Classified (The Harem at the End of the Galaxy, #2) by Kenze Kyle

Author:Kenze, Kyle
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: harem fantasy for men, harem mff, time travel harem, harem litrpg, harem sci-fi science fiction, harem books for men, harem pulp adventure
Publisher: Raven's Secret
Published: 2018-08-20T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 5

A heavy oak door closed behind me. Somehow, Rhonda Chambers had arranged for me to meet with General Dyers in a private conference room at her private club, rather than at the Pentagon. It was later, around nine in the evening, and the general held a crystal tumbler. Two fingers of whiskey, no ice.

A butler hovered, and she waved him away.

No whiskey for me. I wasn't being invited to hang around.

“How are you finding the new assignment, Clayton?” She put her hand up. “Please don't be specific. Even in a club like this, the walls have ears.”

“I, um, it's very interesting, General.”

“I trust the enhancements to your compensation package proved satisfactory.”

“Yes, General.”

The wide oak conference table was an affectation. Especially since all the chairs had been removed except for hers. I stood uneasily, trying not to shift my weight from foot to foot.

“You may state your purpose, Clayton.”

“Yes, General.” I took a deep breath. “Are you aware of the nature of the, um, special technology being developed in the, um, special location where I'll be working?”

“I am aware.”

“Why did you pick me for this project, if I may ask? I'm not a science-y guy.”

“I know exactly what you are. A grade-Z policy wonk with delusions of creativity.”

Ouch.

She sipped whiskey. The silence in the room felt painful. I couldn't ask again, and I was beginning to wonder if she even knew herself. If time was a loop instead of a line, maybe I'd been picked to be the last man because I'd always been the last man. That might be the way our destinies worked out.

“I had to pick someone,” she finally said. “And you seemed... hungry.”

“There are a lot of hungry men in D.C.”

“Most of them are hungry to be on the front page above the fold, not hungry to be buried in an above-top-secret sub-basement project. These days, it seems like you can't keep a fucking secret in this fucking town. Everybody wants to get famous.” She studied my face over her glass for a long time. “Your file suggests you're different. You're about the only guy left in D.C. who doesn't share his whole life on fucking Twitter.”

I stood there feeling awkward. Was I supposed to be on social media? I always had the impression the Pentagon frowned on that kind of thing.

Her nostrils flared like she was smelling something good. Maybe it was the whiskey.

Maybe it was something else.

She kept looking at my face over her glass. Kept looking into my eyes.

“Oh, fucking hell, Clayton. Go over there and fix yourself a fucking drink. That's an order.”

I went to the bar and poured myself a finger of what was already sitting out. Pappy Van Winkle, breakfast of champions. Nice. The apocalypse might be well underway, but I was drinking better than I ever had in my whole life.

Since there was still no place to sit, I walked over to examine the painting over the fireplace. Was that old thing an actual Rembrandt?

“Forty-eight million on the hoof,” Dyers said.

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