Page 9 of I Did Something Bad
“You caught me.” He lifts both hands in surrender. “I created fourteen separate accounts so that I could use the free premium trial fourteen times and keep viewing your profile anonymously.”
I see my opportunity and slide right in. “I thought signing up tobe the new James Bond came with at least enough money to cover a LinkedIn Premium subscription.”
His hand, which was casually rubbing his chin, freezes. “Is that you asking if I’m going to be the new James Bond?” he asks. His tone doesn’t fluctuate, but itisthe slowest he’s talked all night.
“Is that you confirming?” He opens his mouth, and I point my chopsticks at him. “Remember, you wouldn’t lie to a friend now, would you?”
His mouth corner tics. I’ve got him. Except, instead of acting like you would when you’re backed into a corner, he drops his chopsticks, folds his hands in front of his chest, and, forehead wrinkling with a joke that I didn’t catch, says, “How about this? I promise you thatifthe time ever comes when I agree to be the new James Bond, my publicist will give you a thirty-minute head start before releasing the official statement.”
I gape at him. Is he being serious? Is he confirming that he’s going to be the next Bond? “And… why would you do that?”
“Because,” he starts, then stops. Instead of continuing, his mouth splits into something halfway between a smirk and a full-on grin, his owlish eyes suddenly making me feel like the tables have turned andI’mbacked into the corner. “Because I like to help out all my friends,” he finally says.
“Well, how do I know you mean it? How do I know you’ll keep your word? Or that you won’t try to feed me false information?”
“Because what would I get out of doing that?” he points out. “Besides, you’re too good of a journalist to fall for false information. Like I said earlier, that abortion piece was incredible. Why did you write it?”
My startled “What?” comes out squeakier than it would under normal circumstances, but he shrugs like he’s surprisedI’msurprised.
It irks me that he’s still eating as though this is a normal conversation. One minute, he’s quite possibly confirming the biggestentertainment scoop of the decade, and the next, he’s circled back to my piece on the abortion clinic. “Why did you write a piece about the city’s only underground abortion clinic in a country where abortion is illegal?” he asks.
Despite wanting to steer us back into Bond territory, I restrain myself. I’m playing the long game here. Annoying and pushing him at this one dinner won’t bode well for me over the next two months. I need him to lower his defenses, not feel aggravated.
“Why does it matter?” I ask. “It’s my job.”
“Because it takes guts. You could do your job in a lot of other ways that don’t involve potentially prosecutable activities,” he says, a solemnity overtaking his features, the confident smile from earlier loosening. His eating also slows down. “Weren’t you worried you’d get interrogated by the authorities? Or worse?”
I shake my head, refusing to break his gaze, unsure whether it’s because I don’t want to or because I can’t. “Eh, a few eyebrows were raised in my direction, but I don’t scare easily. And in the end, the pros far outweighed any possible cons,” I answer. “I’ve had a lot of women contact me after reading that piece. That alone makes it worth it.”
“And you connect them to the clinic?”
“Used to. Now I forward their details to a friend who runs a women’s shelter.”
“So the clinic is still running? Because that piece came out a while ago.”
“It is.”
After another long stretch of quiet, he simply nods.
There’s something about his fascination with this story that’s nagging at me. Sure, it was my latest big byline and also the biggest byline I’ve had to date, but he’s pressing on it awfully hard. Is he doing research? Maybe for his next film, or some type of documentary he’s doing voice-over work for? Something to do with abortion policies inAmerican politics? A political endorsement? Wanting to focus on the current conversation, I file the note away in my “possible Tyler Tun scoops” folder.
“My turn. I have a question,” I say.
He nods, and when he leans the closest toward me that he has all night, I amnotexpecting the scent of pinewood that floods my nostrils. I don’t know what I thought he’d smell like, but a pine forest was not it. I don’t even have a particular affinity for pine trees (or anything remotely nature-related), but this man smellsgood.I can’t stop myself from taking another deep inhale, and this time, am able to better parse the various notes: fresh, crisp, but with a grounded center that’s rounded out by a nearly imperceptible sweetness, like someone sprinkled in a dash of concentrated lychee extract at the last minute.
“Yes?” he asks after a few distracted seconds on my part.
Get it the fuck together, Khin. And stopsmellinghim, Jesus Christ.
“Why did you agree to this?” I ask.
There’s that stray puppeteer half smile again. “What do you mean?”
“This.” I move my head around in a circle. “Me trailing you for two months. You’re notoriously private—”
“Oh, am I?”
“Yes.” He’s not the only one who can cut people off. “So why did you agree to this? You rarely even walk the red carpet these days.”
