3. Nick

THREE

NICK

Is every day going to be like this?

"One hundred and eighty-some days?" Nick paused in front of a wall calendar featuring chinchillas dressed up in funny outfits. What the fuck? "What happens then?"

"I'm out of here. Gone-ski." Swanson answered Nick's question while grabbing a chair from the desk behind his and wheeling it Nick's direction. "Retiring. Heading into my golden years and all that."

Nick eyed the sexy older man. Questions, only some of them about chinchillas wearing chaps and cowboy hats, ran through his head like the stock market's ticker. He tamped them down. Nick already knew his internal is-this-okay-to-say filter was out of whack and whatever he asked would be the wrong question. It was a power that wasn't super.

"You're not that old," he responded carefully. "How can you be retiring already?"

Seriously, the guy couldn't be more than midforties, if that. All the things Nick had noticed a few minutes ago—his basic overall sexiness being number one—added up to Not Old.

"Thanks, kid. I appreciate your vote of confidence."

"I mean, you're old," Nick rushed on, abandoning his attempt to filter himself, "older than me, obviously, but not, like, decades older. I'm sure there's more life left in you." Shut up now, a little voice in his head screamed. But Nick was on a roll and when he got going, not even he could stop himself. "What are you going to do after you leave here? With all those muscles, maybe you should start a gym or something?" He waggled his eyebrows. "I'd join for sure."

Agent Swanson swung the office chair to the far end of his desk.

"Sit."

It was a command and Nick had to bite his lips together to keep from pointing out that he was not a dog.

He sat. Swanson stared at him. Probably wondering why Nick had bothered showing up at all. No one could've been more surprised than Nick when he'd gotten the call from the recruiter.

"What, exactly, is the SPAM organization?"

Nick hoped that was a safe question to ask. It had been nagging at him for several days. The recruiter hadn't exactly answered it for him, just saying he'd "learn more during orientation." Seeing as he needed the income, Nick hadn't pushed the issue.

Outside the window behind Agent Swanson, Nick watched a cleanup team finish sweeping up and spraying down the pavement in the parking lot.

Agent Swanson looked too. "The damn cleanup squad never gets all of that stupid experimental foam out of the pavement cracks."

Okay. So, this inexplicably weird first day just got weirder?

"SPAM," Agent Swanson said, sitting down and reaching for a pad of bright pink sticky notes that he proceeded to strum like one of those flip-art books, "stands for Special Processing and Management."

"That means nothing to me. Is it some kind of governmental gibberish?"

Agent Swanson released a heavy sigh. Nick was used to people sighing around him; he'd stopped letting it bother him years ago.

"You have a latent power. It has something to do with time."

Nick bit his lip while he did his best to process what Agent Swanson had told him.

"Being late is a superpower?"

"Not a superpower, not exactly. But a power. Maybe more of an influence. A subpar power."

Not good enough for the regular branch, he guessed. Huh.

"So you're a loser too?" Nick winced when he said the last word. Oops.

"No." Doug was scowling at him, an expression Nick was not unfamiliar with.

"Why am I a loser, but you're not?"

Swanson looked up at the ceiling as if he needed guidance. Nick was used to this too.

"I transferred from another branch." He shot Nick a hard look. "I used to be known as Long Shot. I shot to kill. Couldn't miss. Literally. Boom." Swanson pointed a finger gun at Nick's head. "Only I'm done with that aspect of hero-ing. My outlook on life changed. April had an opening here so I transferred over."

Huh.

"Oh," Nick said, thinking he understood. "Like my dad when he became a Buddhist after being an asshole his whole life? Like, you think you're getting a pass for your past actions."

Swanson didn't react; he just stared at Nick, his expression blank. Nick suspected that, underneath all of that not-reacting, a nerve had been hit.

"Anyway"—he drew the word out—"am I hired? Not fired?"

Swanson shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose before opening them to stare at Nick again. "I don't know what I did to deserve this," he muttered. To Nick, he said, "No, you are obviously not fired. Downstairs let you in, didn't they? Told you where to go? And it wasn't home, was it? Although I might have suggested it myself if it had been me."

He swiveled to face his computer monitor, seemingly fascinated by what he saw there.

"Right, no. I mean, yes, um, whoever was down there did tell me to take the elevator up here. Here I am, I guess. So." Nick craned his neck, wondering what Agent Swanson was looking at on his desktop. "Do I have paperwork to fill out? Orientation? That sort of thing?"

Swanson made a sound that was a cross between a scoff and the clearing of a throat.

"I am your orientation," he said.

"Great, great. Um, I left my tortoise in my car. And I forgot my lunch. But the tortoise is more important."

Nick was genuinely worried about the tortoise. He was pretty sure a little while would be okay, but too much longer and the temperature might get too hot inside his car. But, he reminded himself, it wouldn't get as hot as the Sahara, would it? It couldn't.

Agent Swanson turned toward him again, very slowly, as if taking his time gave him more time to process what Nick had just told him.

"You brought a turtle to work with you? On your first day?"

"No! I found it. On the street outside." Nick gestured toward the window and the parking lot below.

"You found a turtle on the street outside and you…?"

"I put it in my car. Do you have processing issues due to your advanced age?" Maybe Swanson had memory issues. Nick had told him he'd put the turtle in his car just seconds earlier. Memory problems would explain retiring so early.

But maybe Doug Not-Long-Shot-Anymore Swanson needed a little lesson in Nick.

Swanson stared at him so Nick stared back. Why not? It seemed like as good a chance as any to really ogle the guy.

Possible memory issues aside, he was even hotter than Nick had first thought. Deep blue eyes like that guy his aunt loved to watch in old movies. He'd been dead awhile, so he was old too. Actually, dead meant he wasn't any older, didn't it?

"Do you take medication?" the older agent finally asked.

Nick was debating whether to answer that it was none of Doug's business. He thought it was a HIPAA violation anyway. Did SPAM follow HIPAA? They had to, right?

Had he remembered to take his Adderall? Crap. The way his mind was spinning, probably not. He'd been in a state getting ready to leave the house.

A notification chimed from the computer, interrupting his Casey Jones train of thought. Swanson leaned forward and squinted at the email before glancing around, then opening the top drawer of the desk and slipping on a pair of reading glasses.

Holy moly. Nick shifted in his seat. How could the man be even hotter? This should be illegal. Luckily, Swanson was a jerk so Nick wouldn't make the mistake of falling for him.

"Fuck. Dammit, April, why am I the one sent in for cleanup duty? And with a newbie in tow too," Swanson muttered at the screen.

He stood up, indicating that Nick needed to do so as well.

"We have a job to do. I hope you're ready for your first day."

"Not really, no. It would be nice to know exactly what I'm supposed to be doing. I sure didn't sign up for cleanup duty, either."

Striding away, Swanson responded with, "Hurry up. The quicker we get started, the quicker it's over with."

"But, what exactly is it ?" Nick demanded. "And can I use the restroom before we go?"

Unsurprisingly, Swanson didn't answer Nick's question. He just continued to move very manfully—with that slight limp, which shouldn't have been sexy at all— toward the elevator. Sighing, Nick shook his head and followed the older agent. He didn't have a choice, did he?

"But what about Tim?" Nick asked when he caught up to Swanson at the elevator doors.

The doors slid open and two well-dressed women stepped out.

"Doug."

"Ariella. Ursula."

"New guy?" one of them said knowingly as they slipped past Nick.

"New guy," Swanson affirmed, stepping into the Death Crate. "Come on already. You can use the restroom in the lobby."

The lobby was still just as empty as it had been when Nick arrived. Exiting the elevator, Swanson pointed to a door off to the side.

"Hurry up."

Hurry up? Seriously? Long Shot needed a chill pill.

Nick took care of business in the single occupancy all-gender washroom, only managing to splash a little water on his suit when he scrubbed his hands. A quick look in the warped mirror had him wishing he'd done more with his hair than run some gel through it. Too late now. An impatient bang and "Get a move on" through the door had him rolling his eyes.

"Coming dear," Nick singsonged. Agent Swanson had a thing or two to learn about Nick Sedgewick.

"Where are we going?" Nick asked as Agent Swanson pushed through the doors and out into the heat of the afternoon.

Without answering him, Swanson pointed his key fob toward a tiny car, one of those that doubled as an electric razor. The car beeped, announcing that it was unlocked. Nick stared at the vehicle; there was no way they were both going to fit in that thing. How did Agent Swanson fit into it even on his own? Maybe the tiny car was why he was so grouchy.

One of the reasons he was so grouchy.

A thought struck Nick. "And what about Tim?"

Swanson stopped at the back bumper to glare at him. "Who the fuck is Tim?"

"You do have memory issues. Tim is the turtle. Obviously."

"Tim is the turtle. Obviously ." Swanson beeped the car locked again. "We'll take your car. But I'm driving."

"Oh, I do enjoy a man who likes to take charge." Nick actually did, but in this case, he wasn't giving the man a compliment. Agent Swanson was starting to piss him off.

"Mine's over there." He pointed to the spot on the very end of the row where he'd managed to park the Pontiac. Now there were open spaces on both sides of it, as if other cars were ashamed of its existence.

"Of course it is."

When they reached Nick's car, Swanson held out his hand. Did he truly expect Nick to let him drive Nick's car?

"Hand 'em over."

Apparently, he did. Caving like a soufflé, Nick handed Swanson his keys.

"Fine, but if you put so much as a scratch on my car… I'll… I'll be really irritated."

Shaking his head and possibly hiding a smile, Swanson got in behind the wheel. He immediately moved the seat back and adjusted the rearview and side mirrors. After turning the key in the ignition, Swanson hit the power on the sound system with impressive speed.

"Nope." Nick turned Taylor Swift back on. "If you drive, I control sound and climate. Those are the rules."

Swanson shot him a glare, but Nick ignored it. Smiling, he checked over his shoulder to make sure that Tim was still there. The turtle— tortoise , Nick mentally corrected—was almost exactly where Nick had left it. Possibly, it had moved its head.

"Hey, Tim, glad to see you're okay," Nick said, snapping his seat belt. "Guess what? I didn't get fired and this is officially my first day of work. Sorry, tortoise dude. You have to come along because Mr. Impossible here is in a hurry and I haven't had time to research where to take you."

"It's Long Shot, not Mr. Impossible. Mr. Impossible is with one of the East Coast offices."

Nick jerked his head back around so quickly he was lucky he didn't sprain his neck.

"You have a sense of humor?"

"No, I don't," Swanson assured him. "My moniker is Long Shot—or it was. Mr. Impossible, who is an egotistical ass, is in Miami, I think." Swanson's masterful hands gripped the steering wheel as he backed the Pontiac up and navigated out of the parking lot.

Nick snapped his mouth shut—thinking about flies and all that—and kept staring at Swanson's profile. And those hands.

"You weren't kidding."

"Nope. As you pointed out, I don't have a sense of humor."

"What exactly do we do at SPAM? Like I said, the recruiter was vague."

And Nick probably shouldn't have accepted the job without all the details, but he really needed the money so he could move out of his aunt's basement and, basically, have a life of his own again.

"I fix difficult situations. You watch and learn."

"Oh." Nick directed his gaze out the passenger window instead of at Swanson. They were heading toward downtown. "Where are we going?"

"Midtown Mall. One of our people needs a hand."

" One of our people . What kind of people are we?"

Nick reconsidered the job application he'd filled out. Have you always thought you were special? Nick mostly thought he was a loser. Notwithstanding that morning, he could always find parking in a pinch, and he seemed to have a knack for avoiding certain death or at least very uncomfortable situations. He couldn't explain how he did it, things just ended up… not happening around him a lot of times. Almost, but not quite.

"Special," Swanson replied. "But not quite special enough. That's you, by the way, not me."

"Right, because you're retiring yourself like a racehorse put out to pasture. What are you going to do with yourself?"

"Move to a remote area. Live in an isolated cabin."

Okaaay. Message received.

To distract himself from all the things he didn't know, Nick dug his phone out from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and checked his email. Nothing. Big shock there.

"And what else?"

"What do you mean what else?"

"There needs to be three things to balance your sentence. You know, like the Army logo from the eighties, ‘go places, meet people, and learn things'—or whatever it was."

"Fuck."

"Okay, that's a possibility. Probably will keep you feeling young."

"Dammit," Swanson muttered. "We didn't get there in time."

He pointed at the two police cars that had just swerved into the lane ahead of them. Nick assumed they were speeding to the same place he and Grumpy Pants were headed. Their lights and sirens were blaring. Nick glanced over at his trainer. Should he? Or should he not?

Along with getting parking spaces—except for today—Nick could rewind time. The farthest he could go back with any certainty was just under five minutes, and he'd never told anyone he could. He was already weird enough, so why add to it?

Shutting his eyes and concentrating, he did his thing. He focused on not wanting what had happened to happen. He opened his eyes again.

"Special," Swanson said again for the first time. "But not quite special enough. That's you, by the way, not me."

"Speed up or the police will get there before us," Nick ordered.

"What? Are you sure?"

"Do you have to argue with everything I say? Is it because I'm younger than you?" Nick demanded.

"What?"

"Pedal to the metal, big guy."

If Swanson didn't listen to him, they were going to lose the less-than-a-minute advantage Nick had been able to give them. But also, Nick wasn't surprised. Most people ignored what he had to say.

Remarkably, the Pontiac started moving faster. Speeding down the street, passing slower moving vehicles, and—"Watch out for the lady with the stroller!" Nick yelled—missing the woman and the stroller.

He saw Swanson glance quickly in the rearview mirror. Nick checked the side mirror. A few blocks behind them, two police cars had pulled into the street.

"Huh," Swanson grunted as he stomped harder on the gas pedal and they zoomed ahead.

"You do realize that my car is kind of noticeable," Nick pointed out. "Maybe beating the cops was a bad idea."

"In this type of situation, arriving before the local authorities is always a good idea."