Cupcake said, “I arranged for the laundry to be picked up, cleaned, and delivered back to our room, and I told them to wear gloves like your note said. I hired an armed escort for the night, which, according to the concierge, will keep us from standing out as young and foreign among the locals. She got us reservations at 7:00 p.m. at a restaurant I heard about. I put a call through to Morrison’s Foundry, Metals, and Scrap, that contact who purchased your high-grade metal in the past?” she reminded, as if I might have forgotten my own contacts and the info on the notes she had taken. “We’ll see him in the morning at the foundry. He’s offering us breakfast.”
“That’s . . .” I sat up slowly on the bed. “Cupcake, did you hold a rank in the Hell’s Angels?”
“Yes. Well, as much as a woman can. And that changed a lot when the MS-13 took us over.” Her face went through a series of emotions, too fast to follow, except they had all been bad. “Things changed after that,” she said flatly.
Gently, I asked, “What did you do with the Angels?”
“I was the communication and records specialist for the president.”
My eyebrows rose nearly to my hairline. That was an important job in any organization.
She tried for nonchalant, but I could see the pride beneath her words. “I handled all appointments, kept the calendar straight, and kept the contact info for every chapter, every Enforcer, and every made-man in Hell’s Angels.”
“I’m impressed.”
Softer, she said, “Yeah. I used to be impressive as hell. When word came that the Mara Salvatrucha had gone to war with us and were trying to force a merger, I hid it all. They never got my contact info. I protected my people. But my Old Man changed after the takeover. Things were never the same between us.”
She took a breath as if tucking old pain away, and slapped my thigh. “Let’s go get that bath.”
“Cupcake? Do you think the MS Angels, maybe Warhammer herself, were responsible for the attack on the road? They were using Spaatz mini-tanks, same tanks that attacked the junkyard.”
“I hope to hell not, because that would mean she’s already moving in or one of her people gained access to junkyard comms when they attacked you there.”
How had that not occurred to me? I tapped my earbud. “Mateo? Are you there? What do you think?”
“Cutting transmissions. Rerunning our security software. Analyzing the IT capabilities of the log house.” That meant using theSunStar’scomms and a satellite.Dangerous.
The comms went silent again. We were on our own.
???
I slid down and rocked back my head on the porcelain rim, water up to my chin, silky bubbles all through. It smelled like gardenias, remembered from my youth. And it was hot, so hot the air steamed and water dripped down the white tile. So hot my blood wanted to turn to sludge and my skin was sending reports to my brain about blistering off my flesh. It was a fraction of a degree from actual damage. It was perfect. And because lots of water—especially hot water—killed my mutated nanos, I could empty the tub, wipe it down, and not infect anyone. I could relax. Totally relax. It was amazing.
Cupcake, on the other side of the short wall, was in her own tub, not talking. At last. The only sounds were her snores, the plink of water falling, the gurgle of the water heater in the next room, and . . . nothing else.
All the tension began to ease out of me. I was facing problems and peril and combat, but I had survived a battle with sex bandits outside Sylvester, had a belly full of beef, and my head was full of hoppy happiness from the four kinds of beer brewed at Urgands. Beef was a treat so expensive I could afford it only once or twice a year, and getting even a little soused was risky. But I had two cats patrolling outside with the human guard recommended by the hotel, and a SOG SEAL 2100 knife under the towels on the table beside the tub. I was reasonably safe. And clean. I closed my eyes and let sleep pull me under.
???
After the bath, I got my first professional mani-pedi by a woman wearing gloves, while Cupcake got a massage. My feet and hands looked fabulous, not that they would stay that way for long working at a junkyard. While Cupcake was treated to her mani-pedi, I got my hair professionally trimmed by the same woman who did hands and feet, and who agreed to wear gloves once I promised a hefty tip. After, she used this amazing goopy stuff that made my short hair spike up like bristles. I stared at my reflection, dressed in an orange top, a full swingy skirt (to hide my knife), with adorable little platform shoes, lipstick, Kajal (desert-dweller’s heavy eyeliner), and my orange-lensed 2-Gen sunglasses to cover my funky eyes. With the thin lacy gloves, I looked fabulous.
Cupcake looked just as grand in my mother’s pink silk skirt and peasant top, with pink Kajal and sandals. We indulged in another beer, fresh fruit—bloody hellI had missed strawberries—and we were done with being pampered. I paid the outrageous bill, and Cupcake and I walked into the afternoon. I nodded to the bodyguard and spotted Spy peeking around the corner from the nearby alley.
Everything looked fine, but the cat’s shoulders were high, and she blinked at me, and I understood she was telling me that we were not completely safe. She looked across the street. An electric delivery truck slid past us along the roadway, nearly silent, blocking my view. When it passed, I spotted the man across the street.
Adrenaline spiked through me like cactus sliding along my nerves. My heart raced. His Harley was parked in the shade of a dusty tree, and he was braced, sitting sideways against his bike seat, facing me. This Harley was an older model with no defensive armament or visual shielding. No visible weapons on bike or rider.
His legs were stretched out, ankles crossed, arms folded across his massive chest. He was leaner, harder than only a few weeks past, his muscles defined beneath the thin, UV-blocking, long-sleeved T-shirt and dusty black jeans. He was wearing biking boots and the barely visible Morphon on one wrist, a metallic wristband on the other. Black anti-glare sunglasses. His hair was slightly longer than before. Rings on every finger like fancy knucks for fighting.
No weapons. And, most important, no OMW kutte. He was here, undercover, as I had requested in my message. Requested. Not ordered. And to be here so fast, he had been close by. Though I had left my own outdated Morphon turned off, he had found me, in a city of nearly a hundred thousand people.
The connection between us was electric, but I didn’t reach for him. I curled my fingers under, fighting that urge that made me a queen in my species.
A hot breeze whirled down the street, my dress swishing around my legs.
Jagger puffed once on a cigar, the mellow scent and smoke curling along with the wind. He didn’t move otherwise.
“Ohhh my. Girl, is that who I think it is?” Cupcake whispered.
