Head Rush (2 page)

“Nah, I want to be in your wedding. I think it’ll be fun…in a totally messed up way.”

“Are you just trying to get back with Ez?” I ask.

He gives me a jaundiced look. “It’ll take more than your wedding to pull
that
one out of the fire.”

“Right,” I say.

He grunts. “We’re better suited for frenemies anyway.”

Ez, one of my other bridesmaids, dated Simon for a few weeks. It seemed to be going well until he zinged her, infusing her with recklessness. She dumped him the day after.

So why the wedding? As he steers his mean machine around garbage and potholes, the two of us on yet another one of our weird outings, the strangest thought occurs to me:
because we’re friends
. In fact, I might be his best friend in the world. Is that why he wants to be in my wedding?

“So are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asks.

“Doubtful.”

“Got your keys, right?”

“Does this involve crashing through that gate down there?”

He slams on the brakes and turns to me with a glint in his dark blue eyes. “You
are
thinking what I’m thinking,” he says.

“No. I’m thinking there’s no way in the world I’m stealing my own car.”

He puts a hand on my wrist. “I’ve got something that’ll help with that.”

I jerk away from him. “Don’t you dare.”

“Just a little.”

“Forget it!”

“It’ll counteract your fear.”

He wants to zing me with his recklessness. “It was stupid to do it to Ez, and it’ll be even stupider to do it to me.”

“You sure?”

I say, “The mayor’s fiancée will not be going on a gate-crashing and car-stealing spree today. We’re going to continue on to that little office and explain the circumstances, and they’ll unlock the gate and give me my car.”

“They won’t see it in their system,” he says. “You really think they’ll come out to check?”

“That’s exactly what I think.”

“Because they’ll recognize you?”

I snort. “You think they read the
Midcity Eagle
’s society section up here?”

This is one of the reasons I like coming to North Midcity—people don’t recognize me, they don’t treat me like the future first lady of Midcity. “They’ll do it because they screwed up and they’ll want to make it right.”

“We’ll see about that, Pollyanna.” Simon peels out, fishtailing around another garbage pile, and then we shoot forward, mud spewing behind us.

The impound office is a small, low concrete building the size of a trailer. There’s a metal door on one end, and on the other is a service window with a cage-like covering. Midcitians don’t take kindly to their cars being towed and being charged to get them back.

We park and go up to the window. The scratched Plexiglas panel behind the cage covering slides to the side and a red-faced fellow glares out at us. He wears a cap with a pesticide logo on it, his lips are pierced in two places, and his shirt says Steve.

He lifts a walkie-talkie to his lips and mumbles into it, then slams the thing down. “What were you doing driving around on the access road? Were you just up on the ridge?”

“Yes we were,” Simon says, managing to make it sound like the ultimate insult.

I kick him and explain to Steve about finding my car.

“No one’s allowed on that ridge.” Steve barks. “That entire side of the complex is restricted. Personnel only.”

Simon grins.

I say. “I’m sorry we did that, but I really do need my car back, and it’s out there.” I push my stolen-car police report through the little slot.

Steve just folds his arms across his chest. “Do you not know the meaning of restricted access? How do we know you’re not a couple of mutant freaks come to attack the place? We would’ve been within our rights to shoot you.”

Simon grins some more.

Just then, a truck squeals up. A burly guy with a droopy moustache jumps out. “What were you doing up on the ridge?” His reflective orange safety vest gleams in the gloom.

“We were looking for my car, that’s all,” I say. “We had a hunch it might be entered into your system wrong, because my friend here heard of a clerical error happening to another car that went missing.” According to Simon’s sources, it was more than one car but I don’t want to insult their operation.

The guy with the moustache looks at me like I’m crazy. “I haven’t heard of any clerical errors.”

I turn to Simon, who’s been unusually quiet, and discover, much to my horror, that he’s aggressively eyeing this new guy, who is twice his size. Eyeing him enough so that, simply put, there’s a
thing
between them now.

“Look,” I say pleasantly, trying to counteract Simon’s insolence. “You have a little gray Jetta out there that’s mine. When this lot was called, there was no record of it. But it’s out there, and I just want to get it back. I have my ID here, and I know it will match the registration, which I know is in the glove compartment, and I also have the keys that go to it.”

“What is this, Cinderella and her glass slipper?” Steve says from behind the window, not taking his hard-assed gaze off Simon. “If there’s an error, we’ll turn it up. We don’t need civilians in restricted areas.”

“We saw my car.”

Simon crosses his arms, gaze boring even harder now into the guy with the moustache. “I think our friends don’t understand who they’re dealing with, Justine.”

I scowl at Simon. He thinks I’m going to play the mayor’s fiancée card?

Simon doesn’t see my scowl; he’s turned his aggressive gaze to Steve. I’m starting to worry; there’s so much heat among the three of them, it’s like a fight’s already started.

“They don’t get who they are dealing with
on any level
,” Simon amends mysteriously.

“Who would that be?” Steve disappears from the window. The metal door opens and out he stomps. “Who would that be? That we’re dealing with here?” Steve goes to stand by the man with the moustache. Convenient. Simon can antagonize them both at the same time.

Finally, Simon turns to me. “Don’t you think somebody needs attitude adjustment?”

My mouth falls open. Simon wants me to zing my fear into them.

“Don’t like our attitude?” the one with the moustache asks Simon.

“Oh my God,” I say as I come to understand his plan: he’s going to put himself in danger and force me to zing them. “Ignore my friend!” I command.

Steve and the man with the moustache ignore me instead.

“He’s
trying
to antagonize you,” I plead. “Don’t fall for it. Look—” I hold up the police report. “This car is out there. How do I get it out? What are the steps? I need your help.”

Steve smirks at Simon. “It’ll be a while.”

“I have an idea,
Steve
,” Simon says. “How about if I rip off this guy’s moustache and shove it up your ass? Will that expedite things?”

“Stop,” I say to Simon, hand on his chest. I turn to Steve and the other man. “Don’t take the bait.”

The man with the moustache steps forward, orange vest flashing. “Nothing’s stopping you.”

Simon takes a step forward. “The image of you, slobbering like a baby and begging me to lay off is stopping me, actually.” He’s now officially in the man’s face. The men have the fight on; it’s in their eyes. Simon will make them hurt him until I cave. “You’ll be sorry,” I say to Simon under my breath.

“What are you waiting for? You know you want it,” Simon says silkily. Steve and the moustachioed guy think Simon’s talking to them, but he’s talking to me.

Yes.
I want it
. I want to zing more than anything.

Simon touches two fingers to the man’s orange vest and shoves. “That’s for you, baby.”

“Don’t.” I pull him away.

Too late. The moustachioed man pushes me out of the way and shoves Simon—hard. Simon stumbles and falls backward onto the ground, laughing.

“Stop!” I yell.

“That’s all you got, you pussy?” Simon grabs up a handful of slushy gravel and whips it into the moustachioed man’s face. The man’s vest seems tighter suddenly, like he’s puffed up with rage; I gasp as he lunges for Simon. He yanks Simon up by the collar and punches him square in the nose. The force of the punch sends Simon stumbling backward, back down.

“Don’t!” I grab the man’s arm, but he pulls out of my grip. I could make him back off if I wanted to. One zing from me and he’d run off in fright.

Simon coughs and smiles at the same time, not bothering to wipe away the blood streaming from his nostrils. He’ll let the man hurt him, and he knows I know it. He takes great joy in following through on bluffs. He grins, and then, out of nowhere, he spits at the man.

“Simon!” I say.

The spit doesn’t hit; it doesn’t have to. The moustachioed man’s eyes turn blank. Blind rage. The eyes don’t see, or more, they don’t take in new information.

Steve pipes up now: “Can’t let that shit stand, Hal.”

I grab the moustachioed man’s arm—Hal’s arm—again. His nostrils flare, like he’s readying to attack. I’m touching him now, and automatically—greedily, excitedly—I locate the surface of his energy dimension. All my fear and worry—I could be rid of it. I grip him harder, reminding myself I’ve sworn off zinging.

The man breathes in a snort, like a mad bull.

Simon gazes up at me with velvety blue eyes, nose vivid with red blood. He has the look of a brilliantly-colored tropical bird. A bad bird, staring, waiting, too far gone in recklessness, about to get badly injured. A part of him hates being there, but it’s where he always goes. I know. I do the same thing with fear, careening into the pit of it, over and over.

The man jerks away from me and stalks toward Simon, who starts scrambling backward, laughing, taunting. Simon saw how close I came and he thinks I’ll give in now. He’s the most warped and brilliant student of human nature you will ever see.

Besides Packard.

One second is all I’d need to unload my fear into Hal; I have enough in me to turn both Hal and Steve into quivering bundles of terror. My fabulous skill, taught to me by Packard during his despot days. The fear builds higher in me—hot, jagged. One zing and I’d be free of it.

Hal hauls Simon up by the jacket sleeve. “You think that’s funny? Spitting at me?”

Bad question. I wince.

“No. I think it’s fucking hilarious.” Simon says.

The man cracks Simon on the side of the head.

“Stop it!” I scream.

Simon’s down again, crawling dazedly on all fours, on fire with his recklessness.

“The spit didn’t even hit you, you jerk!” Oh, I want to zing this guy. I hate myself for it, but that doesn’t stop the wanting. I storm over to him.

Steve’s laughing. “Christ, Hal.”

Simon will go to the hospital. Simon. My friend.

Hal pulls Simon up for more hurt.

“No, you don’t,” I say.

 Simon turns his gaze to me. I expect to see a look of triumph, but there’s just pain. I start stoking it higher. It will be wonderful, delicious. We’re both sick. And I’m going to help him. I grip Hal’s shoulder. I can get to his energy dimension through fabric as easily as I can through skin.

A loud
honk! honk!
stops everything, including Hal, who freezes, fist cocked in the air, like a cartoon man.

A big, shiny, black car screeches to a stop. A back door swings open. A big black boot is planted in the mud. Black velvet pants.

Otto.

Chapter Two

I step back from Hal, mortified. I was about to zing a man!

Otto rises upward, out of the car, surveying the scene. A dark expression plays across his sumptuously large features.

A whisper behind me. “Oops.” Steve.

Hal relinquishes his hold on Simon, who falls back to the ground like a grinning sack of stones.

I walk over to Otto, circle my arms around him. I have a million things to say, and nothing to say, and then he kisses me. The press of his lips on my forehead is like a sigh, his fingertips are whisper-light tingles in my hair. I breathe in the familiar rosemary scent of his hair—thick, dark curls that just graze his collar.

“I was so worried, my love,” he searches my face with his big, soulful eyes.

“It’s okay. We’re okay.”

Simon addresses Otto from the ground—casually, like we’re at a dinner party. “We found her car.”

Otto raises his black-as-coal brows. “You did?”

“Spotted it, anyway,” I say.

He takes a moment to digest this. He seems unhappy about it. “You’re sure you’re all right?” he asks me.

“I am now,” I say, though I wanted to zing that man so badly I’m still trembling with anticipation. I’m so glad I didn’t—for my own integrity, but also, I’d feel as if I were abandoning Otto, leaving him alone in our secret pit of fear. I glare over at Simon.

Otto’s new driver, Smitty, leans casually against the car, but I happen to know he’s working, gathering impressions from the future. Smitty’s a short-term prognosticator, just like Otto’s old driver.

Otto is doing the opposite of what Smitty’s doing: he’s in detective mode, looking at the past, assessing what happened.

He pulls away and takes a step toward the guys, hands clasped behind his back. Before he was mayor, he was a superstar sleuth, and that’s still a big part of him. His jacket is cut long, like an old-west sheriff’s jacket; he favors old-timey stuff like that, always black. I remember staring at his picture years before I met him, marveling, imagining. Being ravished by Detective Otto Sanchez was one of my go-to fantasies back then.

“There’s no trouble here,” Steve says. He’s got his coworker by the coat sleeve and collar. “Those two were sneaking around on restricted public property, and we’re just doing our jobs. Coulda been mutants for all we knew.” By mutants, he means highcaps—humans with mutations that produce different powers. I think how surprised he’d be if he knew Otto was a mutant. A highcap.

Hal grumbles.

Steve jerks him, growls a word or two, then turns back to Otto and continues: “If we’d’ve known this was some official capacity…”

Otto’s got a hand up. He doesn’t want to hear it. Otto sees everything, and his harsh and accusing gaze is now turned to Simon.