deal. You’re peeling my potatoes remember?”

She sniffled. “But—I ruined an expensive computer!” she sobbed, brokenly.

She was right about that—except for one small detail. The XJ 9000 had cost fifteen thousand dollars, not two. Frowning at her distress, he squeezed her fingers. “Molly, I don’t usually brag to women about my finances,” he said, with a grin he hoped would charm her out of her tears, “but I’m filthy, stinking rich. I could toss one of those little toys in the lake every day if I wanted and still be able to afford cable TV.” He squeezed her hand again, then let go, adding, “Besides, I have insurance for stuff like that. Won’t cost me a dime.”

She blinked, and sniffed. “You—you sure?”

“Would Mr. Niceguy lie?” he asked, ashamed at his use of the title he didn’t feel worthy of. But he figured it was a label she’d have faith in, and he hoped it would get her mind off the blasted computer.

Molly seemed to relax slightly. His reference to the damned Mr. Niceguy fraud he was perpetrating had done what he’d wanted it to. She swallowed and wiped her nose with the napkin she’d brought. “I—I made the sandwich,” she said, her voice almost steady.

Moses added, “I made the cocoa. Larry’s trying to say he’s sorry by helpin’ Jack wash that moron dog.”

Lucas was confused. “What moron dog?”

“You know,” Moses