With my hair turbaned in a towel, I pop three almonds into my mouth and get the rest of the makeup off. I debate whether to put any on for the after-party. My skin is clear and rosy from exertion and the scrubbing; I decide to re-apply mascara and leave it at that.
Twisting my wet hair up in a messy topknot, I then secure the towel around my body and walk to the scale where I weigh in. Satisfied, I tell my Silverbook to play Lindsey Stirling and then walk to the large picture on the wall. Tilting it up with one hand, I open the safe with the other, and once it clicks, I reach in and pull out the latest score. This bracelet should bring in several thousand, easy. I run my fingers over the smooth stones and nearly lift it to my wrist to try it on. They’d all been so enamored with the End Man, it had been an easy steal. My fingers barely flicked at the clasp before it dropped off her wrist. I wonder how long it took her to notice it was gone. I tuck it in my clutch, a faint smile on my face, and finish getting ready for the party.
Part of our duties with the company require us to attend the after-parties.
The taxi lets me off in front of the hotel lobby, and I take my time walking to the ballroom, plucking a glass of champagne off the tray of a waiter who passes. It’ll have to do until I can get to a little more vodka; I need one glass each night to dull the pain.
Mrs. Fiore stops me, her hand on my arm. I smile through my dislike, trying not to look at her belly, which is swollen gracefully beneath her dress. I once heard her telling a friend that she struggled to decide between a six or seven-month swell; she wanted to look ripe, but not too ripe. Since the dawn of time, women have made a trend of strange fashion statements. Japanese women dyed their teeth black in a tradition known as ohaguro, and in medieval England, they plucked their hairlines to make them appear as if they were receding. In my time, women disfigure their bodies to look pregnant.
It’s tragic really, that we can go to all of this trouble to appear pregnant, and yet, there is still something miraculous needed to actually produce a viable pregnancy. There’s more to it than an egg cell and sperm cell combining and fertilizing or we wouldn’t be having trouble keeping the Regions populated. But, by all means, let’s look fertile!
“Lovely performance tonight, Phoenix,” she says, resting a hand on her belly.
“Thank you. How is Leon?”
“Ah, he’s well. Painting his way to the top, he tells me. I can barely pull him from the studio.”
Mrs. Fiore’s husband was born in the Black Region as Leona Fiore. She was going to inherit her family's oil business until she decided she wanted a sex change. With the Black’s new ban on sex change, Leona gave up her right to the family business and escaped to the Blue to become Leon...and a painter.
“Excuse me, I see someone I very much need to say hello to. Have a wonderful night, Mrs. Fiore.”
There is no one, of course, but I move through the crowd quickly, trying to appear as if I am on a mission. I see the same bag of wind who tries to feel me up at each party and skirt to the left, diverting her. She’s old enough to be my mother and then some. These motherfuckers think if they throw enough money at us we’ll bend. I only bend for the stage.
Lex and Bellange round the corner in front of me and I inwardly groan. It’s too late to go in the other direction. They’ve already seen me. I dated Lex for a while after he completed his change, but it got too complicated dancing for the same company. He wanted to get serious; I didn’t. We’re still close, but now that he’s sleeping with Bellange, it’s harder to be around him.
Her grip tightens on Lex’s arm when they get closer. It takes all of my willpower to grit my teeth and not bare them.
“Lex, Bellange,” I greet them first. High road, yada yada.
Lex’s eyes roam over my face and go down, getting stuck on my breasts before meeting my eyes again. I give the two of them three weeks, a month, max, before he moves on.
“Your dress is cute,” Bellange says. “Is that last year’s Vega?”
She tries for a double put-down, as if wearing anything “cute” or last season is the worst.
I frown. “I’d never shop Vega. Their warehouse practices are despicable. Basically, a sweatshop being run right out of the lower end.”
Her mouth opens and closes, momentarily shut down. She perks up when she sees my glass. “Are you really drinking champagne? You’ll be so puffy tomorrow.” She shakes her head and puckers her lips.
“One glass won’t hurt,” Lex says, smiling at me.
I smirk at Bellange and she huffs, pulling on Lex’s arm. I lift my glass to them both and walk away.
“She’s such a bitch,” I hear her say. I don’t stick around to hear Lex’s response.
“Hello, little thief,” I hear behind me.
A tiny jolt surges through my body, heartbeat pulsing in my head. A hand on my arm stops me and I twist around, coming flush with Jackal Emerson. He lifts my chin up to meet his eyes and it looks like he’s studying them. He laughs and I glare at him.
“What are you doing? Let go of me,” I snap.
“I know that voice,” he purrs softly. “But it’s your eyes that give you away.” He gradually drops his hand.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I back up.
He shakes his head, his white teeth mocking me. I want to knock that smile right off of his face.
“So why do you do it?” he asks. “A little rich girl like you pickpocketing like a common thief.”
He steps forward again, and I’m enveloped in the scent of cloves. I’d like it if it weren’t coming from him.
“Not even a good thief,” he tuts. “Since I caught you sticky-handed.”
I grind my teeth, infuriated. That was a fluke; I’ve never been caught. It would be a champagne-drunk peacock who happens to look up at the wrong moment. And how does he even remember anything from last night? He was completely toasted.
“Like I said, you have the wrong person.” I make to turn away, but his voice pulls me back.
“Those aquamarine eyes. Saw you on a billboard this morning—actually—saw you on five billboards this morning, and I just knew. The brown you wore last night really made them pop. Same with the beautiful shade of your skin now. You know, you should really consider changing your eye color for your life of crime.”
I look around the room, suddenly desperate to spot someone I know and get away from him. Who knew the End Men were so sinister? Like I didn’t have enough eyes always watching me, waiting for me to slip up.
“Enjoy the party.” I move to walk away and suddenly feel the warmth of a very large hand on my arm.
“Have a drink with me,” he says.
I shake my head. “You’re shitting me, right? You accuse me of theft, insult me, and then ask me to have a drink with you? What type of crazy pellets do they feed you over there on Man Island?”
“If it weren’t true, you wouldn’t feel insulted.” He smirks.
I press my lips together. “You’re an insufferable asshole.”
“I’ve been called worse.” His grin widens, like a Cheshire fucking cat.
I’m acutely aware of how his eyes rove over me.
He bends down and whispers in my ear. “You know what’s missing with your outfit? A bracelet with pretty red stones…”
I glare at him, searching his face. What the fuck is he even getting at?
“You see the woman the governor is talking to?”
I follow the direction of his eyes and find Sean in a heated discussion with a stern-faced blond.
“That’s Lourdes Marques, our attorney general.”
He waves away my comment, not seeming to care about her career choice.
“Yes, yes, but look at her wrist.”
I jerk back. On a normal day, I’d never target someone like Lourdes. The stakes are too high. I steal from housewives and socialites, easy and unsuspecting targets. They stink of entitlement, too busy to notice when their bangles go missing. I spot the heavy gold ornament on Lourdes’
wrist encrusted with tiny rubies. I’ve seen her wear it before.
“What about it?”
Jackal licks his lips. “If you can steal it from her, I won’t tell anyone what I saw at the ball.”
“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”
Jackal shrugs. “It’s like the pot calling the kettle black.” His tone is bored. Every year a new End Man parades through our Region. I’ve had words with a few of them when they’ve come to the ballet. I’ve mostly found them polite in an aloof way. I’ve met the famed Folsom once or twice. He complimented my grand jeté—a complete gentleman.
I glare at Jackal and glance at Sean, grinding my teeth. He has no proof. I’m fairly certain that no one else at the ball saw me. I even wore that dumb deer mask that covered half my face. He’s bluffing, I tell myself. But even if he is, he could still cause a lot of trouble for me.
“Not too big of a job, is it?” he presses. His eyebrows are drawn together in mock concern. He’s baiting me, the bastard.
“I’m the most beloved ballerina in all the Regions,” I sing quietly. “No one would believe you.”
“It would be interesting to see what people are willing to believe…”
I stare at his lips full of mischief. They move in unison with his eyes; there’s a collaboration of seduction between the two of them. I can’t believe women find this tool charming.
“Ruining someone’s life for the thrill of it. History tells us that men are assholes; I suppose I should have believed it.”
I give him my sweetest smile before moving away. I don’t look back, but I can feel him watching me. His approach is predatory, a caged animal trying to catch something between his teeth. The truth is, he’s scared me. I don’t know what he’s capable of and I don’t want to find out. If I were caught, there would be drastic consequences. I try to feign indifference, moving around the room making small talk, keeping a wide berth from the End Man, and pretending my mind isn’t replaying what he said.
My required hour is up. I breathe a sigh of relief. I can take my leave, my excuse being the early hours I keep for my dancing schedule. I walk past the governor and squeeze his arm in greeting. He glances back at me and winks. Sean’s handsomeness is an exact science: broad shoulders, warm brown eyes, and sensual lips. He keeps a beard—which I like—and dresses conservatively—which I don’t like. Before the governor was Sean, he was Kasey. Our mothers were good friends.
He’s still talking to Lourdes, who lifts a hand in greeting when she sees me, not breaking her tirade. I catch a few words of what she says—Society…rebels…the initiative. They’re interrupted by a tray of drinks and she takes one without looking to see what it is. Lourdes drinks too much, mostly behind closed doors, but she can’t resist at a party. There’s a little bump, some champagne on her dress, her cry of shock. Everyone rushes forward with napkins to soak it up and I take that moment to slip away. I head for the door, a small smile on my face. I take the long way so I have to pass by Jackal. I meet his eyes this time, holding onto them as a whoosh of adrenaline courses through me. I walk right past him, no one noticing the slight reach of my arm as I drop something into his pocket. There’s a slight widening of his eyes as I wink and move past. Heat, I feel his heat. And then I’m outside, the air lukewarm on my bare shoulders. I laugh even as I run down the stairs.
THREE
JACKAL
The chevrotain is an animal that looks like a tiny deer with fangs.
The way she looks at me...I haven’t been eyed like that since Ashton Trent’s Rottweiler chased me naked through her house and almost ripped off my balls. Phoenix’s hostility turns me on—call me a masochist, but I like a challenge. I thought it was over; she walked away and that was the last of it, but then I see a commotion where the governor is standing with Lourdes. A few moments later, Phoenix breezes right by me, the curve of her lips triumphant. I stare after her as she makes her way to the door, the graceful dip between her shoulder blades moving sensually. There’s a barely noticeable weight in my right pocket. I reach in casually and my fingers touch cold metal studded with hard round objects that can only be rubies. I find Lourdes in the crowd and see that her wrist is bare, the bracelet gone. There are a dozen women around me, but I start laughing.
I excuse myself and go outside, hoping I’m not too late to catch her leaving. A few people are milling around outside, and a lone guy stands a few feet away from my car. It’s a good thing Selfish is still inside. She’d have him arrested just for looking dirty near something of mine—all about appearances, that one.
He shifts and the streetlight shines on his face, just enough that I make out that it’s the man from the night before. I motion for him to follow me and step into the shadows of the alley behind the hotel.
“Where did you get that cap?”
He doesn’t respond and I step closer, towering over him.
“Do you know where Folsom is?”
He shifts side to side and peers around me cautiously. “He needs your help,” he says.
“Did he send you? Where is he?”
Since his little jailbreak out of the Red Region, none of us have heard anything. The Society had been quick to send their muscle to question us, but we all played dumb. I suspect Kasper knows more than he is saying, but in times like these, it’s difficult to ask questions without being overheard.
“He’s safe,” he says. “He needs your help finding Gwen.”
“Gwen?” I scratch the back of my head, frowning. “Gwen is in prison.”
Despite my indifferent demeanor, my gut clenches when I say her name. Gwen has been the voice that started the rebellion, what some people are now calling the Revolution. It is because of her that Folsom got out of the Red Region after the Society almost killed him. In the mess of a rescue mission, there had been shots fired, killing his firstborn son, Laticus, who was next to be initiated into the End Men. Gwen sacrificed herself for her sister, giving up her seat on the helicopter and thus being taken into the Region’s custody. I’ve wondered if she’s even still alive.
“She’s not in the Red Region’s penitentiaries. We’ve checked. We have people on the inside. Folsom needs your help finding out where she is. Word out there is she might be in Admax, which would be virtually impossible—”
“How the fuck would I find out? I’m not even sure where Folsom is. I haven’t heard from him all this time. Who are you working with?” I ask.
He backs off and looks like he’s about to scurry away, but I grab his arm and look behind me. Selfish is standing at the end of the alley, watching us. I let go of the guy’s arm and he runs the other direction. I wouldn’t wish Selfish on anyone. I walk toward her, heart heavy.
“Everyone’s waiting on you,” she says, hands on her hips. “Time for the toast. What were you doing out here with that vagrant?”
“He’s my drug supplier. I was scoring some excellent coke. Would you like some?”
We turn the corner and Selfish takes my arm. “Everything you do is my business, Jackal,” she says before we walk inside. “Smile.” She smooths down my hair and I feel like a trained monkey.
I turn on the smile and act interested in the many conversations I’m forced to listen to, all the while thinking about how to get information on Gwen. Later, as I’m with two women who look so similar I can’t keep them straight, I’m balls deep and trying to speed things along. They want to take their time, one of them looking in the mirror at herself riding me, while the other tries to sit on my face. I’m not in the mood for that...too much on my mind. The pretty little thief is niggling my thoughts and this business with Folsom and Gwen... I have to get out of here.
Normally, I’m game for whatever is expected of me. It’s my job, I aim to please. I pull the girl off of my face and finger her instead, and when I finish in the other girl, I point at the one who just came from my fingers.
“You two finish up the party.” I smile apologetically. “I’ve gotta go.”
“But, Jac
kal,” the one pouts.
I don’t doubt she wants my cock, but it’s really all about a potential chance at pregnancy going down the drain.
“Not tonight,” I tell her and get out of there before some other desperate woman can corner me.
There aren’t many places in the upper end where you can get useful information. The Regions, once America, are divided into two classes: the filthy rich and the desperately poor. Desperate for food, desperate for resources—not desperate for information. They’ve learned how to talk to each other, while the other end has learned to stay quiet. Tell me who’s free and who’s not? The wealthy, as I’ve come to understand them, prefer to wear rose-colored glasses, believing everything they’re told. Third-generation narcissists don’t want to admit the world has gone to shit due to their lack of empathy. One class is bound by their greed, the other by the law. Some of the End Men like it that way, some of us like the dirty truth. I belong to anything that has the word dirty in it.
I ask my driver, Yvonne, to take me to the lower Blue. We leave the city at dusk and head east along the river. Blue reminds me of Cruella De Vil; a colorfully dressed-up bitch. We have art! it says. We make old things live! But at what expense? The Blue only pays for the most popular End Men. They need us to make enough money to sustain their beautiful illusion. Foley spent five tours here. There are probably more little Foley bastards running around here than any other Region. A steel-hearted city wrapped in silk and fur.
The city drains of color as we drive, graphite and neons fading to an indistinguishable wash of brown. The billboards that once advertised the End Men have been vandalized, sprayed over with the words BABY KILLERS. There are posters of Laticus’ face everywhere, tagged with the word: Remember. I bow my head when I see those. I’d been the one to tell his mother where he was after the Red Region and the Statehead seized him from his home in the Black and took him to the Genome Y lab. It was a complete coincidence that Folsom, who had fathered the boy, was also there recovering from a heart attack. I pass a long stretch of graffiti where people have tagged Blue rebels and the line Free the Men is everywhere. Gwen’s name is there too with Free the truth teller! You can’t keep us quiet. Gwen, a little rich girl from the upper Red incited a rebellion and because of that they took her baby and imprisoned her. Gwen Allison became a household name, and not because she did something, it was because she said something—something no one else was willing to say. The fact that a privileged woman said it had incited the lower end to cry out. One voice, where it mattered, could change the course of history. For Gwen, it had destroyed her life.
Jackal (The End of Men Book 2) Page 2