Grumpy Boss, Hamel, B. [free novels to read TXT] 📗

guess they grew up together. Kirk was a sort of handyman, not really good with computers, but when something physical broke, or we needed some quick fix, he did what he could to help out. When Des left the computer, Kirk left with him, and I haven’t seen the guy in a long time.”

I remembered late nights in my garage, writing the code that would eventually become the heart of my computer with Desmond’s constant input while Kirk put together the physical mainframes. Back then, building computers was a little more complicated than it is now. We had a lot of issues with getting enough power and managing all that heat in those days, but Kirk was clever and industrious. He was a lanky guy, wore his dirty-blond hair long, and thought Rage Against the Machine was the best band ever.

“Are you on speaking terms with him?” she asked

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I don’t think we left things on bad terms, not between us anyway. I always treated him with respect and paid him better than anywhere else, so I assume he only walked out of loyalty. I doubt that worked out well for him though.”

“Here’s what I don’t get,” she said, looking up at the ceiling of the plane. “If Desmond’s rich and stuff now, and this all happened a long time ago, what does he even care? And why would he bother bringing Kirk into the mix? He admitted everything in a damn letter. Why would he do that?”

I shook my head and didn’t answer. I didn’t know what Desmond’s game was or why he was playig it. I thought he wanted to destroy my SPAC—but the letter threw me. It made no sense to say he wanted to wreck me and put it in writing. I could use it to prove that he was behind all my negative press, even if some of it wasn’t from him at all.

There had to be a reason, and I kept coming back to the same one: Desmond was an egomaniac, and he couldn’t help himself. The man couldn’t do something against me and not take credit. That went against everything he stood for.

“We’ll find out when we get to San Francisco,” I said, and stretched my legs out, smiling to myself. I could practically feel her staring at me, but I shut my eyes and tried to get some rest before we landed. It was a long flight, and I had a feeling it would be an even longer day out west.

* * *

The car dropped us off on the corner of a relatively quiet street at the top of a long hill. The roads in San Francisco were broken up by trolley tracks, and everyone seemed to know how to navigate them except our driver. A biker struggled up the hill nearby, sweating into his dark helmet. The sun was sinking low, glinting off cars parked along the curbs, and sparkling along the brightly colored houses, teetering down the slope.

“This is the place,” I said, standing outside of what appeared to be a run-down surf shop called Hardshells.

Millie stood next to me, arms crossed over her chest, frowning around. “I don’t get it,” she said. “He lives here? I mean, San Fran’s expensive as heck, so maybe he’s working for Desmond.”

“No, I don’t think so,” I said, glancing at my phone. “Jack said he worked at this address.” I pointed at the shop.

She squinted and let out a laugh. “Maybe he owns it.”

“Let’s go find out.” I pushed open the dark orange door with peeling paint set into the corner of the building. Inside smelled like leather polish and musky cologne. Clothes were hung up along the walls, and the decor was mostly light-colored woods and mid-century modern sleek shelving units. Surf boards were staked in long rows, and several pictures of guys hitting the waves were hung and framed all over.

The place was empty. The cash register sat unguarded to our left. I took a step inside and the floorboards creaked. One table nearby was half covered in folded t-shirts, each of them faded, and half covered in what looked like old radios that were taken apart and left broken down. It was like a workshop vomited all over a Gap outlet.

Millie gave me a look and started browsing. I tried to picture Desmond coming into a place like this, and couldn’t. He was a buttoned-up kind of guy back then, and his favorite hobbies involved roleplaying games and text adventure simulators. He was the sort of guy that pined for the old internet of the 90s, even though he’d been too young to really experience it.

“Hello?” I called out. “Kirk Stowe?” I peered around the displays and found another table covered in junk: broken skateboards, a pair of rollerblades missing their wheels.

There was a noise in the back, then a door at the far side of the shop opened. A man stepped out wearing a white linen button down, sleeves rolled up, with jeans stained in several spots with black oil. He had long, dirty-blond hair pulled back in a messy bun, and deeply tanned skin.

It was him, all right. He’d aged, and not necessarily gracefully, but he was still thin, and though there were more lines around his eyes, and his hands worked at the hem of his shirt almost nervously, I could still see the young guy that used to hang around, looking up to Desmond like a younger brother, a wizard with a soldering iron.

“Can I help—“ he started, but then stopped himself and gaped. I smiled a little and held up a hand.

“I come in peace,” I said.

“Holy shit, Rees.” He took a step closer. I thought he might bolt—there was a look of surprise, but also of panic. But he surprised me, came forward, and gave me a hug.

Which I hated, of course. The bastard had always been way too physical. I caught Millie grinning out of the corner