Hyper Lynx (The Lynx Series Book 6) by Fiona Quinn (ebook reader for pc and android TXT) 📗

so richly dark, Spyder was blue-black. I’d once heard someone describe the color as blackberry—I agreed, with the metaphor, not just in his coloration but the fact that he was sweet and nourishing but protected by thorns. As striking in appearance as Spyder was, he couldn’t easily change his appearance to go undetected. So Spyder had learned to manipulate his energy. Calm and cool, he rarely attracted attention to him unless he wanted to. And he rarely wanted to.

Since my looks were more malleable, Spyder taught me the CIA techniques for highlights and shading to transform my facial features into something I decidedly was not. Smoke and mirrors. Colored contacts could change my blue eyes. Temporary dye transformed my blonde hair.

Today, I wanted to set a tone. Not under the radar…mmmm. Girl next door. Innocuous. Yeah, that’s what I would do.

I picked up my makeup brush and got to work, seeming to repair this morning’s damage.

I released my hair from the hot curlers and combed my fingers through the strands to make gentle curls and waves, then I pulled a headband in place. That took about five years off my face. I smiled at the effect in the mirror. I looked like a teen.

Under the radar and unexpected were the traits I liked to cultivate. Bonus, the curls fell softly over my cheek.

Now for the right outfit…

I moved to my closet.

Striker and I had three places between us. My house here in D.C., Striker’s house on the Bay, and we also had an apartment on Iniquus campus where all of the operators had living quarters should worse come to worse, and we needed to be all hands-on deck twenty-four/seven.

That seemed extreme. When would that ever be required?

Well, it had when Spyder and I were taking down the Hydra and two of the three heads—Omega as security and the Assembly as the political and legal power—came crashing down.

This week, though, because I’d be having the kids over, and because I wanted to have time in the evenings to read through my mom’s journals, I was home.

And it felt good.

I pulled a pink dress from the rod, looked it over, and put it back.

Next, I chose a yellow fit and flare with a mid-century feel to it—the days of innocence. Yeah, I’d go with this one.

I laid it carefully on my bed. My fingers touched the white sheet.

The fabric wrapped into my fist, a memory flashed of another time when my hand was holding a white sheet in just that way.

I was back on the road next to the crushed tangle that had been our car. Dad’s head rested in my lap. On that day, when the siren’s wail pulled me away from my prayers for Dad, I had looked up to see a man standing with one hand on a tree across the street, vomiting. The next time I looked up, police officers were making him blow into a device. They were handcuffing him; they were walking him away.

A woman, dressed in a rescue worker’s jumpsuit, had snapped a neck brace in place to protect my spine. She gently leaned me onto a backboard.

I reached out for my dad’s hand, but he was already tucked under a white sheet.

With a shake of my head, I forced myself to look at the yellow fabric on my dress. To bring my attention back to the here and now.

Why were these memories flooding back to me?

It felt like the accident had happened just yesterday and not back when I was seventeen.

Those emotions felt fresh and raw.

I put my hands on my knees as I panted through an anxiety attack.

I was going to make it through today.

I would make it through tomorrow.

Then the wedding.

And everything should go back to normal after that, right?

Chapter Ten

What I needed now was something happy.

I wanted to disperse this gloom and doom energy before making my way to the CIA with Striker.

Since Little Guy was coming over early tomorrow, I should think of how I would entertain the kids and get set up while my hands were free.

I opened the door that led to the storage area under my staircase, where I kept my kiddo supplies. First, I tugged out my collection of cartoon character sleeping bags and the pile of pillows. Next came the laundry basket where I kept a fresh stack of pillowcases, the pile of fort building sheets, and the bag of clips to hold things in place.

I pushed that to the side to make room next to me for my box of old-school children’s movies.

The last time we had our overnight, we decorated cupcakes, and I didn’t want to do repeats. Every time the kiddos came over, I wanted things to be fun and new. I dragged out the box I had of art supplies, picking through the loose button bin, the bag of toilet paper cardboard cylinders, and the jar of googly eyes.

Uninspiring.

My hand landed on a box of finger paints I’d picked up at a close-out sale. I looked them over. The thing I liked about this set was that these were professional finger paints—who knew that was a thing? The pigments were rich, and they stayed moist and silken so they could be blended and manipulated on whatever surface the artist was working. And they were water-soluble, which was a huge bonus when it came to kids and art.

It was satisfying to use one’s fingertips to experience texture.

I loved eating my kitchen grandmother Jadda’s traditional Middle Eastern and African recipes where I could pull off a piece of injera or pita to use as a utensil. Scooping the food into my mouth using my fingertips, feeling the heat and moisture, and the bread's grain made the flavors come alive in my mouth.

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