Avara Du Pont
I stand behind Simon, watching his laptop screen from over his shoulder. I can't make out what program he's running. Or how he's sifting through the mounting data on a black digital spec.
"How long will your contact make… contact?"
"Depends, could be an hour, could be several more," he says with his fingers darting over the keyboard.
"I can't wait that long," I say uneasily. "I have a thing tonight. Gala dinner."
"Have to play dress up for daddy dearest?"
"Something like that," I reply bitterly, expunging what I can from my tone, when I say, "But I do need another favour."
"At this point do you even need to ask?" he says with his still fixated on the laptop screen.
"I need you to pin me down."
His fingers freeze over the keyboard.