Sugar Skulls (20 page)

Rete’s nasty grin widens when I raise my hand another inch. “Keep going,” is his only suggestion.

I shrug. “The less fabric, the more it’s going to cost. You have expensive enough taste to know that.”

Without missing a beat, he tosses a second prepaid on the pile and barks a laugh. “Get her out of here, ace, before I decide to escort her myself.”

Micah grabs the envelope, the cards, and me before I can so much as coo a good-bye to our greasy benefactor. I’m pretty sure my feet don’t fully hit the ground until we’re three blocks away.

“What was all that about?” Micah finally asks.

I don’t mistake his concern and frustration for jealousy, but I still dig in my heels until he’s forced to a stop. On tiptoe, I manage to gently kiss the end of his nose. “I just want the chance to pretty up a bit for you before we go to the club. Why not do it on that asshole’s dime?”

The line of his jaw softens, making my hummingbird heart flutter. Micah still wants so badly to protect me, to take care of me, but—
unlike Damon
—he trusts me enough to handle things myself. “Vee, I just—”

“No worries. A girl could get used to someone giving a damn.” I trade him my parcel for the second prepaid card. “Meet you at The Spot for dinner in an hour.”

M

I shadow Vee for a block before reluctantly stepping back. She’s casual and cautious. She nearly spots me twice in the short time I follow her.
She’s got this. Trust her.

The truth is I do trust her. I just don’t trust this city. With Rete’s barely veiled threat, Ludo sneaking around, and the omnipresent danger of guards and greyfaces, I hate having her more than an arm’s length away.

But she deserves the break. From the warren. From me. From being chaperoned.

I steal one last glimpse of her, then take off at a decent clip, Rete’s other prepaid in my pocket and the parcels in my bag. It’ll take some time to get back to the Arkcell, but it’s a worthwhile side trip.

Missing the trolley by a few seconds, I book it for the bridge, making up some time by hopping fences along the back alleys of the Jobalign. I slow down before crossing into the Odeaglow and duck into the back entrance of Needle & Threads, my usual place for picking up club gear at a decent price.

For one night, at least, I can look the part of a guy who actually deserves Vee’s time and attention. I bypass the bargain racks and remaindered wear and head for the front, zeroing in on the smoky gray dress shirt on the side rack.
Definitely my style, but a little high-end for running around Cyrene.
There’s a matching darker vest and tie; I debate for a few seconds before picking them up, as well.

Fingers crossed I won’t look like a total douche. Or like that asshat piece-of-shit manager of hers.

I snake a pair of passable dress shoes for half price and run the prepaid through the system, ringing it all up. Snagging the biggest shopping bag they have, I head for home, picking up the laundry along the way.

With only a minor complaint from my ribs—thankfully, they
finally
seem to be on the mend—I scale the stone supports and slip behind the heavy tarp. As I put down the bags, the silence in the warren surprises me. It feels empty without her. I sigh, and then smile, picking up traces of her in the air, a comforting ghost.

I stash away the laundry, pulling out a fresh pair of jeans for tonight before opening up the storage closet, grabbing a few tools, and settling in to work on a surprise for her. Only a few minutes’ labor, but it’s intricate, demanding patience and a steady hand.

Once it’s done, I admire my handiwork, then quickly replace the tools, lock up the closet, grab my new duds, and head out, leaving behind the lingering wisps of her.

I snag the briefest of showers at the gym, successfully dodging both scanners and recruits who exchange workout-thrum production for credits and a bit more definition, then I hit a coffee shop close to The Spot and change into my semiformal gear.

Not too shabby, if I say so myself.
A fingercomb of the hair later, I stroll nonchalantly toward our rendezvous, bag with the usual Micah-wear in hand.

V

I head straight for the Paleteni Mall. An emporium of cheese, sure, but I need options and I need them fast. Ducking into the air-conditioned building, I force myself to move with confident ease, the same not-too-fast, not-too-slow, just-right pace that’s served us so well over the last few days.

The building is surreal enough, with its glass cathedral ceilings, steel beams, and massive fountains, but I also have to contend with fresh memories of the riot, the miniconcert, crowd-surfing out the doors.

That happened to someone else.

It helps that no one’s paying any kind of attention to me today. At most, I’m getting the occasional odd look for being so underdressed, but it’s time to change that. The first three stores are a bust. Everything is disco-ball shiny, covered in sequins or shedding glitter. I have no problem with tarting up, but I doubt tonight’s venue calls for anything that bright. Taking a cue from Micah’s everyday wear, I need something in muted colors.

That doesn’t mean boring. Not by a long shot.

By the time I hit store number four, I’m ripping through the racks like lightning. I don’t know why it’s stressing me out so much, the idea of spending the evening with him. We’ve been inseparable, living in each other’s pockets. He’s listened to me pee, for god’s sake. But we’ve been living without expectations for days . . .

And now I have them again. That, and flutters in my midsection at the idea of dressing up. Showing off.

For him.

The promise of the perfect dress is halfway down the row. Short . . . Shorter even than Rete would have expected. Silky, the sort of fabric that puddles in the hand without crumpling. Pewter gray. I didn’t realize until that second that I’d been looking for something that would remind Micah of the shirt I was wearing that night at the Palace. Not a speck of metal on it anywhere, but it’s backless, too.

No need for “ladygear” on top.

I do, however, grab a pair of black lace panties. The perfect shoes are one department over: heeled sandals that remind me of gladiators in an arena. I head for the self-checkout line, zipping Rete’s card through the machine and breathing a sigh of relief when the light turns green. Sliding everything in a bag, I check the nearest clock and let myself relax just an inch. Plenty of time left for finish work.

Heading for the exit takes me down the endless rows of cosmetics. Pausing at each counter only long enough to use a sample and then split before someone barges over to offer assistance, I manage to put on dabs of foundation, silver eye shadow, tinted cheek-slick, lip gloss. Getting the eyeliner and mascara on without drawing notice requires circling the same kiosk three times, but by the time I’m done, the mirror tells me good things.

I let the girl wielding the bottle of Millennium fog me a good one on the way out the door. After a pit stop and a quick change in the bathroom, a different person—one who’s just as foreign as she is familiar—stares back at me.

Fingers crossed that Micah likes what he sees.

I blow myself a kiss, shove my hacked-off boots and borrowed threads into the empty shopping bag, and head out the door.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

M

Arriving a few minutes early, I stake out an inconspicuous spot on the sidewalk near the restaurant. I give my outfit a once-over—sleeves rolled up just so, buttons buttoned, fly up—and god help me, I even do a breath check.

The deadline passes. Then a few minutes.

Then a few more minutes.
Cue the worrying.
I scan up and down the streets, ignoring the honking of cars and the ding of an approaching trolley as I keep my eyes peeled for Vee. The trolley rolls to a halt in front of the restaurant, and everything stops when she appears. All of my doubts, fears, and worries turn to smoke and drift lazily away.

She’s a vision of slinky elegance, her whisper of a dress making all other dresses everywhere insanely jealous. With a few simple brushes of makeup, a new Vee emerges, one I haven’t seen before. Not the one for the fans, or the one hiding out from Damon, but one she chooses for herself. I offer my hand to help her down, and she accepts it with grace, taking the few steps in her own time.

Vee’s hand still in mine, I spin it above her head, and she obliges me by following it in a slow twirl that steals my breath. She beams, obviously having gotten the reaction she hoped for. I hunt for the right words, telling painters to abandon their canvases and poets that there aren’t enough golden apples to offer or ships to launch in her name. But when I find my voice again, all I can manage is, “You look stunning. Absolutely stunning.” I hope my eyes speak the words I can’t.

With faux coyness, she replies, “Oh, yeah, I clean up pretty good.” She smiles, kisses me softly, then leans even closer to whisper in my ear, “Your vest is doing unholy things to me, I have to tell you.”

I take her bag in the same hand as my own and offer her my other arm. She accepts it with a smile and a tip of her imaginary hat, and we head inside, grateful for the subdued amber lighting that makes The Spot so ideal for those who prefer their privacy. Tucking our bags against the wall, we grab a corner table near the back, opting to sit on neighboring sides instead of facing each other from across the table. I hold her hand, enjoying the quiet simplicity of the moment. I haven’t taken my eyes off her since the trolley arrived.

She breaks the ice. “So, not disappointed?”

“Absolutely not. In fact, I think you look almost perfect.” I slip my hand from hers, loosening my tie and unbuttoning the first button on my shirt.

“Almost?” She places one hand under her chin, not realizing that she’s pouting just the slightest bit. “What did I miss?”

Reaching up behind my head, I unclasp my necklace and draw it down, only to place it around her neck and reclasp it, brushing the skin of her neck as I do. “There, that did the trick.
Perfect.
”

Her hand flies up to touch the chain, to run her fingers along the smooth links. “I recognize it from your ID picture.” The blushing that follows is visible even by candlelight. “I only saw it the one time, but I guess it made an impression.”

For a moment, I’m speechless.
Those three days, wondering if she’d even remember me.
I smile at the idea of her hunting down my ID photo. “I know the feeling.” When I take her hand in mine again, Vee runs her thumb along one finger. Her touch is electric, like she’s still wearing my Brights. “I had to replace the clasp because it melted back at the Dome. But now it’s fixed, and it looks marvelous on you. Everything does.” With each word, my heart beats a little faster, my eyes dancing over her as she sits a few inches away.

The rest of dinner is a blur, punctuated by images of her, laughing and smiling in flickers like candlelight. I’m sure there was ordering, waiting, conversation, and actual eating, but in my head, it begins and ends with Vee’s smile. If I could bottle this moment and save it, I would. Peaceful, relaxed, and effortless, the most amazing girl by my side. With every word, every little touch, she glows brighter, dazzling me endlessly.

I settle up the check and we head out, arms linked and with a bag for each of us. We leisurely make our way to Rete’s last drop of the day. It’s a few blocks off the trolley line, and Vee passes me my Brights from her bag, which I tuck into one of my vest pockets.

Down one more street, we knock on the third red door on the right. I hand the hulking doorman the playing card that Rete included with the parcel.
The two of clubs. Huh. I didn’t think Rete was capable of that kind of subtlety.
The doorman nods, letting us past, and we descend the stairs into the club itself, which is retro in all the right ways. The center of the place is laid with parquet flooring, and old-school speakers ring the room, offering pops and staticky buzzes that feel positively dead-on. There’s a coat-check room with lockers, managed by a perky young lady with tight curls and a pillbox hat. We gratefully hand off our bags to her and receive two small keys in return.

Vee turns to me in curious bemusement. “This isn’t like any place I’ve ever been to.”

I scan the crowd, looking for our contact, and spot the bartender across the way. He must be the hand-off. “I’ve heard rumors of spots like this, but never been to one. A slow-jams club.”

Assessing the place, Vee immediately puzzles out its purpose. “There aren’t any thrum-collectors here.”

“Nope, it’s completely off-grid. Just you and the music and whoever you bring.”
A break from the frenetic beats and pulsing bass of the clubs. Totally brilliant.

I tap her shoulder and we head for the bar. The barman, complete with white shirt and black bow tie, takes the rag from his shoulder and tosses it onto the counter in front of me. “What can I getcha?”

Vee shakes her head, so I say “Nothing for us, thanks” as I place both hands on the countertop, pushing the small parcel under the rag.

The bartender nods, snapping up the towel and package together. “Should be a good lineup tonight. Better grab a choice spot fast.”

“That’s the plan,” Vee replies, grinning as she drags me to the parquet. “Let’s see what kind of moves you’ve got on the dance floor, slick.”

V

I feel like I’ve been waiting all evening to get this close to Micah. He wears the clothes instead of the clothes wearing him, and that makes all the difference in the world. The easy way he rolled up his shirt cuffs, the open button at the collar. And the vest.

Good grief . . . Some decently tailored fabric and five buttons should not be doing this to me.

But they do.

The speakers are only just crackling to life when my shoes hit the dance floor. Fingers laced through Micah’s, I pull him along behind me until we stand dead center under the vintage chandelier. The first few notes that wash over us sound tinny, hesitant, like they’re broadcasting not only from someplace far away, but from another time altogether. Someone with a gentle hand slowly turns up the volume until we’re awash in orchestral strains that are old as dirt. The low-and-slow notes of the song slide over me, making promises: a thousand more dances like this one; going to bed together and waking up together and taking care of each other.

Reaching up, I slide my fingers around the silver chain Micah gave me, each link a moment we’ve spent together, a look exchanged, a breath against skin, a smile . . .

His smile.

“Are you all right?” he dips his head down to ask, probably because I haven’t moved an inch since the music started.

“More than all right.” As I turn to face him, a spotlight hits a disco ball and a thousand stars appear. One of Micah’s hands finds my waist. With the other one, he tucks my hand close to his chest. I lean into him, letting my cheek rest on his shoulder. Time stops for us as we sway, back and forth. There are words in my mouth, a song I’m not quite ready to sing. I mouth them against his shirt, trying them out, but unable to put any breath behind them yet.

I love you, Micah.

He kisses my forehead gently and holds me closer, as if he knows my every thought. This man, so broken, so mistreated, and still so tender with me.

I do my best to gather the memories of this moment: the harmonies in the music, the way his body is pressed against mine, the scent of him, every line of every muscle. But there’s no way to memorize someone’s soul.

Where’s this supposed to go, Vee? It’s not some goddamn love story. Damon’s probably doing his best right now to fuck your happy ending. It’s just a matter of time.

The song ends, like my thoughts killed it, but everyone around me is clapping, smiling, winding themselves up for the next number, which is still throwback but significantly faster. Some couples even know the steps to the swing and the jive. They jostle us from all sides, but Micah manages to keep up with the tempo and our competition as easily as he’d jump a concrete wall.

“I got this, babe,” he reminds me, grabbing my wrist, twirling me out, bringing me back in for a sudden and unexpected dip. “I got you.”

And he proves, over the next three songs, that it’s not just empty talk.

Winded and thirsty, I run to get us drinks and use the opportunity to have a conversation with the bartender. A few minutes later, I’m headed back to Micah with two Manhattans. I hand him one glass and take a sip from my own. The butterfly flutters are back, and they don’t abate when the glasses are empty, when I take his hand, when I lead him up a narrow stairwell off to the side of the dance floor.

“What’s the plan?” His fingers are twined through mine, so I know the second they tighten briefly. Relaxed, but never too relaxed. Never unprepared for the ground to shift suddenly underneath him.

“Grand finale.” The upper levels of the building feel worlds away from the club, the music muffled through wood and wallpaper. A mellow baritone croons about love being a kick in the head.

You got it, buster.

I open the door at the end of the hall and step back in time again. It’s like a hotel room from a hundred years ago, all wood paneling and satin coverlet and a beaded ivory lamp shade radiating just slightly more light than a candle.

“Apparently there’s money to be made offering off-grid overnight accommodations.” I draw Micah inside and close and lock the door behind him. “I traded the rest of my prepaid, but . . .”—I hook a finger into the top of his vest and pull him closer—“I think it’s going to be worth it.”

He lets his eyes roll over my body, his hands sliding to my waist. “Best credits you’ve ever spent.”

I loosen his tie and slide it off, undo his buttons one at a time. Drawing it out. Making him wait. Making him wonder. Shoes in the corner, dress tossed onto a nearby chair, I’m only wearing his necklace by the time we fall into the bed.

M

Waking up in an honest-to-god bed with a gorgeous, ass-kicking, rib-kicking girl in my arms . . . I don’t give the tiniest shit about Rete or Damon or any of that garbage. I pull Vee closer and revel in the thousand little sensations sparked by every brush of her skin against mine. I gaze at her enticing lips, lips with sinful knowledge, lips that bring me to the brink with mind-blowing ease, and I kiss her, long and slow.

I know the exact moment she starts waking up, because every inch of her skin flushes a faint pink. She stirs and peeks at me through a tangled curtain of hair.

“Good morning, temptress,” I whisper to her.

She stretches against me like a cat in the sunlight. “You’re easy to tempt.” Her fingers tiptoe south, down my chest, over my stomach. I suck in a breath when she slides on top of me.

Except she keeps right on sliding, out of the bed, running for the shower, hair streaming down her back, calling out, “Dibs!” over her naked shoulder.

I follow her in with a laugh. “That was cheating.”

“I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

Oh, I believe you.

We do our best to empty the building’s hot water heater, but eventually we have to come out.

“Game faces, right?” Vee says, wrapping a towel around herself.

I wish I could toss her back into the bed and keep her there all day, but I have to nod. “Gotta gear up for more drops. But this . . . this was worth every credit.”

Her smile practically blinds me, and she opens the door, finding our coat-checked bags waiting for us. “The service here really is top-notch.” Tossing my bag toward me, she affects a terrible fake accent to add a blithe, “Remember to tip them well, trusted manservant.”

She’s almost dressed by the time I’ve got my jeans on. “A glowing review from a fugitive and his incognito companion would probably be good PR for them. ‘When I’m on the run from the greyfaces, I always choose Two of Clubs.’”

Once we’re geared up like proper anonymous street rats again, we quit our single-night paradise, but not without one last, lingering kiss to celebrate. On our way out, I toss the bartender what’s left on my prepaid as a thank-you.
A most definitely deserved one.

A quick side trip to the warren to stash our going-out clothes—and get a look at the contents of our parcels—doubles as a good warm-up run for the day’s drops. The first one takes us past Mercette Park, and I can see giant vidscreens set up at intervals along the main lawn. The day’s participants are split up into groups, and everyone’s studying a set of pictures on the screens.

There, bigger than life, are Cyrene ID photos of both of us. Vee looks incredibly young in her picture,
too
young to even be sixteen, the minimum age of a standard recruit, but it still blows her anonymity all to bits. The girl standing next to me is unmistakably the same one in the photograph.

Shit.

“I guess today’s activity is ‘fugitive scavenger hunt.’” Casually, I take Vee’s hand and draw her down a side street, away from the park. Careful pacing. Not quick enough to draw attention.

Her heart must be pounding. But she’s keeping a handle on it, forcing herself to put one foot in front of the other and not break into a run.
That’s my girl.