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

And what did the FBI want from me?

Chapter Nineteen

I’d left the FBI, my head spinning with questions.

Sitting in a Lyft that smelled heavily of lilac room refresher, I’d processed all the way over to Dr. Carlon’s office. The driver was aggressively maneuvering through late afternoon traffic after telling her I was heading to the doctor for an emergency medical appointment.

She kept looking over her shoulder, perhaps fearful I might pop like a balloon and leave my insides all over her spotless upholstery.

Dr. Carlon said I needed to be more careful. I told her I could easily trip on the stairs at my house and bonk my head. I was always in danger unless I was flat on my back in bed, and that was no way to live.

Once again, Dr. Carlon suggested I adopt wearing a motorcycle helmet as a fashion statement.

When I finally met Striker at his car, I opened the door and climbed in, saying, “Dr. Carlon cleared me for field work. She thinks I’m fine.”

Striker said nothing, waiting for me to get my door shut, and my belt pulled across me and fastened tightly.

“I hope you’re more comfortable with my medical status now.” Leaning toward the car’s radio, I flipped around the radio stations looking for some music that would take the edge off.

It wasn’t a long drive to my house unless it was this time of day, and we were inching along with the rush hour traffic.

“That’s it?” Striker asked. “I bet Dr. Carlon said to keep an eye on things. She’d never say you’re a hundred percent.”

“Right, well, I’ll never be a hundred percent, we know that. Good enough is going to have to be good enough.”

Striker flicked a glance my way, then pulled out into traffic. “Look, I don’t want to fight with you.”

“And you’re feeling aggressive?”

“I’m…not aggressive. Protective.”

I reached for his hand. Pressing a kiss into his bicep, I rested my head on his shoulder with a sigh. “Thank you. It’s nice that you care.”

He tapped my head with his cheek, then turned to press a quick kiss into my hair. “You said Finley was there at the FBI meeting?”

“Yup, and Prescott. Finley’s domestic terror. Prescott runs that joint task force. But there’s an international flavor to their case load. Rowan Kennedy was there.”

Striker looked my way, then merged into the oncoming traffic. “Kennedy’s focus is psychological warfare out of former USSR countries.”

“Interesting, isn’t it? I asked Finley about that. Dr. Gupta was the guy giving us a lecture—a fascinating guy. I liked him a lot. You know, he reminded me a bit of Spyder.” I bobbled forward as Striker had to use evasive moves to avoid a crash with the overly zealous driver to our right. “Not in his physical capacity,” I continued, “but his general demeanor. Centered, unflappable—well, unflappable until he had to mention women’s menstrual cycles and sexuality.”

“He was talking about that in your meeting?” Striker sent me a quick glance. “Why?” he asked with a laugh.

“Just background on this secret society that Modesty Blackburn comes from. She’s the daughter—amongst dozens of offspring—of their charismatic. I’ve been given permission to speak to Strike Force about the case, so I’m not breaking any laws here. But Kennedy added to what Gupta was telling us about secret societies. It seems that in some cases, charismatics are losing control of the narrative—the Internet age. The average Joe gets a lot of power. They can spin off the charismatic and enhance it. I think about it a little like fanfiction, right?”

“Keep going with that idea.”

I settled back in my seat. Traffic was aggressive, and I didn’t want to impede Striker’s driving. “Yeah, so you have an author who develops their characters and the world the story takes place in. Everything we know is what the author wants us to know. An author, if they’re good, really does manipulate us, don’t they? They decide what emotions we should experience, everything from the gasp of discovery to sobbing heartbreak to book hangovers when the story is done. Yet, we’re not ready to let go of the characters who became our friends…our family, even.”

Striker sent me a grin. “What did Kate call it? Her book boyfriend?”

“Ha. Yes. I’ll admit, it’s fun to have a hunky hero to fantasize about.”

Striker shot me a look. “Uh-huh. Is that a jab? I need to step up my game?”

“Book boyfriends keep me satisfied while you’re downrange. Are you seriously jealous right now?”

“Changing the subject back. Writers are the masters of their created universe…”

“Exactly. But then a fan comes along. They have immersed themselves into the culture and the personalities of the book, and they add their own twists and turns. Their own understanding. Fifty Shades was hugely popular. It was written as fan fiction. And good on her for writing the story that was in her heart. It gets panned for its writing style, but it touched on something in the zeitgeist, or her series wouldn’t have exploded that way.”

“I haven’t read that. Are we back to talking about book boyfriends?”

“Not mine. BDSM isn’t my thing. No judgment, just I have to be careful with my head.” I batted my eyelashes at Striker saucily. “You know what? That’s not a great example. Here’s a better one. Did you know that there are whole sites that are dedicated to Harry Potter erotica? What the fanfiction writers do is use J.K. Rollins Hogwarts world, her characters, and they create elf orgies and magical orgasms.”

“Interesting. Do you read Hogwarts erotica? Are you interested in moaning with the ghosts?” He was laughing. It was such a good sound.

“My point here is that someone becomes co-creators of the original thoughts. When they do it right, the fanfiction author creates branches of the tree. Spinoffs