by D L Young
“If you like me so much,” he said, his voice cracking, “you sure got a weird way of showing it.”
Blayze couldn’t help but chuckle. In truth, she did like Tommy. And that would make this all the more fun.
“Mine’s not what you’d call a conventional kind of affection,” she said. With the wand’s safety still on, she ran the hot end slowly down the front of Tommy’s shirt, stopping at his crotch for a long moment. The kid’s breath came in small little gasps, like he expected a shock to come any second. It was hot. So fucking hot. The tingling, the wetness between her legs was delicious.
Blayze took in a deep, cleansing breath. She couldn’t let herself get carried away. Couldn’t lose herself so much in the moment that she forgot the endgame, the whole reason she was doing this. She backed away from him, collecting herself.
“I know he sent you here,” she said. “And I know all this business about switching crews is a cover story. Don’t bother denying it.”
“I told you, I haven’t seen him or talked—”
She strode forward, tagging him on the belly with the wand. A loud snap and a sparking burst came from the wand’s tip. The kid yelped and squirmed.
“Didn’t I say don’t bother denying it?” she scolded.
“Jesus!” the kid cried. “That hurt!”
She tossed the wand onto the chair. From the same black case she removed a pair of dressmaker’s shears.
“What are those for?” the kid blurted.
“This doesn’t have to hurt, you know,” she said, turning again toward him.
“What are you going—”
“Can I tell you something, Tommy? Can I make a confession?” She took a step closer, holding the shears at her side. “I call a lot of the shots on Dez’s crew. Who he hires, who he fires. Lots of other things too.”
The kid’s eyes didn’t move from the blades in her hand.
“Tommy,” she said softly, moving closer still. “Let’s forget why you came here, all right? Let’s just drop all that. Let’s talk about the future. Your future.” She smiled. “Our future.”
She lifted the shears. The kid trembled visibly. Her face was nearly touching his. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head to one side. It took a tremendous act of self-control to keep her from thrusting her hand down the front of her pants. The little bitch thought she was going to cut him, slice him up.
Snip. His eyes still closed, Tommy recoiled at the sound and let out a small whimper.
Snip, snip. He was still stiff as a board, but now he seemed to be figuring it out. She wasn’t cutting him.
She was cutting his clothes off.
He opened his eyes, looked down at the shirt being cut off of his torso with the precision of an emergency room technician. Piece by piece it fell to the floor. As did his pants a few moments later. He watched as she took his clothes away, saying nothing. The little bitch couldn’t believe what was happening. Blayze’s underwear was a soaking mess.
She removed his shoes and socks last, leaving him naked. His body was pale and skinny and not much to look at, but he’d been blessed with a disproportionately large, perfectly symmetrical cock. She dropped the shears. They landed with a dull thud against the hardwood floor.
“Look at me,” she said. He lifted his gaze from the floor to meet her eyes. “I think we could be friends,” she said, unbuttoning her shirt. “Really good friends.”
She undressed slowly. He watched her with an expression that was fearful and nervous, yet somehow still teeming with carnal lust. The anticipation, the kid’s confused mixture of desire and distress were like some narcotic. If she could only freeze this moment, this feeling.
She pressed her body against his and he let out a shuddering breath. Her nipples pressed into his chest, she squeezed his upper arms as she placed her mouth next to his ear and whispered.
“Some people need guidance, Tommy. And that’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with it. I want us to be friends. I want to help you. I want to be here for you.”
“Blayze,” he said. “I…uh…I feel weird about this…”
He was bending. She could feel it. He’d break soon. She could feel that too. Feel it coming the way you knew an orgasm you were working your way toward was going to be a big one.
“It’s time for you to move up, Tommy,” she said. “You’ve earned it. You deserve it.”
She felt him getting aroused, felt him hardening against her belly. Reaching down, she took him into her hand. “Mmmm, that’s it.”
Lifting her leg, she positioned herself to take him inside her. He moaned as she slid down onto him.
“I’d never embarrass you in front of anyone,” she said in his ear, squeezing his arms as she ground into him. “Not like he did the other night. I want you to be with me, be on my crew, Tommy. I was us to be together.”
The kid grunted and thrust his hips into her. “I want that too, Blayze. I want to be with you.”
She kissed him, pressing her lips against his and shoving her tongue into his mouth. Feeling him wilt beneath her. Feeling him break. It was far more satisfying than any session she’d ever had with Dezmund.
But she couldn’t finish. Not yet. She still had work to do.
“There’s just one thing I need you to help me with, Tommy. One small thing.”
“Tell me,” he panted. “Tell me.”
She had him. Hook, line, and sinker, as the old expression went. He was utterly and totally under her spell. Finally, she let herself surrender to pleasure, nearly passing out from the shuddering climax that hit her in wave after luscious wave.
Whoever said you couldn’t mix business and pleasure had been a fool.
16 - Terrible at Goodbyes
Maddox and Beatrice sat in the Royal Belmond’s seventieth-floor hover platform, waiting for the airport limo. Next to Beatrice stood her only piece of luggage, a silver hard-shelled case, its handle extended. A light midday rain pattered against the curved glass overhang above their heads. Rivulets streamed down the sides in long streaks.
Both had on their specs, and both were busy subvocalizing commands. As Beatrice reviewed her job’s contract renewal, Maddox checked for messages from Tommy. Still no update. The kid had sent a couple messages, stills captured from his lenses that let Maddox know he’d arrived at New Fulton. But after that the kid had gone incommunicado, which was worrisome. A born chatterbox, it wasn’t like Tommy to go dark. They’d agreed to hourly check-ins, and the kid was nothing if not punctual. But for whatever reason—and Maddox couldn’t think of a single good one—Tommy hadn’t sent anything for the last three hours. No pics, no messages, nothing. The geotag on the kid’s specs showed he was inside the hiverise, the icon pulsing like a tiny beacon in the map overlaid onto Maddox’s lenses. But it hadn’t moved in hours, which meant either the kid hadn’t moved, or his specs were lying around somewhere and not on his face.
“What are you looking at?” Beatrice asked. She’d taken her specs off and was staring at Maddox.
He blinked away the map. “Just checking messages.”
“Anything from the kid?”
“No.”
Beatrice looked out from the platform. The City’s great canyons of steel and glass and concrete lay beyond. “You really think he’s all right? Or was that a line so I wouldn’t worry?”
“He’s fine,” Maddox said. “He’s not the reckless kid you remember.”
For a long moment neither spoke. Beyond the platform’s transparent enclosure, a thin trickle of luxury vehicles moved along the transit lanes, shuttling the highfloor wealthy back and forth, up and down. There were no advertisements this high up, no distractions to divert Maddox’s attention from the awkwardness between him and the woman sitting next to him. In a way it reminded him of how he’d felt when he’d visited his ex, Lora, seeing her for the first time after many months apart. The helpless sense of knowing you should say something, but unable to get any words out or even know exactly what words were the right ones. The
meat had limitations, as he often noted, and they weren’t always physical.
“So what are you going to do?” she asked.
“Haven’t really decided yet,” he said. Another lie. How many would have to tell her before she left?
“This showdown stuff between you and this Dezmund is bullshit, you know,” she said.
“It is what it is.”
“And that’s bullshit too.”
“Look, I didn’t start all this, but if I don’t hit back and end it, I’m done. He’ll keep coming after me.”
Beatrice sighed in resignation, turning her head away from him. “Good afternoon, Ms. Washington,” the vestibule said, using Beatrice’s alias, “your shuttle will arrive in less than two minutes.”
“You know what I hope, salaryman?” she asked, still looking away.
“What’s that?”
She didn’t answer right away. Standing up, she folded her arms and gazed out at the transit lane. “These mods I have don’t last forever. The ones that make me strong and fast and help me think quicker. You have to refresh them after a while, upgrade to the latest and greatest if you want to keep up with the competition. At some point, though, your body says it’s had enough. That’s the stuff they put in the fine print when you sign off for a procedure, the stuff they always leave out of the marketing. Very few mods are permanent. And for hired muscle like me, when your body doesn’t respond to mods the way it used to, or it even rejects them entirely, that’s when you know it’s time to get out of the business. But not everyone gets the message. When you’ve been kicking ass for twenty, thirty years, it’s a hard thing to accept that you can’t do it any longer. Your mind plays tricks on you, fools you into thinking you still have it. Like those sad boxers you see sometimes, years past their prime, convinced they can still get a title shot, refusing to accept they’ve lost a step or two. They have to get knocked out a few times before they finally figure it out. A lot of them never figure it out.”
She took a long breath, let it out slowly. “I hope I’m not like that, salaryman. When it’s time for me to get out of this business, I hope I can see it clearly.”
“So it’s my time to get out?” he asked. “That’s what you think?”
She turned and looked at him. “It only matters what you think. I might have an opinion, but giving it to you wouldn’t make a bit of difference. I know you better than that.”
The limo shuttle arrived, hovering next to the platform, then sliding over and connecting with a soft hiss-clank.
“I don’t think you’re a has-been, salaryman,” she said, “for the record. But in our world, not very many get to choose when they get out or how it happens. Maybe this is your chance to do that.”
“Maybe it is,” he found himself saying.
She reached for her luggage. “I’ve got a plane to catch. Take care of yourself, salaryman.”
“You too.”
There was no kiss, no embrace, only a look into one another’s eyes and a shared nod. Maddox wasn’t good at goodbyes. Neither of them was, it seemed.
Moments later she was gone, carried away by the limo. He stood on the platform watching the hover grow smaller, replaying her words in his head. He didn’t entirely disagree with what she’d said. At some point he’d have to get out, and the longer he waited to do it, the more he tempted fate. But not today, and not on someone else’s terms. Not if he could help it. And skipping the country to become a jobless houseboy in Canada wasn’t exactly going out on a high note.
She could have helped you, boyo.
Maybe.
Maybe nothing. She would have and you know it.
Maybe I didn’t want her help.
An incoming call chime interrupted the conversation in his head. Unknown caller, the feed said. Normally, he wouldn’t have answered, but it could have been Tommy calling from a different pair of specs.
He answered, but it wasn’t Tommy. It was an audio recording. And it was long. A quick scan told him it was a few hours in total. What in the world was this? Who had sent it? He fast-forwarded until he heard a voice he recognized.
“Holy shit,” he said under his breath. For the next few minutes he listened raptly, amazed at the recording’s contents. Then Tommy’s skull and crossbones icon blinked on his lens.
“Kid,” Maddox said, answering the call, “where the hell have you been?”
17 - Washington Square Parley
There were public places, and then there were public places. Washington Square Park was about as public as you could get. Covering ten acres in Lower Manhattan, the park, its central fountain, and its iconic marble arch at the northern entrance were instantly recognizable to first-time visitors to the City. The square had been featured in countless programs on the entertainment feeds. A green oasis of towering oaks and maples and thick shrubs, the park was one of the few spots in the City left unchanged by the passage of time. Some claimed it was one of the last remaining landmarks city bureaucrats still took civic pride in, unwilling to sell off any portion of it to real estate investors as they had with Central Park to the north, which had been reduced to half its original size, block by block, over the last century by public officials desperate to balance budgets or (more often) line their own pockets. Others said private benefactors maintained the square out of familial nostalgia, wealthy clans with long histories in the City whose forebears remembered a time before hiverises and megacities and hover traffic.
A fidgeting bundle of nerves, Tommy sat at the park’s western edge in the shade of a sycamore’s broad canopy. This section of the park was known as Chess Plaza, where matches were played on small tables with embedded chessboards. During the busy late-morning and afternoon hours, regulars occupied most of the tables, hustling tourists out of money with quick matches. Most ended in minutes, the locals besting even the most seasoned visiting players with bold, unconventional tactics. City chess was like the City itself. It was no place for the timid or the meek. It was aggressive, relentless, and it had no mercy for the innocent or the unprepared.
Four chairs surrounded the table, one of which was occupied by Tommy, two others by Dezmund and Blayze. The chair beside Tommy was empty as the trio waited for Maddox.
“He should have been here by now,” Blayze said, checking the time on her specs.
“He’ll be here,” Tommy assured her.
Maddox was already five minutes late, which worried Tommy. His mentor was notoriously punctual, usually arriving minutes early to appointments and meetings. Traffic, Tommy told himself. Maybe he’d been caught in traffic. He wouldn’t have bailed. Would he?
“There’s our man,” Dezmund said.
Tommy looked over. Maddox crossed the street at the corner of West Fourth and MacDougal, heading toward them. He blew out a breath of relief, though the knot in his stomach refused to untie itself. There was still a lot to be worried about. So many things could go wrong in the next few minutes.
With a nod to Tommy, Maddox sat, removed his specs, and laid them on the checkered tabletop. Tommy did the same, as did Dezmund and Blayze. The parley would be nakedfaced and unarchived, as agreed.
“You wanted to talk,” Maddox said, “so talk.”
“Good to see you too, old friend,” Dezmund said.
Blayze said nothing, staring at Maddox.
Tommy’s boss lit a cigarette, blew smoke, and returned the lighter to his pocket.
“We want a truce,” Dezmund said.
“A truce?” Maddox echoed.
“That’s right,” Dezmund said.
“A little late for that, don’t you think?” Maddox said. He nodded toward Blayze. “Why is she here? You taking her for ice cream after?”
“Screw you, jacker,” she growled.
“You know, Dez, I’ve got the strangest feeling you don’t have complete control of your shop.” Maddox lifted an eyebrow. “Should I be dealing with you or is little girlie here in the driver’s seat now?”
Damn, Tommy reflected. Maddox was sharp. An
d he was right on the money. The uncomfortable glance between Blayze and Dezmund all but confirmed the accusation.
Not that Tommy needed any confirmation, of course. Blayze had already proved to him, in a most convincing way, who was really running the show.
In hindsight, though, Tommy had had his suspicions during the training sessions for the BNO gig. He’d noticed how Dez treated Blayze differently than the others. To everyone else on the crew, he gave orders. To her, he offered suggestions. With others he was curt and blunt. With her he was polite, even respectful. And when she’d first approached Tommy about changing teams, there’d been something in her tone when she talked about the crew. It was like they worked for her, not for him.
Maddox drew on his cigarette. “All right,” he said. “I might be down for a truce. But only on one condition.”
“And what’s that?” Dezmund asked.
“You tell me what this is really all about.”
“You know what it’s about.”
“Come on, Dez,” Maddox scoffed, blowing smoke. “Trying to take me out over a few small deals? I’m not buying it. That’s not your style.” He nodded again at Blayze. “And I’m not buying that she talked you into it either.” He shifted his gaze back to his old colleague. “So what is it, Dez? Tell me.”
Dezmund and Blayze exchanged another uneasy look. Neither answered.
Maddox turned to Tommy. “Kid, did I ever tell you about how Dez and I used to play chess here?”
Tommy shook his head.
Tapping the inlaid chessboard, Maddox said, “Right here, every Friday at noon. Sometimes I’d get lucky and win, but most of the time he did. He was a good player. He’d think ahead ten, fifteen moves. He could beat most of the hustlers around here, too, which drove them crazy. And do you know how he did it?” He locked his gaze on Dezmund. “He did it by never taking risks unless he had to. He never brought his queen out early. Never gave up a single pawn unless it gave him something better in return. Every move, without exception, had a reason behind it. Every small tactic lined up with a bigger strategy. You could see it when the game was over, when he’d beaten you, how he’d played it. Solid, mistake-free moves.”