Sugar Skulls (7 page)

Her hands run down my neck and across my chest, her fingernails grazing my skin, one hand resting on the tattoo emblazoned over my heart. She pauses a moment and whispers the top name aloud—“Bryn”—before her mouth meets mine again. My eyes slam shut as I lose myself in her lips, her tongue, her little gasps for breath before she dives in for more. Our hands roam and grasp and tease, but it’s all background to one endless, ravenous kiss. She’s insatiable, a five-story drop, and I take the plunge, succumbing to gravity and falling falling falling with her.

She tastes like hard liquor and candy and sex and longing and . . . something else. Every brush of her tongue against mine makes it sharper, until it’s all I can think about, until even the promise of a gorgeous girl against me fades.

Apples. She tastes like apples.

Fuck. No.

I tense up and pull away from the kiss, and for the second time tonight, I think I’ve surprised her. She leans close as if to kiss me again, only to purr in my ear, a rolling seductive sound that gives me shivers.

But the spell is already broken.

Velvet curtains. Bryn. Apples.

Someone in the club is dealing applejack.

“Did you take something? Did you take little green translucent tabs of something?”

Her warm breath finds my ear once more. “I’m sorry, love, I only had the one. But I can get more, enough for both of us, and—”

“Where? Where did you get it?” I shout with a fury that startles us both.

She leans back and takes a moment before answering. “From Adonis. The guy on the dais. He gave me a taste while we were danc—”

“I need you to listen to me.” I stand up, awkwardly dragging her to her feet, and I grab her face with both hands. Locking eyes with her. Hazel. Clear. No ruptured blood vessels, no discoloration. Doing quick calculations in my head: skin temperature, time elapsed since she took the tab. If something bad was going to happen . . .
It would’ve by now. Lucky girl.
“Take anything, anything you want. Sample anything else in the whole place and get as blissed out as you like, but please, please don’t ever touch that rancid garbage ever again. It will fuck up your soul.”

She looks baffled by my spur-of-the-moment plea. I’m sure I would, too, in her place. I pull her close and kiss her again—a gift for me, an apology for her—and then I bolt.

Making a beeline for the illuminated dais at the center of the Palace of Wonders, I have no problem spotting him, even if we’ve never crossed paths before. Shirtless, crowned, grinding against a pair of waify young things wearing bioluminescent body paint and spaced-out smiles.

I hustle up the glowing side stairs and onto the platform, barging in on the soon-to-be threesome. “Hey, apologies, ladies, but I need a moment with His Majesty.”

The glow-in-the-dark sexpots step aside, dazed eyes already looking for a new plaything, and he looks suitably pissed. But three magic words make it all better.

“I can pay.”

He sizes me up—torn shirt with no buttons, half-mauled chest, dark jeans with a little bit of roof dust still clinging to the legs—and shrugs, gesturing me toward a side exit. “Fun inside, business outside.”

We step out into the heavy mist of the alley, and the door shuts behind us. Standing with his back to me, he reaches into both pockets. From one, he pulls a handful of silvertip sticks and a lighter; from the other, a stack of green-tinted tabs, individually wrapped and ready to share. “What’s your pois—”

I don’t give him the chance to finish, charging him as he turns and slamming him against the opposite wall. His head bounces off the brick. I’m ranting away in my head, bordering on raving.

That’s for the girl in the alcove and Bryn and Rina and every other person you’ve torn to pieces with this fucking life-ruining shit . . .

He collapses to the ground, drugs still in hand, and I lean close, almost snarling. “Where’d you get this? Huh? Who’s your supplier?” I snatch the whole stack from him, cracking one tab open and sparking the lighter beneath it.

The applejack flares up in an instant, burning hotter than I expect, and I drop it into the garbage can against the wall, dumping the other tabs in after it. Each one bursts into flame with a
whoosh
, incinerated in seconds.
This is some potent shit.

I turn back toward the scumbag dealer. “Who keeps you stocked? Is it Re—”

He punches me in the leg, and pain arcs through me. I crumple to the ground in a heap, twitching.

Fuck. Took too long.
My hand still clutches the lighter tight, the nerves frozen and nonresponsive. I can’t even speak.

Standing now, he kicks me in the gut, hard. He leans down and smiles, showing me the glowing set of knuckles on his hand.
Brights. Should’ve known.
Then two furious kicks to the chest, punctuating them with “should kill you for that” and “wasted all my best shit.” I’m still so rattled by the shock from his modified knucks, I can’t cry out. I wheeze, trying to get my breath back, and he gives me three more kicks, just for good luck, I guess.

The security door swings open, and His Majesty instantly steps away from me. Blinded by the light from the doorway, I can barely make out the shape of the bouncer. “What’s going on out here?”

Slick as bacon grease, His Majesty goes into spin mode. “Guy wanted a hit of riprap and got a little aggressive, that’s all.”

“Should I bring him inside and call the greys?”

Fuck.

But saving his own ass saves mine by accident. “Naw, let him sleep it off in the alley. You know how these little tweakers can be.”

Curled up in pain, I’m in no position to argue. I just lie there on the cold, damp asphalt as he spits in my face and struts through the security door. It slams shut behind him, and everything goes dark.

CHAPTER FIVE

V

The curtains are open. The rain is gone, leaving the sky a perfect blue. Sitting up in bed, chin resting on my knees, I can’t help but think of him, of his eyes. They’re that same shade of blue.

Where the hell did you go last night, Micah?

“Morning, gorgeous,” says a distinctly male voice from somewhere near the pillows.

I glance over at Adonis. Thin sunlight slants over his bare shoulders, proving he’s every bit as nice to look at in my bed as he was last night on the dance floor. The more I study him, the more certain I am that I’ve seen his face on cologne billboards and in coffee ads.

The man’s multitalented, I’ll give him that.

“Sleep well?” I ask. We were a tangle of arms and legs and more interesting bits until just an hour or two ago, so it’s more a polite conversation starter than an actual question.

Hooking an arm around my waist, he pulls me back against him. I slide through a damp spot in the bed and make a mental note to stuff everything—sheets, blankets, maybe even the mattress—down the garbage chute when he leaves.

“I could use another few hours,” he murmurs into my hair, guiding my hands down to convince me he’s telling the truth. “What do you think?”

“I think I’m hungry,” I say, not lying and yet willing to go without food a little while longer.

“That’s the applejack,” he says as he kisses his way down the side of my neck, lifting up the mad tangle of my hair. “It’s epic stuff, but it leaves you feeling a little used up.” A bit lower. “Admit it. You’re probably ravenous.”

“Well, yeah, as a matter of fact—” My breath catches when he locates a sensitive spot. “I thought that was because of last night’s extracurriculars.”

It’s pretty amazing that I feel as good as I do. The drug metabolized out of my system without any repercussions: no headache, no dry mouth, no regrettable decisions staring at me from the bed. Energized, even, and I’ve never been a morning person. Maybe if I say please, I can score a few more tabs from my lovely friend.

Even if I ran into Micah again, I sure as hell wouldn’t be getting any applejack from him. Judging by his reaction, he’d rather stone-cold starve than peddle . . .

That rancid garbage.

I shake off the warning, because he was obviously mistaken. To hell with him and his terrifically crappy manners.

“Any way I could get some more of it?” I ask Adonis. “The applejack, I mean?”

“I’m fresh out of stock for the moment. Swing by tonight and I’ll fix you up. In the meantime . . .” He nudges me back onto the sheets and lowers himself on top of me. “I think we can find some way to keep you happy.”

Looking up at him, I realize I’m up for another round, as well. Why not? He’s easy on the eyes, built like a god, and he sure as shit didn’t abandon me hot and bothered and
alone
in an alcove last night. I run my hands over the taut muscles of his back, fingertips skimming over a deep set of scratches that give me pause. “Did I do that to you?”

His abs contract as he turns to peer at his back in the mirror. “There are plenty of marks that are yours, but not those. Hazard of the job, working shirtless. Got shoved into a brick wall while you were in the ladies’.”

I don’t bother mentioning that I never made it to the bathroom. Thinking about Micah and the way he bailed on me pisses me off all over again. “Someone jumped you?”

“Don’t worry, gorgeous. It was just a fucked-up little tweaker with a shitty chest tat. I kicked the shit out of him.” Adonis laughs and presses another kiss to my shoulder. “A word of advice: never get someone’s name inked on your skin. No one wants to read the notches on your bedpost.”

Bryn.
It’s my first thought. My only thought. Another girl’s name scrawled on Micah’s chest, marking him as hers. But it’s ridiculous to think that he bailed on me to pick a fight with a guy in an alley.

Isn’t it?

Maybe I’m mistaken. Maybe my instincts are jangling for no reason. “The guy who jumped you . . . Was he blond? Medium height and wearing—”

“A shirt someone had shredded,” Adonis finishes for me with a frown. “Yeah, you know him?”

“We’re not on a first-name basis.”
Mostly because he doesn’t
know
my first name.
And all of this pretty much nixes Damon’s theory that Micah’s some kind of ninja anti-Corporate spy. Anyone interested in stealing thrum technology isn’t going to tangle with a lowlife dealer in an alley.

I spare another glance at Adonis, chewing on the inside of my lip before asking, “You kicked the shit out of him?”

“Literally. Dropped him with my Brights and booted him a couple good ones in the ribs.” Blasé as fuck. He’s not showing off for me, which has me even more worried.

Without nanotech to help him heal, Micah could have broken bones and internal bleeding that will kill him slowly. Painfully. He could be dying under a fucking bridge, for all I know. There’s no way to track him down, no way to check on him.

When Adonis goes in for another kiss, I duck my head and bounce out of the bed. Pulling two shirts from the dresser, I toss one at him. When he raises an eyebrow, I offer the only explanation that will get him neatly and cleanly the hell out of my room. “If we’re going to have any more fun, I need to refuel. I get really creative after pancakes, I promise.”

“All right.” He eyes the cotton tee like it’s something he found on the floor of the club, then shrugs, pulls it on, and reaches for his pants. “But after food, we’re locking the place down, and I’m keeping you here until it’s time for me to go to work.”

I make a noncommittal noise as I slip into my own shirt and a pair of black boyshorts. When I deactivate the door locks, an extremely pissed-off Little Dead Thing streaks into the room. His angry yowl sends Adonis dancing back several paces.

“What the fuck was that thing?” he asks, hurrying to catch up with me.

The poor bastard has no way of knowing I’ve already left him in the dust.

M

Between the alley and my cot, I spend a long, long night curled up on my good side like an anguished question mark. My eyes drift in the soft lamplight between Lara, tucked away safe in her case, and Her, on wild display.

But I still taste the applejack girl on my lips, smell her in my skin, my clothes. Traces of her presence tickle my senses.

Forget her. You burned that bridge with style, bud.

It took a long while to get to my feet after His Majesty’s beatdown. Beyond my injured body and wounded pride, there was the heavy blanket of guilt that settled over me when I thought of the girl in the alcove. I tried to check on her, slipping back inside after the bouncer took pity on me and opened the security door. But there was no sign of her anywhere.

This morning, I console myself with the thought that she’s okay. Probably spotted a more accommodating partner and forgot me entirely in a matter of seconds.

A few more minutes pass as I stare at one girl and remember another, killing time before doing what needs to be done.
Priorities.

Now the part I’ve been dreading. With a deep sigh, I sit up and wish to all gods everywhere that I hadn’t. My arms wrap around my ribs protectively. Maggie’s advice rolls through my forebrain—
Stay low. Be safe. Don’t be stupid.
—and seems all the more apropos at this moment.

I take my time standing up, unfolding like an old roadmap until I’m fully upright.
Wish I’d had the energy to check for cracked ribs last night. Hours slumped on one side couldn’t have done them any favors.

Unlocking the door to my closet, I pull out my first-aid kit, along with a well-thumbed medical text cribbed from an ambulance a while back. Nanotech is all well and good, it’ll keep you going, but traditional medicine still has its place.

Especially for a dangerous thug like me.

I laugh softly and instantly regret it. Flipping open the text, I skim the section on injuries to the chest. Tentatively, I run my fingers over each rib, looking for anything out of place. It sucks, it sucks so bad, but between a cursory touch and a few deep breaths, I’m convinced I haven’t cracked or broken anything.

They’re just bruised as hell.

I grab a roll of bandages, the widest I have, and wrap it around my ribs, fixing it in place with tape and checking the expansion of my chest with painfully deep breaths along the way. The text doesn’t recommend this, but admits it’ll alleviate some of the pain. I’ll risk pneumonia for better freedom of movement. I’m gonna need it.

Some quick, light stretches later, and the pain is tolerable. I strap a few insta-cool gel-packs to my ribs for good measure, and gear up for the day’s errands.
Forget the distractions, forget the Voice and the Palace and all that. Back to the routine. Clothes aren’t gonna wash themselves.

A few minutes and a glance through the peepholes later, I pull the tarp aside and toss my enormous sack of laundry over the railing, then carefully climb down to ground level and retrieve it. Wincing slightly, I heft my laundry bag over my shoulder and head out onto the streets.

Living the dream.

V

Busy with Adonis, I missed the memo that I was hosting the after-party, though it’s technically Jax’s gig with Sasha catering. Palace refugees are scattered over every surface of the living room, and I have to step over a dozen snoring bodies to get to the kitchen. The breakfast nook is crammed to bursting with people in various stages of nano-recovery. Wearing a yellow silk kimono robe she hasn’t bothered to belt, Jax sits on the counter, ass planted between bottles of juice and half the contents of the liquor cabinet. Sasha’s at the stove, wielding two spatulas and slinging short stacks. That’s her thing, the morning after a spree. She’s still in her green overalls for practical reasons, but the tube top has disappeared.

“About time you were up,” Jax drawls into her drink, allowing her gaze to trail over Adonis’s impressive musculature before adding, “again.”

He smiles easily at her before snagging a seat, a full plate of food right out of Pretty Goth Boy’s hand, and me. Without asking, he situates me in his lap and offers me the fork. “Get to work, gorgeous. We have a plan, remember?”

Given that the primary directive of his plan is currently pressed against my backside, I can hardly say no. I have no intention of returning to the bedroom with him, but that doesn’t stop me from teasing him with an evil wriggle. “Trust me, stud, I remember everything you said back there.”

Absolutely everything.

I settle myself more firmly in his lap, but only so I can pay better attention to my breakfast. Apparently the applejack turned me into a morning person with a truck driver’s appetite, because I pack in enough pancakes for three people. Adonis gives up waiting for me to share and asks for another plate, which I also help clear. Taking advantage of the moment when he’s distracted by a coffee refill, I slide to the floor. One quick trip around the counter and past the tiny redhead standing alongside Sasha, and I edge my way up to Jax.

“Nice work bringing him home. I’m surprised you can still walk a straight line.” She’s still dishing out the snark, but Jax is way more relaxed than she was yesterday.

If Damon was as smart as he is ambitious, he’d loosen up her leash just a smidge.

“Careful now, you almost sound jealous.” Under the guise of mixing orange juice with two shots of Samurai, I pull up a menu on the kitchen vidscreen, access the Cyrano database, and dash off a text message. Closing the window with a wave of two fingers, I ignore her and take my drink back into the living room. The state of the furnishings is enough to simultaneously break my heart and turn my stomach.

Not just going to burn the sheets and the mattress. Couches go, too.
I step in something with my bare foot and wish I’d remembered to put on socks.
And the rugs.

Adonis catches up with me at the bottom of the stairs, unaware that he’s interrupting a mental redecoration of the entire Loft.

“You’re a hard one to keep up with. Ready for round two?” His smile should melt me into a pliant armful, but all I can think about is Micah in a gutter somewhere. Micah, bruised and battered and coughing up blood.

When the expected knock comes at the door, I open it without sparing Adonis a single glance.

Six Facilitators duck inside, a coordinated blur of boots and gloves. They grab Adonis, hauling him out of the apartment as he struggles and shouts, “What the hell?” until one of them swats him upside the head with a heavy hand. Adonis jerks as the electricity discharges with a flash, then goes stiff as a board. Some sort of a shock gauntlet, a Corporate-approved version of Brights. I’m feeling vengeful enough to hope they have a lot more kick than the ones Micah met last night.

In the midst of all this, Damon enters the Loft and pushes the door wide open. “Anyone who wishes to avoid similar treatment should gather their things and depart.”

The rest of the partygoers grab their clothes and duck out behind the security team in a steady stream that seems to last an eternity. Jax follows them around, protesting.

“You don’t have to leave. I just ordered more booze and a pound of strawberry cough!” She turns her glare on me, then shares it with Damon when he closes the door on the last straggler.

“Productive evening?” he asks with a perfunctory glance around the room.

“Not as productive as today was supposed to be.” Jax throws herself on the couch, ignoring the splashes of acid-orange liquor and the lacy underwear peeking from between the cushions. “What the hell are you doing here, buzzkill?”

“I was headed over anyway, but Vee messaged a request for a cleanup crew.” He takes one step onto the carpet, peers down at his highly polished black dress shoe, then backs up to the marble. “Street-drug dealer, you said?”

“Pushing applejack at the Palace last night,” I answer, sitting on the stairs because it seems the safest place for now. “You can transfer the finder’s fee to my account whenever you get the chance.”