Man on the Inside

8

Brontë is sitting in his car, parked in his driveway. Dinner was nice, Steve was nice, everyone was getting along, and he doesn't know what he's feeling in this moment.

He stares at his phone, as bright as the sun, and he's blinded a little by the text messages. He sent Nimm a screenshot of Art's message, asking what the fuck she thought that meant, and she hasn't responded, even hours later. She either responds immediately or a day later, no in between, so he's not concerned. It's just not helpful.

He presses the call button.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Brontë feels like he might throw up.

Ring. Ring. Click. "Oh, hello. Can- can I help you?"

Art's voice is as low and gravelly as it was before. "I'm sorry, you told me to call you earlier?"

"Oh, shit. Fuck. Neil." Brontë bites his lip, unable to read what he's hearing in Art's voice. There's some kind of background noise- some music- that puts Brontë in mind of the bar. "Yes. Um- is now a bad time?"

"I called you," Brontë says, "...so, no."

"Right. Well. Give me one moment," Art says, and Brontë hears background chatter disappearing, the sounds of doors opening; the image he builds in his mind is of Art climbing his stairs, getting himself into his apartment- where they're alone. "Okay. Neil. Give me a second to... fuck."

"Are you okay?" Brontë asks cautiously, because it seems like a question he shouldn't be asking of Artemy Volkov, of all people.

"Perfect." Art laughs a little. "I'll be perfectly honest, my mind- isn't functioning properly, at the moment. But I feel- optimistic, I'd say."

Brontë reads through the lines. "I can call you back tomorrow."

"Ah, but we're here now. I lied, this plan is somewhat time sensitive." Art groans a little into the phone. "I forget things too easily, sometimes. Like that I needed to speak with you tonight."

Brontë focuses on the few things he's saying that have the possibility to tear him apart. "It's a time sensitive plan?"

"Yes. It is. But, uh..." Art trails off for a moment. "Oh, dear. I had an important thing I had to say, didn't I? I apologise, Neil, I do. Ah! My questions."

Brontë can hear the slight slur in his voice, the way it waivers. He wonders if this is his chance to get a little more of an honest read on Art than Art had bargained for.

"Oh yeah?" Brontë asks, as he leaves his car and heads towards his door. "What are your questions?"

"Your- your employment." Brontë's blood freezes in his body. "I- I couldn't find details of your employment anywhere. You've got hardly any social media."

He says each word slowly, and is it insane for Brontë to hear those words as rehearsed? Is this bait? It must be bait, and Art's too tipsy to cover it properly.

Or maybe Nimm was right all along. Brontë goes with the lie he vaguely remembers her telling him to go with. "Um, I'm a freelancer. IT."

He grimaces at how obvious of a lie it is, but Art powers through, unnoticing. Thankfully. "So- so if I asked for three days of your time, you could give them?"

Brontë feels the anxiety prickling the base of his neck. It's not a fear of violence, not really- the thought pops up here and there, but he can ignore it. The fear that he can't ignore is the creeping feeling that Art is far too smart to really believe all of this. Either he's intensely lucky that he's having this conversation now, when the subtleties of his lies are less likely to be caught, or he's being set up.