“How much do you want my cat?”
“Considerably less now that I know about his colorectal issues.”
“And my mug?”
“A lot, but I swear it wasn’t me!”
He hums skeptically. I can feel his breath against my face. Mint, with a hint of peanut butter. “I’m inclined to believe you, but only because this is not the first time.”
“What do you mean?”
“The frequencies list for the parietal electrodes you sent me yesterday? The one you emailed and put on the server? It wasn’t there.”
I scowl. “But I put it there.”
“I know. The engineers complained about missing and misplaced files, too, corrupted stuff. Lots of little things.”
“Probably a server error.”
“Or people screwing up.”
“Can you tell who moved the file?”
He types a few more strokes. “Not from the logs. The system isn’t coded that way. You know what it can do?” I shake my head, bumping against some spot on his chest. “It can tell me where the file was moved, and if it’s still on the server but in a different folder. Which in the case of the blueprints is”—he presses the space bar and pulls up an image—“right here.”
“Oh, perfect. That’s exactly what I was—” My teeth click as I shut my mouth. “Wait a minute.”
“What 5K should we sign up for?” He’s roaming the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “There’s usually a space-themed one in June—”
“No way.” I twist around. “The file was not where it was supposed to be.”
“The terms of the bet were that the file should be on the server.” He gives me a satisfied smile. “Bet you’re glad I didn’t agree to the anal expression.”
“You know I meant in a specific folder.”
“How unfortunate that you didn’t specify, then.” He puts a hand on my shoulder in mock reassurance—I seriously consider biting it off—and it’s ridiculous, how much every part of him dwarfs every part of me. Also ridiculous? The way those stupid intrusive thoughts of his body pressed against mine can’t seem to let up. And that having him so close reminds me of his thigh pushing up between my legs, solid and insistent against the seam of my— “What are you two doing?”
Boris is standing in the entrance of the lab, and my first instinct is to push away from Levi and scream that nothing happened, nothing happened, we were just working. But the distance between us is perfectly appropriate. It just feels like it isn’t, because Levi is so large. And warm. Because he’s Levi.
“We were just about to sign up for a 5K,” he says. “How are you, Boris?”
“A 5K, huh?” He stays under the doorframe, studying us with his customary tired expression. “Actually, I come bearing news.”
“Bad news?”
“Not good.”
“Bad, then.”
Boris comes closer, holding a printout. “You guys planning to go to Human Brain Imaging?”
HBI is one of many academic conferences in neuroscience. It’s not particularly prestigious, but over the years it has cultivated a “party” reputation: it takes place in fun cities, with lots of satellite events and industry sponsorships. It’s where young, hip neuroscientists network and get drunk together.
But I’m not hip. And Levi is not a neuroscientist. “No,” I tell Boris. “Where is it this year?”
“New Orleans. This coming weekend.”
“Fun. You planning on going?”
He shakes his head and holds out the printout. “No. But someone is.”
“MagTech?” Levi says, reading from above my shoulder.
“We’ve been keeping tabs on them. The company will present a version of their helmets at HBI.”
“Have they filed for a patent?”
“Not yet.”
“Then going public seems like . . .”
“A less-than-intelligent move? I think they’re trying to get visibility to pull in new investors. Which is a great opportunity for us to find out where they’re at.”
“You’re suggesting we send someone to New Orleans, have them attend HBI, and report back on what MagTech’s progress is compared to ours?”
“No.” Boris smiles for the first time since stepping inside the room. “I’m ordering the two of you to do that.”
* * *
? ? ?
“I JUST DON’T think that driving to New Orleans to play Inspector Gadget is the best use of our time,” I tell Levi as he walks me home like he insisted on （“Houston is dangerous at night,” “You never know who’s lurking around,” “Either you let me walk you home, or I follow ten feet behind you. Your choice”）。 He’s pushing his bike, which he apparently rides to work most days. Hmph. Overachiever. His helmet, strapped to his belt, bounces against his thigh every few steps. The soothing rhythm provides a solid backdrop to my bitching.