Don't punch them.
[Image_Attachment.jpg]
The three dots appeared instantly. They bubbled for a long time.
Babe.
BABE.
BABE!
REVERSE. HAREM.
You actually did it. You collected the whole set. Now we both have packs!!
Tell me everything. Leave nothing out. I want schematics.
I laughed. "Euan, Callie wants schematics."
Euan reached for a piece of toast, looking thoughtful. "I have CAD files on my laptop. I can send her a PDF."
"Don't you dare," I said, affectionately kicking him. I had no idea what kind of CAD files he had, but I had no doubt he’d find either the most boring ones or the dirtiest ones he could just to get some kind of reaction out of my best friend.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Zia
The London venue was different from the grungy charm of the Barrowlands. It was slick, corporate, modern. The kind of place that smelled like antiseptic and money.
The dressing room was vast, filled with mirrors that multiplied us into infinity.
I stood in front of the glass. I was wearing black cargo pants and a high-collared black turtleneck. It was sleek, professional, and it completely hid the trio of marks on my neck.
"Hiding the evidence?" Alfie asked, coming up behind me. He was dressed for the stage, mesh shirt, leather pants, eyeliner smudged artfully around his eyes. He rested his chin on my covered shoulder, looking at our reflection.
"Managing the release," I corrected. "High-value assets stay encrypted until launch."
"You're the asset," Kit said from the sofa, where he was taping his hands.
"I'm the producer," I said, smoothing the fabric of the turtleneck. "Tonight, the story isn't about who bit who. It's about the Rider."
"Rowan is ready to drop it," Euan said, checking his watch. "File release is timed for twenty minutes after doors."
There was a knock at the door.
"Five minutes to press line," a runner called out.
The air in the room shifted. It went from domestic to tactical. We were a unit again. A phalanx.
"Formation?" Kit asked, standing up.
"Work formation," I said. "But tighter. Proximity is... allowed."
We walked out.
The hallway was lined with reporters. It wasn't the ambush of Manchester; this was a scheduled, controlled press event. But the hunger in the air was the same. They smelled scandal. They smelled romance.
We stepped into the lights.
