Page 60 of A Spy is Born
"Will we expose him?" I ask.
"I don't see how we can do that without also exposing you, me, and the entire operation. And he knows that."
Right, of course.
"So…you'll just have a stern talking-to with him?" I ask.
A smile pulls at Temperance's lips…it's sly, scary. "Something like that.” A lump forms in my throat. I’m not sure who is scarier, Grand or Temperance. But I guess I’ll find out.
Chapter Fourteen
A few dayslater I’m at Synthia’s dojo showering after my training, letting the water pound onto my tingling muscles, hair slick on my back, eyes on the drain—letting everything wash away.
"Angela!" Synthia’s voice reaches me from outside the door, and my face comes up.
"Yeah?" I answer, stepping forward out of the spray, peering through the fogged glass door at the empty bathroom beyond.
"There is someone here to see you." Her voice is laced with amusement, so it’s not Temperance or Grand.
"Be out in a minute."
We met up at her dojo today. The main gym is always crowded on weekends, and she understands my hesitation about that…or at least she thinks she does. It's not all the staring; it's the exposure. I can't concentrate on Synthia when I'm thinking about threats all around me.
Turning off the shower, I grab a towel and dry myself quickly. Grabbing my body brush, I give it a couple of squirts of body oil and then begin to rub from my feet up. My already-tingling muscles light up again at the gentle massage. Moving toward my heart, I take my time, bringing color and energy to my skin.
Though they’re now a favorite of Gwyneth Paltrow and the Goop crowd, I learned about body brushes from my grandmother long ago. But she did it dry before the shower—with a much stiffer brush so that there was an element of punishment in the self-care routine.There is a note of punishment in everything that old woman does.
Throwing on my wrap dress and slipping into leather sandals, I run my fingers through my hair, leaving it to dry naturally. It gets so abused through my work that I like to condition and leave it alone when I don't need to make it look any specific sort of way.
A quick application of face moisturizer, mascara and lip gloss, and I push out of the changing room. Synthia's private dojo is well equipped. Made up of two main rooms, it’s a large and bright space scented of eucalyptus. I pass through the equipment room, which includes the standard weights and treadmill along with ropes hanging from the walls for yoga inversions and a full set of pilates apparatuses. The dojo itself has large casement windows, closed on this sunny, yet smoky day, with a mirrored wall and thick mats running from wall to wall. The wooden swords we practiced with today are hanging up alongside other mock weapons.
In the small reception area, with its water cooler and a few comfortable chairs, a man in a dark suit and tie with super-short hair waits with his hands behind his back. He’s military, maybe, or used to be anyway. Or wants to be...
"Ms. Daniels," he says with a deferential nod. "This is from Mr. Grand." He holds out an envelope.
Crap on toast.
I don't want to take it. My hands are frozen by my side.I can't take it.
"Ms. Daniels?"
I swallow, dread trying to claw its way out of my stomach. Dread’s cousin, terror, is sitting on my brow. But bravery thumps from my heart, and I lift my chin, extending my hand to take the slim envelope.
Mr. Military gives me a nod then turns on his heel and leaves. I hold the edge of the envelope, trying not to be afraid of the inanimate object.
"What was that all about?" Synthia asks. "Mr. Grand? That asshole running for president?"
I give a rueful smile and shake my head. "He's got a crush on me and has been trying to get in my pants."
She sneers with disgust. "Ew, he's married isn't he?"
"Yeah. And we all know how much that matters."
"What a scumbag."If she only knew.Synthia is still in her workout gear: skin-tight tank top and shorts, her hair pulled back into a bun. She crosses her arms as if to protect herself from men like Grand, as if there is any way to keep them at bay.
They come for us no matter what.
The thought is dark, a tendril of evil snaking through my brain, but it gives that bravery in my heart power. And I slip the envelope into my bag. "If that's a love note, you should go to the press."
