Quinn stared at the sundress-clad, primped-looking Midtowner, trying to imagine how the hell she was going to get through even one job without pulling out the brass knuckles and clocking her.
No. This cannot happen.
With no more than a moment’s thought, Quinn stood up. “We’re not doing this.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not working with you.”
A look of shock, shifting quickly to derision. “Good luck finding someone who’ll work with you.”
Quinn gave her the finger as she walked out the door, out of that stupid Midtown coffeehouse and away from that stupid Midtown woman. No way could she work with someone like that, trust someone like that.
But as she braved the sandblasting back to the station and waited for the subway, Quinn wondered if she’d been too rash, letting her temper get the best of her. No, she decided. Late was one thing, but thirty minutes late was stupidity, and that girl would never go far. Which only left Quinn with one alternative.
She would have to do the unthinkable. She would have to call Hammond Jones.
When Quinn rounded the corner, she spotted Hammond Jones on the shady side of a street in Medford, leaning up against the concrete wall of a liquor store and drinking from a bottle.
Great. He’s drinking.
But when she got closer, she realized it was a root beer. When he saw her coming, he turned to face her, staring down at her with cold blue-green eyes that matched the ink in his tats.
“Let me guess,” he said, raising his voice over the din of the traffic and the rattle of cheap air conditioning units. “You came to your senses ’cause your other options don’t got my experience.”
“Why work with me?” she said, ignoring his comment, despite how true it was. “Why, when you’ve been at this as long as I have, when you’re as skilled as you are… why take this shit job?”
“Why did you accept it?”
“I had to.”
He took another drink of his root beer. “Why would I be any different?”
“What happened?”
“What happened with you?”
“You first.”
Big Thug hesitated, as if deciding what sort of answer to offer. He scowled and looked away for a moment, watching the cars whiz by, waiting for an older couple to pass. “My last job… sedative didn’t fully take, thanks to my partner’s bad source. Shit got ugly. I lost the data on a Tier One job, jacker got back-tiered.”
Back-tiered. Demoted from Tier One to Tier Two, with an eight-week suspension.
Quinn stared at him as he eyed her, waiting for her to reciprocate. “Proximity alert never came. We were ambushed by two thugs, and my partner… no fight skills. Just as I was inches from escape, he grabbed my jacket, tore the pocket… and I didn’t realize it until we were gone. The data was in the pocket.”
As they stood there on that noisy street, Quinn felt torn. They were the same age, had the same years of experience, and were in the same boat. Which made them likely partners. But she didn’t like him. She hated the tats and the shaven head and the fucking attitude. She could never trust a thug, and trust was everything, even for a single job…
“Darlin’, here’s the thing—”
“Don’t fucking call me that,” she snarled.
He rolled his eyes and let out an annoyed breath. “Hear me out, will ya? I know I ain’t what you’re lookin’ for. You ain’t what I’m lookin’ for either. But we both got experience and we both got a problem that needs solvin’, so let’s fucken get this done so we can both get what we want.”
Quinn took a deep breath. As much as she hated it, she couldn’t argue with that logic.
“Okay,” she said. “You’re hired, Hammond. One job, then we go our separate ways. Deal?”
“One condition.”
Quinn rolled her eyes. “What?”
“Don’t call me Hammond. I go by Jones.”
Chapter 15
“Midtown man murdered, signs of mindjacking.”
Quinn sat on the subway on Friday evening, staring at the headline on her phone. She read the brief news article, shaking her head. A man had been found in a Midtown alley, beaten to death, sedation drugs in his blood and tiny sticky marks on the base of his skull from the jacker nodes. It was the kind of news she dreaded. Mindjacking already had a bad rap as it was. From Quinn’s standpoint, Landry’s mind reader was no different than any advanced technology: beneficial in the right hands, and dangerous in the wrong ones.
But murder? That was unheard of, even for asshole mind thieves. Mind thieves lacked the Protectorate’s code, they stole from anyone they wanted to, and at worse they damaged people’s memories. They were thieves, raiders, and idiots looking for an easy profit, not murderers. But maybe that had changed.
Whatever it was, it would goad the El Diablo PD into funneling more resources toward trapping mindjackers. Which only made the Protectorate’s job—her job—more difficult.
Once off the train, Quinn headed to meet Noah for that drink she owed him. In the distance, she spotted part of a giant glass structure that spanned an entire city block. The botanic gardens. Other than the occasional palo verde tree or yucca growing in wealthy Uptown, the botanic gardens was the one place where greenery still existed in the burning inferno of El Diablo, nurtured underneath a climate-controlled dome. It was a place she’d never been; tickets were very expensive and had a waiting list longer than six months.
Someday, when things finally went her way, she would go.
Quinn arrived at Angel’s, a bar and eatery that she’d passed by many times over the years. She’d always wanted to go inside, for no other reason than she liked the look of the place.
She wore her best dress, a red fitted sheath that she could never have afforded if she hadn’t found it at some Midtown resale boutique. Even then it had cost her a lot. But she justified the cost because it doubled as a costume for jobs where she needed to look more Uptown.
Inside the comfortably cool and busy place, Quinn took off her jacket and looked around. It was even nicer than she’d imagined, the floor tiles in a faux wood grain and the walls painted like a forest, with bright green foliage featuring plants and trees she’d never seen before. Real potted green plants sat in various corners.
She made her way around the couples and suited businessmen waiting for a table, enjoying the comfy temperature but already feeling out of place. Even in her finest duds, she didn’t fit in with the blown-out hair and the expensive heels and the sparkling jewelry, the jewelry that bore no resemblance to the cheap imported junk the vendors sold on the Downtown corners. Quinn didn’t own any jewelry. Jewelry was a liability Downtown.
Why are you here, Quinn? You don’t belong.
Quinn pushed that thought away, pausing near a potted plant, enjoying the feel of its leaves and the smell of its soil. She searched for Noah’s dark hair and confident smile among the bar patrons and lingering couples, knowing he could probably distract her from the not fitting in. But she didn’t see his slacks and neatly-pressed button-down, or his wise brown eyes. No empty chair waiting for her, one he’d fought for.
A chill ran through her. He was a no-show.
If he’d cancelled, even at the last minute, she wouldn’t have minded much. She had a big job to prepare for and shit to do. But to just not show up, after she’d come all that way? Sure, Noah was just for fun, and nothing could ever happen between them for all kinds of reasons, but Quinn couldn’t shake the sinking disappointment that settled upon her. She turned to leave.
“Quinn!”
Quinn turned back around, and there was Noah, near the window, dressed in a light sport coat. Relief flooded her, followed by a warm feeling, both hitting her harder than they should have. She smiled and headed toward him. He was standing near a table, a little two-top next to the tinted window that offered a view of the orange sun setting in the west. They weren’t having a drink… they were having dinner.
Wait. Wasn�
�t the bet for a drink?
Noah watched her as she approached, giving her a quick and respectable onceover, his eyes lingering perhaps a little longer on her fitted dress before they returned to her face and remained there. Again, it was like he could see into her, like there was no point in trying to hide anything from him.
Then she realized he wasn’t looking into her soul. He’d noticed the remnants of the bruises on her face, despite her carefully applied makeup. He’d let it go last time, but curiosity or even concern would win over at seeing her bruised up again.
However, when Quinn got closer, she realized that Noah had his own set of fading bruises around one of his eyes. And for some reason, that eased her worry. When Noah leaned over and kissed her cheek, Quinn smelled his clean soap smell, a jolt of arousal warming her.
“Aren’t we two peas in a pod,” Noah joked as he glanced at her bruises again. He waited for her to place her jacket on the back of her chair—something she felt okay doing for once—before they both sat down. “And I only joke because I’d bet the clothes off my back that whoever did that to you took a much bigger beating than you did.”
Quinn smiled, crossing her legs. “Of course.” She wanted to make a joke about his mentioning another bet, this one involving him removing his clothes, but she didn’t.
“No abusive boyfriend that I need to take care of?” he went on, his tone not entirely joking now.
She scoffed. “Any guy who hits me is asking to have his jaw broken and his sack shoved so far up into his body that it would take months to drop again.”
Noah grinned at that. “I knew there was something I liked about you.”
Quinn sipped her water, feeling it cool her down. “What about you, Midtown? No pretty Uptown girlfriend with a penchant for BDSM?”
He shook his head. “Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer fucking to be pleasurable. For everybody involved.”
A tingle ran through her, and they were silent for a moment as Noah’s dark eyes met hers.
The discussion of facial bruises went no further, and they moved on to other topics.
A server arrived, a bottle in his hand. Quinn watched in fascination as he opened it and poured a splash of garnet liquid into Noah’s glass for him to taste. After Noah offered his approval, the server filled their glasses with wine, the earthy, fruity, intense odor wafting up to her nose and making her mouth water.
Wine. The delicacy Quinn couldn’t afford. No one in Downtown could, and she never drank it, except for the rare times she bought a bottle for Daria during one of her funks. Indoor farming meant El Diablo could grow the basics locally, but wine had to be imported.
Quinn bit her lip. The bet had included a drink. It hadn’t included wine, and especially not dinner, and she was already going to be late on her rent payment as it was. She wondered if Noah was swindling her, but somehow that didn’t seem like him at all. In the end, she would pay for the wine—a bet was a bet—and for her own dinner. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be long before she could afford both anyway.
Noah raised his glass. “To pleasure.”
Quinn raised her glass and gently clinked it with his, then sipped.
Oh God.
It tasted like heaven.
“Like that, do you?”
Quinn felt her face redden. “How could I not?”
They sat at their two-top, talking about emerging technology and the politics of water rights, each occasionally glancing at the sunset and the beautiful bright glow it cast over the city. When dinner came—sizzling pork that the server then smothered in green chili—they ate and talked some more. About everything except work. Then Noah surprised her.
“You’re a Westgate native, aren’t you?” he said.
Quinn stared. “How could you possibly know that? I mean, it’s obvious I grew up Downtown, but… do you work for the city or something? And, no, I’m not trying to segue into boring work talk…”
Noah smiled. “I can usually tell where anyone comes from in this city, but especially Downtownies.”
“Why’s that?”
“I grew up there, too.”
Quinn’s jaw dropped. “Bullshit.”
“True story,” Noah said, sipping his wine. “But we left when I was eleven, after my dad got promoted and my mom paid off her education.”
“Which neighborhood?”
“Sunnyside.”
Quinn nodded. “A decent one for Downtown, even back then.”
She couldn’t believe it. Getting out of Downtown at a young age helped, but other than his occasional boldness, Noah showed no signs of having ever lived south of 30th Street. No tattoos, no low-class habits or speech, none of the fuck-you attitude that predominated down there. Although he did have the wizened, see-everything eyes that Downtownies often had.
“What’s your favorite Westgate memory?” Noah asked. “Something that inspired you and made you forget the tough parts…”
Quinn thought about that for a moment, then smiled. “I saw a butterfly once. Me and my friend, Daria. A Blue Banner.”
Noah’s eyebrows went up. “Really?”
“I swear. It was amazing. She was huge, and so bright blue, with tinges of purple that were iridescent. That was back when there were still a few bushes around.”
“Just the one sighting?”
Quinn’s smiled faded and her hand tightened around the stem of her glass. “No. There was a second time. Same place. But some thug saw us swooning over it and killed it.”
Noah stared at her. “You’re kidding me. Did you rack him?”
Quinn shook her head, removing her hand from the glass before she broke it. “I wish. I had no skills at that age. And he was older.”
That was the first in a series of bad memories involving Downtown guys and their thuggish bullshit. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the worst.
“I didn’t mean to drum up a bad memory,” Noah said, as if reading her mind.
Quinn forced a smile. “You didn’t. When you grow up Downtown, you have as many bad memories as good ones. You just have to choose which ones matter most.”
“Well said. And don’t worry… my guess is you’ll see one again. A Blue Banner, that is.”
“I doubt that. They’re extinct now, with the drought.”
Noah’s eyes glimmered. “Sounds like there’s a bet in there somewhere.”
Quinn laughed in surprise. “You want to bet me that I’ll see an extinct butterfly again? You, who loves to win?”
He nodded.
“You’re on, Midtown.”
He grinned at that.
“And what about you?” she said. “Favorite memory?”
Noah hesitated, then shook his head. “It’s silly.”
“No! Things that make you happy are never silly.”
The server came and cleared their plates away, and Noah wiped his mouth with his napkin and set it on the table. “The ice cream man. The one in the white truck, with the jingly music.”
“Leon!” Quinn cried.
Noah’s face lit up. “Big black guy? Always friendly?”
“Yes! That was Leon. He didn’t make it to Westgate that often, but I remember him. What was your favorite ice cream?”
“Ice cream sandwich. Chocolate chip.”
Quinn grinned at that, thinking about how much she missed ice cream now that it was too expensive.
They talked some more, this time about the changes El Diablo had faced, including increased corruption and poverty. Quinn completely lost track of time and all that was around her, when she was usually hyperaware of everything. At some point, she began to wonder about the very topic that she’d hoped to avoid. What Noah did for a living.
She knew he hadn’t acquired his bruises from some random attack any more than she had. He was too fit, too aware, and too confident to fall victim to a thug, who would pass him by in search of a more vulnerable target. Yet, he seemed too middle class to be a drug dealer or undergrounder, professions that involved the occasional scuffle, and bot
h had little to do with justice. Bodyguard for the wealthy? Prison warden? Cop? No. Those jobs yielded enough money to afford wine, but they didn’t grant you a table with a sunset view on a busy Friday night in Midtown. For that, you needed influence. Lawyer? Politico? Those professions didn’t yield bruises, nor a need for secrecy.
Then she had a new thought: could Noah be a Protectorate agent?
No. She’d have seen him or at least heard of him by now. Unless he was part of their special ops team… no one knew who those agents were, and the pay was the best the Protectorate offered…
Quinn pushed those thoughts aside. It didn’t matter. This was just a nice dinner, a preamble for another round of pounding the flesh before Noah found himself a woman who shared his station in life.
When the bill came, Quinn grabbed her credit card.
“I got this,” Noah said, shaking his head.
“The bet was that I owed you a drink.”
“Yeah, a drink. Not wine and dinner. I ended up scoring this table and didn’t want to waste it. You can buy me a drink some other time.”
Quinn hesitated. How could she say no to that? But she felt a little guilty. And he saw it.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “The company is more than worth the cost of some wine and good food.”
Quinn hesitated at the compliment, at how genuine it seemed. But how could it be? “You’re just trying to get me into the sack again,” she quipped.
“Is it working?”
Quinn laughed. “You really do like to win, don’t you?”
“Always.” He kept his eyes locked with hers. “Does that mean you’re coming over?”
She hesitated again, torn between not wanting to let him think he could always get his way with her… and wanting him to have it.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m coming over.”
Chapter 16
Quinn struggled under the weight of a much heavier man. She scrambled to get him off her, barely able to catch her breath as panicky feelings began to rise. She elbowed him in the gut; but other than a grunt, it didn’t faze him.
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