• Eddie Fogler

House of Poison and Spice Part 3

Once I get back to the safe house, change clothes, and pack, it’s hard to say goodbye. It was nice having a top tier accommodation for a change. Such extravagant safe houses are normally reserved for senior agents, but I have enough credits to afford them now. Another thing I owe to Cinnamon. I step outside and admire the dream like chateau. The setting sun over the lush hills makes me sigh. Hopefully, I have another target in southern Hailfere soon.

It’s a quick walk to the station and a quick shuffle onto the bullet train. I do my best at appearing as a normal citizen for the rest of the passengers. If anyone was too look closer, I feel like they would be able to spot my discomfort. My reddish brown hair is free to be unruly with its soft curls to my shoulders. I can’t stop messing with it, like I have a nervous twitch or something. I know it misses the comfort of the ponytail too.

I chose the navy and white polka dotted dress, and now I have regrets. It doesn’t feel airy and light; it feels heavy. I feel more exposed than when I’m in my catsuits. Ugh. I look so pale. Have I always had such alabaster skin? And this many freckles? And whom am I kidding with these lacy white gloves. I’m throwing this outfit away when I get back.

“Hey Joan.”

My body stiffens, and I force a smile as Viceroy X sits across from me. His pungent cologne hits me and makes my eyes water. It’s a horrible mix of cheap cigars and obnoxious misogyny. As usual, he’s dressed in a flashy, over-the-top suit. Like some misguided peacock. This time, its an ornate burgundy and gold velvet ensemble, which is also an offense on my senses.

He leans forward and places his hand on my knee. He gives it an awkward squeeze as he looks up to me. “How are you doing, Joan?”

“I’m fine.”

“I just so happened to look at the agent travel logs,” he says, leaving his hand on my knee. “And I saw that you were very close to my assignment.”

“Imagine that.” I scoot as far back as I can in the seat, so my knee is no longer in his grasp.

He was trying to be nonchalant, a stretch in velvet, but I knew he purposely looked into the agent travel logs. I guarantee it. He was the top junior agent in the house until I got my shit together. Now I’ve become some sort of conquest to him. As if me sleeping with him would bring him back on top of the leaderboards.

“Had we known in advance, we could have shared the safe house and saved some credits.”

“I didn’t really spend much time in the safe house.” I wonder how painful it would be to break the window and jump out.

“No wonder you look so tired.” He pulls out his citizen card from his jacket pocket. “I can rent us a private cabin if you’d like.”

I know he’s poisonous, but I bet his toxic masculinity is what kills a majority of his victims.

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