“Will I be getting my access back?” He yearned to run his fingers over the back of his neck. Right after his capture, they’d sealed the port with a skin graft, leaving a bump of scar tissue where there used to be a jack. It didn’t hurt anymore, although it haunted him like a phantom limb.
“No. You’ve been working perfectly fine without it.”
“If you’re going to hamstring me, find another hacker.” Fuck, that was a stupid thing to say. She’d already threatened Hope; she held all the cards. He didn’t have anything to negotiate with.
“Oh, Mr. Cutter. You amuse me. Making demands when you don’t have anything to back it up.” Her voice was pure condescension. “Be here tomorrow morning. I’ll inform cybersecurity that you’ll be reporting to me.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Ash choked on the venom he couldn’t put into words. He’d already challenged her once today and lost. He needed to regroup, consider his options. There had to be something.
She glared at him. “You may go.”
Ash didn’t turn his back on her, backing up until the doors opened. He didn’t take his eyes off her until he was through and the doors had closed again.
In the relative safety of the reception room—Portia Tremaine scared him more than the half-dozen security guards—he sucked in a shuddering breath.
Portia Tremaine had money. Leverage. Resources.
Ash may lack resources, but surely Fenix still had some on the outside.
Chapter2
Taryn casta cool glance over her bar, surveying the patrons and her employees. Maybe two dozen customers—at least two-thirds regulars—filled the poorly lit space, enough to fill the bar with the hum of activity. All in all, an average Tuesday night. No special events. No driving rain to either bring people in or keep them out.
Though she’d never turn down additional business, tonight’s quiet was fine with her. She had late-night plans, but the bar would be in good hands with her second-in-command.
Still, there was a niggle of apprehension whenever she had to go out late. The bar was her future, one she’d never expected. A future with a steady income, employees, and friends. Some nights, nights like this when it was quiet enough to think, she couldn’t believe how far she’d come.
And that was what drove her. What kept her risking it all. Other women deserved the chance at a real life too.
Unwilling to let worry and the past ruin the evening, Taryn walled off those thoughts before they veered into uncomfortable territory.
Her bartender was on break and Taryn was covering for her. She enjoyed being behind the bar. There was a rhythm to it, a flow that made it easy to stay in the moment. Regular shifts allowed her to keep an eye on the business, keep her finger on the pulse of the neighborhood, and maintain the Jack’s reputation.
She carefully pulled a hot glass out of the sanitizer and ran a quick eye over it for chips or smudges before sliding it onto the shelf. Razor Jack’s may be a dive bar, but it washerdive bar and she had standards.
A waitress rested her tray on the bar. “I need a draft and a house white,” she said while she typed the order into the datapad inset in the bar top.
“They got a tab going?” Taryn pulled the beer and poured the wine. Patrons could pay for their drinks up front or provide a credit chip to run a tab—she didn’t care which as long as they paid. Nobody got a free ride here.
“Yep, set it up earlier. They aren’t loaded, but they can afford a few more rounds.” The waitress smiled impishly.
“That’s what I like to hear.” Taryn set the drinks on the tray. The beer and the wine, chosen to be affordable by the clientele she strove to serve, were better than the swill served at other dive bars. It wasn’t the way Razor Jack’s had always been run, but when Taryn had assumed the mantle of the Jack, she’d made changes—some big, some small. Selling winesheenjoyed was one.
The other woman grabbed the tray of drinks with a smile and was off in a flash of color. Taryn shook her head at the rainbow her waitress wore. Blue pants, orange top, pink-streaked hair. Not that she was any less colorful or strangely dressed than the patrons.
Taryn turned her attention back to the sanitizer, emptying and refilling it. The movements were almost automatic and she enjoyed the breaks to fill orders and check in on the patrons seated at the bar.
She swept a couple of empties off the bar from in front of a regular. “You want another one, Jed?”
“No, ma’am,” the older man said. “I’ve got to make my beer money last to the end of the month.”
“You got work?”
He shrugged, the movement jerky as one shoulder moved more freely than the other. Jed had lost his left arm in an accident a few years ago. His replacement arm was nothing fancy—steel bones jutted out from his short-sleeve shirt and she could see the wiring that tied the mechanical arm into his nervous system. She didn’t know if something had gone wrong with the replacement or if it hadn’t healed right.
Jed wasn’t the only one in the bar with replacement limbs. The people who frequented Razor Jack’s usually couldn’t afford more than the basic cybernetics that would keep them employed. Only the upper classes—and the corporate drones—could afford the fancy stuff.
“I got some leads,” he said with another shrug. “Depends on whether I can get these two arms to work together.”
