Runner: The Fringe, Book 3

by Anitra Lynn McLeod

  Contrite, she offered, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to treat you that way. That’s not how I see you at all.” She clutched the bars. “You are very attractive, and I would be lying if I said you weren’t, but more than that, you have a soft heart, and I like that too.”

  He grimaced. “Well, you’re wrong. I don’t have a soft heart. I’m a ruthless bastard. All I care about is my contract. Got it?” He whisked his hair out of his eyes with a flip of his chin, then dumped it right back down as he lowered his gaze to one of the beeping gizmos on his belt.

  “You keep saying that, but I think you’re trying to convince yourself, not me.”

  He glared at her. “You are insane. You just don’t see what’s right in front of your face.”

  “Neither do you.”

  “I think I see you just fine.” His eyes narrowed to suspicious slits.

  “You say you don’t have a soft heart, yet you’re disgusted by the fact I’m treating you as a sexual object. Do you see the conflict in those two statements? A man without a heart, a ruthless bastard, would have been all over me, probably without my consent. A ruthless bastard would be flattered by my interest and take advantage of it. That you’re appalled by my desire altogether is—”

  “Then I’m a perverse bastard,” he bellowed, lifting his hands. “Hell! Maybe I’m gay.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Maybe your reputation is an utter farce. Never-Fail Nash, the ruthless, brutal and vicious bastard. Maybe under all of that, you really are a nice guy who doesn’t want to hurt anyone.” Very suddenly, he looked scared, as if she’d gotten far too close to the truth. “A marshmallow heart hidden under a good thick armor of reputation. Nice Guy Nash.”

  His face twisted into a snarl. “Maybe your reputation is richly deserved.”

  “Excellent backhand, but you don’t believe that any more than I do. I didn’t do what Roberts—”

  “Roberts has spread all kinds of information about you. A lot of it about your sexual proclivities. Four men? Not according to the media. I wasn’t sure who to believe, but by the way you’re acting, I’m starting to believe the reports.”

  “You think I’m a what? A whore? A prostitute?” The very idea stunned her so much, she smiled.

  “No.” Rocking back on his heels, he said, “Prostitutes get paid. You do it for free. Which makes you a slut.”

  He seemed to expect her to be mortally wounded by such a vicious comment. When she laughed, he frowned.

  “You’re trying too hard, Mr. Nash. It simply isn’t in you to be a bully.” She leaned against the bars. “I’m not a slut, and you know it.”

  “You’re certainly acting like one. If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s probably a duck. Take out duck, put in slut, repeat that to yourself, and you’ll get my point.” His brows lowered to that ominous V, which made him look brutal, but his soulful eyes gave away the truth.

  “Do I really look like a slut in this dress?” She considered her lilac spring dress. Sleeveless, with a scoop neck, high back, modest armholes and a hem that hit the tops of her knees. The dress wasn’t the least bit tawdry by any world’s cultural standards. “I think I look more like a librarian.”

  “Not with that rack.”

  Up her eyebrows went. “I look like a slut because I have large breasts?” It was a chronic IWOG cultural misconception, that there was an inverse relationship between brains and breasts. Many IWOG men also thought women with larger breasts were more promiscuous.

  He didn’t say anything. When he realized his gaze lingered on her breasts, he looked to the ceiling.

  “And do I really walk like a slut?” She walked back and forth along the front of her cell. “How does a slut walk? Shouldn’t I be trolling under a street lamp? Vamping to a cluster of horny males?”

  He still didn’t say anything and refused to look at her.

  “As far as quacking like a slut—”

  “You talk like a slut.” His voice was filled with disgust.

  “Is that it?”

  He glared at a spot just over her shoulder.

  “You think I talk like a slut because I don’t equivocate about what I think, what I want, what I expect as far as sex between us is concerned?” It seemed the less he said, the louder he spoke about himself. His hostility revealed a great deal, probably far more than he wanted to show her.

  “You talk about sex like you’re discussing the weather. You act like it’s less of a concern than what you’d like to eat for lunch.” He checked one of the pieces of equipment on his belt and frowned with concern.

  “No. I talk about it honestly, like I do everything else. I want something from you: sex. I’m telling you that in no uncertain terms. As far as where or when or how, that is entirely up for debate.” She shrugged. “You’re horrified I’m even interested, let alone willing to admit it, even more so that I want to discuss it.”

  “It’s not something we should be discussing at all, because it’s something that isn’t going to happen.”

  He did it again. He turned tail and stalked off. He’d have to get some kind of cushioning in his shoes if he was going to keep stomping about the ship.

  Taking an almost masochistic delight in the name of his ship, he strode about hissing damn you over and over. He made his way to the bridge and threw himself into his chair. He tried to lose himself in music, but it didn’t work.

  Playing a few levels of Kill Or Be Killed, blowing away digital enemies, didn’t help him blow off steam either. He plucked a paperback up at random but couldn’t get into it. Frustrated, he tossed the book into the random clutter on the floor.

  He engaged the language sim, but since he spoke twenty languages fluently, the program failed to offer him any challenges. He checked his scanners and considered hitting the gym or the studio, but the ideas bored him before he even moved to go.

  What he really wanted to do was talk to Jynx. He wanted to ask her about that little scar over her eye and what happened to her family. He wanted to ask her what she wanted him to do and why. What if she did want him to let her go? How could he do that knowing she’d get killed?

  A light flashed on the main console. Finally, something to occupy his churning mind. It was a request for live audvid. He traced it to Juno and realized it was Roberts.

  He opened the link, and said, “Hello, Vic.” In short order, Foster laid his cards on the table. “You knew she was a reader and didn’t bother to clue me in.” He shook his head. “Not nice.” Before Roberts could offer an explanation, Foster said, “The contract is officially terminated.”

  The look that crossed Vic’s face was nothing short of terrifying. “What are you going to do with Jynx?”

  Foster considered Vic over the audvid for a long time before he said, “Whatever the hell I want.” He disconnected before Roberts could say another word.

  Chapter Twelve

  “It’s lovely.” Jynx sat in the chair Foster pulled out for her. The effort he’d made was overwhelming. Rather than eating her dinner off a green plastic tray behind bars, she settled herself to a candlelit dinner at a lace-covered table. “Is this china?” She traced her finger over the brightly colored bird of paradise flower painted onto the center of the plate.

  “Simulated. The silverware is actually plastimetal. But it looks like the real thing.” He nodded to her glass. “I don’t have wine. I do have beer. Do you drink beer?”

  He seemed determined to be a solicitous host, but his effort came off bashful, like a boy trying to please a girl he had a tremendous crush on. She found him utterly charming. All her fear of being taken from her cell vanished.

  “I’ve never had a beer.” She noticed his galley was a cozy room retrofitted to accommodate one man. The compact appliances were logically placed and obviously well used. Splattered food and a few dirty dishes made it clear that tidiness wasn’t his first priority.

  “Really? Why not?” He fiddled with the food cooking on the stove top. He opened the oven
door, and the succulent aroma of roasted meat almost made her swoon. She hadn’t had a decent meal in so long, her mouth watered uncontrollably.

  “No reason, really. I just never have. I don’t often drink.” The last time she drank, she ended up in bed with Brandt. She looked at Foster with a curious eye. Was all of this to seduce her? He certainly didn’t have to go to all this trouble. Or maybe that was the whole problem right there. Her honesty had taken all the seduction out of their encounter. Somehow she found it hard to believe that Foster Nash was a romantic man.

  “Then you have to try one of these.” He went to a secured door and flipped the catch. The pantry had rows of goods secured by clingrope. He bent over, and she dropped her gaze to his fanny. He’d traded in his ripped jeans for a pair that was on the verge of falling apart, which only made them sexier. Through the worn denim, she could see a vague hint of dark blue boxers. Silk? Suddenly she wished herself telekinetic so she could nudge that fabric just a bit.

  He returned to the table with a dusty bottle. “These are very rare. Prospect beer. It comes out of Corona.” After showing her the bottle like a sommelier from a five-star restaurant, he plucked up her glass. He removed a bottle opener from a drawer and popped the metal cap carefully. He leaned her glass and the bottle together, pouring the amber liquid slowly down the side of her glass. He eased her glass upright, keeping his intense gaze on the bottle with his tongue tucked to the corner of his mouth.

  “You have to watch for the yeast on the bottom of the bottle. Prospect beer isn’t filtered.”

  He proudly presented her with the glass of golden-amber liquid. Sweeping up from the bottom of the tapered glass rose tiny bubbles that made a fluffy white foam along the top.

  “You drink it like this.” He lifted her glass to his lips and took a sip. He licked the foam mustache atop his lip, then handed her the glass.

  “It’s on my list, to try a beer.” She took it from his hand, feeling a spark when their fingers touched. She sniffed as she sipped. “It’s very rich.” She took another sip. “And tart.” Another sip. “Almost citrus.” Like him, she licked the foam on her lip away and wondered if he had the same reaction she did. Everything felt more intense now that the bars between them had been removed.

  “Hallertauer hops.”

  At her confused frown he explained that hops gave beer bitterness and aroma. Then he asked, “On your list?”

  “Of things to do before I die.” She took another sip of the beer and made a mental checkmark against her list.

  He considered her with an intense, probing gaze. What was he looking for? And why had he taken her out of her cell for a romantic candlelit dinner? Perhaps it was her last meal before he handed her over. If that was what this was, she was determined to spend the night in his bed. As much as she wanted to fling a hundred questions at him, she hesitated to get answers that she might not want to hear.

  “What else is on this list of yours?” He moved back into the kitchen and fiddled with dinner.

  “To read a pleasure book. I enjoyed the one you gave me very much.” He’d given her a western that involved as much romance as it did adventure. As a doctor, she often had to read and assimilate vast amounts of information quickly. The IWOG didn’t let medical information linger. It might hurt the corporate structure that formed the base of the government. She became ever more adept at consuming vast amounts of information, internalizing it, then using it to the best of her ability in conjunction with her projecting skill. She’d read the pleasure book just as fast. “I understand why the IWOG banned them.”

  “Yeah?”

  “They make one think in different ways. Ways that run counter to what the IWOG wants from their consumers. Also, reading is a singular activity. The IWOG doesn’t want consumers spending time alone not consuming and getting the wrong idea about consuming.”

  Foster nodded. “Anything else on this list?”

  “You.” She looked right into his eyes.

  “Me?” He flashed her that boyish grin.

  “Yes.”

  He held her gaze for the longest time. “I’m setting you free.”

  “Pardon me?” She fumbled her glass to the table, splashing a bit of beer on the tablecloth.

  He plucked up a damp cloth, then blotted the spill. “I canceled the contract with Roberts.” Once he’d mopped it up, he tossed the rag to the sink and turned to her, his azure eyes open and engaging.

  “But your reputation…” She knew how important that was to him.

  “Is intact. Roberts lied about you being a reader.” Foster shook his head. “That’s a very big no-no and instantly invalidates the contract.”

  “But the money—”

  “Isn’t worth it.”

  Stunned, she could only gape at him. Finding her voice, she finally asked, “Why?”

  “Because you didn’t do what Roberts accuses you of. I know you’re innocent. I might be a ruthless bastard, but even I have my limits.” He sat across from her at the little table.

  Fear swept away her sudden joy. Her emotions must have shown in her face.

  “I thought that news would make you happy.” He sounded shocked and upset that he’d done her a great wrong without meaning to.

  “It does. But it doesn’t.” She bit her lip. “It isn’t going to stop. Roberts will just send someone else after me. Everyone will be looking for me. My face is everywhere.” She looked at the table again with a new eye. “Oh, Mr. Nash, was all of this to soften the blow before you toss me off your ship?”

  Dark terror loomed in her otherworldly eyes, Foster leaned close and took her hand. “I’m not tossing you anywhere.” She looked up at him with such helpless horror, he blurted, “You could stay with me.” His offer came straight from his heart. Shocked by his admission, he pulled his hand back. “I mean, here, on my ship. I guess I could use a doctor. I’m not accident-prone or anything, but I think a doctor would be a good thing to have around. I wouldn’t keep you like a prisoner, but you could stay, if you wanted to. You’d be safe here.”

  She considered with a pained look around at the cramped galley, and he wished he’d cleaned up a little better. He didn’t want her to think he was a slob. He was, but he wanted to put his best foot forward before revealing his less stellar qualities.

  “I wouldn’t make you do anything you didn’t want to. I mean, I wouldn’t force you to—ah, well, you know. I’m kinda just offering you a job, I guess.” Shoot himself where he stood, he sounded like a babbling IWOG boy, terrified of getting caught with even a hint of impropriety.

  Jynx laughed with a strange mixture of sadness and relief. “I’m not worried about that.” She smiled wanly. “Our potential sexual relationship is the least of my concerns. Roberts would come after you. I would be putting you in danger, and I can’t do that.”

  It blew him away. With all she had to worry about, she seemed the most concerned with his safety rather than her own. Or was she playing him? For the life of him, he couldn’t see how.

  “I can take care of myself. If you’re with me, I can take care of you too.” He meant what he said, but if she asked him an hour from now, he might not be so confident. That expression of determination on Roberts’s face over the audvid flashed in his mind. One way or another, Roberts wasn’t going to rest until Jynx was brought low. As it was, Foster uttered the words with full conviction and arrogant certainty. Best way to lie was to believe it yourself first.

  “How very chivalrous.” Jynx shied back a bit. “But I don’t understand. What do you get out of this? Out of helping me?”

  “Seems you are getting acclimated to the Fringe.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You’re starting to look for the edge, the advantage.”

  Her gaze dropped to the table, and a flush of shame washed her cheeks red. “I don’t mean to be suspicious.”

  “I like it.” His statement drew her gaze to his. “You’re behaving normally for a change.” He smiled. “What I get out of helping you is,
well, I don’t know exactly. I guess it’s kinda like your Hippocratic oath. I really don’t want to do any harm in the Void. Especially not to an innocent.” But in the same breath, he thought of how much he wanted to corrupt the dignified IWOG lady right out of her.

  “Better watch out, Mr. Nash. Your marshmallow heart is showing.” She flashed a full smile, and that was when he noticed the hint of a dimple on her right cheek, almost directly below that tiny white scar over her eye.

  “Well, at least it’s not my boxers this time.”

  Jynx laughed. “Mr. Nash, I honestly—”

  “Can you do me a favor?”

  “I’ll certainly try.”

  “Drop the mister and just call me Nash.”

  “You don’t want me to call you Foster?”

  “Naw. I hate that name.” He’d been named after a centuries-dead ancestor in accordance with a naming fad that was still going strong on IWOG, WAG and Fringe worlds. Older names had made a strong comeback in the last fifty years.

  “If I call you Nash, will you stop calling me Sweets?”

  He liked calling her Sweets. “I’ll try.”

  She considered the table for a moment. “Whether you keep me or let me go, Roberts will come after you.”

  He found her concern unbelievably touching. “Wouldn’t be the first time a disgruntled client tried to. Thing is, to get to me, Roberts would have to hire one of the other triple-platinum Runners.” That statement he could offer with full confidence. Only another Runner had any hope of getting near his ship. Even then, they would be so evenly matched, the battle would be a draw.

  “Wouldn’t they do it?” She lifted her worried gaze.

  “Nope. Not a one of them. I wouldn’t go after them either. It’s a mutual deal. Even if Roberts tried a smear campaign on me, like what you got, it wouldn’t work. I’ve got a contract. All I have to do is flash copies to the media, and it’d be over before it started.” Moreover, he knew Roberts wouldn’t want anyone to know about Jynx’s reader ability.