Chapter #5A Claw from the Past by: Seuzz   Previously: "Fane's Foundling" 
"You got the bugs worked out?"
You glance up from the laptop at your dad, who's frowning in the doorway of the study. You snort and drain the last of the beer from the bottle. "It's this stupid array," you reply. "Every time I think I've got the values set right, a new bug pops up." You fold your arms and lean back. "If Miller knew enough to include proper documentation--"
"He thinks he knows enough that he doesn't have to," your dad retorts, but nods in agreement. "Any estimate how long it will take?"
"If I knew how long it would take, I'd know what the problem is, and then I could make it go away. Is supper ready?"
"You gonna eat with us? It's Christian." He holds out the headset. "Your phone seems to be dead."
"Turned off because I knew he'd--" You take the headset and put it to your ear. "Yo, man, I'm up to my ass here in--"
"So you're blowing us off," Christian Knouse says. "Again?"
"I got rent to pay," you reply, looking up at your dad from under your brows.
"Jerri was asking about you," Christian says.
You grimace. Jerri Hanson, the only cute girl who works in the Keyserling Arts and Science computer lab. Clarification: The only girl who works there, full stop. But it's her face and figure that are the attraction, not her place of employment. The fact that she took your old work-study position is the reason you even know her.
"I got a deadline breathing down my neck," you sigh, still looking at your father. "If you wanna be nice, just keep Andy away from her."
"Be harder keeping her in the same Zip code as him. Gimme a challenge."
"Then you stay away from her."
"There's challenges, and then there's the impossible." He laughs very dryly, and hangs up. You hand the headset back to your dad.
He gazes down appraisingly at you. "It's Miller's fault," he says. "Go hang out with her."
A little spark of electricity connects your heart and your cock. "Who?" you ask carefully.
"Whoever you're trying to keep Andy and Christian away from." He closes the laptop. "The project is just a project. The girl, though--" His eyes crinkle warmly.
"Thanks, Dad," you say with fervent sincerity, and leap up. "Will Mom be mad?"
"She already put Robert's portion in the freezer. He and Verity decided to see a movie." He catches your arm as you try to pass him. "This girl," he quietly asks. "Might we be meeting her?"
You bite your lip. "I hope so."
"She won't just be another notch on your bedpost?"
"Dad!" You redden. "I don't--!"
"I know you don't," he laughs, and tucks some stray hair behind your ear. "You got a good head."
* * * * *
You might have a good head, but it needs a shave, and you quickly slice away the whiskers that have accumulated over the past few days while you've buried yourself in your father's work. It's a freelance job that he got for you at Salopek--none of the numerous applications you've sent out since graduation having panned out--which you'd gratefully taken as a way of paying for your room and board. It sucks having to move back in with parents after the four years of freedom you had at Keyserling, rooming with Christian and Howie and Darrell while earning your degree in computer science. "It's a favor for me," he'd insisted when you'd shown a bit too much gratitude for the work. "I'm the idiot who put Miller on it." He'd given you a quick glance. "After we get this wrapped up, we might be hiring to replace him."
"You're too good for Salopek, Merlin," Christian had said when you'd told your friends that night, and arched his well-exercised eyebrow. "You're too good for a job around here."
"Tell that to the HR departments who keep sending me letters steeped in regret," you'd retorted. "I'm trying to get out here."
"Fucking economy," Darrell had said, and thrown a dime into the pot. "Raise."
Everyone had folded.
"Maybe Proteus will start hiring," Howie had said. "You heard about that big new investor they got?"
"That press release had the stench of desperation all over it," Christian had said as he shuffled the deck. "They're getting bailed out, not looking to expand."
"And I wanna new set of faces to win money off," you'd said. Despite Darrell's taking the last pot, you still had most of the stakes in front of you. "Assholes who can afford a real game, too. No offense, guys."
"None taken." Christian had dealt out the cards. "It's been a good run, but nothing lasts forever."
Indeed. Nothing had lasted from high school. Caleb Johansson and Keith Tilley, your old best friends, had left town for other schools, as had James Lamont and Carson Ioeger and a few more people you'd hung out with. That had left you with Christian and Howie and Darrell, all enrolling at Keyserling because of its killer computer and math programs; you'd drifted along with them, and astonished everyone--most emphatically including yourself and your dad--by discovering a latent talent for computer languages and programming. "You're fucking spooky," Christian had snarled after you'd aced a test that had decimated the rest of the class. That's how you'd come to be known as "Merlin."
Even your family life has changed in unexpected ways. Your mom and dad are much the same--though the latter has mellowed considerably since you'd found a knack and a niche--but Robert exploded in height and bulked out and became the star of the football team, helping to take them to the state championship his senior year. He's now a freshman at Keyserling--entering just as you'd exited--on multiple scholarships, though he's not settled on an interest yet.
You, though, are still lithe and a little scrawny, though you've filled out some; you keep the hair under control these days, and you know how to dress up. You dress up now, in nice jeans, clean sneakers and a rugged denim button-up over a thick t-shirt. So padded, you look a little macho, though Robert could kick your ass without any trouble. It's a good thing you and he bonded better after you'd moved out to live on campus.
You turn this way and that, studying yourself in the mirror, and straightening out creases. You look good, and you've a track record with girls to know that you look good. Your senior year you had your pick of a clutch that threw themselves at you, and your protests to your dad notwithstanding, you'd put quite a few of them through some deep and penetrating auditions.
But now you tug at your cuffs and grimace. That was when you were on your way out, with great things beckoning. Now you have no workplace to show off in and only tenuous connections to the university. Jerri--of the big green eyes and the luscious boobs and butt--is one you'd like to form a firmer connection with. Speaking of firmer ... You indulge the erection a little before forcing yourself to relax.
* * * * *
You're a few blocks from home when your phone rings. "I'm on my way," you bark as soon as you have it to your ear. "Need me to pick anything up?"
There's a pause. "Ah, Mr. Prescott," a plummy voice says. "I don't think you mean that message for me. This is Professor Aubrey Blackwell."
You frown and look at the unfamiliar number on the phone's screen. How the hell does Professor Blackwell know how to reach you? More to the point, why?
"Yeah, sorry," you reply. "What's up? This is kind of unexpected."
"Perhaps it is," he says. "Would you be able to stop by my house sometime this evening? The sooner the better."
Now you are gobsmacked. What could this possibly be about?
To the best of your recollection, you've never exchanged more than ten words with the professor, and only then very gruff ones when picking up homework. It had been the most damnable accident; somehow, in your junior college year, you got enrolled in his "Myths and Magics" class thanks to a computer system error, and the college had refused to let you out of it after the snafu dragged on into the fourth week of school. You'd slouched in the back and rolled your eyes all through a class stuffed with a mix of earnest anthropology majors and credulous literary types. The material was crushingly bizarre, and it didn't help that you got the sense that the teacher half believed in it.
"Braydon liked that class," Howie had said during one of your many rants that semester. "He took it his freshman year."
"Maybe that's when he started getting so fucked up," Christian had retorted. The subject had lapsed. No one likes talking about Braydon, and what happened to him.
"What's this about," you ask Blackwell as politely as you can. "Uh, you know I'm graduated." You have a flash of terror: Did you forget to turn in some assignment for him, and he's going to try to get your degree revoked?
"Are you?" he says dryly. "And here I was hoping we could continue our association."
Association? You're glad you've stopped at a light, for your head is spinning.
"You know where I live," he continues.
"Actually, I don't." You're beginning to lose patience with this weirdness.
"You are so unkind," he says archly. "I'll remind you, then." He gives you an address. "I do hope to see you this evening, as it is an important matter that concerns us both." He hangs up.
You throw the phone down as though it's a tarantula. The fuck is all this about? You hated the class, you hated him, and now out of the blue he's calling you?
That address, though. You're supposed to meet your friends at the river, and Blackwell's house will be on the way. It wouldn't be out of your way to stop by.  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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