Counterfeit Love

That was true.

My mother was nothing if not very diplomatic.

"How did you get Lo to give you a place all to yourself here?" she asked, looking around my mini apartment made entirely of a shipping container, just like the rest of Hailstorm.

Everyone else who worked--and lived--at Hailstorm slept in one of the giant barracks-style rooms, places that felt comfortable to them because most of them were ex-military.

"Their PTSD nightmares can trigger mine. Last time, I had a hard time coming out of it. Spent a week in intensive therapy. We both decided it would just be better for me to have my own space."

I tried not to feel guilty about that. If anyone else asked for a space, my mom would give them one. But the others seemed happy with their accommodations.

And my nightmares were a lot more tolerable with my own four walls. And a locking door.

"I am just going to help myself to a cup of coffee," she told me, moving away from my twin-sized bed crushed against a wall to make room for the chair-and-a-half in the other corner of this side of the room--velvet green and draped with a cream blanket, a giant pile of paperwork sitting on the ottoman near it.

Startled awake, no matter what time it might be, I knew I wouldn't get back to sleep. So that chair, that blanket, and that pile of paperwork and me, we had a hot date.

"Make enough for me too," I demanded as Ferryn walked to the space diagonal to my bed, a little kitchenette area with an under-counter fridge, a microwave, a sink, a hot plate, and a coffee machine.

I went to the closed-off section of my room, a bathroom so small it felt positively claustrophobic since it had no windows, nothing but the stall shower, the podium sink, and the toilet which, when you sat on it, made your feet go into the stall shower.

Not much.

But mine.

More than I could have hoped for just a few years ago.

My therapist had been trying to persuade me into leaving the electric-fenced, barbed-wired, guard-dog-and-armed-men-and-women Hailstorm compound for the better part of the last two years.

In general, I gave in to her demands. I did the work. Because I understood that was how progress was made. But on this one topic, I had stubbornly dug in my heels, had practically stuck my fingers in my ears and shouted "I can't hear you!" about it.

Because I had stepped out of my comfort zone in so many ways.

This was not one I felt like I was ready to give up.

Hell, maybe I would never feel ready to give it up.

I felt that, given my past, if this was as good as it got for me, then great. It was good enough. It was independence laced with perfect safety. I couldn't imagine anyone thinking I didn't deserve that.

By the time I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and changed into something cozier, Ferryn was long gone, leaving me with half a pot of coffee, and having robbed me of my leftover cold pizza from the fridge.

Coffee in hand, I made my way over to my chair, slipping under the blankets, cranking up the light, and grabbing the paperwork.

There were a few files in the stack that my mother wanted me to look over. Just some Hailstorm business. I would get to it. Because I was too Type A not to. But my priority was all the paperwork I had printed out myself, had gotten from a friend in the hacking department, but hadn't had the time to look over before.

It had been a training day.

Training days were hard on me. Not just physically. But there was that. I was not lithe and tiny like Ferryn. Once I was no longer being starved, my natural body slowly but surely came back to me. Which meant I was thick of thigh, wide of hip and ass, a little top heavy too, if you get what I mean.

Not small.

Not dainty.

Not amazing at aerobics.

But training took more out of me emotionally than physically. Especially on days when my sparring partner was of the male persuasion.

Because they made me falter, made me pause, made me flinch.

Knee-jerk.

And, so far, completely unavoidable.

So by the time I hobbled my sore ass back to my room, my mind and spirit were often fried, turning my concentration to more of a wish and a prayer than an actuality.

With a little sleep, though, I could feel all my pieces slipping back together.

I was ready to get back to it.

To finding a way to fund our mission.

My coffee was a few sips from gone, ice-cold, my eyes sandpaper-dry, when something finally jumped out at me.

Someone, actually.

A man by the name of Finch McAwley.

"Got you," I said, grinning down at the file in my hand.

I didn't, technically.