UnDivided
Page 82
“His IV must have blown,” says the medic, his eye almost swollen shut from Connor’s punch. “The machine’s supposed to alert us.”
Behind Divan, Argent fumbles to clean a dining table, clearly too terrified for his own life to even make eye contact with Connor. Does he really think Connor will give him away for waking him, and lose the closest thing he has to an ally right now?
“Wait a second,” says Connor, as if it’s a total shock. “Is that Argent Skinner?” He looks at Argent with feigned incredulity. “What the hell is he doing here? And what happened to his face?”
“You shut up!” Argent says, playing into Connor’s little theatrical, although a bit less convincingly. “I’m here because of you, so just shut up.”
Divan apparently knows their unpleasant history together—as Connor hoped he would—and accepts that this is the first Connor is aware of Argent’s presence on the plane. Argent’s breath of relief would have been suspicious if anyone paid him the slightest bit of attention.
Divan looks Connor over. “Am I right in assuming that you dispatched Mason Starkey prior to his unwinding?” And when he doesn’t answer Divan says, “Come now, don’t you have anything to say?”
Connor shrugs and obliges. “Nice socks,” he says with a satisfied smile.
Divan never breaks eye contact. “Indeed they are. Cervelt. New Zealand deer fiber, a bargain at a thousand dollars a pair.” He returns Connor’s smile, leaving Connor feeling far less satisfied.
“Skinner! Bring Connor something to drink. Lemonade.”
Argent, dusting a piano keyboard flinches and hits a few of the keys. On the wall behind him three adjacent faces open their mouths and voice a dissonant chord. Connor swallows, and tries to convince his rational mind that he didn’t just see that.
“I’ll confess,” says Divan, “I was hoping to spend perhaps a week to build hype among my customers for your auction . . . but now, in light of your interference with Mr. Starkey, I just want to be rid of you.”
He gestures to the boeuf and the medic to take him away, and they step forward, grabbing him. “Where’s Risa?” demands Connor. “I want to talk to her. If you’re going to unwind me, at least let me say good-bye.”
“Unwise,” he says. “No need to compound her grief.”
Argent brings the lemonade but is literally blindsided by a chair. Bumping into it, he drops the glass on the floor, which calls forth a long-suffering sigh from Divan.
“I’m sorry, sir! I’m sorry!”
“Apologize to Connor; it was his drink.”
“I’m sorry, Connor.”
“It’s all good, Argent,” Connor says. “All good.” And he turns his head just enough to hide from Divan the wink he gives Argent.
Divan orders that Connor be not only restrained but kept in isolation.
“Should we now to tranq him?” asks the boeuf in something resembling English, with an accent much stronger than Divan’s.
“No,” Divan tells him, “I can think of no greater punishment than leaving him alone with his own thoughts.”
48 • Argent
In his twenty years on this earth, Argent Skinner could never connect his life’s aspirations to anything real. As a child, he wanted to be a football star, but lacked the physique, so he lowered his expectations and became a vocal spectator. As an adolescent, he wanted to be a basketball star, and although he had some talent, he lacked the drive to see it through. So he lowered his expectations and accepted the chance to warm the bench for the one season he actually made the team.
It was more than two years after almost finishing high school that Connor Lassiter showed up in his checkout line. During that time, Argent had gotten no closer to his adult life goals than he ever got to his childhood goals. Argent wanted to be rich. He wanted to be respected. He wanted to be surrounded by beautiful women who adored him. But as with everything else, he lacked the vision required to manifest these things, so once more he lowered his expectations. Now all he wanted was a job that gave him enough money to keep his car running, and enough beer so he could hang out with other low-expectation friends and bad-mouth the types of people who got a piece of their dream.
Then Connor showed up, and Argent truly believed, if he could only win Connor over, he could hitch himself up to Connor’s shooting star, and blast himself out of mediocrity.
It didn’t work out.
Then Argent figured hitching himself up with a seasoned parts pirate might provide him with a life of intrigue and purpose. After all, he’d already been doing some under-the-table dealing with groceries he’d been pilfering. That could be considered black-market experience, couldn’t it? His hopes were high for a future in parts pirateering.
That didn’t work out either.
And now he’s here. He supposes there are worse things than being in domestic service to a wealthy flesh trader, and once Argent regains face, perhaps Divan will promote him to a less thankless position. But who is he kidding? He has watched Divan and knows how he operates. If Argent screws up badly, he’ll be unceremoniously unwound. Otherwise, Divan will do the honorable thing and deliver what he promised Argent—but no more. He’ll be left, after his indentured servitude, at some airport somewhere with a new face, a handshake, and the same lack of a future he began with.
How amazing, then, to think that his entire life could change with a single wink.
Behind Divan, Argent fumbles to clean a dining table, clearly too terrified for his own life to even make eye contact with Connor. Does he really think Connor will give him away for waking him, and lose the closest thing he has to an ally right now?
“Wait a second,” says Connor, as if it’s a total shock. “Is that Argent Skinner?” He looks at Argent with feigned incredulity. “What the hell is he doing here? And what happened to his face?”
“You shut up!” Argent says, playing into Connor’s little theatrical, although a bit less convincingly. “I’m here because of you, so just shut up.”
Divan apparently knows their unpleasant history together—as Connor hoped he would—and accepts that this is the first Connor is aware of Argent’s presence on the plane. Argent’s breath of relief would have been suspicious if anyone paid him the slightest bit of attention.
Divan looks Connor over. “Am I right in assuming that you dispatched Mason Starkey prior to his unwinding?” And when he doesn’t answer Divan says, “Come now, don’t you have anything to say?”
Connor shrugs and obliges. “Nice socks,” he says with a satisfied smile.
Divan never breaks eye contact. “Indeed they are. Cervelt. New Zealand deer fiber, a bargain at a thousand dollars a pair.” He returns Connor’s smile, leaving Connor feeling far less satisfied.
“Skinner! Bring Connor something to drink. Lemonade.”
Argent, dusting a piano keyboard flinches and hits a few of the keys. On the wall behind him three adjacent faces open their mouths and voice a dissonant chord. Connor swallows, and tries to convince his rational mind that he didn’t just see that.
“I’ll confess,” says Divan, “I was hoping to spend perhaps a week to build hype among my customers for your auction . . . but now, in light of your interference with Mr. Starkey, I just want to be rid of you.”
He gestures to the boeuf and the medic to take him away, and they step forward, grabbing him. “Where’s Risa?” demands Connor. “I want to talk to her. If you’re going to unwind me, at least let me say good-bye.”
“Unwise,” he says. “No need to compound her grief.”
Argent brings the lemonade but is literally blindsided by a chair. Bumping into it, he drops the glass on the floor, which calls forth a long-suffering sigh from Divan.
“I’m sorry, sir! I’m sorry!”
“Apologize to Connor; it was his drink.”
“I’m sorry, Connor.”
“It’s all good, Argent,” Connor says. “All good.” And he turns his head just enough to hide from Divan the wink he gives Argent.
Divan orders that Connor be not only restrained but kept in isolation.
“Should we now to tranq him?” asks the boeuf in something resembling English, with an accent much stronger than Divan’s.
“No,” Divan tells him, “I can think of no greater punishment than leaving him alone with his own thoughts.”
48 • Argent
In his twenty years on this earth, Argent Skinner could never connect his life’s aspirations to anything real. As a child, he wanted to be a football star, but lacked the physique, so he lowered his expectations and became a vocal spectator. As an adolescent, he wanted to be a basketball star, and although he had some talent, he lacked the drive to see it through. So he lowered his expectations and accepted the chance to warm the bench for the one season he actually made the team.
It was more than two years after almost finishing high school that Connor Lassiter showed up in his checkout line. During that time, Argent had gotten no closer to his adult life goals than he ever got to his childhood goals. Argent wanted to be rich. He wanted to be respected. He wanted to be surrounded by beautiful women who adored him. But as with everything else, he lacked the vision required to manifest these things, so once more he lowered his expectations. Now all he wanted was a job that gave him enough money to keep his car running, and enough beer so he could hang out with other low-expectation friends and bad-mouth the types of people who got a piece of their dream.
Then Connor showed up, and Argent truly believed, if he could only win Connor over, he could hitch himself up to Connor’s shooting star, and blast himself out of mediocrity.
It didn’t work out.
Then Argent figured hitching himself up with a seasoned parts pirate might provide him with a life of intrigue and purpose. After all, he’d already been doing some under-the-table dealing with groceries he’d been pilfering. That could be considered black-market experience, couldn’t it? His hopes were high for a future in parts pirateering.
That didn’t work out either.
And now he’s here. He supposes there are worse things than being in domestic service to a wealthy flesh trader, and once Argent regains face, perhaps Divan will promote him to a less thankless position. But who is he kidding? He has watched Divan and knows how he operates. If Argent screws up badly, he’ll be unceremoniously unwound. Otherwise, Divan will do the honorable thing and deliver what he promised Argent—but no more. He’ll be left, after his indentured servitude, at some airport somewhere with a new face, a handshake, and the same lack of a future he began with.
How amazing, then, to think that his entire life could change with a single wink.
