Free Resist (Songs of Submission #6) by CD Reiss Page B

after.
     
    —So sorry. I’ll be held up 30 min—
    I felt like her co-conspirator at that point. Jessica and me against Jonathan. I was determined to understand the situation so I could help him. His ex-wife, perfectly content with his broken heart until she saw him with me, was hell-bent on destroying him for money and spite. She wanted to meet so she could use me, and Jonathan wanted to prevent that so I didn’t hurt myself or him. Both of them underestimated me.
    They forgot I was a musician, that I’d gone to a performing arts school and been the victim of manipulation and backstabbing. I’d already opened my case and found my strings cut and my staff notes swapped. I’d already been given the wrong time for auditions. I couldn’t come out of that world without learning a thing or two.
     
—I’ll be at Yellow Threat for an hour if you want to come by—
    Jessica and I, working against Jonathan to see each other. Ridiculous, yet somehow inevitable.
    I checked my watch. I’d definitely lost a writing day. I wasn’t happy about it, but there was nothing I could do but warm my hands on my tea. The sidewalk made the block walkable, but it was empty. The light industrial street had been taken over by architects and production companies at the turn of the twenty-first century, and they’d painted everything in bright colors and edgy murals. I noticed one of Geraldine’s half a block away. She’d painted the side of the building to look as if I could see through it to the highway, as if she wanted to negate whatever happened inside.
    I saw him walking across the crosswalk in a dark suit with a blue shirt open at the collar. His black hair caught the wind, and his eyes scanned every plane and surface.
    “Mr. Santon,” I said when he reached me, “what a coincidence.”
    “You believe in those?” He sat down.
    “No. I’m assuming my lover sent you to talk me out of seeing his ex-wife?”
    “Close. But no. I can’t tell you what he hired me to do, except I’m not supposed to be sitting at a table with you.”
    “You must have put your own cameras in the house. If you know where I’ve been, I don’t know how. I haven’t seen you.”
    “That was off the table, obviously. We’re not watching you. We’re watching the other one. And you’ll never see us, Ms. Faulkner. Any trace of us is gone before we even are.”
    “Big scary ops guys. My dad always said he could take any of you in a brawl.”
    “The idea is to avoid the brawl in the first place. Knowing what I know, which is too much, everyone involved wants to avoid a clusterfuck. Except you and Ms. Carnes. So I am going to sit here and enjoy a cup of tea, until night if necessary. If anyone joins you, I’ll be right here. Then I am going to drive you home.”
    I leaned forward, elbows on the table. “How do I shake an ops guy?”
    “Guys. Plural.” He glanced at a guy on a cell phone halfway down the block. He gestured and spoke loudly to make himself just another piece of furniture. Someone standing quietly with a phone to his ear would attract notice. Then Santon glanced at a black Toyota at the light and waved to the driver with a flick of his wrist. The driver flicked back and drove off when the light changed.
    Great. Even if I ran away and jumped in a cab, I’d have to shake the other two. “He needs to trust my loyalty.”
    “That’s between you and him.” He twisted around, hailing a waitress. “Personally, I don’t give a shit.”
    The waitress came, and he ordered himself a cup of coffee and a muffin. She flirted with him, a nervous grin crossing her face. He was a nice-looking guy. I’d forgotten to notice.
    “What’s with the pinkie ring?” I asked when the waitress left.
    He held up the simple gold band always present on his pinkie, not an affectation or accessory as I’d assumed. “My wife’s.”
    “She wearing yours?”
    “Around her neck, with her dog tags. We swapped when we re-upped. Weren’t there four weeks