I shake her hand once in agreement, and as she goes to pull away, I draw her forward. “You have something of mine,” I whisper next to her ear.

Her breath shallows, revealing the slightest tremble of her body, before she says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

After another heavy beat, I release her hand and back away. I keep my gaze trained on her until I’m at the door, then I give her my back.

I hear the distinctive flick of my lighter. Stalled in the doorway, I glance back to see Kyrie strike the flint wheel. A tiny flame springs to life, the reflection dances in her eyes.

Kyrie flips the cap closed to douse the flame. Then she plucks a blue flower from the bouquet and snaps the long stem, placing the flower behind her ear with a wink. “Game on, Jack.”

OceanofPDF.com

FIVE

OceanofPDF.com

FLICK, SNAP

OceanofPDF.com

KYRIE

Flick, snap. Flick, snap.

I press my teeth into my bottom lip and try to crush the grin that begs to ignite on my face. I fail to keep it at bay. I re-read Hugh’s message for the third time this morning, excitement and nerves zipping through my fingers as I fidget with the lighter in my grip.

To: [email protected]

From: Hugh Cannon [[email protected]]

Subject: URGENT: Departmental Meeting

All,

I will send out a calendar hold momentarily for a mandatory departmental meeting at 10 A.M. - please cancel any conflicting meetings or classes that you have at this time. All field classes, body donations, or recovery plans are canceled until further notice.

Best,

Hugh

I open and close the stainless-steel lid with metronomic precision until the calendar reminder chimes a fifteen minute warning for the meeting.

Flick, snap. Flick, snap.

My grin takes on a wicked edge.

I pick up my office phone and dial Madeleine’s extension. She answers on the second ring.

“Bonjour, ma belle,” she says and I roll my eyes. She’s about as French as a stale baguette from the QwikFill gas station on 2nd Ave. Madeleine was born in fucking Milwaukee, for Christsakes. But I plaster that smile back on my face. They can hear your sunshine through the phone, my mom once said when I’d gone with her to ‘bring your kid to work day’, dutifully writing down her pearls of wisdom as I watched her navigate her daily routine as Ashgrove’s top real estate agent. Smiles sell, baby!

“Hey Madeleine,” I chime. “Are you coming to the meeting?”

“Of course,” she replies, an edge of mystery deepening her voice. “Any idea what it’s about?”

I’ve got a viable theory. “No. None at all. Hey, quick favor if you have a sec?”

“Sure, what’s up?”

“Can you swing by Jack’s office to grab Hugh’s copy of Statistics and Probability in Forensic Anthropology? I passed Hugh in the hall earlier and he asked if I had it, but the last I saw it was in Jack’s office,” I say, obviously leaving out the part where I took the textbook from Jack’s shelf while he was in class. “Since you’re just down the hall—”

“It’s no problem, of course,” Madeleine interjects. The mystery is gone from her voice, replaced with bright and lyrical notes of anticipation. “I’ll go right now. See you at the meeting.”

She barely manages to say goodbye before disconnecting the call in her haste.

Flick, snap.

I rise from my chair with a long stretch toward the ceiling, warming the muscles in my back that are still tight from my recent clandestine activities. With a deep, cleansing sigh, I grab the book from my desk drawer and pocket the lighter, then stride toward the conference room down the hall.

The windows of the long room face the Bass Research Fields, the overcast afternoon light reflecting on the polished oval table. Leather swivel chairs that still smell new are tucked neatly around it, the glass whiteboard at the end of the room streak-free and gleaming. I’m the first of the faculty to arrive and I head to a side table where carafes of fresh coffee and tea and a tray of pastries have just been laid out, pouring a cup of black coffee as I try to force myself not to calculate how much of my hard-earned funding is diverted to Hugh’s frivolous meeting expenses.

“Cannon always comes through with the strawberry danishes,” Brad says as stops next to me, brushing my hip with his fingers on his way to reach for the pastry tray, unraveling the plastic wrap to withdraw a sticky danish.

One thousand, one hundred and fifty-two dollars and thirty-four cents annually, my inner voice proclaims.

Christ.

“Yeah,” I say, gripping the lighter in my pocket. “Maybe he could try not ordering in from O’Toole’s for a change. Shit adds up,” I grumble. Brad only chuckles around the flaky pastry already stuffing his maw.

“But the strawberry danishes,” he pleads around another bite that consumes more than half the pastry.

I roll my eyes but say nothing in reply, turning with my coffee in hand as the sound of voices pulls my attention to the door. Hugh enters next with Joy following close behind, then a moment later Madeleine with a toss of a grateful smile in my direction. Dr. Sorensen is on her heels, his irritation roiling beneath the smooth veneer of his slate gray eyes and pressed black shirt and perfectly tailored pants. His gaze hooks on mine before darting to the book in my hand. When our eyes meet once more, his narrow.

“Dr. Cannon, I found your textbook,” I say with my most charming smile as I approach our weathered boss with the book extended. “Dr. Sorensen must have left it in the staff room. I found it on top of the microwave.”

Dr. Cannon thanks me while grumbling about his mortal enemy: The Microwave. He swears the innocuous appliance shocked him two months ago when he was heating his cup-a-soup, a feat which has yet to be repeated. General consensus among the department is that he microwaved the metal spoon.

I give Jack a sickly sweet smile. His glacial glare turns lethal.

I’ve decided that he’s much more fun as my nemesis than the friend who refuses to thaw.

I move back just enough from the table for the other faculty members entering the room to file in line for drinks and pastries, the nervous energy crackling within the conversations that flood the space. I say a few words of small talk to those coworkers passing in line and sip my coffee as Jack draws ever nearer. The temperature of the room seems to plummet the closer he comes and yet my skin grows hotter. A lick of heat crawls from my chest, roaming up my neck, latching on to my pulse, skirting over my jaw to creep into the flesh of my cheeks. The first time Jack’s eyes leave mine, it’s to watch my throat bob as I swallow.

“Dr. Sorensen,” I say as he draws to a halt before me. As usual, I don’t think he’s going to respond.

I withdraw my hand from my pocket.

Flick, snap.

Jack’s eyes narrow to thin slits. His jaw tics. The scent of vetiver rises between us.

“Good morning, Dr. Roth.”

Flick, snap.

“You should have a pastry,” I whisper as I lean a little closer, that earthy, woodsy scent of vetiver flooding my nostrils. “You’re being such a good boy. What’s the point of clicker training without a reward?”

With a final snap, I slip the lighter back into the safety of my pocket, my saccharine smile following Jack as he stops next to my shoulder. His eyes scour my face, carving a path through the color still warming my cheeks, dipping down to my lips before they come to rest on the column of my throat. “I’m not very food motivated,” he says, his voice so quiet among the chatter of our colleagues that only I can hear him.