“Ah, but I was concerned about your fucking feet,” I casually counter. “How are they?”
His gray stare lowers to an unmistakable glare. “Fine.”
“Thank fuck you’re not in charge of giving me a firsthand detailed experience about the shit.”
Brandon does his best to stifle his chuckle.
“Tortorella?” My attention swings to him. “Status report?”
“Feet and ankles felt thoroughly protected from the flames.” He drops down into the other chair. “There was no lack of gripping in the footbed or smashing of my toes into the tip.”
A nod of approval is followed by additional questions. “The chart recorded inconsistent lags between certain maneuvers. Were these due to fighting techniques or something else?”
Tortorella looks hesitant to respond confirming the concern I already had.
“They’re still too heavy, aren’t they?”
He sheepishly nods while a member of medical rolls up his pant leg to access the possible burns.
“How bad?”
“Noticeable.”
There’s no stopping my dark espresso-colored nose from scrunching in discontent.
“But they’re functional?” Brandon professionally inquires.
Tortorella shifts his attention to one of the men he is currently employed under. “Yes, Sir.”
“Functional is good,” my brother warmly states like I need the encouragement. “Functional is what we want, Dr. Rothwell.”
“No, functional is what we have, elite is what we want, Number Four,” I counter at the same time I send him a disapproving stare. “State-of-the-art isn’t accomplished by merely meeting the basic standards. We both know that.” My curvaceous frame angles itself in his direction on a heavy sigh. “What we both don’t know is why you’re in my building giving me ‘Sorry You Didn’t Win the Science Fair’ pep talks.”
The corner of his mouth kicks upwards. “Your building?”
“Until you learn to design what is essentially a taser watch or a tie that can hide your lock picking kit through security, yes. This is my building, Number Four.”
Brandon offers me a full-fledged smirk prior to motioning his head towards the exit. “A word?”
“Can it wait?”
“I can’t.”
Of course, he can’t.
He rarely waits for anything or anyone.
Apparently, patience is like the one people skill I got that he didn’t.
I nod my understanding and momentarily drop my attention to where Ali is stationed in the observational area beside me. “Please, record any other helpful information the subjects may provide. Injuries outside of the designated target area are not necessary to include-”
“Fuck, what is that shit? Icy Hot?!” Reynolds croaks in the distance.
“Nor necessary for you to listen to, if you don’t feel like it. Just tell subject A to stop being a toddler and give him a Pokémon Band-Aid. That’s popular with the youth, isn’t it?”
She lightly snickers and prepares to take over collecting their comments while I deal with whatever has brought my brother to his least favorite place in the organization.
His hatred stems from the knowledge that if he breaks anything in this building, it’s coming out of his paycheck.
And it would be unacceptable to not see that many zeroes all the time.
On the first level above the underground one where we were running tests, the two of us make our way to my office located in the very back. The scanning of my badge, retina, and fingerprints grants us access inside, and the instant that we’re there, he makes a bee line for the corner bar on the opposite side of the room.
“You’re the only one who drinks that shit,” I state during my stroll over to sit in my dark brown leather desk chair.
“Not surprised.”
“You know simply having it around makes me uncomfortable.”
“I do.”
My ass hits the seat split seconds prior to inquiring, “Why would you want to willingly ingest anything that’s capable of having such a negative effect on your neurotransmitters?”
He pours himself about a shot’s worth of the amber-shaded liquor. “It tastes good.”
“So does salmon, and it benefits the body including brain function in some of the more recent studies.”
“It makes me feel good.”
“That sounds like you’re looking for something to trigger an endorphin release. There are better, more beneficial options besides alcohol – although wine is the one, they recommend for that, not whiskey – to induce such euphoria.”
My comeback receives a headshake that’s followed by a sip of the beverage. “God, how are we related?”
“Did you tear me away from my project for a basic biology lesson that I would be all too happy to deliver or something actually worth the time that could be used improving the safety of your employees?”
He lightly chortles and plops himself on the edge of the gray couch near one of my glass-cased bookshelves. “You mean like the one downstairs you let get burned on purpose?”
I casually cross my legs while maintaining an indifferent expression. “Accidents are a common byproduct of proper testing.”
“Or pissing you off.”
“I would classify that as an in-depth emotional investment in Reynold’s I have not made.”
Brandon’s expression transposes to a skeptical one.
“I may have, however, fused a meaningful connection with an individual that he may have mistreated by sleeping with her college freshman sister on her couch while she went out to get his maggot ass eggnog and gingerbread cookies.”
There’s a small set of sniggers out of my only living immediate family. “Another reason not to date someone you work with.”
“You sleep with people you work with all the time.”
“Yes, but I don’t date them.”
My lips pull to one side in a silent counter-argument.
“Also, they work for me, not with me.”
“Reynolds and LaKeysha don’t technically work together. Their paychecks just so happen to be signed by the same company.”
“You’re splitting hairs.”
“You’re testing my patience,” I swiftly announce in budding annoyance. “What is it that couldn’t wait, Brandon?”
Hearing the question causes him to noticeably shift in what can only be described as discomfort.
The subtle yet powerful action forces me to do the same.
I may not be the best about reading body language outside of the testing zone, but I can read his.
I’ve always been able to read his.
It’s part of the inexplicable link we share.