by Mary Hughes
Dolly was the town gossip like Steve Ballmer was reasonably well-off. Dolly knew everything that went on, sometimes before it happened. Some people said Fox News got their best items from Dolly through a mysterious contact called Deep Comb-over.
Dolly herself was a seventy-year-old platinum-blonde dynamo. She was four-foot-eight, 42-D and looked exactly like the country singer except older and shorter. She wore a pink fifties-diner-style uniform and chewed a wad of gum as big as your head.
“Hey, sugar.” Dolly called everyone sugar. “Nice dress.”
I flushed. I had forgotten about my pink battle armor. “Uh, thanks.”
The bell tinkled again, underlined by a growl. Race stalked into the salon behind me. “You ain’t escapading from me that easy, dollface.”
Before I could even think of escapading, Dolly trotted up. “Oh, no, sugar. No, no, no.” She thrust her hands through Race’s mullet. “This has got to go.”
“What…stop that, lady!” Race batted at Dolly, uselessly. Decades of unruly hair had given her hands like steel grapples.
“Good healthy scalp.” She was feeling Race up so intimately he blushed. “Yes, I think we can save you.”
“Save me?” Race squawked. “What are you talking about? Save me from what?”
“Certain horrible disaster.” Dolly bustled over to her appointment book (I’d tried to computerize her when I came back to town but she firmly resisted, probably because she wrote half her gossip in the margins). “I can squeeze you in Friday morning. Haircut, blow and style.” She sized him up. “And a shave. You have a good jaw.”
Race backed up, all thoughts of molesting me apparently forgotten. “I…I, um, don’t do mornings.”
“Sun shy, hmm? All righty, sugar, I’ll come in early, say five a.m.?”
But Race was already out the door. As the bell tinkled she yelled, “Do you need a card?”
We watched his retreating back. That boy could move.
With a shrug, Dolly went back to her current customer, Mrs. Mayor Meier, teasing her hair with something that looked like a rake. The mayor’s wife had reached that age when hair soaks up just a little too much blue rinse. When Dolly was done, Mrs. Meier could have posed for Separated at Birth: the Unknown Twin of Marge Simpson. Marge—I mean Mrs. Meier tipped Dolly a dollar and ducked going out the door.
“I’m ready for you now, sugar.” Dolly led me back to a private room. “So, what are we doing today? The full Brazilian?”
“What?” Complete deforestation of my nether hair? “Why would you think I’d want that?”
“For your new boyfriend.” Dolly pulled out the wax kit. “Nice bod, but I gotta be honest with you. From that pic, he seems a little kinky. Mind you, I like a good chain and shackle myself sometimes. Blows out the old carburetor, if you know what I mean.”
“Uh, Dolly…” I really didn’t want to think about Dolly’s carburetor getting blown. And then— “My boyfriend?” I had sent the dungeon picture anonymously. Unsigned. How could she have connected it to me?
“The gorgeous blond doing the doggie trot,” she clarified, popping gum. “What Robert Pattinson wants to look like when he grows up. Lay on the table and pull up your dress. I’m glad you found someone, sugar. You know, after that scumbag Botcher. Sixteen months? Time to put it behind you. Now pull down the panties. Nice pink lace.”
I removed my underwear, wondering just how involved a bikini wax was. I’d never had one before. “They just came up in the rotation. That they match my dress is totally coincidental. Honest. Dolly, how did you know the picture was from me?”
Dolly’s crack of gum told me she didn’t believe me about the panties. “My mailing daemon. Close your eyes, sugar. I’m throwing in a free eye compress. Cucumber and cream, great for those dark circles.”
Circles which were getting even darker from her revelations. A daemon in this case was not an underworld imp, nor even the luscious Warlord Prince of Anne Bishop’s Black Jewels books. It was a small computer program that ran in the background on any multitasking operating system but most often in Unix. Windows used Services. “Dolly, how did you get a mailing daemon?”
She clicked scissors, started trimming. “You know Marge Meier, just left? She knows Josephine Schrimpf, who eats at the Eincastle Country Club with Donna Marter, who knows head chef La Pastralli, that Italian genius who sometimes cooks for the Seattle branch of Rusterman’s restaurant where Bill Gates sometimes eats.”
“Bill Gates wrote your daemon?” That was like Barack Obama campaigning for your Student Council bid.
“He didn’t want to at first, something about not coding in eunuchs.”
“Unix,” I said faintly. A warm, slightly sticky fluid brushed onto my crotch. It felt a little too close to center field, if you know what I mean, but again I was new at this.
“Whatever, sugar. But nobody can say no to La Pastralli. So I got me a mailing daemon.” Scissors clicked again, sounding like she was trimming cloth.
“And it told you I sent the email.”
“I already guessed, though.” Dolly patted cloth onto me. “Now, this won’t hurt a bit.”
Right. It already hurt. Because if Dolly knew I’d sent the picture, then who else knew? Elias? My boss? Logan himself? “Did you tell anyone?”
“Of course not.” Dolly sounded affronted. “I’m no blabbermouth.”
Coming from the town gossip, this was not reassuring. I heard a rip. I wondered what had caused it. “Did you hear—?”
Bees, thousands of them, jabbed me viciously in the crotch. “Fuck!” My hand dove down automatically to cover my vulva. Trying to protect it, too late. My fingers encountered only naked, puffy skin. I threw off the compresses and glared at Dolly. “What’d you do that for?”
“Just trying to be discreet.” Dolly looked slightly miffed. “If you want me to tell people that you sent the picture, I will.”
Chapter Eight
Once I convinced Dolly I didn’t really want her to tell anyone about my little—heh-heh—joke on Logan (tipping her a couple Hamiltons), I stuffed my pink undies into my purse, took my poor denuded crotch (yes, I let her finish the job. What part of free is unclear?) and slunk out into the crisp evening. I headed east on Jefferson toward Der Lebensmittelgeschaft (MC grocery store), to pick up a few things. Despite my squawking genitals I still had to eat.
“You shouldn’t be alone at night,” a deep voice drawled.
Nerves scraped thin by the morning from hell, the unexpected blood delivery, the eerie alarm code params and the double-shock of Dolly buckled. I leaped out of my skin like a pole-vaulter, only to be caught by two strong hands.
“Jumping quad cores!” I glared up into the sparkling eyes of Logan Steel. “Don’t do that appearing-out-of-nowhere stuff. At least do the smoky thing first.”
He went still. Not surprised still. Weird still, as if time itself had stopped. No breath, no movement, not even a twitch. Alien still. “What do you mean?”
“The smoke-and-mirrors stuff you security experts do. The super-spy thing.”
“Oh.” He relaxed into a more normal stillness. “Super-spy smoke. Of course. Where are you headed?”
“Grocer’s. I’m out of cheesy curls and diet Dew.”
“Ah, the staples.” He held out his hand, indicating I should go first, and fell in next to me.
I gave his saunter a sidelong glance. Damn, the man even walked like sex. “I can get there by myself, okay? You don’t have to come.”
“But I’d like to. Come, that is.” He gave me a saucy wink.
I rolled my eyes. “Is everything a big sex game to you?”
His sparkling leer said it all.
“Come,” I repeated with a snort. “What a stupid word for orgasm. Who thought that up, anyway? I mean, who connected the word for enter with sexual climax? A guy poking a door open with his erection? ‘Darling, I’m coming?’ Only what if the door slammed shut?”
Logan winced, then stared at me like he was seeing
me for the first time—and what he saw unsettled him.
Well, that was a nice change. Suave Logan Steel, unsettled. “And blow job. How ridiculous is that? Blow, implying pushing out, when it’s all about sucking in, isn’t it?”
“Um, yeah.” Logan adjusted his jeans like they were suddenly uncomfortable.
“And what about all the idiotic words for genitals? Prick, like it’s a teeny-weeny poker. Pussy, like it’s furry with sharp little teeth. What’s with that?”
Logan covered his face like he wanted to either laugh or cry. “You can use the Latin terms. Penis and vulva.”
“Peee-nis.” I tested it on my tongue. The word, not the thing. Although I wondered what Logan’s—not going there. “Too much like wiener. And vulva sounds like a car.”
Logan uncovered his face. “A car.”
I adopted a deep announcer’s voice. “Fellatio. An Italian Sports Car for Real Men.”
“You mean for guys who read slick magazines with articles like ‘Make Her Shriek in Bed’.”
“Exactly! And cunnilingus. Doesn’t that sound like a disease carried by mosquitoes?”
“You know, you’ve put me off oral sex for the rest of my life.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
“You’re probably right.”
We walked in silence for a few blocks. When I wasn’t arguing with—or running from—him, Logan was surprisingly easy to walk with. He had a long, loose stride that he matched to mine and a pleasant habit of looking around as if interested in every bunny and building he saw.
We were strolling across the river and I was beginning to enjoy myself when he said, “All the security programs are installed and tested.”
“Oh.” Why did he have to keep opening his mouth? It just spoiled everything.
“I saw you did the data extracts so I did the imports. Hope you don’t mind.”
Mind that my job was now gone? “No. Great. I’ll just turn off my programs, then.”
“Already done,” Logan said cheerfully.
“How helpful.”
“Should we go over there?” He pointed at Settler’s Square, Meiers Corners’ main park. “That band shell looks interesting.”
“Sure.” Might as well stake out a bench for when I was out of a job.
“Anyway, I’ll train you on the new programs tomorrow. My guys fought over who gets to do it. But I put my foot down.”
Logan’s words didn’t make sense. I was getting trained on the new stuff? I gave him a sidelong glance.
He flashed his brilliant white smile as he mounted the steps of the picturesque Oom-pa-pa Bandshell. “Being the boss has some perks.”
Boss. I groaned as I followed. Logan wouldn’t be a boss much longer. Not once Dirkson and Elias horsewhipped him over the photoshopped picture. And if Logan figured out who’d sent it, I’d be lucky to only get fired.
Logan Steel, for all his insouciance, did not strike me as a man to cross lightly.
Hitting the stage, he cocked his head at me. “You’re not as excited as I hoped.”
The shell amplified the deep concern in his voice. Concern for me. I winced. “Training is good. It’s just that…well…”
“It’s him, isn’t it.” Logan actually snarled. “The man who hurt you. The one who made you so mistrustful. The one who gave you that fucking fake ring that you use like a shield.” His anger reverberated off the giant cone around us. “I’ll kill him. I’ll tear out his throat—with my teeth. I’ll rip his cock off and stuff it in his lying, cheating mouth.”
“How do you know he lied and cheated?”
“Oh, Liese, it’s obvious.” Logan took me by the arms. “You’re like the sun, honest and bright. Only someone the complete antithesis of that could steal your sunshine.”
Ouch. “Logan, I’m not as honest as you think.”
“Sunshine,” he repeated. He kissed me, then kissed me again. “You’re made for joy, princess. For lovemaking. I want to make the sweetest love to you. In fact, I think I’m falling in—” He raised his head suddenly, nostrils flaring. “Hell. Not now, damn it.”
At the far edge of the Square, something moved. Several somethings.
I was glad for the interruption. Because for just one moment, I’d forgotten the misery I’d made of my life. For one moment I’d actually wanted Logan to make love to me, wanted the joy and sunshine he could bring. Logan Steel was a sorcerer, making me believe the impossible. I was glad for the oath that broke the enchantment.
I was glad, dammit.
Logan pushed me behind him. “It won’t do any good, Shiv.” His voice carried, magnified by the band shell. “The complete security’s installed. We’ve cut off Razor’s avenue of crime. Shaved his options. Don’t come any closer, unless your gang can handle a sharp Steel blade.”
Shiv? Another of Razor’s gang? Footsteps rang on the Bandshell stairs. I craned my neck around Logan, glimpsed a scary guy before Logan palmed me back. Rail-thin, skull-headed, with blazing red eyes, like Gollum grown up.
“So?” Shiv had a contemptuous, whiny voice. “She’ll know the codes to shut your fancy security down.”
Instantly Logan’s insouciance was gone, his graceful teasing not even a memory. “You will leave her out of it.”
“Hey, don’t blame me. You’re the one who brought her into it.”
She? Zinnia or Brianna? I was surprised how much that hurt, way more than Botcher. But anything that turned Logan serious was a real threat. Again I tried to see, caught lithe forms emerging from behind playground equipment before Logan grabbed my wrists and yanked me flush against his back.
“If you dare touch her… Did Razor put you up to this?” Logan wrapped my arms over his taut belly and held me pinned with one hand, my face plastered to his jacket.
“Naw. He’s trying to be subtle.” Shiv cawed laughter. “I like the more direct approach. Four of us, one of you. Once you’re out of the way she’s unprotected.”
“She doesn’t know anything.” Logan’s growl burred against me where I pressed to his back. “And the system is automatic. There are no override codes.”
Several snarls greeted that information. But Shiv gave a wicked snort. “You can lie better than that, Steel. You wouldn’t risk one of your precious donors getting electrocuted.”
“Get it through your thick skull, Shiv. She’s not my donor.”
Logan had a personal donor? Whoever this “she” was, he cared enough to be deadly serious when it came to her. Oh, to be that lucky she.
Or to be loose to kick some ass. I’d take that, too.
“Come on, Steel. Why have a chew toy if you’re not going to—chew?” Another laugh, a real villain’s cackle. Whoever this Shiv was, I didn’t like him at all. I expected him to break into a creepy chorus of my precioussss at any moment.
“Believe what you will. But believe this. You even touch her and I will not rest until you are in pieces.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Shiv sneered. “What you gonna do? Sic your Ancient One on me? Ooh, I’m scared—ack.”
Logan’s free arm jerked like he was drawing a weapon, sketched a couple quick slashes. I couldn’t see what he was doing—but I saw the result. Red liquid sprayed onto the concrete platform, splatting like oily rain. I didn’t think it was raspberry jam.
Acid hit my stomach. I wrenched back but Logan held me in an unbreakable grip. Beyond him I heard angry snarls, the rest of Razor’s gang. “Logan, let me go.” I struggled in his grasp. Didn’t he realize I could help? “Logan, let go!”
He spun, grabbed me in a brief hug. “Sorry, but I don’t want you seeing this.” He tackled my lips with a quick kiss—and pulled my dress up over my head.
“What the hell?”
“Blame Julian Emerson. It’s his idea.”
A few quick tugs and the dress was tied off. I was trapped in a bag of coat and silk skirt. If Logan’s objective was to blind me it worked. I was grudgingly impressed—I wasn’t the only one good at using materials at hand. But what
in Pascal’s name was so awful he had to trap me?
A chill wind blew over my exposed hips—and I realized I had bigger problems. With my undies in my purse, I was literally butt-naked.
From beyond my cocoon of coat and dress, I heard an indrawn breath. A rattle, like someone choking. A wheeze, someone else having a heart attack. And an absolute storm of coughing.
“Good Lord, Liese.” Logan’s voice was hoarse. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“Um…no.” I couldn’t cover myself, with the silken straightjacket. “Let me out?”
“I can’t even move, sweetheart. Damn. That pretty little pink slit…” He groaned.
“Steel,” a new voice shouted from beyond my prison, unisex gravel, the Lucille Ball from hell. “You’re gonna pay for what you did to Shiv. We’re gonna slash you, Steel. We’re gonna pull out your heart and…and…what the hell is that?”
“Nothing you should be seeing.”
I heard a whistling, like knives slicing through the air.
“Ow! My eyes. Hell, I’m half-blind. Skiver, Scythe—get Steel.”
Shiv, Skiver and Scythe? What, and their kid brother Weed Whacker? Couldn’t they be a bit more imaginative with the names?
Two voices answered. “Hang on, Maim!”
Nope.
“The female snack’s mine,” the gravelly voice of Maim shouted.
Uh-oh. That didn’t sound good. Without hands I couldn’t pepper spray. In these high-heels, I couldn’t kick. Hell, I was in danger of falling on my naked keister if a stiff breeze came up.
But sounds of furious three-to-one fighting booming in the band shell meant I had to do something. Even if Logan had almost blinded Maim, even if he’d done something bloody-splat to Shiv, there were still Scythe and Skiver trying to split his leather. I needed to do something, anything to even the score.
I turned my butt toward the ruckus and bent over.
Someone stumbled. Someone else swore. A roar of confusion was followed by the sound of bodies blundering over each other and hitting the concrete stage.