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A Worse Idea 40

Anne sat in the passenger seat of Prometheus’s big-ass car, while he drove down A1A.

“Shouldn’t we check the bar first?” Anne asked.

“No need,” Prometheus said. “She probably wouldn’t go back there if she thought someone was after her.”

“So…” Anne said. “What are we gonna do?”

Prometheus grinned. “Science.”

He called Sharise with his car phone, which was thankfully much more effective than the suit.

Prometheus opened his mouth, but Sharise spoke first.

“The jizz is growing,” she said.

“I…” Prometheus took a second to digest the information. “Really?”

“No, I’m just a stupid fucking bimbo who doesn’t have eyes. Yes, Prometheus, this shit is growing.”

“That’s interesting. Keep watching it grow. Get some towels. Maybe a bucket,” he said. A glance at Anne reminded him of why he’d made the call. “Sharise, I’m going to need you to do something else.”

“Of course you are,” she said.

“I need to figure out if anyone was sending a tracker signal from FAU’s campus.”

“Alright, gimme like twenty minutes.” She hung up.

For several seconds, there was silence.

“You’ve got a look on your face. What?” Prometheus said. “What are you thinking?”

“That wasn’t science,” Anne said. “It was just a phone conversation.”

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