Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 77793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
She mirrors the same soft, sad, goofy grin back at me. “You too, Orion. You freaking too.”
CHAPTER 10
Echo
My home sweet home happens to be a one-bedroom apartment in Seattle. It’s about as far from Vegas or San Diego as one can get.
I’ve been home for five days and back at work for the past three, and I have to say most of that time has been spent wondering if I made the right decision. I have a scrap of paper tucked into my suitcase with a burner number that belongs to Scarlet on it. She gave it to me just in case I ever changed my mind or needed to contact them. I haven’t pulled it out once, but I didn’t need to. I’ve had it memorized since I first glanced at it before I tucked it into my suitcase, hidden in that part of one of my bras that they make to put padding in. I didn’t think anyone would be looking for a piece of paper there, so it seemed like a safe spot.
I’m tired after the grind of work. Since I haven’t gone to college, the best I could do was showcase my skills or find somewhere that would eventually pay for training. I happen to work for a very large IT and security company, but not in the way I’d like. I work on the phone lines, and yes, I rock it. But no, I don’t like it. I keep hoping that, one day, someone will recognize that I’m smarter and more capable than half the people doing the job I want, but after today, I’m starting to think it won’t happen. Ever.
“You look like death warmed up in the microwave, which is a big no-no for certain kinds of cooking. Mostly, all the cooking in my books.”
I bite down on a snarky reply. Mrs. Johnson is a good neighbor. She lives in the apartment right beside me, and she’s always offering me homemade baking, casseroles, or tea and a neighborly chat. She’s eighty-something and pretty lonely, but she’s a real sweetheart, so she gets a pass on calling me “death warmed up.”
I probably do look like it. Microwaved four times into dry, crispy, stale nastiness.
“Long day.” I jam my key into the mailbox lock by the front door and sweep my hand in to collect the mail. I haven’t done it since I got back, seeing as I kept forgetting, and the box is stuffed full of flyers and junk mail. “Work was rough today.”
Mrs. Johnson shakes her head of white fluffy curls sympathetically. “You tell those rat behinds where to go next time.”
“Unfortunately, it was people calling in and giving me grief about every possible thing today. Just over and over again. People can be so, so nasty on the phone. We had our quarterly reviews with our boss today too, but seeing as I haven’t gotten all five-star ratings because people are arseholes, I’m not getting a raise.”
“You’re wasted there,” she scoffs. She digs in her own mailbox and snorts. “Farging flyers. Always with the flyers. I don’t need the paper copy anymore. It’s a real waste. I get them all on my phone now that you showed me how to get apps and set everything up. I’m in the era of technology. Not going to let these old bones get left behind in the dust.”
“No. No, you’re not. That’s a good thing. If you need any help, let me know.”
“Psshaw. After a trash day, you know what you need?”
“Um, a bottle of something strong, but unfortunately, it’s a work night.”
“You need a nice cup of tea and a fresh-baked cookie. Lucky for you, I have both.”
I’m not going to disagree. I’m exhausted, but it’s not the physically tired kind of exhausted. It’s more like I’m emotionally exhausted. I’m just so tired of it all. I’m tired of thinking I’m going to get ahead one day and that I’ll be able to ever work at a job that appreciates everything I can do and actually utilizes any of my talents. I feel invisible. Totally. Invisible.
Yes, I realize how silly it sounds because I could be putting my hacking skills to the best kind of use. I could be living it up, seeing the world, and taking down bad guys. I could be doing what I longed to be doing.
Do it on your own, then.
I’ve never used my skills in that way. I promised myself that I wouldn’t do that. That I would never, ever take money that wasn’t mine, hurt people who didn’t deserve it, or make bad things happen in general. I could probably fab up a fake background with a fake degree that’s convincing enough and then move around enough that I wouldn’t get caught, but just the thought of doing something like that makes me feel wretched. The anxiety would not be worth whatever the few perks might be.