Dead Inside

by PM Kavanaugh

  “No shit.” Mari bobbed in her seat. “Anika kicks ass. And so do you.” She saluted Evan with her glass before draining it and turning to Anika. “Evan’s been running a sim for my next mission. Helping me prep so I don’t fuck it up. You’re both my heroes.” Mari pointed at their mostly-full glasses on the table. “Finish up. Time for another round.”

  “You sure that’s a good idea?” Anika asked. “Don’t you have more rappelling practice or mission prep tomorrow?”

  “Hey.” Mari paused mid-bob. “Maybe we should all go rappelling tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, but no,” Evan said. “I only exit down the sides of buildings in sims or holo-games. Using these.” She wiggled her slender fingers.

  “Hello, ladies.” One of the two guys Mari had pulled onto the dance floor wedged in between her and Anika. Brown hair, medium height and build. Smelling of beer and sweat. “We’ve been looking for you.” He gave a playful tug on one of Mari’s braids. His friend stood a meter behind the table. “You left before the song ended.”

  “I got thirsty,” Mari said.

  “I’ll buy you a drink, then. All of you.” He grinned at Evan and Anika.

  “Mega cool-hot.” Mari beamed at him.

  “Thanks, but we’re leaving,” Anika said.

  Mari’s smile morphed into a pout. “No, we’re not.”

  “We have an early start tomorrow.”

  “You’re not my trainer.” Mari’s pout hardened. “Or my superior. If I want another drink, I’ll have one.”

  Her words stung Anika, a butterfly turned bee.

  The guy slid his arm around Mari’s waist. “That’s what I like. A girl who knows her own mind.”

  “I didn’t save your ass today so you could do something stupid tonight.” Anika grabbed the edge of the table to hold herself in check.

  “What happened today? How’d she save your ass?” The guy’s arm slid lower. “Such a great ass, too.”

  “If we told you, we’d have to kill you,” Mari said, then burst out laughing.

  He spread his arms wide. “Take your best shot, baby.”

  Anika glowered at them.

  He glanced at Anika, lips curling into a smirk. “Frost it, sweetheart. You’re ruining the mood of our party.”

  Anika stood up from her seat. In her heeled boots, she cleared the creep’s head. “I’m not your sweetheart. And the party’s over.”

  “I have an idea.” Evan walked around the table and inserted herself between Anika and the guy. “Let’s take this party to my place. Just the three of us.”

  “I’m in,” Mari said.

  “What about him?” The guy jerked his head in the direction of his friend.

  “Nah,” Evan said. “My bed’s not big enough for four.”

  The guy’s eyes widened as Evan’s words sunk in. He tossed back the rest of his drink and slammed the glass on the tabletop. “Let’s go.”

  Mari slid off her seat, then flung her arm around the guy’s neck to steady herself. “Whoops,” she said, sagging against him.

  He smashed his mouth down on hers.

  Anika stepped around Evan, but the Brit blocked her with surprising speed and strength. Turning her head, she spoke in a low voice. “Don’t worry. I’ve got this. He won’t make it to my place.”

  “And Mari?”

  “I’ll make sure she arrives safe and sound in the morning.”

  “Get some Dry Out into her.”

  “Will do.” Evan smiled. “You okay to get home on your own?”

  “Yeah,” Anika said. “Thanks.”

  Evan maneuvered herself between her companions, placed an arm around each of them, and steered them past the dance floor and to the other side of the bar.

  “I guess it’s just you and me now,” the guy’s friend said, leering.

  Chapter 8

  Tall and skinny with starched blond hair, he leaned against the table. His eyes looked glazed. He’d probably consumed something other than beer. “I’m JoJo.”

  “I’m leaving.” Anika turned away from him.

  JoJo grabbed her left hand. “Lemme buy you a drink.”

  Anika twisted out of his grasp, but he reached for her other hand. His fingers closed around the cast on her wrist. “Whoa, what you got under your sleeve there, babe?”

  Her left hand fisted. A quick knuckle-jab to the throat would take him out. She’d have to change her position for a better approach. Even as she started to angle her body, her mind chanted low profile, low profile. There were other methods available to her. One of her instructors had often said, “With your looks, in the right situation, a soft smile can be more powerful than a hard punch.”

  “Are you guys okay?” A security-droid appeared at their table, his silver badge reflecting the room’s lights. With his close-cropped hair, blue eyes, and strong jawline, he looked like a grown-up boy scout on super steroids.

  JoJo bristled and tightened his hold on Anika. Fortunately, the cast’s material hardened in response to the greater pressure and protected her wrist. “Get lost, robot,” he snarled. “You’re rotting the vibe.”

  Out of the corners of her eyes, Anika saw the heads of other patrons turned their way. Shit.

  The droid fixed his gaze on her. “Ms?”

  She curved her lips upward and stroked the guy’s cheek. His baby-soft stubble tickled the backs of her fingers. “I’m fine.” I will be fine. “But thank you for checking.”

  She kept her smile in place while the droid scanned her face and neck. “Your pulse is elevated.”

  “JoJo has that effect on me,” she said, forcing a laugh and draping her arm around his neck.

  Seconds passed. “Have a pleasant evening,” the droid said, apparently satisfied that she was telling the truth. “And remember to...”

  “...drink responsibly.” JoJo talked over the droid’s programmed parting message. “Yeah, yeah. Go back to your pen, now.”

  The droid pivoted a quarter turn and glided away.

  “Dick ’bot,” JoJo muttered, glaring after the droid.

  Anika closed her eyes. She prepared herself for what she had to do next to get out of here with as little notice as possible. She took a breath, opened her eyes and placed her hand under JoJo’s chin. Turned it so he faced her. Stroked his cheek. Leaned in. “How about we go someplace more private?”

  JoJo grinned. “Hell, yeah.” He tugged her closer and slid his hand up her thigh. “Your place or mine?”

  Anika clamped down on his hand before it disappeared under her skirt, but held her smile steady. “Neither.” His eyebrows creased in confusion. When he opened his mouth, she pressed her finger with the pirate-head ring against his lips. “I don’t want to wait that long,” she whispered into his ear. Then she bit down on his lobe, stopping short of drawing blood. He yelped and jerked back, cupping his ear. Her smile deepened. “Follow me.” She pulled him toward a row of privacy pods farther back in the bar’s interior.

  They stopped outside the first one that showed a green light indicating vacancy. “I think fifteen minutes should do it, don’t you? Unless you need more time?”

  JoJo shook his head, then removed his handheld from his back pocket. It took him three tries to tap the buttons on his screen and wave it across the pod’s payment scanner. Finally, the lock clicked and the door slid open. They ducked through the low opening into a dimly-lit space just big enough to fit a floor-level lounger with oversized pillows. The lounger’s cover was torn at both corners and the deflated pillows looked as if their foam stuffing had worn out. A dozen liquor bottles cluttered the side wall shelf. A panic button glowed red on the wall. Music from the bar sounded through invisible speakers in a muffled pulse.

  How romantic, Anika thought.

  Standing in the narrow aisle between the couch and the shelf, she heard the scratch of a zipper behind her.

  JoJo slid his arms around her waist and pressed his body against hers. Something hard nudged her ass.

  It took all her self-co
ntrol not to jam her elbow into his gut. Instead, she gave a low laugh, hooked her foot behind his, and leaned back. He fell onto the couch seat and she followed, landing on his lap. As his hands scrabbled at the buttons of her top, she twisted toward him and snuggled into his chest to force his hands to move to her back.

  He jerked the hem of her top up and slid his hands down her bare skin. Her muscles rippled in protest in the wake of his touch. She dodged his mouth and sunk her lips into his neck.

  He groaned in pain-pleasure.

  Her hands twined around the back of his head. She turned the band of the ring so the skull faced down.

  He pawed at the waistband of her skirt.

  She heard the fastener rip and his breath quicken as he tried to tug her skirt off. She felt for the catch on the side of the skull. Released it to expose the microneedle inside. Jabbed it into his skin.

  He gave a surprised grunt, then slumped back, his head falling to one side.

  Anika jumped up and banged her hip against the edge of the shelf. Pain zinged up her side. She was breathing fast, her heart galloping. The walls of the tiny space seemed to close in on her.

  She longed to flee, but worried about the security cams in the corridor outside capturing images of a panicked-looking woman. She smoothed her skirt back into place, re-buttoned her top, and mussed her hair. She should look a little ruffled. Her lungs filled and emptied with deep breaths until her pulse slowed. She closed the skull on the ring, turned the band so it faced outward again, and took another deep breath. Thank you, tech geeks!

  Turning toward the shelf of liquor bottles, she eyed a few labels, and settled on one named Halcyon Daze. Her hands trembled as she removed the rectangular bottle of clear liquid. Opened it. Inhaled a sharp smell of alcohol and lime. Sprinkled some on JoJo’s clothes and hair, then took a long swallow. It burned a trail down her throat. She took another.

  She forced herself to wait several minutes before stomping out into the corridor and whirling to face the pod’s open door. “Loser,” she said, loud enough for the security cams to pick up. “Nothing worse than a guy who can’t handle his shit.” She shook her head as if disgusted, then strode off, concentrating on setting one foot in front of the other while she made her way back into the bar’s main section, through the crowd, and out into the street.

  Chapter 9

  Twenty minutes later, Anika disengaged the locks on her apartment, stepped inside, and leaned back against the door.

  The loft was dark and quiet, with no street noise audible through the privacy screens covering the balcony doors. She had been living here since graduating to Level 1. It was her first non-institutional residence, her first apartment, her first real home. She loved every millimeter, from the tall ceilings to the wood-composite floors. It was chosen, paid for, and outfitted with essentials by the agency. These included high-end bath and kitchen appliances, a single lounge-seat with detachable table, and a media nook that projected scenic images onto a wall-sized monitor. A vista from the top of Mt. Everest at dawn appeared there now.

  She had tried buying more furniture, but everything that looked familiar reminded her of the orphanage and everything that didn’t felt like it didn’t belong. Except for the oversized bed on the landing atop the winding staircase in the corner. That bed, with its luxe bedding and six pillows, was her one sure purchase and indulgence. She had bought it the same day she had been given the address and keycode. Right after she had completed her first mission and been informed of her promotion to Level 1 status.

  She had entered the loft for the first time, thrown open the balcony doors, run up the circular stairs, then back down to the media center to start searching for the perfect bed. Brand-new, with a custom mattress and frame. Nothing like the saggy ones in the orphanage or the utilitarian ones in the recruits’ quarters. As she considered different size and detail options, her mind kept replaying those last moments on the tarmac with Gianni. The feel of his hands on her waist, his lips on her mouth. She imagined the two of them in that bed, arms and legs wrapped around each other, and, with a shiver of anticipation, tapped the “buy now” button.

  But that image of the two of them had remained only that. An image in her mind. Accompanied by a hundred other images that shadowed her throughout the days and nights of his absence. Everywhere she went, both inside and outside the agency, she saw Gianni. Turning a corner in a corridor, crossing a threshold into a conference room, weaving through a street crowd, standing in line for a morning espresso. Even tonight, as she was leaving the bar, she’d thought she had seen him near the exit. All phantom sightings.

  Regret mixed with longing, a bitter cocktail inside her.

  She tilted her head to rest it against the door. Closed her eyes. Mistake. Dizziness forced her eyes open. She peeled off the detachable sleeves, letting the air cool her bare arms. As she brought her fingers to her temples, a sound between a sigh and a groan escaped her lips. Those additional sips—no, gulps—of liquor had caught up with her.

  Now she really regretted not having a couch in the living area. She could stretch out on the day-lounger but it wasn’t as comfortable as the bed. But to get there, she would have to climb the winding set of stairs that now seemed impossibly steep.

  She shoved away from the wall.

  The door chime rang from the security panel. A zing of alarm shot through her. She stopped mid-stride. Who could that be at this hour? Had something happened to JoJo at the bar? She hadn’t checked his pulse before leaving him. Had the mix of beer, whatever other substance he had taken, and the drug in her ring been too much for his body to take? Had the police tracked her down to question her?

  She jabbed at the panel button to activate visual. Her eyes widened and her pulse quickened. Not the police. She spoke into the mic. “What are you doing here?” Her voice shook, a leaf quivering in a strong wind.

  “May I come in?” Gianni’s brown eyes bored into hers through the monitor.

  She had wanted this moment to happen for so long. Had dreamed of him standing at her door, asking to come in. Now that he was here, a cold touch of anxiety embraced her. Surely, he hadn’t shown up in the middle of the night, unannounced, to pick up where they had left off three months ago.

  Had the agency been surveilling her at Amnesia? Was she in trouble for using the skull ring outside of an authorized mission?

  She pressed the release button and the exterior door to her building opened. Gianni stepped through it.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked as soon as Gianni crossed the threshold into her apartment.

  His gaze traveled up the wall, across the ceiling, to the staircase in the corner, then back to her. “Nice place.”

  She stood close to the wall in case her head started to spin again.

  “Are you all right?” He glanced at her cast. “How’s your wrist?”

  Her brows drew together. “I...it’s...I’m fine.”

  “You looked shaken as you left the bar. Your stride was unsteady.”

  “You...saw me at Amnesia? You were there?”

  Gianni nodded. “You appeared to be enjoying yourself with Mari and Evan. And the men who joined you.” His gaze was hard, his stance rigid.

  Was he angry? Her muscles tightened. After all these months of making her wait and wonder where he was, whether he was coming back, now he was angry?

  Her eyes narrowed. “You followed us?”

  “Just you.”

  “Since when?”

  “You’re a Level One. You tell me.” His eyes flared in anger, twin fires igniting.

  Anika’s mind flashed to the image she had seen as she neared the bar’s exit. Dark blond hair, broad shoulders, leather jacket. A man of Gianni’s height and build angled away from her, standing at a waist-high counter. Tube of water at his elbow. She had noticed it, then told herself to forget it. Like all the other phantom images of the past months. Only this time, apparently, the image had been real.

  “You were standing at a counter near the
exit. At my ten o’clock.”

  “I wanted to make sure you were all right after what happened today.”

  “You mean after you forced me to kill a human being?”

  “If that’s how you want to see it, then, yes.” His voice chilled even as his eyes continued to burn.

  “How else am I supposed to see it?”

  “As a chance to prove that you can do what needs to be done. You want to stay with the agency, yes?”

  The question hit her, a fist to the gut. She braced her hand against the wall. It felt cool and firm beneath her palm. God, yes, she wanted to stay. She nodded in mute agreement.

  “I sent the security-droid. At the bar.”

  Anika’s mouth dropped open. “Why?”

  “It looked like you needed help.”

  Irritation scratched the back of her neck. “I was trying to keep a low profile. Sending the droid only made it worse. If you thought I needed help—which I didn’t, by the way—why didn’t you come?”

  “Because if I had, I would not have kept a low profile.”

  Anika’s brows lifted. She stared into Gianni’s eyes. The heat there wasn’t only anger. He was jealous. The realization sent a shivery thrill up her spine. She loved knowing she could stir such a strong emotion in him. “Well,” she said, blowing out a breath, “I handled the droid. And the guy.”

  “How exactly did you ‘handle the guy’?”

  Resentment flared, like a fast-spreading rash. Why did he deserve to know? “Are you asking for professional reasons or personal ones?”

  “Can’t you guess?”

  “I’d like to hear you say it.”

  He huffed out a breath. “Personal.” He turned his hands toward her, palms out, in supplication. “Please. Parlami.” The words in Italian—talk to me—caressed her, landing like a kiss on her cheek.

  She softened, her irritation receding.

  “I tried to blow him off and leave. When that didn’t work, I took him into a private pod, let him paw at me while I maneuvered into position, and then jabbed him with this.” She sprung open the skull on the ring to reveal the microneedle inside. “Borrowed it from the tech lab at the agency.”