This is the End 2(6)
“You hate gardening. You think you’d like farming?”
“I would if it meant having you to myself.”
She rolled her eyes. “If I thought you were serious, I’d do it, Talon. But I know you. I know you’re a city guy. If you moved out to the country, you’d go crazy within two weeks.”
She was right, but I wasn’t going to back down.
“If you loved me, you’d quit.”
Vicki folded her arms. Just like she was able to project warmth, she was now projecting anger.
“I shouldn’t have brought anyone here while you were home.”
“You could have gone to his place.”
“You don’t let me go to my clients’ homes. You don’t trust any of them.”
“And why would that be? Maybe because they’re nailing my wife?”
If freeze-vision were possible, Vicki would have turned me into an iceberg right there.
“It’s my job, Talon. Nothing more. I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. You promised you’d stop doing this.”
The hurt in her face made me want to take her in my arms again, but I was on a roll.
“How would you like it if I slept around?”
Her temperature dropped even further. “I’m not sleeping around. I’m earning a living. A very good living that lets us have a big house in a nice city. Sex is a natural, wholesome, biological need, and you know the only person I make it personal with is you.”
Now I folded my arms, too. “But what if I did? What if I slept with someone else?”
Victoria’s green eyes narrowed to slits. “Our prenup doesn’t have a monogamy clause. You go right ahead. Just make sure the next time you’re in my bed you have a full medical exam in your hand, and you sure as hell better not kiss her.”
She stormed past me. I shook my head. SLPs. Sex with strangers was okay, but I’d better not kiss anyone else.
Unfortunately, I didn’t want to kiss, or have sex with, anyone but her.
“Sergeant?”
Neil again, standing in the kitchen doorway. He was wearing a rumpled suit that made him look even thinner and wimpier. I might have even felt sorry for him, but he got laid today, and I hadn’t.
“Let’s go,” I told him.
We walked through my admittedly large and beautiful house, each step representing several square feet of very expensive real estate. My background check on Neil showed he didn’t own a vehicle, so I lead him to the garage. Like everyone else who sees my ride, his eyes bugged out when I turned on the overhead lights.
“You have a…car?”
“A 2024 Corvette Stingray, retrofitted for biofuel.”
“It must have cost a fortune,” Neil said.
“A gift from my wife.” I stared at him pointedly, letting him know his visits helped pay for this baby. But he apparently didn’t need a reminder.
“With biofuel prices these days, it must cost a fortune to run. How many clients does Victoria have?”
I shot him with my eyes, and he cowed. He was right, though. Funny how history repeats itself. During the energy crisis of the early-twenty-first century, desert sheiks artificially inflated the price of oil. Western countries decided they’d had enough, and half the world switched to a renewable energy source. Biofuels, made from cheap and plentiful vegetation. Extract the oil, then compost the rest for methane. But the population kept growing, and soon the foliage grown specifically for biofuel began to compete for space with the foliage grown for human and livestock consumption. That jacked up the prices of both fuel and food, and now everyone in the civilized world used every square inch of land they could spare to grow plants to make more fuel.
I’ve seen pictures, movies on the intranet. Chicago, and the world, once looked industrial. Now every apartment had a garden, every roof a farm, every building covered top to bottom in vines. The urban jungle was, truly, a jungle.
I hit the security button on my keys—this thing was so classic it still used keys—and we climbed into the front seat. The garage door, however, was chip operated. I waved my wrist over the remote box on the dashboard, and the door automatically levered open.
I started the engine, listening to it purr and enjoying the look of wonder on Neil's face. Chances were high he’d never been in a car before. I hadn’t, until Vicki bought me one.
“Address?” I asked.
“Thirteen twenty-two Wacker.”
I squeezed my earlobe, turning on my headphone implant. The familiar dial tone came on in my head.
“Car nav,” I said. “Thirteen twenty-two Wacker.”
The message was sent to my car’s navigation system, and the semitransparent map flickered and then superimposed over my windshield. Another addition that wasn’t available back in 2024.