Chapter One I've always had a knack for blowing stuff up. My friends' phones. My temper. My love life. But where I really excel is explosive pyrotechnics of a physical nature. On an epic scale. When things start looking dim, that's when I like to light up the darkness with things that go boom. I double-checked my calculations, then triple-checked them just because I didn't feel like losing any fingers today. When I was completely sure I'd mixed the right quantities of sulfur, potassium nitrate, and the other combustible chemicals to the shells I'd been putting together in secret for the past month, I put on my protective gear. Of course, I'd started planning this all at the paper stage. Then the computer. Now it was finally time to see whether all my planning amounted to anything. Whether it'd be the stuff dreams were made of . . . or whether it'd quite literally blow up in my face. By the time I'd finished putting on my conductive shoes to limit sparks, I couldn't remember why I'd thought any of this was a good idea. I could lose my job because of this. My shirt chafed at my neck, and I wasn't sure whether my knees could support my weight. Sure, I liked the idea of being a rebel. Until the time came to light the fuse. If I were in a heist movie, I'd be the crew member who planned the whole thing but stayed behind the curtain, eager for the bad guys to get what was coming to them, but ultimately unable to physically stand up to them in any way. Actually, never mind. I'd obviously be the detonation expert, called in to blow stuff up. They never had to confront the bad guys either. The point was, I didn't like it when it was my reputation on the line. I didn't want to get in trouble. I just wanted to watch the night sky light up. Eventually I couldn't put it off any longer. I killed the lights so darkness enveloped the room. Silence wrapped around me-the suffocating kind that made all my internal thoughts too loud. Before I could think about it, I hit the button that signaled the machine to light the cake fuse. I was safely behind a clear fireproof window, along with my audience of coworkers, who would get to watch my attempt live to see whether it was a success or failure. As a pyrotechnic engineer, aka fireworks designer, I'd had my fair share of them. The phrase "crash and burn" got pretty literal around here. But I rarely took on a project in secret and never against the express order of my boss. Today was full of firsts for me. The cake fuse-a single fuse that lit several fireworks in a sequence-was out of my control now. Everyone behind the glass could see the entirety of the design I'd been working on, albeit on a much smaller scale. Our testing facility in Virginia was large, but it wasn't like we produced full-scale fireworks for everyone in the vicinity to get a free fireworks show every night. Sure, they might like it at first, but then the noise complaints would roll in. No, we worked in an enclosed protective bunker that let us record things like the smoke whiteout levels, the decibel noise level, and more. But because we could calculate the apex and hang without needing to physically produce it, we could make smaller fireworks here in the bunker that still gave us an accurate idea of how they'd react in the wild. I held my breath as the spark lit up the fuse, its neon-orange flare winding along the cord like the bead of sweat going down my spine. Please work, please work. The spark hit the base of the first shell, and my gaze shot up, away from the wrappings, into the empty air above it. I'd started with a brocade waterfall, but what made my firework special was adding the newer ghost color-changing effect. I stood so close that my nose was pressed against the glass. When the firework went off, the lights and sound hit me almost simultaneously, my whole body taking in everything at once. It. Was. Glorious. For once in my life, everything happened exactly like I'd planned it. At the peak of the apex, the waterfall rolled out like a blanket, the delicate streamers cresting over the edge, its colors starting to shift from red to blue and incandescent white. The top corner crackled as it shifted with red and white bursts, the rest extending out in even lines that stretched toward the ground-displaying a perfect American flag unfurling as it went. And they'd said it couldn't be done. That there wasn't enough time before the president's inauguration and we'd need to figure something else out for the finale so, Andee, would you just drop it already? I turned, expecting to see the congratulatory faces of my coworkers. What I got instead was pinched expressions and sour attitudes. Okay, so maybe I'd gone behind everyone's backs to work on this. And maybe the creative director had told me in no uncertain terms that we needed to focus our attention elsewhere. But it wasn't like I'd neglected my other duties. I'd been a good little worker bee, only chipping away on my pet project when everyone else had gone home for the night. Besides, couldn't they see that this was better than our original plan? That this was the type of fireworks display that made history and was worth working a few extra hours even if we had to change a few things for the finale? They started stripping off their protective wear in silence, a few of them muttering, "Congratulations, Superstar," as they passed me on the way to one of the many doors. First rule of fire safety-always make sure there are multiple exits in case of an explosion. I ignored the Superstar jabs. I refused to take the bait, looking past their faces for my creative director's. Just once, I wished they'd call me by my name, especially when I was really doing them a favor, if you thought about it. No one wanted to watch a subpar fireworks show at something as important as a presidential inauguration. But I knew that was asking too much from people who had called me Superstar nonstop ever since I let it slip I was related to one. Add that to the fact that they considered me to be an overachiever, and well . . . honestly, I didn't think half of them even knew my real name. Sometimes I felt like shouting, "It's Andee Paxton, by the way," after their retreating forms, but then they'd know their bullying got to me. I wasn't about to give them the satisfaction. My creative director shuffled over while I was removing my conductive shoes, hands in his pockets. "Well," Rob said. "Looks like you did it." It wasn't a reprimand, but it wasn't a compliment either. It should have been a compliment. I'd just pulled off the impossible. Something that had never been done before and would bring notoriety and credibility to the firm. Well, even more credibility. We were already the premier fireworks display company in the nation, hence why we worked prestigious events like presidential inaugurations and New Year's Eve ball drops televised worldwide. The reason I'd called my mom in the middle of her work meeting to tell her the good news when I'd gotten this job and the reason I worked twelve-hour days to prove I belonged. If I had to guess, maybe Rob didn't like a junior designer stepping on his toes. Because why else was he acting like such a wet blanket? "It's late and I want to go home." Rob scrubbed a hand across his face. "We'll talk about this on Monday." He walked away without another word, leaving me to wonder whether I'd still have a job after the weekend. Those remaining followed soon after him, until it was only Karina and me left in the bunker. I started walking back to my office, hoping she'd take the hint. She didn't. Karina matched me stride for stride, keeping up with my pace even as I rounded a corner so fast I practically gave myself whiplash coming around the other side. "Nice job, Superstar," she said. She wasn't even breaking a sweat. Curse her long legs. "You know, I saw an article about your dad on Celebrity Gossip this morning." She walked into my office with me, seemingly oblivious to my death stare that should have burned a hole in her forehead. I switched tactics, hoping indifference might work instead. I glanced at my fingers, inspecting a hangnail on my pinky. "Not surprising," I said. "He's kind of a big deal, so . . ." My dad was Keith Huxley-Beck, the famous actor with four Oscar wins and three Emmy nominations. And no, I'd never actually met him, which was why everyone gave me such a hard time. Why would my mom never ask for child support or insist on me meeting my father when he'd been voted People magazine's Sexiest Man Alive on two separate occasions? Answer: because we'd done just fine on our own and didn't need that kind of drama in our lives, that's why. Plus, it was none of their business, thank you very much. That was why my mom never shared my pictures online growing up and I didn't have social media accounts even now. But I let the cat out of the bag accidentally let the cat out of the bag, and my coworkers had never let me live it down ever since. Of course, no one believed me. Which was great. Was I pushing myself so hard to achieve greatness because I had to prove myself every single day? Well, I wasn't saying it wasn't true. Karina continued like I hadn't said anything. "Word on the street is he knocked up an intern from a late-night talk show interview he did a few months back. You might have a half sibling running around come Christmastime. You know, if you're telling the truth." I resisted the urge to sigh. This was exactly the type of drama I didn't need, but that went hand-in-hand with having a celebrity for a parent. Back when I was a naive teenager, I'd set up Google alerts for his name, because I wanted to know everything that came up. What a mistake that had been. Now I purposefully kept myself in the dark, only learning of his . . . adventures . . . when he was trending or someone like Karina backed me into a corner. "I'll be sure to invite the baby over for holidays," I deadpanned, hoping she'd drop it. Thankfully, she did, leaving my office with a bounce, her mission accomplished. As soon as she left, I pulled out my phone and opened the internet, typing in my father's name and clicking on the first YouTube video that came up relating to the new scandal. The thumbnail for this one looked like it was from an actual interview with him, rather than regurgitating the same headlines as everyone else. So, on that promising note, I closed my office door and sat down at my desk to watch it. The news anchor for Good Morning America sat across from him, her pressed collared shirt making her look a bit like a floating head because it matched too well with the background. "We're here with Keith Huxley-Beck, who is busy promoting his newest film Traitors Never Die. Keith, thank you for joining us today." He murmured something polite, and the host waited approximately two milliseconds before pouncing. "Lately you've been more in the news for a possible baby-daddy scandal than your acting work. The mother recently announced it's a girl. Keith, is there anything you'd like to share with our audience?" My father chuckled and shifted on his chair, running a hand through his golden curls. His fans loved whenever he did that, but I was pretty sure his hair and makeup person didn't. "The claims are baseless," Keith said. "We had a brief, mutually consensual relationship and took every precaution to prevent against unwanted pregnancy." I rolled my eyes. He sounded like a robot. Usually he oozed charisma, so it was all the more obvious when he was following a script written by his publicity team. The host spread her arms, palms up to the ceiling. "Accidents happen." Keith shook his head and pulled a paper out of his back pocket, shifting on his chair to do so. He handed the paper to the host. "I know," he said. "Which is why I did a DNA test through DNA and Me to prove it." I leaned forward in my chair, as if I could somehow read the paper through the tiny screen of my phone. The host raised her eyebrows as she accepted the paper, then unfolded it slowly and dramatically for the cameras. Three whole seconds passed without her saying anything. She read it silently, pursing her lips that were obviously overfilled and overlined. "So, you're not the father after all," she finally announced. I sat back with a grunt. This. This was why I didn't pay attention to the drama. Because nine times out of ten, it never amounted to anything. Except when it did, and those times I wished I didn't know. All in all, it was better to remain in blissful ignorance. My father smiled for the cameras, and I mentally calculated how much his veneers had cost. "I'm not," he repeated. "Though I wish the baby and her mother all the success in life." I closed the video and sat my phone down, wondering at the strange sense of emptiness in my chest. It wasn't that I wanted a half sister. It was that this baby would know, with utter certainty, who Keith Huxley-Beck was to her-aka no one-because she had the DNA test to prove it. She could move on with her life. I, on the other hand, was stuck in a sort of limbo. Of course I believed my mom. With every single fiber that was in me. But it'd be nice to have the paperwork to back it up sometimes. To have a retort when people called me Superstar in that mocking tone of voice or looked at me with pity in their eyes. Sometimes I wished my mom had confronted Keith twenty-six years ago. It would have made things a whole lot easier for me, because his name would be on my birth certificate, where now there was only an empty space. No matter how hard I tried to change the green monster of jealousy to a happier rose-colored shade, resentment often had a way of popping up whenever I least expected. But anytime that happened, guilt followed immediately after. Because I knew I was only thinking about myself, and not how hard that would have made things for my mom, who did everything possible to give me a normal upbringing. Excerpted from Mr. Nice Spy by Tiana Smith All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
