The Debt Collector (Season Two) Page 7

  There’s a moment of uncomfortable shifting. I let them stew because that’s truly the heart of everything. My father’s body is practically still warm, and they’re so anxious to move on, cash out, or cash in, that it’s as if they never worked for him at all. As if all that time they spent telling him they agreed with his vision of killing the market for life energy was just them saying whatever they thought would profit them the most.

  Better to sort out now who is truly with the cause, and who is not.

  Jonathon Daniels, the CEO, speaks up when it appears no one else is going to. The silver frosting at his temples is just enough to appear worldly, yet nowhere near enough. As if he’s at pains to show he’s aging gracefully without cosmetics, only I can tell he’s not. He’s definitely getting life energy hits on the side.

  “We’re not dismantling your father’s work, Alexa,” he says, softly, addressing me as if I’m a child. “But the world is moving forward, whether we like it or not. The life energy trades grow stronger each year. The Department of Life and Health is adding more debt collectors to its roster all the time. Outside the Department, trade is still illegal, of course, but there are glimmers of technology out there—tech that could tip the scales very quickly toward legal life energy usage in the enhancement market.” He’s getting nods from all around the table.

  I wait him out, to see if all he has is the obvious.

  He soaks up the support then turns back to me. “We need to move now to bring some of this technology in house. If we don’t, we’re going to be left behind as a company. We’re just trying to plan for the future in a realistic way, Alexa.” His tone is patronizing, as if I don’t understand exactly what they’re doing. And why.

  “Realistic, Johnny?” I ask, with raised eyebrows, like this is a revelation to me.

  The nearly non-existent lines around his eyes grow tight at my casual use of his first name.

  I borrow his patronizing smile. “Realistic as in forgetting our main purpose here? Or realistic as in you’ve simply grown tired of the fight? Or perhaps forgetting and growing weary are a little too generous. You don’t look tired, Johnny. Not one bit.”

  I wait for him to understand the whisper of accusation. I can tell he knows that I know when his eyes go slightly round—he holds it back, schooling his features, so the rest of the board won’t realize his heart’s about to beat out of his chest.

  I look slowly around the table, then place my palm on the black glass. It’s cool under my hand, and it reminds me there’s one key difference between me and the board, and it’s not my controlling interest in Sterling’s private shares. It’s that I could kill every one of them with a touch. And that they’re no better than the targets I’ve been pulling life energy from for years.

  I lift my palm again, having already lingered longer than necessary to transfer the data. A holographic display pops up and hovers over the center of the table: it’s a collection of company logos with a long list of transactions.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” I ask them. They’re busy peering at the data stream, pulling it down to their own palm screens and tapping through the information to see what I’ve just barraged them with. But it shouldn’t take them long to recognize their own portfolio trades.

  One by one, there’s a freeze in the frenzy of action, then a few hushed whispers with their neighboring seat-mates. A few, like Chief Legal Officer Stevens, are already peering at me with murderous looks.

  “These are private records,” he says. “How did you get ahold of these?”

  I smirk. “The better question is… who am I going to give them to?”

  That stops all the whispers cold.

  I lean forward, placing both hands on the glass this time. “You may have been able to fool my father. He was a good man who believed in the best part of people—people like you, whom he trusted to carry out his passionate life’s work. But please believe me when I say you will not be able to fool me. I know you’ve been buying shares in our competitors with life energy tech. I know you’ve been investing in the life energy markets you apparently believe are the true future of this industry. You’re already working to tear down everything my father has built. And some of you seem to be under the mistaken impression that life energy hits for your own enjoyment are already legal.”

  I lean back from the table, and the hush is so complete, I can hear my own sucked-in breath and exhale as the only true sound in the room.

  Stevens is turning red in the face. “You should take care not to make accusations of illegal activities without proof—”

  “You’re fired, Stevens,” I say coolly, not looking at him while I swipe my palm screen open and tap through it.

  “I… what… you can’t just—” He’s cut off by the flesh-on-glass sound of my palm hitting the table. His outraged face turns to horror as he whips his gaze to the data I just transferred to the center display.

  “You’re an employee, Stevens, not a board member,” I say. “And apparently you slept through that class in ethics at Harvard, but really? You should have read your contract with Sterling a little more closely. At least before you decided to buy shares in a company dealing with life energy technology.”

  His chest is heaving but he’s not moving. I give him and the rest of the board a moment to realize that I’m serious. Legal-action breach-of-contract serious.

  He finally turns his now-pale face my way.

  “Wyatt will call security to escort you out,” I say.

  He looks like he wants to say a thousand different things, but his legal-brain has clamped his mouth shut. He pushes back from the table and stomps across the room. Wyatt’s already talking into his phone to call security, but Stevens just brushes past him and yanks open the door.

  I wait until it closes, then turn back to the rest of them.

  I have their full attention. “My father built this company,” I say, my voice as level as a gun pointed at their heads, “for one purpose and one purpose only—to provide an alternative to debt collection and stamp it out. That is the Sterling mission. As long as I’m still breathing, this company and every single person associated with it is going to do everything in their power to fulfill that mission. Anyone who breaches that code will find themselves in legal action to divest them of their shares, with any future public offering options null and void.”

  They’re abashed. Several are looking at their palm screens to avoid my gaze.

  I lower my voice. “And let me be perfectly clear: if anyone has dipped into the illegal trades, you have my solemn promise that you will wish you had not.” They can’t possibly know the full measure of the wrath I can bring to that sentence, but I think a few of them intuit it with the way their hands disappear under the table to hide the shaking.

  I pull in another breath and decide I can’t stand for one more moment to be in the same room with these people. I tap the table to delete the data I just displayed for them, then turn and march past them without a look back. Wyatt’s waiting at the door for me with a stone-cold look for the board members, in case any of them might decide to follow me.

  But I know they won’t.

  He opens the door, and I can’t get out fast enough.

  I’m halfway across Sterling’s executive floor before Wyatt catches up to me, but I’m not slowing down. The adrenaline of the board meeting is rocketing through my body, mixing with the excess life energy that’s still swimming inside, and making me feel like I’m going to explode. Wyatt shadows me until I reach my office. I swing inside and pace to the window, turn, skim along the glass barrier, then turn back toward the door. I’m a tiger in a cage, too much energy, about to burst. Wyatt punches the door button shut, and suddenly I’m in his arms.

  He hugs me tight, a full-body embrace that keeps me from bouncing up to the ceiling. The containment instantly soothes the hyper-jitters zooming around inside, and I kind of melt into him. He’s taller than me by several inches, but I’ve got the stiletto corporate heels on,
so we’re about evenly matched. My head sinks forward, but he pulls back and holds me by the shoulders.

  His sky blue eyes are dark, like a storm at daybreak. “I am so in love with you right now.”

  I huff a small laugh, but it lands a smile that calms me even more.

  He shakes his head in a small, slow motion, like he can’t believe what just happened in the boardroom. “Seriously, Alexa. I wasn’t even sure if you would show, then you come in and… damn, you just smacked them where they live. I don’t know where you got that data… I’m not even sure what data that is… but you did it. You stopped them cold.” He sucks in a breath. “I think I want to have your babies.”

  A bubble of laughter is trapped in my chest. It’s almost painful. “Isn’t that supposed to be my line?”

  He bites his lip, as if he’s actually considering this, then says, “Okay. I can work with that. You can have the babies. But I want to be involved in the production process.” He’s still holding me. The air turns thick. Instead of moving away, he moves closer. His hand cups my cheek. The smile falls off his face, and his voice drops low. “You’ve been so far away… I’ve been so worried about you, Lexy.”

  I want to protest: the name, the fact that he worries too much, the way he’s holding me as if we can have something together, which we can’t. I know this. But I’m not moving away either. We’re both breathing harder than we should. I tell myself it’s the adrenaline, but I know better. Wyatt’s killer sexy smile has nothing on the scorching hot look he’s giving me now.

  Kissing Wyatt is a mistake. And yet, it’s a mistake I very badly want to make.

  I wait, frozen and indecisive just long enough. He slips a hand around the back of my head and presses his lips to mine. His kiss is warm and eager and pulses a liquid happy feeling through me. It’s the distant cousin of a life-energy hit. My body eases into his, and he responds by pulling me even more strongly into him. His hands grasp the back of my head and the small of my back. His tongue dances with mine in a way that’s sparking lightning strikes throughout my body. My hands find their way across his shoulders and into his hair: I want this. Like I want air. The way I need life energy. I’ve been starving in a desert of look-but-don’t-touch. This is the kind of contact that’s off limits, but it doesn’t stop me from craving it hard. Even if it’s not meant for me. Because of what I am. Because of what touching a debt collector can mean.

  It’s been literally years since I allowed even this much, with anyone, much less someone I care for like Wyatt. The gaping need for it feels like it might consume me. I want to shove Wyatt over to my desk and make love to him in front of all the city. Or drag him into the bathroom, if he doesn’t want to put on a show. I want him to want me with the same aching need I have for his touch. This human touch—his hands on my back, in my hair, his lips devouring mine—this is a touch filled with life, not death. The need seizes hold of me and almost makes me cry out with the joyful pain of it. Except I can hardly breathe, and all my breath belongs to him.

  Wyatt must sense it, this convulsion of need, because he pulls back, gently ending our voracious kiss with a series of smaller ones that have my lips chasing after his.

  His smile is broad, but I’m trembling and feeling completely out of control. He brushes back a wild strand of hair that’s worked loose from the tightly-bound updo, tucking it behind my ear and looking at me with a kind of wonder.

  “I shouldn’t have ever doubted. You’re so meant to do this, Lexy.” He touches my cheek, his eyes lighting up. “You’re positively glowing.”

  A shudder runs through me. I step back and turn my head away, ignoring Wyatt’s surprised look and attempt to keep me in his arms.

  I’m glowing… from Hughes’s stolen life energy. Sourness rises in the back of my throat. I press the back of my hand to my mouth. Wyatt’s kiss is still there, my lips hot and sensitive from it. I turn away from him and stumble to my desk.

  “Lexy.” He’s all soft, concerned looks and frowns, following after me.

  I hold up my hand to stop him from coming near. “Don’t…” My chest feels like it’s caving in. “Don’t call me that.” The wounded look on his face makes me add, “Please, Wyatt. It’s too hard to hear.”

  I keep my hand up, fending him off even though he’s not advancing. I have the safe barrier of my desk between us now—the one I fantasized about making love on for one, brief, insane moment. The torment on Wyatt’s face matches the vise-grip of pain on my chest: this is why I don’t do this. This is why I don’t kiss hot personal assistants. Or friends who save me from the abyss. This is why I keep my distance. Because there’s nowhere for it to go, and the moment I remember that, the moment I stop pretending I’m something I’m not, everything is ruined.

  I scramble to say something intelligible, something that will excuse my behavior. My palm screen tones with a message. I drop my hand from its defensive pose and tap up the message, desperate for a distraction.

  Are you coming? It’s Jax. Somehow time has escaped me. I’m late. And Jax is the only one who has what I really need. I’m in the wrong place, doing the wrong thing.

  I can barely look Wyatt in the face. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

  I hurry out of my office before he can say anything in reply.

  I meet Jax at the abandoned electronics store, but we don’t stay long. And she doesn’t speak during the cab ride to the hospital, just glares at me in between rounds of some repetitive social gambling game she’s playing on her screen. It’s not until we’re alone in the elevator that she says something.

  “What in the hell do you need a gun for?” She gives me this angry look, like whatever I’m planning is going to run straight back to her. “I thought we agreed no more bodies to dispose of and no one ends up in the morgue.”

  I suppose she has every right to be pissed. When I signed Jax up to find high potential targets, we agreed I wouldn’t kill them. But right now, she’s really talking about Glenn. The one body I’ve asked her to arrange a different death for—one that wasn’t obviously due to a collection. I physically wince away from her and stare at the elevator floors ticking up. My nerves are already frayed to an electrical frizz from the mistake of kissing Wyatt, I don’t need her reminders about Glenn.

  “It’s for self-defense,” I say, still not looking at her.

  “I thought that’s what your hands were for.”

  She’s not letting this go, so I turn to face her. “I ran into some other debt collectors, okay? Trust me, hands aren’t enough of an arsenal in that situation.”

  She looks genuinely shocked, then she looks me over. “You seem pretty alive.”

  I glare at her. “I managed to talk my way out. But I’m not so sure they didn’t just do a catch and release, you know what I mean?”

  Now the frown settles back on her face. “What do they want?”

  I stare at the door as it reaches the tenth floor and settles before opening. “That’s just it, Jax. I have no idea.” I drop my voice as the door opens and we step out. “Did you get any information on that group I told you about?”

  The frown takes on a flinty edge. “Yeah. But not much.” She pulls her screen out of her brown trenchcoat and taps something up. When she gestures to my palm, I lay it flat on her screen for the transfer. I take a quick peek, but there’s just an old-time painting and a few paragraphs of text.

  “Look it over later,” Jax says. “We have an appointment.”

  I lock and encrypt the data, then turn my attention back to her. “Who are we meeting this time?”

  Jax doesn’t answer. She’s scanning ahead, looking for her pretty nurse friend. Melinda pops her red head out of the door at the far end of the hospital wing, motions to us, then disappears back inside. We stride forward, past the nursing station, keeping our gazes fixed forward, like we’re supposed to be here, and we know exactly where we’re going. The two nurses in attendance look up, but they don’t say anything. My corporate heels click on the waxed-shiny floor,
and I probably look high potential enough that they’re not going to stop me.

  When we reach the room, Melinda lets us in and closes the door behind us. This seems rushed, and no one’s bothering to change me into scrubs. There’s only one patient in the room, an older man, maybe late sixties. Whatever his illness, it’s toll makes him look even older: paper-skinned, gray in pallor, hair sparse yet wiry and standing straight out from his head, like it’s been electrocuted. It occurs to me that I’ve never paid out to anyone over the age of forty or fifty, and it feels strange. Like maybe, by a certain age, people are supposed to die. That’s a very unwelcome thought, and I shake it right out of my head. He’s sleeping with a gap-mouthed, nasal slumber that sounds medically induced.

  I whisper even though I think there’s no danger of waking him. “What’s the situation?” I ask Melinda. Not that I guess it matters: I trust her to steer me to someone who needs the life energy hit, and a payout is a payout. I get the mercy high, he gets what he needs, I’m relieved from the guilt and the jitters: it’s all good, as long as I don’t get carried away like last time and pay out too much.

  She keeps her voice quiet as well, but I think she’s more worried about it carrying through the door. “Surgical site infection,” she whispers like it’s a dirty word. “Someone screwed up.”

  “You mean, he’s dying from something the hospital did wrong?” My eyes go wide.

  She nods, a pinched look scrunching up her pretty face. “Bastards are letting him get worse, then they’re going to expedite the review. Once that starts, the debt collectors will be here within a day.”

  My mouth is seriously hanging open. “How can they… they should expedite getting him life energy, not trying to cover up their mistake!”

  Jax puts a heavy hand on my shoulder. “She knows that, Wraith.” Her voice carries a warning, like she thinks I’m blaming Melinda for this.