Beneath a Holo-Sky (Poison World Book 1)

by Lyn Forester

  “Ah, yes, please, it’s been a long night.” Newland straightens his cuffs and presses a wrinkle from his sleeve. “My residence is on Level 9 as well. I’m surprised this is the first time our paths have crossed.”

  “I’m not.” Drake removes the plastic seal from two of the glasses. “You own four clubs, right? Must keep you busy.” He pulls the stopper from the decanter and pours a healthy amount into each glass. “Reagen, honey, would you like some?”

  Over by the bookcase with her back to the sitting area, she seems engrossed in the knick-knacks. But her head turns at the sound of her name.

  He lifts a glass in question.

  She uses her middle finger to press the mask tighter against her face.

  Newland accepts the glass with a small smile. His shoulders relax, more comfortable now.

  “Yes, I own this one, another on Level 7, and two on Level 9.” He takes a deep drink and sighs with pleasure.

  “That’s quite an accomplishment.” Glass lifted to his nose, Drake inhales the smell of smoke and oak, a hint of malt. He takes a small sip and rolls the liquid around his mouth. It slides down his throat with barely any sting and he hums with appreciation. “Is this Level 9’s Royal Oak?”

  “Ah, a fellow connoisseur, I see.” Newland raises his glass. “You’ve hit it on the nose.”

  “They’ve become exclusive lately.” Drake closes his eyes and takes another whiff of the expensive liquid. “I’m trying to affiliate them with Black Corporation just to get a steady supply.”

  “I bet they’re resistant. It’s a family-owned business.”

  “Yes, unfortunate, but true.”

  “I’ll have one of my own bottles sent to your office,” Newland offers with a wave of his hand. “A man needs an indulgence or two.”

  “Along with the name of your furniture man and seamstress?”

  “Ah, I see you won’t be deflected so easy.” Newland tips his glass at Drake as if acknowledging a point in his favor. “You’re a man who knows what he wants. I like that.”

  “As are you.” Drake glances around the office. The high-quality items don’t belong with the club downstairs. “I’m surprised you still run this den personally.”

  “It’s sentimental.” Newland waves a hand in front of his face and chuckles. “It’s embarrassing to admit, but it’s my first club, and I can’t bear to let it go.”

  “Why would you? It’s packed downstairs.” Reagen chimes in from near the desk.

  Newland jumps a little. Quiet in her snooping, the other man had forgotten her presence in the room.

  “Yes, it’s like that most nights.” Newland sits up straighter, less relaxed with the reminder they’re not alone.

  Shit, she ruined the mood.

  Reagen runs a finger along the desk’s surface in passing as she circles around behind Drake to the open chair on his left. She adjusted the vents on her mask at some point, and it’s clear again. She smiles at Newland, eyelashes dropping to veil her indigo eyes.

  Shit, she’s trying to flirt. Is she even capable?

  “It must be difficult for you to share the block with two other shops.” Reagen doesn’t so much sit in the chair as alight on it. She crosses her legs at the ankles and leans forward. “How do you manage so well under such untenable conditions?”

  Newland leans forward with an indulgent smile.

  “Yes, dear, most untenable.” If they were closer, he would have patted her hand. “I’ve had to make changes to weather the storm, as it were.”

  “Oh?” She links her fingers over her knees and leans forward, eyes wide.

  Shit, she’s more than capable.

  “I’ve redistributed staff, installed more card tables, opened the front lounge for our regular customers.” He waves a hand in the air, dismissive. “I’ve had to sacrifice more of the fun games to draw in the serious gamblers. It’s unfortunate, but I must follow the money.”

  “Did you lose many clients with the change?” Her brow wrinkles with concern.

  “Ah, such things, they are inevitable with competition.” Newland scoots to the edge of his seat and leans toward Reagen. “Some of my customers were lured away, but most returned. The other dens don’t offer what my club does.”

  “Have your customers said anything suspicious about the other dens on this block?” Drake interjected.

  “From the customers, no.” Newland glances at him, then away.

  “From other sources?”

  “Well, I don’t wish to spread rumors.” He hedges.

  “Facts and rumors aren’t the same.” Reagen’s quiet reassurance fills the space between them.

  “Well said, dear.” Newland takes a bolstering sip of whisky. “I’ve heard there’s bad blood between The Hut and Penned.”

  “How so?”

  “Victor and Troy are cousins, you see. From what I was told, they planned to open Penned together. When it came time, though, Victor didn’t put his cousin’s name on the license. So Troy purchased the shop next door that Victor planned to expand into and opened his own den. Victor’s business is limited by space, so he’s losing profit. Troy’s shop doesn’t have as much side-benefit appeal, so it’s not making as much money.”

  “Sounds like a disaster.” Drake shakes his head in sympathy.

  “And then there are the break-ins.” Newland tuts under his breath.

  “What break-ins? No one filed a report.” Drake sets his glass on the table between them. He needs temptation away from him if he wants a clear head for the night.

  “No, they wouldn’t have reported it.” Newland stares at the glass in his hand. It’s almost empty. “I only know about it from one of my regulars, who passed by and saw the broken windows. Now, this is pure hearsay, but Victor’s been messing with The Hut to convince his cousin to shut down.”

  “Any attacks on your own club?” Reagen bites her lip, her nose scrunched.

  “No, not yet, dear.” He gives her a gentle smile, pleased with her worry.

  “But you think there might be?”

  “There’s always a risk,” he concedes. “My club is a good size if Victor decides his cousin won't budge. He already offered to buy me out, but I turned him down.”

  Drake’s brows lift in surprise. “Is that why you have so many bouncers downstairs?”

  “Bouncers are always needed when gambling's involved. It’s a volatile business. But I have added more. Better safe than vandalized.”

  “Please let me know if anything happens.” Drake pulls out a data disc and slides it across the table. “I’ll take your call personally. We can’t have infighting.”

  “I appreciate that.” Newland picks up the small circle and slips it into his jacket pocket. “Now, what can I do for you? I’m sure you didn’t come all this way for whisky and gossip.”

  “No, just for the whisky.”

  They both laugh.

  A muffled knock comes from the door.

  Newland frowns and stands to walk over to his desk. He presses a button, and the lovely wall art next to his desk shimmers and gives way to an image of the hall outside his office.

  Secretary Adam’s face shows, huge and distorted. The camera points down from the door's upper right corner.

  “One moment, please.” Newland presses a button and the door opens.

  Drake grabs his mask and shoves it back over his mouth and nose.

  He ignores Reagen’s smirk at his expense.

  Adam enters and moves to Newland’s side. He whispers, a low rumble just below Drake’s ability to listen in. Reagen cocks her head and frowns. Looks like she can’t make it out either.

  The secretary leaves and Newland comes back.

  “I’m so sorry. There’s an unruly customer I need to see to.” He buttons his suit jacket and smooths the lapels into place. “I’m unsure how long I'll be.”

  “You’re a busy man.” Drake stands and shakes the other man’s hand. “I can come back another time.”

  Reagen pops out of her sea
t and zips toward the door.

  “If you’re sure.” Distracted, Newland’s focus already shifts to the trouble downstairs.

  “Just send me the number for your seamstress.”

  “Yes, yes.” Newland chuckles and leads them out of the office. “And my furniture man.”

  “Is there a rear entrance?” Reagen interrupts their banter.

  She’s back to being rude again.

  Good.

  He's more comfortable with her like this.

  GOGONOW WITH PROTEIN!

  Boom!

  The door crashes against the alley’s cement wall. Of course Newland has a back door, and I’m so thankful I want to give it a hug. I don’t even care that it’s cold and germ infested. It represents freedom, and it deserves recognition.

  I want a bath. No, I want to go back to Level 9 and buy another pair of over-priced pants so I can use the sanitizer. Every molecule of Gr8 Games needs to be vaporized out of my pores.

  The mask comes off, and I inhale deep, pulling in air through mouth and nose for maximum intake. I was blind inside the club, my senses blocked. Now, I revel in the rotting odor of compost and urine. A stale breeze dries the moisture left trapped against my face for the last forty-three minutes and sixteen seconds.

  “Hey, you’re blocking the door.”

  I spring away from the opening before Drake can nudge me. The fire escape gives an ominous rumble as it creaks beneath my weight. Rust-covered bolts secure it to the wall, their hold on a downward count toward failure.

  I peer over the guardrail as Drake joins me. From the second story landing, it won't hurt too bad if we fall, which seems possible. The metal platform shakes with every step Drake takes.

  I eye him. “It’s your fault if this thing breaks on us.”

  “What are you saying?” He rubs a hand over his flat stomach and tries to pinch fat that doesn’t exist.

  “Maybe you should stop eating mesuki.” I try on an extra serious expression. “It’s fattening.”

  He stops groping for love handles to scowl at me. “How about you get your skinny ass down that ladder before I throw you down it?”

  He’s so sensitive. I crack myself up.

  A folded ladder barricades the platform on one side to keep people from tumbling off. I pull the lock pins, and it unrolls. Looks safe enough. At least it doesn’t show visible signs of corrosion like the rest of the platform. Drake hovers behind me, in my personal space.

  I don’t like it.

  Grabbing the rail, I swing around to place a foot on the first rung. When I straighten, I’m face to crotch with him.

  Way too close.

  A glance up shows a smug smile. He enjoys his imagination way too much. I grin back, grab the outside of the ladder, and pull my feet off the rung.

  I plummet with stomach-in-the-throat kind of speed.

  Friction burns my hands and metal bars blur past my nose, then nothing but air.

  For one adrenaline-pumping second, I fly.

  My palms slam onto the bottom rung, my body snaps straight with a yank on shoulders and elbows. Momentum curls me back up like a spring, then straight again. My legs swing three feet from the ground.

  The fire escape shakes and shrieks with the sound of stressed studs.

  So. Much. Fun.

  Drake’s loud cursing fills the alley. The words ping-pong around and overlap, discordant. I peer up to see him clinging to the wall, arms spread out like he can make himself stick through sheer force of will. The metal construct remains intact.

  Good. Drake wouldn’t bounce well.

  I drop the last few feet, bending my knees to land. The hard street jars through my bones. Hands on hips, I inspect the platform. Drake’s still attached to the wall. Could he be afraid of heights? Now I feel bad. His file said nothing about acrophobia.

  Hands cupped over my mouth, I holler, “Come on, you big baby!”

  He lurches to the ladder and climbs down, one rung at a time. I turn to stare at the end of the alley, giving him space to deal with his issue.

  Irrational fears suck.

  My delight in being able to smell again diminishes. The stench of rotted food belches from a nearby dumpster. Over-packed, the lid doesn’t close all the way. White ropes of noodles splatter the ground among viscous fluid.

  Ugh. Where are the cleaning bots?

  Drake lands behind me with a grunt and stalks past, strides short and fast, back stiff. He doesn’t even try a shoulder bump.

  I run a hand through my hair, glance at the gelatinous mess nearby, and stretch my legs so we exit the alley together. He crumples his mask in a tight fist and tension rides his shoulders.

  With the crowded sidewalk, no one pays us any attention as we stop to gain our bearings.

  On the left, lights from a restaurant flood the street. Open tables are visible through discolored plas-glass. A gold neon sign hangs over the sidewalk with a picture of a house riding three wavy lines.

  I peek at Drake. “You think the Noodle House has any GoGoNow?”

  He peers at the sign overhead, then through the plas-glass window.

  “Probably not cherry flavored.” Scowl easing, his fists uncurl. “Tofu-Topia might.”

  He points across the street to a narrow building with a soft, square-shaped sign. A happy face glows in the center, bright white.

  Reminds me of the GoGoNow logo. “Yeah, they might sell the cherry flavor.”

  We wait for a gap and dodge through traffic. A quad-ring bike blocks my path, and Drake reaches the other side first.

  He’s smiling, so I let him keep the win. We’ll do a real race later.

  A hole in the wall acts as the shop’s door. A short welcome curtain hangs at the top and brushes my head as I enter. True Believer nonsense, meant to cleanse customers of ill intentions. My grandma had one on every door of her house. Ill intentions aren’t swept away so easily.

  “Welcome!” a little old man calls from behind the checkout counter. He comes up to my shoulder, and when he smiles, his wrinkles engulf his eyes. His brown teeth match his skin. He resembles a raisin.

  “Please, take a seat anywhere.” He fetches menus from a box on the wall as I check our options. An open table in the center of the restaurant, or the empty bar attached to the front wall, facing the street.

  Drake and I turn toward the bar at the same time. We share an awkward moment of who-goes-first, then slide onto the red plastic stools and accept our menus. The little man toddles away, stilted sandals clacking against the tiled floor.

  I flip mine over to the beverage side. No luck. The GoGoNow flavor options are green tea and strawberry. I flip back to the front. They offer soft, firm, and extra-firm tofu, with optional toppings of bean paste, sweet or salty. Drake peruses the menu, takes time going over the options.

  Is his different? It’s not that complicated.

  “What can I get for you?” a giant, yellow puffball asks. Right at eye level, it sways with the movements of the old lady under it. The thing must be six inches tall. Looks heavy. I don’t know how her neck supports the weight. She smiles and her eyes disappear into her wrinkles. Another raisin.

  They’re kind of adorable.

  “I’ll have one extra-firm tofu with salty bean paste and one soft tofu with sweet bean paste.” Drake hands back his menu, and the woman hums with approval.

  “And for you, dear?”

  “Green tea GoGoNow.” I try to hand over my menu and she refuses to take it.

  “To eat, dear?”

  “Nothing, thank you." My menu hovers in the space between us.

  Her wrinkles origami into a frown. “You need to eat. You’re too skinny.”

  She sounds like she has kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids. Like she’s given this lecture hundreds of times. Unlike Medic Carmichael, I think she can outwait me.

  “Soft tofu, no bean paste.” She accepts my menu and clacks away in victory. “Don’t laugh at me.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.” Drake stares a
t the wall, mouth twitching.

  Yeah, he’s laughing at me. I narrow my eyes. “That was some bro-mancing you had going with Newland.”

  “What about your flirting?” His head turns, and he bats long eyelashes at me.

  I focus on the condiments set out on the bar. “It seemed like the right angle to take.”

  “Yeah, worked great. Newland lapped that shit up.”

  “He was open to it. You had him relaxed, thinking he was in control.” The napkin dispenser sits off center and I poke it straight. “You did good.”

  “You, too.”

  This feels weird.

  What’s taking our order so long? Just slice off a couple squares, right? Not like they’re pressing the bean curds while we wait.

  Drake clears his throat. At least I’m not the only one feeling awkward with all the mushy stuff.

  He drums his fingers against the table’s edge. “So what do you think of Newland?”

  “I want to meet the other managers before deciding.” I berate myself for not being helpful. He’s trying to make conversation. “The club’s security is expensive. Nicer than I expected for Level 4. The recorders in the hall had a recent upgrade.”

  His fingers still. “How could you tell?”

  “While you were distracting Steve, I peeked at their system. There were scratches around the new lenses, not old enough to collect dirt. Sloppy installer, but nice equipment. They were in the lounge area, too.”

  “What else was in the lounge? I should’ve checked that room, too.”

  “Sure you would’ve been checking out the lounge?” His eyes narrow in affront, and a snort of laughter escapes me. “You weren’t subtle at all.”

  He gives up on being offended, and a smile tickles at the corner of his mouth. He shrugs without remorse.

  “Yeah, she was hot. Wish I’d gotten her number.” He’s not ashamed. “So what was in there?”

  “Bunch of lounge chairs rigged up with nutritional-IVs.” The skeletal addicts strapped into the recliners gave me the heebie-jeebies. “Newland’s running real close to motel and health clinic jurisdictions. Can’t imagine he offers those services for free.”

  “Yeah, especially if customers stay over twenty-three hours.” He frowns, adding mental items to his checklist. “Could be how he’s supplementing the club’s income.”