I take a quick glance down to make sure the floor is intact, then shoulder my way through a crowd of swaying sweaty bodies, all dressed down to resemble the fashion of the streets, but without the authentic stench and grime. Amusing to think that people would spend so much money to look like they have none.
Halfway through my tour of the room, I spy Jenna's purple pixie cut. She's smiling, leaning against a table engaged in conversation with a large mixed group. I'm pretty sure I recognize a few of the other girls there as well. Even in the jungle heat of the room, she sparkles where others drip. Pushing through, I reach out and poke her mid-section. She flashes me a dangerous look, then brightens and throws her arms around my neck, pulling me in for an unexpected and surprisingly welcome kiss.
“Heath!” she screams in my face as she pulls away. “I'm so glad you made it.” Turning to the group, she grabs a tiny redhead and yanks her over. She looks familiar, but it takes a moment. “Heath, you remember Holly, my roommate?” That was it. “I'm gonna grab some drinks, be right back.” She plants another kiss on my cheek, then flits away through the crowd, leaving me alone with the group.
“Hey Holly, great to see you again.”
“Hey yourself,” she swats at me. “Jen decided to give you a second chance, huh?” Her eyes linger down to my waistline. “What’s in the bag?”
I shrug, “Work stuff.” I probably should’ve ditched it, but a not-so-little part of me didn’t want to leave it behind.
Holly pats a muscular man with a firm jaw beside her. “This is my boyfriend, Mark.”
“How are ya,” he asks, greeting me with a bored smile and firm handshake. From the looks of him, this isn't much his scene either. Can't say I blame him, the place reeks of meat-market. The dirty looks from the other men around us is all I need to know that I've upset their plans for the evening by showing up.
“Just glad to be off for a change,” I smile, hoping to strike up a kinship. “Never been much of a clubber, you guys come out here a lot?”
“Not if I can help it,” he smiles, relaxing a bit. We both watch as Holly disappears as well, leaving us to fend for ourselves in what appears to be the sausage corner. “She's a great girl,” he starts up, leaning in uncomfortably close, “But it drives me nuts that she needs so much attention.”
Holly reappears on the dance floor and begins shaking to the music. “From you?” I venture, “Or just in general?”
“Yes,” he grunts with a smirk. “You and Jenna been at it long?”
A few of the other guys size us up, but I've got nothing to prove and remain stoic. “As far as I know, we're just friends. Though I can't say I'm the best at judging what women want.”
“Don't bother,” he scoffs. “They'll change their minds before you can form a rational thought. So what do you do for a living?” The dreaded question.
“I wear too many hats to count. I do whatever people tell me to.”
Mark spats out a loud guffaw, startling half the guys around us. “Ain't that the truth?” He tips his beer my way, then realizes I'm not holding one. “Well cheers anyway.” We both search the crowd for Jenna, then spy her at the same time out on the floor, dancing with Holly in intimate ways that would make most honest citizens blush. “Might be responsible for your own drink.”
“Looks that way. You need a refill?”
“Please,” he smiles, tapping the label of his designer beer.
I nod my understanding, then head over to the bar. The bartenders at Club ZuZu are flashy, but nowhere near as efficient as what I'm used to at the Rosy Coaster. I call out my order, get a nod, then wait on my beers, using my time to scan the people around me through the mirrored wall behind the bar.
Nobody I recognize, but the reflection of a well-covered man approaching me from behind catches my attention. I play ignorant until he's directly behind me, gloved hand gripping something long and shiny.
Spinning on my heel, I catch the man's wrist and jerk it behind him, twisting his arm into a tight lock. The bartender sets down the beers, gives us a funny look, then goes on to help somebody else. Gotta love crowds.
I take the syringe from his trembling fingers. “Come with me,” I mutter, giving his arm another uncomfortable twist. The man practically complies as I lead him to the far wall where the bathrooms are. We move past the long line to the women's and walk straight into the men's.
The stench is overwhelming. At least the Rosy Coaster has decency to clean and disinfect. I've run through sewers that smelled better.
A row of guys stand perched at a trough, all but one keeping their eyes respectfully forward. I grab the peeper and yank him out of the way, stepping back from the golden stream trailing behind him. My culprit replaces him, flying face-first into the trough of piss-stained ice. One arm pinned and the other flailing, his head makes a resounding thud against the cheap metal, bowing it inward until I pull him back up. “So what's in the syringe, buddy?”
“Sedative,” he gasps. “I'll talk! You don't have to-” I might not have to, but it doesn't make the action any less satisfying as I slam his head down for a second round. The fellow patrons have given me a wide berth, but continue to do their business from the corners.
“Why are you after me?”
“They sent me! They said they wanted you specifically, that you'd be perfect for the program!”
I spin him around, yanking his hood down to get a better look at his face, then shove him just enough to tip him off-balance and pin him half-assed into the trough.
“Dude! That's fucked up!” shouts a drunk just walking in.
“Mind your own business or you're next,” I snap. He sizes me up for a second before backing down, probably realizing he's not drunk enough to take on the world just yet. “Who's 'they'? I want specifics. No more of this vague bullshit or I get nasty.”
“The high priests! Only the inner-circle knows their true identities, I swear.” More vague answers. I deliver a swift jab to his nose, knocking his head back into the once-white tile wall. He wails in dismay, hands clutching his face.
“High priests of what? What cult are you in?”
“It's not a cult! It's the true religion!” Aren't they all? I smack him again. “Ow! Jeez, man! Quit it!”
I turn to spy the unflushed stall behind me. His eyes follow, then drift back to my growing grin. “Fine. You won't give me what I want, I'll return the favor.” Gripping the shoulders of his jacket, I heave him from the trough.
“The Digital Prophets!” He shrieks, eyes wide as pies and feet thrashing across the slick floor. “That's the religion. They're in at least seven of the districts! I swear man, look 'em up. Digital Prophets!” I continue to drag him, saying nothing. “Oh gods, man! I report directly to some guy named Shawn Fermerson! I get all my orders texted direct to my phone! There's an ambush waiting for you outside. Three people. A girl and two guys, I don't know their names. I'm just a peon! This was supposed to be my initiation. One quick job and then I'm to be baptized!”
“Baptism you say?” I ask, clutching his neck and holding his face over the feces and vomit swirling slowly in the tin bowl below him. He squeals and thrashes, nearly breaking free of my grasp, then I set the syringe into his spine and squeeze. The man falls limp moments later and I drop him to the side of the toilet.
The beers are amazingly still waiting for me when I return to the bar, but I'm a bit wary after my last encounter. I quickly hand them off to two approaching girls with a smile and a wink, then order two more. Both girls are leaning against the bar and half-asleep by the time my order comes in.
“What kept ya, man?” Mark asks, wasting no time in accepting the offered bottle.
“Fightin' something nasty in the bathroom.”
He wrinkles his nose in response. “Dude. More than I needed to know.”
“You asked.” I take a long drink from the bottle, savoring the cold as it flows smoothly across my parched tongue and down my throat.
“Come dance,” squeals Jenna, magic
ally appearing at my side and tugging on my arm. I want to protest, I just got my beer, but those big bright eyes are hard to resist. One more swig and I set it down, trying to hide my reluctance as I'm dragged across the club.
She picks a spot and turns to face me, moving, shaking, swaying to the music pulsing through the rooms. I bob along to the rhythm, trying to find my stride. It's not that I don't know how to dance, that would be much easier. The problem is the person who taught me to dance is my mother, who worked the poles for the better part of a decade before getting knocked up with little old me. She kept her job, just switched to a cocktail waitress, supplementing income by turning tricks in the back room while I was supposed to be engrossed in studies or out playing with my friends.
Given the circumstances, I'd rather play dumb.
Jenna doesn't seem to mind. I'm not entirely sure she remembers I'm here, eyes closed, hips circling, arms drifting, as if slithering down some unseen waterfall. It's an ecstasy I envy. One I only ever found high on drugs. One I constantly reassure myself that I'm better off without.
Keeping an eye on my surroundings and other dancers, I'm completely oblivious to Jenna's approach until her fingers delicately wrap around my wrists and pull my arms across her waist. Her backside grinds into my mid-section and, for a moment, I lose myself in the sensation of being with her. The smell of her hair, the soft skin of her neck, the controlled and confident motion of her hips, the glare of the lights highlighting the profile of her face. For the briefest of breaths, I share her world, but only for a second.
The world continues to move around me. One that's awaiting ambush. But nothing comes of it. All of that tension for nothing.
Jenna turns to face me, never breaking the stride of her dance. Her head tilts upwards, moves in so close that our noses nearly touch, but she never lifts her eyes to look at me. “We should get out of here,” she whispers softly, but I hear every word despite the pounding music. Her hands trace a path along my body before ending in my own, interlocking fingers. She finally looks up to meet my gaze, locking eyes for a moment before smiling and spinning gracefully beneath our clasped hands to turn and lead us towards the exit.
The crowd has thinned out a bit, but only in the slightest. I imagine curfew laws are a bit more forgiving here in the altitude than the late night street clubs.
It doesn't take long for the elevator to arrive and we duck in, soon followed by three others. One girl. Two guys. Figures.
If Jenna's embarrassed by an audience, she's lost all inhibitions at this point, grasping the back of my neck and kissing me fiercely. It's intoxicating, but I need to focus. There's a rustling on my right. The larger guy. Thick leather jacket. Sliding sound. A metallic click. All the evidence I need.
Kicking my foot out hard, I make contact and slam the man into the side wall of the elevator. Metal clinks against the ground, but I don't follow it, my attention focused on leaning in to smash my fist into the first target's face. More movement. Second guy reaching into his coat. My elbow comes back hard across his cheekbone.
The woman sprays something in my face. Stings like a bitch. Eyes tear up. Hard to focus. Elevator dings. Doors open. I grab for the corner Jenna holed up in and drag her to her feet. Pull her out. Push her ahead of me. Stumble into the quiet lobby of the monorail station.
We run across wide open terrain, almost to the ticket booth before I give her a rough tug to stop and duck behind a wide, concrete column. Pulling up my shirt, I wipe fiercely at my eyes, blinking repeatedly to try and clear them out.
“They're still coming!” she wails, tugging at me.
“Yup,” I mutter, peering at the trio around the corner, but otherwise not giving in to her demands.
The place is quiet, but not completely empty. A handful of bleary-eyed citizens are roaming the halls, loitering in the lobby, or keeping the benches from floating away while waiting for metabolism to eat away the drugs in their system.
The smaller man reaches into his coat again, drawing a pistol, but keeping it inside the fold of his jacket. I'd love to beat him to the trigger, but there are witnesses to consider.
“Oh my god! He's got a gun!” I don't even recognize the high-pitched scream that comes from my lips, but it doesn't matter. My three pursuers stand at a total loss for how to continue with all attention focused on them. Seizing the opportunity, I grab Jenna and practically carry her to the tram.
Twelve
I've always been known for my stamina, but I'm pretty much dead on my feet by the time we reach Jenna's apartment. “So that was your big plan, huh? Scream like a girl and then dash off with your tail between your legs?”
“Seemed to work for the moment,” I sigh. “I liked the idea better than having a shootout in the open with a bunch of witnesses. Either they get away and I deal with them later, or I let the enforcers sort 'em out.”
“Who were those people anyway?”
“Not sure exactly. Members of some cult. Got tipped off that an ambush was waiting for me in the bathroom.”
“The bathroom? You know people everywhere, don't you?”
“Not quite,” I smile as sincerely as possible, “But I make new friends every day.”
“Any I should be worried about?” she asks coyly.
“If you're asking about company I've had half as pleasant as yours? Then no, not a one.”
“Good,” she smiles, waving her wrist over the scanner and opening the door. Stepping inside, she makes a show of pulling off her heeled shoes and tossing them onto the couch. There's no invitation to join her; no glance back to acknowledge I'm still standing there looking stupid. Then she steps into her room, fiddling with earrings and leaving the ball completely in my court.
My gut instinct says to run. Turn around and call it a night. Or maybe it's just my fear of commitment. Or my track record of ruining decent lives. But the thought of our brief moments together comes back into my mind, races through with the promise of so many possibilities.
The door closes behind me and Jenna peers from around the corner, her one visible eye narrowing seductively as it spies me standing awkwardly stiff, uncertain of how I got here. Then she disappears around the corner again.
I'm not one for cat and mouse games, but my scant traces of chivalry and courtesy have been overshadowed by the overwhelming urge to not be alone; even if only for a night. Taking slow strides, I arrive in the doorway of her room, finding her already half-stripped down to undergarments that may as well be smoke blowing over her delicate features.
“I see you've gone for what's behind door number one.”
“There are other doors?” I ask, looking back into the living area.
Her hands grip my head tightly and turn it back towards hers. “None worth looking into.” Her hands slide down my neck and across my shoulders, first sliding off my satchel, then my jacket and leaving them to drop casually on the floor. “Do you know the benefit of insulated walls?” she asks, small white teeth digging into the pink flesh of her bottom lip as if trying to contain her wicked smile.
“What's that?”
She leans in so close I can feel her breath, hot and moist on my ear. In a low whisper, she hums, “Nobody can hear me scream.”
As if some magical Abracadabra has been muttered through the air, I lose all sense of self-control. My hands seize her tiny waist and pull her closer, face burying into the soft, warm curves of her neck. Mouthfuls of smooth skin and soft tiny hairs rush across my tongue. Her tiny form melts against my own, fingertips plowing rows through my hair.
Pulling her closer, my arms meet behind her back, gripping her tightly and pulling her off her feet before swinging her around and pressing her body against the wall, pinning it with my own. Our mouths meet in a flurry of exchanged breath and lips, tongues and teeth. Skinny legs spread wide before wrapping themselves around me, squeezing our bodies closer together in a sensual rhythm.
I free my hands from behind her and run them up and down her form, tracing her delicate curves bef
ore slipping up the seam of her thin shirt, gliding along the warm flesh beneath and all but peeling it off of her. Her arms raise for a moment to make way, lips taking a reluctant vacation from each other before colliding once more after the offending article has been disgracefully discarded. From her perch, she reaches down to return the favor, pulling my shirt hard against my mid-section before yanking it up to roughly scratch against my face. Not as graceful, but the result is the same, soon rewarded with her small breasts squeezed firmly against my bare chest.
A small moan quivers in her throat as she pushes harder against my groin, grinding into it through tedious layers of clothes. We delight in each other for a few more minutes, kissing, touching, tasting, smelling. Urge takes over and I pull her back from the wall and fall back onto her bed, our bodies so interwoven that there’s barely any impact from her crashing on top of me. I yield control for a moment, letting her drive and giving into the passion before rolling her over. Eager fingers glide down to her panties and waste no time in their removal, revealing a whole new playground while smooth, slender legs rock back and forth in assistance.
Planting one final soft kiss on her lips, my mouth starts a slow, dotted line across her jaw line, neck, and clavicle. Cupping her breasts softly in my hands, massaging them beneath my fingers, my trail of kisses continues south long the curves of her belly to the warmth of her pelvis.
A gentle vibration pulses across my groin and, for a moment, I fear the worst has happened. Then the pulse continues and I groan, pulling the offending article from my pocket.
“Really?” She sighs, eyeing my phone with disdain. Private number. Never a good sign.
“Wrong number,” I grunt, hitting the ignore button and tossing it on the crumpled sheets beside her before taking her in my arms and pulling her body up to meet mine. She giggles, kissing me deeply, then biting forcefully at my neck.
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