Jackson Ford - Random Sh*t Flying Through the Air

Nic and I first started hanging out because we both loved eating, and with tonight’s meal, I kind of want to remind him why we work so well together. Why we should be together. In the past few months, I haven’t thought about much else.

He looks down at the mess of paella, and takes a cautious bite.

I search his expression for a hint of a grimace, a sign that he’s not enjoying it. He chews it slowly, swallows – then quickly takes another forkful, jamming it into his mouth. I take a bite of my own – and I’m stunned to find that it’s actually OK. Not amazing – more Guy Fieri than Ferran Adria – but definitely edible. If you were stuck in the wilderness with only a bowl of my paella to keep you going, you wouldn’t be all that mad.

For a minute or so, we eat in surprisingly comfortable silence. Jay Rock is still playing in the background, rapping about how you ain’t gotta like it cos the hood gon’ love it. I’m about to mention to Nic that I want to go see him at the Coliseum next month when he says, “So you talked to Reggie yet?”

“Hmm?”

“About chef school?”

“Not yet. But ,” I say, when I spot him starting to reply, “I’m planning on talking to her tomorrow, actually. She’s heading off to Washington on Thursday.”

“To meet with Tanner?” he asks.

“Yeah. Better her than me.”

“You think they’ll go for it?”

“It’s gonna be more of an FYI than a request.”

And it is. They can’t stop me – what’s Tanner going to do, get rid of her prize black-ops asset because the asset wants to learn how to cook like a pro?

All the same, there’s asking, and there’s asking. If I want Tanner’s sign-off with minimal hassle, I need Reggie’s first. Reggie is the boss at China Shop. As well as running our little band of losers, she does all the hacking work for us: killing security cameras, opening doors, digging up dirt.

She reports to Moira Tanner, the government spook who founded China Shop. The deal Tanner and I have is that I work for her, and she keeps the government off my back. There are people who really, really want to cut me open and see if they can figure out how I do what I do, and I’d prefer that not to happen. Hence, our arrangement.

Tanner won’t exactly be thrilled with me saying I want to train as a chef. Reggie’s a sweetheart – seriously, she’s awesome – but it’s going to take one hell of a job to convince her boss to let me plan a life outside China Shop.

“Anyway, yes, I’m doing it.” I fork my paella, mixing it up some more.

“Kind of surprised you haven’t done it already.”

“What do you mean?”

“They don’t know what you do after work, right? Why not just go do… I don’t know, night school? Something like that.”

“I thought about it, but like, that’s not… It’s not sustainable. I don’t want it to just be something I’m sneaking away to do. That’s not cool.”

I’ve thought a lot about this. Just going ahead and signing up for night cooking classes was tempting, sure… but it didn’t feel right. There’s more to it than I’m willing to tell Nic.

“Sustainable,” he says with a mouthful of paella. “Look at you, with the big words.”

I kick him. “Close your mouth when you talk.”

“How am I supposed to close my mouth when I talk?” He laughs.

“When you chew . Fuck you, you know what I mean.”

He waves his fork at me, swallows. “I’m glad you’re finally asking them, though.” He gestures to his bowl. “This is really good, by the way.”

“Yeah?” I sit up a little straighter.

“There’s like a charred flavor, but I think it works? I’m not just saying that either.”

I recover quickly, like it’s no big thing. “Cool. There’s more if you want.”

The awkwardness from before is gone. Soon, we’re talking and laughing and giving each other shit like we used to do. He gets a second bowl, dishes up some for me, cracks us a couple more beers. We argue over background music, eventually settling on Lizzo. I’m a little drunk, and not nearly as nervous as I thought I’d be. This feels good. This feels… right .

How can he say no to this? To us? Being with me means dealing with a lot of strange shit, but surely it’s all worth it if we get more nights like tonight?

After the chaos with the paella, I’m glad I went simple for dessert. Salted caramel ice cream, from Carmela’s in Pasadena. I’m dishing up, my back to the couch, listening to Nic telling a story about a case he and his boss were working on. He can’t reveal specific details – attorney-client privilege and all that jazz – but he’s got some fun stories nonetheless. “…And then she realises she’s been doodling all over the brief,” he says.

“Doodling? What do you mean, doodling?”

“Like actual doodling! While they’ve been talking. Rocket ships and dinosaurs and weird squiggly letters, not even thinking about it. Just drawing while she talks.”

On the table, his phone buzzes. He ignores it.

“The Central Operations Bureau Director for the whole of LA, and now she’s got to hand this brief to the opposing—”

Unlike Nic, my phone isn’t set respectfully on silent. It bleeps very loudly, cutting him off.

“Shit, sorry,” I mutter, reaching across to the table for it.

“No worries. Anyway, then the council goes—hey, what’s wrong?”

I frown at my phone. I wanted to put it on silent, but the message on screen caught my eye.

Nic puts his bowl down. “China Shop?”

“No.” I open the message up so I can read it properly. “It’s an automated warning. Says there’s been an earthquake.”

“Oh, yeah. They send them out automatically. Probably just a six-pointer, or…”

He’s trailed off because the room has started to sway. The couch cushion underneath my butt is moving. A couple of glasses dance off the counter, shattering.

“Jesus,” I say.

Nic rolls his eyes. “It’ll pass. That’s California for you.”

“Wait – do you hear that?”

“What?”

A rumble. Slow, steady, building. Like a distant train approaching.

I haven’t been in LA for all that long – just a couple of years – but I know what a six-point quake feels like. Six points sounds violent, but it really isn’t all that bad. This is different. This sounds different. And the room is starting to sway a lot .

On the coffee table, my beer bottle begins to dance. It tips over, gushing amber. The pans in the kitchen start to rattle. The whole house is shaking now, the rumble getting louder and louder. One of my speakers tips over, wires ripping out of it.

I meet Nic’s eyes – and then the rumbling turns up to eleven. It hurls me off the couch – hurls both of us. A shower of paella splatters across me.

“Under the table!” Nic doesn’t wait for me to follow instructions. He grabs me, pulls me close to him. The table is way too low to the ground to lie under, but Nic’s got some strength to him. He shoves it upwards, pulls us both underneath, holding on tight to the table so it forms a shield over us. I can’t help – it’s made of wood, and I can hardly get a fix on anything with my PK anyway. The whole apartment is going crazy.

When I’m in danger, and those wonderful fight-or-flight chemicals start rocketing around my brain, my PK goes supercharged. I’m able to lift much heavier objects, and more of them, than I can normally. My range gets larger. It’s definitely happening now – I can feel all the way out to the cars on the street, which are bouncing and rocking on their wheels. But there’s nothing I can do with it. It doesn’t matter how strong I am; I can’t stop an earthquake.