a swift tug on the baseplate, reacquired his grip, and moved stealthily up the hall.
His locks undone, dead bolt retracted, four-inch gap in the frame. He collapsed his two-handed grip until the 1911’s mainstream housing was against his sternum in the inside position to guard against a gun grab. Then he eased inside, elbowing the door ajar.
A glass of water on the kitchen island, set down with no coaster.
He heard noise in his master suite and jogged toward it, braced for a firefight. Bathroom light on, shower door rolled back, monitor light casting the Vault in a cool blue glow.
He exhaled and sliced the pie with the front sight as he entered the Vault.
Joey sat on the floor, Dog the dog’s head in her lap as she fed him almond butter off a spoon. One of Evan’s spoons. Code wallpapered the OLED screens, more programs running than he could keep track of.
The ARES was aimed directly at Joey’s critical mass, the center line of her torso, six inches down at the sternum.
He exhaled angrily, lowered the gun. “The hell are you doing here, Joey?”
“This mom shit is fucking you up.”
“Language.”
“No.” She untangled herself from the dog and stood. “What is going on with you?”
“I didn’t tell you you could be here,” he said. “Pick your shit off the kitchen counter. And the dog’s shedding everywhere.” He stormed over to the L-shaped desk, where she’d left a coffee mug steaming, and snatched it up. “Is it that hard to not mess everything up everywhere you go?”
Her voice warbled but held its anger. “You don’t talk to me like that.”
Not an admonishment. A wounded observation.
The hurt in her voice halted him on his feet.
“This isn’t you,” she said. “This isn’t us. You’re trying to push me away. But I know that drill. And I know you.” Her chest jerked and her eyes welled, but she wasn’t going to cry, not here, not now. “I don’t care what you say. I do know you. So knock it off, okay?” Her mouth quaked a bit, but she firmed it angrily. “Just knock it off. Right now. Please?”
He stood there holding the coffee mug for a time. Then he set it down. He felt a week’s worth of tension melt out of his shoulders, and he sank into his chair. He couldn’t look at her, couldn’t look at anything. He picked at the bandage over his cuticle and then picked at it some more.
When he risked a glance up, Joey was still standing there, shoulders back, spine straight, ready to fight or cry or maybe both. Dog the dog had risen to sit at her side, pressed into her leg. She rested her hand at his scruff, dug in for moral support.
Evan said quietly, “You’re right.”
Her shoulders lowered, almost imperceptibly. “I am?”
More words were there somewhere, but they were words for other people, the kinds of things said by people who weren’t broken.
He rose quietly and headed out. Down the long hall, past the workout stations, the heavy bag hanging from its chain. Past the living wall with its breath of mint and rosemary. Into the vodka room.
Soothing coolness against his cheeks. The bottle of Guillotine rested on its glass shelf. And beyond, the rise of Century City, windows glowing into the night from the pseudo-skyscrapers. He was alone in these four walls with his alcohol and a view of the world.
It struck him just how insulated he’d kept himself.
He sensed movement outside. Joey had emerged and was watching him, Dog snugged up next to her. Evan stayed locked in the glass room, breathing his way back to some kind of sanity.
But responsibility waited out there. To Joey. To himself.
That’s what people did for you, they held you to a standard you had to live up to.
He stepped out of the shell of the vodka room.
He faced Joey. “I’m…” The words were dry and textured, hard to dredge up. “I’m sorry.”
She cleared her throat, blinked a few times. Then she bit her lip and looked away. “Shit, X. You’re making me feel feelings.”
It occurred to him that Joey was the only one who could get in here. Into the penthouse, into his emotions, his life. If something happened to him, it would all fall to her. The floating bed. The Vault. The vodka freezer.
The last thought was worrying. He debated putting a self-destruct mechanism on the alcohol in case the next Hellfire hit its target.
“What happened?” she asked.
Could Evan trust her with this? Could he