GhosTV (PsyCop, #6)

by Jordan Castillo Price

“So how is Mister Tall, Dark and Infuriating these days?” “The same, I guess.” “Doubtful. We’re all evolving.”

“I think I have the wrong number. I could swear Victor Bayne just asked me if I thought he looked athletic.” “Never mind, I gotta g—” “My grandma is more athletic than you.” “Thanks a lot.” “You break a sweat lifting a coffee cup.”

The clear course of action was to ask Jacob for advice. So naturally I wanted to do that least of all.

But they didn’t really fit my idea of what a pilot would look like—although I suspected that my mental image of a pilot was probably shaped by a series of dubious movies from the late seventies.

Jacob was in the narrow center aisle with his arms outstretched, doing some kind of dramatic pose. Yoga. Tai Chi. Playgirl. Something like that.

I did my best not to smirk. It blows my “Don’t mind me, I never notice anything,” smokescreen when I give in to smirkiness.

I was fairly sure that even in my mohawk stage, I’d never been arrogant enough to own a Mac. “Windows?”

I took a banana instead. The sticker on the peel proclaimed that it was organic in extra-smug letters.

But that’s the thing about training. You repeat it enough times, and when push comes to shove, your body goes through the motions for you while your mind is busy looping on the words holy shit.