Agent of Chaos (The X-Files: Origins #1)(21)

“So what do you think?” Gimble asked.

“About the book?” Mulder shrugged. “I think all that stuff about keeping the balance between Law and Chaos is interesting.”

“Me too. But don’t tell the Major, or he’ll want to talk to me about it nonstop.” Gimble tossed some sunflower seed shells in the trash.

Mulder was impressed. His dad just left them all over the place.

“So back to your friend. Do you think she’ll like me?” Gimble sounded genuinely concerned as he crunched the seeds.

The question annoyed Mulder. “I don’t know. Why does it matter?”

“She sounded sexy on the phone. And if she looks half as good in person as she does in that picture in your wallet, I might propose to her.”

Mulder instinctively touched his back pocket. “You went through my wallet?”

“You asked me to. The night you got pulled over for having a busted side mirror? Remember?” Gimble flicked the hair out of his eyes and broke into a grin. “So will she like me or what?”

“You’re not Phoebe’s type.” Mulder sounded like a jealous boyfriend.

She wasn’t his girlfriend or anything. Not that Mulder was opposed to the idea. He just didn’t have the guts to bring it up. They had kissed a handful of times—okay, exactly five times—in the last two years, and one night after a party they had made out long enough to steam up the windows of the Gremlin and give Mulder something to daydream about for months.… Phoebe in jeans and a black bra, cheeks flushed and lips swollen from kissing him. But she didn’t act like it was a big deal, and she didn’t bring it up. So he didn’t bring it up.

“I’ll impress her with my wit and extensive knowledge of Star Trek. You’ll see.”

“Now I understand why you’re so good at D and D,” Mulder said. “You’ve got a great imagination.”

Gimble was thinking of a comeback when the doorbell rang. Both boys spun around fast enough to give themselves whiplash. Mulder rushed to the door and flung it open.

Phoebe stood in the doorway, wearing flared jeans that looked cool instead of trendy on her; the gray-and-blue NASA T-shirt Mulder had given her two Christmases ago, which was an inch from becoming a full-fledged crop top; and sandals that crisscrossed over the tops of her feet, in tan leather that matched her skin tone. Her long blond hair was knotted just above her ears on either side of her head in Phoebe’s version of Princess Leia buns, except Phoebe’s were smaller and the ends of her hair stuck out of the center of each bun. Mulder couldn’t tell if his best friend/girl of his dreams wore any makeup, but if she did, it wasn’t much. A constellation of freckles spread over the bridge of her nose and spilled onto her rosy cheeks.

Phoebe planted her hands on her hips and opened her mouth to say something, but Mulder threw his arms around her neck before she uttered a word.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he whispered.

She rested her palm against his chest, fingers splayed open, and gently pushed him back far enough to get a good look at him. “Of course you are. You look like a zombie.”

Phoebe stepped around him and surveyed the living room. She picked up the half-eaten bowl of cereal from the coffee table. Then she spotted a second bowl on the end table. “Is this all you’ve been eating?” She plucked two Hostess apple pie wrappers off the sofa and scrunched up her nose. “And don’t lie, because I’ll get the truth out of your Dungeons and Dragons–loving friend over there.”

Gimble beamed at her. “You play D and D, too?” He turned and mouthed to Mulder, I think I’m in love.

Phoebe took another quick look around the room. “I take it your dad is on another one of his top secret trips?” She turned to Gimble. “And no, I don’t play D and D. But I know how, and I speak Elvish.”

Gimble brought his fist to his chest and let out a long breath. “It’s like gods sent you down from heaven.”

“How could you let him get this bad?” She glared at Gimble.

“It’s not his fault,” Mulder said. “I’m a big boy.”

“So you claim.” Phoebe marched down the hallway and peeked into each room until she spotted his open bedroom door. She walked in and shook her head in disgust.

Clothes were strewn all over the floor, along with books, sunflower seed shells, and more apple pie wrappers. Mulder scooped up an armload of clothes and dumped the heap in his closet.

Phoebe inspected his perfectly made bed. “Are you sleeping on the sofa again? Or did your insomnia come back?”

Mulder ran a hand through his hair. It was sticking up and he tried to smooth it down. “Sort of.”

“Sort of to which one?”

He shrugged. “Both, I guess.”

She picked up the book on his nightstand and read the title. “The Meaning of Murder? Doing a little light reading before bed? No wonder you can’t sleep.”

Gimble scanned the collection of serial killer books on Mulder’s shelf and flipped through Year of the Zodiac Killer. “I love the Zodiac Killer.”

“Do you know how disturbing that sounds?” Phoebe asked.

“I just meant that me and the Major—that’s what I call my dad—we tried to crack the cryptograms the Zodiac Killer sent the cops,” Gimble rushed on. “The authorities figured out three of the codes, and a high school teacher solved another one. But nobody ever deciphered the rest.”