by Lola Dodge
Quan paused in the alcove, so I didn’t have to go running after him. Instead, I stayed and smiled until my face felt plasticized and there were enough photos of me to populate an issue of Us Weekly.
“Are you okay?” I grabbed Quan by the sleeve and tugged him into the lobby where we’d be well out of camera range.
“Fine.” He pulled his sunglasses from his pocket and set them in place. “Too bright.”
I could agree with that. I was still blinking away camera flashes, and all I had were normal human eyes. “Shall we?”
Quan nodded, and we took a silent elevator ride up to the reception floor. As the doors opened, I had to wonder if the caterer was willing to work bicoastal—the floor had been cleared out, making space for standing tables decked in silver and white linens. Votives and white roses packed the centerpiece displays, and an impressive spread of L.A. fusion foods weighed down the buffet table. The wait staff zipped around in crisp uniforms, passing out champagne and sushi and nibbles wrapped in bacon.
I couldn’t see a single flaw in the operation.
Quan had spotted the buffet, and I waved him off. “Go get something while I mingle. Just stay in my sight, okay?” I didn’t think he’d run at this juncture, but after that reaction downstairs, I couldn’t guess what he’d do next.
“Sure.” He headed toward the table, and the crowd parted in front of him.
Wish I could do that.
Trying to decide the best place to start the evening, I scanned the pockets of conversation. And there was Pix, wearing a duct tape dress, Converse and a scowl, tucked into a corner with a glass of what was probably straight whiskey. Even wearing her sourpuss, she made me smile.
I leaned against the wall at her side. “You’re awful fancy tonight, Pix.”
She took a swig of whiskey before shooting a dark glare. “You know if you were anyone else, I’d tell you to fuck off, right?”
“I know. But you really do look nice.”
“I hate that I can’t be mad at you.” She took another swig, fingers delicate on the glass to keep it from shattering. “Fucking Brainboy over there said he’d dock my salary if I didn’t dress the part. I’m planning to get so plastered that he has to kick me out.”
“Want to try my plan?” I noted where Rich was positioned, and then waved a server over to grab a glass of champagne. I’d have to make my way toward him as the night went on.
“Probably not.”
“Try mingling. Some of these people actually want to meet you.”
“If you say so.” Pixie finally gave me a head-on look, making a throaty cat noise in response. “Someone looks sexy. You all dressed up for that bodyguard of yours?”
They way Pix said it left no doubt what she thought Quan was guarding. I tsked. “Of course not. It’s a cocktail event, I wore a cocktail dress.”
“Oh no no.” She thwacked her glass on the table with a mischievous grin. “You told me yourself at the winter formal—what was it—a girl only dresses like that when she’s trying to impress someone.”
I point at Shelley Mason in her slinky white gown as she sidles up to Ruin. “A girl only dresses like that to impress someone.”
Apparently Pixie was the memory keeper now. “That was college. This is a formal business event.” The dynamics were totally different, and I’d packed the dress long before Quan popped out of the jungle.
“The bodyguard isn’t looking at you like it’s a business event.”
As I sipped champagne, I peered through the crowd. Quan stood in the shadows, but his gaze connected with mine.
Like magnets.
I couldn’t read that dark expression, but nothing about it was mischief. More like, I was a meal he was seriously considering. Not violent, but no less deadly serious.
Madre María. I downed my champagne for an excuse to break the connection, but that gaze was burned into me now and I couldn’t pretend anymore. Quan was feeling the same lust I was.
Later, I’d have to deal with it. Somehow.
For now, I wasn’t above changing the subject. “Speaking of business, I wanted to ask you—how have things been at the Pack?” I smoothed my skirt, attempting to cool myself down. Thankfully, Pixie didn’t fight the change in conversation.
Pixie shrugged, shifting her duct-taped straps. “Same old. The heroes are a pack of crazies and the Brainboy is a slave-driver.”
“Has anything unusual happened? Any suspicious staff members?”
She shot me a sidelong glance. “I’m in the field most days, so I’m not the best one to ask. Is this a hush-hush M10 thing?”
“Kind of.” I trusted Pixie almost more than anyone else, but she didn’t need to be involved, and she was right—she wasn’t the best one to ask. Worth a shot, though. “Nothing to worry you over.”
“But you’d tell me if you were in trouble.” She gave me a clear, blue-eyed gaze. It was the same look I’d been getting since I was eighteen—Pix’s rare but sincere serious face.
“Of course I would.”
“Good.” She picked up her empty glass. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must mingle with the bartender. Feel free to join me when you’re done being a grown-up.”
She slipped into the crowd and I went to work, picking through the groups of people clutching their plates of hors d’oeuvres. I spread my greetings around, making sure to say hello to the other crew reps and always keeping Rich and Quan in my sight. Rich was easier to keep tabs on, always at the center of a laughing group.
Quan slipped between shadows, but hovered at the corner of my eye. When my face ached from false smiles and small talk, I moved to Quan’s side. “Everything okay?”
He scanned the crowd, his orangey eyes grim. “I wouldn’t trust these people.”
“I don’t.” Not really. They deserved professional courtesy, but other than those here representing their crews, most were of the rich L.A. crowd who’d probably made donations to the Pack for the chance to elbow with heroes. “I’m going to try to get a minute with Rich. Stay close?”
“I can do that.” Quan didn’t meet my eyes—instead his watchful gaze kept scanning.
As I pushed into the crowd, I could sense him somewhere behind me.
Quan’s hand brushes my shoulder, a flash of heat in the blaze of camera flashes—
I straightened my hair to compose myself. Memories of Quan were going to haunt me forever. And I’d been getting more of him than anything else lately. Worrisome.
But…
If I were being honest?
There were worse things to remember.
Business. For now, I had more pressing things to worry about.
I slipped into the circle of conversation around Rich. “Lovely party, Rich. You’ll have to give me the name of your caterer.” He didn’t get the chance to respond.
“You’re Angel, aren’t you?” A bleach blonde dripping in gold and diamonds looked me up and down. “Why didn’t Steel come with you?”
I gave a mental eye roll, but put a smile on my face. “Unfortunately, he’s working a case at the moment. He’ll be back in town in a few weeks to shoot his new movie.”
She pursed pouty lips. “He told me he’d call.”
You and a hundred other girls, darling. Steel was a sweet guy, and surprisingly great on a case, but in some ways he was still a frat boy. “I can tell him you were asking, Miss—?”
“Danica Vreeland.” She twirled a curl around her finger. “Tell him to call soon.” I recognized the name. Another one of his heiress fans.
“Should we pop in to my office?” Rich asked. “I can give you the caterer’s card.”
“Of course.” I gave the rest of the circle a smile. “Sorry to steal him away.” We were walking before any of the other heiresses could ask about my heroes. Jet and Thunder’s fan clubs were almost as big as Steel’s.
When Rich and I popped into the elevator, we both sagged against the wall. He lifted his glasses and rubbed his forehead. “If I get one more request for a hero’s phone number…”
“You’d think we were running a dating service.” A low headache pulsed in my temples. It wasn’t my event, but I could sense the waves of stress from Rich now that we were alone.
“These heroes.” Rich shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder why I keep doing it.”
“I’ve had a few of those days.” Although the rewards were fairly worthwhile. Most of the time, the positives outweighed the trials, but when everything went wrong at once it felt like folding origami in a hurricane.
Rich flicked the lights to a scene that looked much like our office in New York, filled with rows of low desks and fluorescent lighting. Although, odd to see it empty. I supposed everyone had the night off for the cocktail party.
His private office featured a long-windowed view over Hollywood. He moved behind his desk, which was packed with manila folders where mine was jammed with monitors. “Do you really want the caterer’s card, or was that an excuse?”
“I actually do.” Might as well multitask.
Rich plucked it from an actual Rolodex and handed it to me. I scanned the name and number. “Thanks, that will work. You can keep your copy.”
He gave a rueful chuckle as he refiled the card. “Wish I could do that trick.”
“You’ve got the rapid math on me.” I’d heard enough about his talents to know that I preferred them to my memory tricks.
“I suppose.” Rich leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head. “And do you actually want to talk about the internships? Because that one also had the air of an excuse.”
I must not have hid my intentions as well as I’d thought. I should’ve known how hard it was to lie to other brain-powers. Still, I couldn’t reveal everything—this had to be very carefully worded. “We’ve had a few incidents with corrupt employees in New York, and I’m wondering if you’ve had any similar problems.”
He didn’t smile, but his blue eyes lit up. As expected, Rich was pleased to hear of trouble at the Ten. “I didn’t see that one in the press.”
“And we’d like to keep it that way.” I leaned forward, fixing him with my most guileless gaze. “I’m just trying to tie up loose ends. We had indication that there was a connection to someone at the Pack.”
“We had to talk to one of the interns about stealing pens, but other than that? The heroes are our main source of drama around here.”
“What about the disappearance last year?” I’d reviewed the case. Devadutt Atal had been interning with the Pack when he suddenly stopped attending classes at UCLA and the situation was doubly suspicious considering his family were prominent seers. He should’ve been found months ago.
“The investigation hasn’t found any signs of foul play. Most likely he—” A knock interrupted Rich’s train of thought. “Yes?”
Rich’s secretary popped her head in. I’d spoken to her earlier—twenty-five, dating an aspiring actor, into crocheting amigurumi. “So sorry to interrupt. Pixie’s making a scene again.”
Rich tipped his head back, closing his eyes. “Did you tell her to stop?”
“I tried, but she’s had a few too many.”
Your plan’s working, Pix. She was about to get thrown out and give me exactly the opportunity I needed.
Rich gave me a speculative eye. “Can you reason with her?”
“Sorry. She listens to my advice, but not my orders.” Even if I wasn’t a guest, and taking a night off hero cleanup duty, I was on Pix’s side. Forcing her to attend a party and wear a dress? He’d tempted his own fate, there. “Can I wait for you here?”
He sighed. “Give me five minutes.”
As soon as he was out the door, I was on the other side of the desk, clicking around to find whatever management systems the Pack used.
“That’s not your computer.”
So close, the voice made me jump. Quan stood shadowed in the doorway.
“Please don’t sneak like that.” I let out a shaky breath. For one reason or another, my heart couldn’t take it.
Quan slunk into the office, moving soundlessly as the cat he was. I clicked through applications and file folders, looking for a source of data—payment records, work orders or any kind of paper trail that could point to foul play inside the Pack. Rich had been nice enough to leave himself logged in to most of his programs.
“Let me know when Rich is on the way?” I could feel Quan’s heat at my back, and it was more than distracting. I squinted at the screen to avoid flashing back to my growing stash of Quan-related memories.
“Sure.” Instead of retreating to the doorway, Quan leaned in closer. So close, his breath stirred my hair.
“From over there?” I gestured toward the door. I needed more distance between us. Not less.
“It doesn’t make a difference.” Quan’s voice sounded so near he might as well be resting his chin on my shoulder. Lord forbid.
“It makes a difference to me.” I couldn’t possibly focus like this. The monitor faded to a white glow and all I could process was the even sound of Quan’s breath.
“But I need to stay close.”
Not this close. I turned, fully prepared to tell him off, but Quan’s face was centimeters from mine. The intensity in his orange eyes forced me back until I butted the desktop. My knees trembled at the unsaid thoughts in that gaze. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Can’t I?” Quan didn’t move a muscle.
“You shouldn’t.” I gripped the edge of the desk. What did he hope to get out of this? And why aren’t I pushing him away? I was the one who’d be stuck with the memories, long after Quan disappeared.
Slowly, Quan leaned in, bracing his arms on either side of me. Holding me captive underneath his steady stare.
I swallowed and my traitorous heart thumped. Too late to run.
“You like this.”
“I…” His body heat. His scent. For once, not a single memory bubbled to the surface. The present had me transfixed.
Quan’s cheek brushed mine as he leaned in, jolting my skin. “I like this.” His breathy whisper lingered in my ear. “Would you hate being mine?”
“That’s… I…” The words stuck in my throat.
Being his?
Impossible.
I couldn’t belong to anyone. But that wasn’t Quan’s question. Would I hate it?
No. Not at all. But not now, and not so suddenly. “I barely know you, Quan.”
“Not yet.” As Quan pulled back, he tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “But you will.”
As he sauntered to the door, my lungs restarted. Who would have thought I could forget how to breathe?
I inhaled and exhaled, but the ghost of Quan’s touch lingered.
Focus. I could relive the moment later. Right now, every second in Rich’s office was a precious chance to work.
Quan’s arms surrounding me. Cheek to cheek. His hot breath in my ear—
No. No. And no.
We were past the point where I could deny my attraction, but I refused to be a slave to it.
Instead of fantasizing, I bent back to the mouse and started clicking through, but nothing jumped out in Rich’s records. All the typical bills were comparable to ours at the Ten’s tower, and the only things worth noting were the odd items expensed by the Pack’s heroes.
A David Bowie ice sculpture? Six one-hundred-pound pallets of New Zealand butter? It was ridiculous enough to get my head back in the game.
What wer
e they thinking?
Everything else was frustratingly normal. I clicked over to Rich’s browser, looking for a link to the Pack’s intranet and a password box popped up. Time was running out. As I glanced up at Quan, my gaze skimmed the Post-Its that peppered the monitors. Quotes and formulas from famous mathematicians were scrawled over the faded yellow squares, each with a year written underneath. Only…
Fibonacci wasn’t alive in 1304.
For once, I didn’t curse my memory. Instead, I entered the numbers clockwise.
Bingo.
I was in.
I wanted more records, but a message window popped up:
GUEST: Is the arrangement still on?
A queasy feeling spread through my stomach. “Quan? What made you think Rich was up to something?”
Quan turned away from the hall. “He reeked of lies.”
“What exactly does that mean?” Another window popped up.
GUEST: I can see you online. Are we going through with this?
Did I type away? It seemed impossible that Rich was the culprit, and responding to this would be another unethical leap.
“It’s like…” Quan rubbed his scalp. “He’s spent so much time telling lies that his own scent is gone. Whatever he says or does, it’s this bland smell—always even. He wouldn’t get like that unless he was into some dirty business.”
Scents weren’t my area of expertise, but Quan obviously knew what he was talking about. My fingers hesitated over the keyboard. Might as well take a wild stab. I typed and jabbed the Enter key before I thought better of this little intrigue.
CARDRICH: What would Dan think of this?
My pulse thumped as a typing bubble appeared. Quan stalked over, picking up on my tension.
GUEST: Danny’s fucking dead.
GUEST: And that’s history. Are we on?
“Madre de Dios.” I pressed my shaking hands to my chest. Daniel Michelski was the man Ivory had killed in the middle of a flight to Los Angeles—the one we’d suspected was coming to town to meet a contact involved in anti-super activities.
“What’s the deal?” Quan leaned toward the monitor, trying to see what I saw.
“Rich.” I could barely process it. It would be like me selling out the Ten—or other super heroes. Why? I kept searching for a reason, for some piece of history that could explain this away, but I came up empty. “He’s the one involved with the anti-supers.”