Sugar Skulls Page 18

  Grabbing me around the waist, he lifts me off the ground. “Boy, the manners of some people,” he says, packing me up the stairs as I fake-struggle in his arms. “Like everyone will just give them stuff if they stand around and scream.”

  “You don’t seem to respond to screaming as well as you respond to other things,” I mutter.

  Micah’s arms are still clamped around my waist, and he gets in one more good squeeze before setting me down. “Depends on the other things.”

  “That sounds like a challenge to me.” Setting my jaw, I pull him through the turnstile.

  No one’s manning the entrance anymore; that’s good.

  God, I’m even thinking like him now.

  The moment we set foot in the building, we run smack into a wall of cold. They’re running the AC about ten degrees below what’s comfortable, encouraging people to keep warm however they can. Beyond that, the central viewing room sports an arched ceiling with shifting star-projections. Perfect acoustics for hypno-trance music. The seats not only recline, but they dispense a variety of viewing enhancers like ticker tape.

  Trouble is, in the months since the opening, it’s apparently become a magnet for off-duty greyfaces as well as light-sensitive burnouts. I can count at least six over-21s gathered in one of the back rows, joking with each other, thankfully not paying a lot of attention to those around them.

  But still. All it’s going to take is one of them looking over here and recognizing me. Or Micah. Then we’re toast.

  Micah’s pace slows, and he looks around, probably for convenient exits. But he doesn’t know the layout, not like I do. I give his hand a little tug, and he nods without looking at me.

  I draw him down a corridor that grows progressively darker, the sconces shifting from gentle white night-lights to the palest of blues to violet and finally to black light. Neon-green swirls on the walls, artificial fog on the floor, and you might as well be flying to Neverland. I pull Micah into the alcove second from the end.

  I only take two steps before hitting a wall. The room is tiny, smaller even than Micah’s storage closet. It’s pitch black inside until he closes the curtain behind us, then everything lights up pale purple. Overhead, there are plastic bins of bioluminescent body glitter, tubes of glo-paint, flavored lick-and-stick patches. We haven’t discussed his views on reindeer games, but I figure now is perhaps not the most opportune time for that.

  Standing so close, I can feel Micah’s heart pounding. His voice is steady as ever, though. “How long before it’s okay to leave, do you think?”

  “I’m not sure. We should probably give it a half hour for the greyfaces to clear out, just to be on the safe side.”

  The sprinkler overhead lets loose with vaporized moondust that drifts over us in a green-glowing mist, sticking to whatever skin is showing. One deep inhalation, and random spots of color wink in and out of existence. It doesn’t hit anyone hard or fast, or Cyrene would still be charging for it. And I don’t think it’s doing anything at all for Micah.

  That’s my job.

  He meets my steady gaze and pays it back with interest. Something inside me breaks, some little piece of armor slips away, and even if I wanted to stop it, I can’t. Here, with him, it’s all too surreal to stay guarded. I kiss him thoroughly before he can say anything. There’s something about being on the run that puts a girl on edge. I’m suddenly desperate to hold him, to feel something other than the fear that Damon’s onto us, that he’s got the rope around our necks and we just don’t know it yet. Micah matches me, kiss for frantic kiss.

  This is going all Romeo and Juliet too fucking fast for my taste.

  M

  After a long, circuitous trip along the side streets and back alleys of Cyrene, giving Vee her first real taste of evasive maneuvers, we return to the familiar stone-and-copper patchwork of the warren.

  This isn’t how I wanted her first day of freedom to go. All the near misses are taking their toll, and she nervously paces back and forth, running her fingers along the copper grid as she passes.

  She’s a fucking trooper. She really is. All this change, coming fast and furious, and she rebounds. Still floating. Still fighting.

  I think it’s high time she got some sort of reward. A treat. Something meant for her and her alone.

  I just hope she likes it.

  I take her by both hands, interrupting her ninth or tenth pass, leading her over to the cot. “There’s something that helps me unwind. Maybe it’ll help you, too. Here, sit down for a sec.”

  She flops down onto the bed, gorgeous even in exhaustion. When the iron door of the storage locker swings open, she looks up, tilting her head like a curious puppy. With Lara free of her case and draped over my shoulder, I step into view.

  Vee’s gaze drops immediately to the guitar. “I didn’t know—” she says, but she cuts herself off. There’s so much we don’t actually know about each other that there’s no point starting a list now. She curls her legs underneath her, making room on the bed for me.

  A few strums of the strings, and one deep breath later, I settle in on the bed, my private stage for one supremely important ticket holder. Our eyes meet, and hers sparkle in the dim light.

  No pressure there.

  I tap Lara three times just below her bridge to set the beat, then let my fingers take over, teasing out a simple melody. I lick my lips, close my eyes, step to the waterfall’s edge, and dive in.

  You came in through an unguarded window,

  Finding me alone in this dark and empty space,

  Creeping through my every waking thought,

  Quiet as a mouse, and vibrant as the chase.

  I hazard a peek at her through clenched eyelids, and she’s hugging the pillow to her chest. I don’t know if she’s hiding behind it or putting something between us or … My mind jumps to the most catastrophic conclusions, even as the rest of me continues.

  Lithe as a cat, prowling through the rooms,

  Footfalls in pools of thought and light,

  You wander lazy avenues in mind and heart,

  Oh, to amble there with you tonight …

  I can’t look. I watch my fingers, the strings, my eyelids, anything but her face as I warble such heartfelt, treacly bullshit to her. Why did I think this was a good idea?

  But I must open my eyes, open the door,

  Let in the wind and cold and brave the blame.

  If this was just a fantasy, a dream,

  Smoke and dirty ashes, not torrid flame.

  My eyes alight on hers, those shimmering pools of golden brown that warm my soul and give me shivers all at once. Okay, big finish. All or nothing. I almost whisper the last verse.

  I could’ve closed my eyes and listened,

  Marked the eons by your gentle pace …

  Instead I turn around and find you here

  And marvel as you take the figment’s place.

  I stare at her, dark curls framing her face, lips slightly parted in the soft lamplight. I try to divine her thoughts, what she’s feeling, but hopes and doubts alike dance across my forebrain. Either way, I don’t want this moment to end.

  I could’ve closed my eyes and listened,

  Marked the eons by your gentle pace …

  Her voice, melodious and smooth, joins me in the refrain, and we share the last two lines:

  Instead I turn around and find you here

  And marvel as you take the figment’s place.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  V

  From the bed, I’ve been surreptitiously watching Micah for at least ten minutes. Yeah, I admit it, I was admiring the view. My awareness of him—the way he moves, the way he breathes—hasn’t softened in our time together. If anything, it’s sharpened. Cutting into me with every intercepted glance. Every easy smile.

  Except he’s not smiling just now. He should be rolling through his morning routine, peering out one of his spyholes to check the weather or tidying up our clothes, but instead he’s just standing there, lost
in thought.

  It’s unnerving, to see him so still.

  Eventually, he pulls an envelope from the pocket of his discarded jeans and settles in on the floor, carefully unfolding the paper so as not to disturb me.

  I prop myself up on my elbow. “What are you reading?”

  He jumps. Looking equal parts startled and guilty, he folds up the paper one-handed, like he’s about to hide it behind him. “I … I thought you were asleep.”

  “Micah, what is that?” We both look at the partly crumpled paper, and I wonder if he’ll lie to me. Lie to protect me, or to protect himself.

  “It’s an autopsy report,” he finally says.

  I laugh at the admission, so ridiculous in the moment, but when he doesn’t crack a smile, I stop, feeling like a complete ass. “Oh, I thought you were kidding.”

  “Niko passed it to me yesterday morning before our shower.” He walks over to the bed and hands me the page.

  I skim it, skipping over the grislier details. “Who OD’d?”

  “The dealer. The one who sold me the applejack that killed my friends. In six months, I’ve found nothing, no trace of him. Just bits and pieces of the operation he dealt for. There were rumors he died before I snuck back into the city, but this is the first tangible proof.” Micah slumps to the floor beside the cot, disappointment in his eyes.

  My first instinct is to reach for him, but I hold back, still processing the new information. “You had this on you all day yesterday and didn’t say anything? Not a peep?”

  And I had no idea that he was carrying a weight like this. Way to be observant, Vee.

  “I knew it was going to be bad, I just didn’t know how bad until a few minutes ago.” He licks his lips, considering his next words carefully before turning to meet my gaze. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I wanted yesterday to be about you, a perfect day.” He brushes the hair from his eyes. “Didn’t really work out that way.”

  “You’ve been chasing this guy down for six months. That’s probably a little more important than a day out and about.” I can’t make up my mind if I should be pissed he kept this to himself or hurt that he might not have told me at all if I hadn’t caught him. Before I can decide, there’s a sudden rush of tears. I try to rub them away before he can see.

  Angry and hurt. No need to pick just one.

  Micah’s eyes follow every tear streaking down my cheeks, as if blaming himself for each one. “I haven’t trusted anyone in a long time, Vee. Maggie has no idea why I’m really here. Can’t trust the other runners. Niko knows a little, but not enough to get him in trouble with Corporate. It’s been just me. I’ve gotten really good at keeping things to myself. I know that’s no excuse …”

  I put one hand on either side of his face. “I’m here with you. I’m in this all the way. And I need to know that you feel the same. No fucking secrets, Micah. Not between us. Not ever.”

  Nodding, he responds instantly, “I promise. No more secrets. You and me, two against the world.”

  “Good.” Leaning closer to him, I stroke his cheek, and his eyes close, the simple contact comforting us both.

  “Um, speaking of no more secrets …” Micah’s eyes open. “That guy, in the park. I know him, and I don’t think that little encounter was an accident.”

  My stomach ties itself into a knot. “What do you mean?”

  “His name’s Ludo. He’s a regular at Sidri’s, a real lowlife. Riprap, glim, whatever he can get his hands on.”

  “And he’s following you because he thinks something is up?”

  Micah nods. “Ludo knows I’ve been looking for that dealer. With him gone—and no luck with the list of drops Maggie left me—the only option is to keep working my way up the chain.” He hesitates here, obviously with a target in mind. “There’s a guy, another scumbag, who’s handling the Hellcat’s distribution. Probably has Ludo on his payroll. Could get me back on track. I could run a few drops for him, see if he’s pushing Maggie’s usual or something worse.”

  “We could run a few drops for him, you mean,” I correct Micah. Knowing he’s going to protest, I rush to explain. “I’m not going to hang out here while you chase after the bad guys. That dirty shit almost killed me. Hell, it could have been Jax or Sasha taking that tab off Adonis, and what then? No security detail with us that night, no fucked-up nanotech to kick them off-grid, no Rivitocin to keep them from burning up … They could have died.” I push the blankets aside to sit up in the bed and wrap my arms around him. “I’m going to help you end this.”

  When Micah stands up, he takes me with him. “There is one key logistical thing we should take care of, then.” He strokes my back up and down, leaving warm trails on my skin. “We need to set you up with some … ladygear.”

  I meet that perfect blue gaze for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Ladygear?”

  He smirks but valiantly continues. “Well, technically, they’re unmentionables.”

  I break away to grab the nearest blanket, wrapping it around me to cover up the bits drawing so much solicitous concern. “I don’t want to use your credits on clothes, Micah.”

  The smirk fades, and he looks at me with genuine concern. “Vee, yesterday we were lucky. But if we need to run, if we need to scram in a hurry, I can’t imagine you’d be all that comfortable at a dead sprint with nothing between you and my jeans, or without some front-bumper support.”

  Reaching out, he passes the last of his clean shirts off to me. My hands full of thin white cotton, I try not to wonder how many mornings we have before it all unravels. The longer this lasts, the more we overlap, the edges between us blurring until it’s not him and me, just us.

  I get a weird lump in my throat that I swear I’ll swallow or die trying. “Bra shopping it is. Even if it’s just an excuse to put on a fashion show for you …” I think about the Loft for the first time since detoxing off the applejack, suddenly reminded of the drawers and drawers of expensive lingerie. Matching sets of lace and ribbon, all of it neatly organized by color and stored with tiny perfumed packets. I’d worn it, sure. Shown it off to my fair share of people. But I’d never worn it for someone.

  “Where’s the best place to go?” Micah is digging out the last of the protein bars and water bottles and stashing them in his faded black messenger bag, so he doesn’t see my face burning. Doesn’t ask me what I’m thinking, thank god.

  I pull on his jeans, suddenly hyperaware that there’s nothing between me and his pants. “The Cordray District, probably. There are some big box stores, and it’s less of a zoo than the mall.” After jamming my feet into my cut-off boots, I reach for the hoodie I’ve commandeered and leave my hair to do whatever it’s going to do. “Let’s move.”

  He snags me by my back pocket, stage-whispering, “Don’t forget that you promised me a fashion show.”

  M

  After a brief and memorable bit of lingerie modeling, not to mention several rounds of “Aren’t you going to hold my purse?” “I’d have to buy you a purse to hold first!”, Vee is properly outfitted with one item for the penthouse and a few options for the ground floor, and we make tracks for Maggie’s warehouse.

  Once we’re within spitting distance of the building, I hold up a hand and stop us. Vee tips up her sunglasses and cocks an eyebrow.

  “I know asking you to hang back would be pointless, but keep your head on a swivel. I haven’t been able to pin anything on him, but I’ve got plenty of reason to suspect Rete is dealing applejack. So far, he’s played it cool, stepping in during Maggie’s absence, playing friendly manager guy, but that could change in a hurry, and I don’t want you—”

  “I know. Don’t worry. I’ve got your Brights. If things go tits-up, you’ll have to catch me or eat my dust.”

  I smirk, more for me than for her. “Okay. Let’s get into character, then.” In unison, we flip up our hoods and head for the steel door. Vee’s sunglasses are back in place, and I swear there’s a little bit of swagger in her walk.

  That
or a rock in her boot.

  Fire Plug works the door for us, and we step inside. With Scrappy in tow, Rete’s already crossing the distance from Maggie’s little side office, ready to bump my fist or teach me the secret handshake or something. He’s as big an eyesore as ever in maroon bell-bottoms, a pastel tank top, and a gold-rope necklace like a hangman’s noose.

  “Mr. Quick, quick as a cat, always a pleasure. And not alone, I see. What can we do for you this fine day?” Rete keeps his eyes on Vee, but her face is a mask, betraying nothing.

  Nice job, babe.

  “Here to work. I’ve run through the list of drops Maggie left for me. Any word from her?”

  “Not a one, chum. No one’s seen her since Corporate hauled her in, the night of the Sugar Skulls show at her place.”

  Dammit. The longer she’s missing, the worse Rete will get. By the looks of it, he’s already made the office his wannabe command center. “Well, I figure you’ll have no problem putting me to work until Maggie is back in charge.”

  Rete pauses, as if he needs to take a second to size us up, the smug ass. He strokes his gold chain, like a supervillain petting a cat. “Of course, ace, of course. There’s plenty to move, and you’re a proven commodity.” He turns to Vee. “You know, I’m always on the lookout for worthwhile talent. The strawberry here should be a great addition to the team.”

  There’s the sales pitch, already locked and loaded. Vee shifts slightly on her feet, but says nothing, even as Rete reaches for her. She holds up one hand and he freezes when he spots her knuckle jewelry. After a long second, she flips the hood back herself. I know what she’s thinking. It’s a risky move, but she’s in, all in.

  I stay perfectly still, because if I don’t, I’ll belt the guy, whether he recognizes her or not. “No dice. The girl’s not in play. You know what I can do, just give me a chance to do it.”

  Rete nods at her and puts up one finger. “Let me and your boy have a little confab in private.” He escorts me toward the office built into the wall, and I look back over my shoulder at Vee. She looks too small for the space she’s standing in, right up to the point that Fire Plug gets unnecessarily close, reaching past her for something on a shelf. Without so much as blinking, Vee clocks him in the jaw with the Brights. Fire Plug drops like a sack of cement and stays down. Scrappy wisely backs off.