“Mood ring,” she muses. “I like that one, love. Though I must admit, you don’t jiggle as nicely when you stomp wearing my skin.”
I give her a peeved look and then let her drop to the floor in an ungainly heap on her ass. Smirking, I put a hand on my hip and tap my foot. “What, no smart remarks?”
“I’m not the one who’s going to have a bruised ass in the morning. Knowing that fact takes the sting out of your little stunt,” she grins. Rolling to her feet, she props against the wall, arms crossed over her chest.
Arching my brow, I snort. “You’re not, eh? I suppose we’ll have to wait and see about that. I have a feeling that at some point, you’ll regret being so damned sure of that point. At least, depending on who gets their hands on you by the end of the night.”
Her eyes gleam, and I can tell by her expression she’s off in la-la land for a few. I stalk over to the bed to drop onto it, propping up my elbows. Looking down at an exasperated Idgit, I chuckle, scratching his plumed head. I remember that’s a double-edged sword for this body when I groan.
Where in the hell is that muse? It’s not as if he has something better to do.
She must be out of her daydream because a giggle erupts on the other side of the room, followed by, “Bloody fucking hell, I giggled.”
I snort and look over at her. “You did, baby. Big, bad Taurus giggled. Mark the record books.”
A voice from behind me cuts in before I continue, and the spiky-haired, multi-colored man himself appears out of thin air. “Shit, man, take a pill.”
The Artist and The Blade Suffer Through
RAFE
“Who are all these people?”
I smile at the House of Speed folks as they make their way toward the pool area, giving Michaela a small wave.
Once the bitch found Blade and me, she handed over some host duties. According to her, it’s my damn party, and she will kill me if she wants to. I think she may have misinterpreted that song, but I can’t say she’s not right. “That’s Michaela. She and her droid, Preston, were two of the first people to move here when the woman opened the Community up. Since then, Vic and the boys made Aiden and Shane for her. Didn’t Taurus tell you about her?”
“Shane doesn’t look like any double template I’ve ever seen. Who is he modeled after?”
“It’s a slight bone of contention. He’s made to look and behave like someone famous in the real place. Victor and Caesarhave made a few droids like that, but it’s been kept quiet. Some community members have no issue with them; some are uncomfortable with them. His template is obnoxious, so Hex tweaked his programming a little. There are three others like him—Derek, Grayson, and Priscilla—but based on different templates. They resolved it before you came back.”
My wife growls and mutters under her breath as I chuckle. She’s not the ‘hostess’ type and now she has to reckon with an enormous community with a history that’s years in the making—in one night.
“You know, name-tags would have been hard to deal with on this attire—who the hell has an Eighties-looking dress as their fetish—but I would have been happy as hell to see them.”
I shrug. “That’s Michaela for you. I think Preston’s dressed like a guy from the big car racing movie series. I don’t see the other two now.”
“Rafe! How exquisite to see you! It’s been forever!”
The fire-engine red-haired Tamara, head of the House Tropics, leans in to kiss my cheek, and my wife’s ire rises. “Hello, Tamara. I see you brought the entire family with you. I’m so glad.”
Tamara’s lips curled into a flirty smile so expert I could practically hear the click of the hunting safety coming off. There was a moment, the entire world pivoting around the angle of her painted chin, where I had the sense of standing in a well-lit showroom, every gesture and word a posed and deliberate reflection off some glossy, predestined surface.
She’s trying to bait Talia, I think, but I don’t know why.
My wife’s hand tenses against mine, and before Tamara can complete the loaded hello, I squeeze back—part warning, part reminder of what this party is meant to accomplish.
“Tamara,” I said, keeping my voice just above a purr, “I don’t think you’ve had the chance to meet my mate, Talia. Talia, this is Tamara. She’s the brains behind the House of Tropics, and that’s not even counting the droids she runs with: Shea, Drake, and Grayson.” I ticked off the names with a subtle nod. “Their extended lineup includes Rita, JJ, Wally, and Priscilla. It’s a bustling household.”
The brazen woman is unfazed by my words and extends a long-nailed hand, each digit capped in some perverse hybrid of tropical sea-glass and predator’s claw. “A pleasure,” she said, holding Talia’s gaze with a challenge. For a moment, the air between them shimmers with the strange, mutual recognition of two predators who both believe themselves at the top of the food chain.
I don’t think Tamara realizes how outmatched she is, but that’s not my job to say.
The surge of Talia’s confusion and wariness makes me chuckle internally. Of all the people in this place, she and her little family kept to themselves, rarely extending the olive branch to their neighbors before now. Talia had no idea the other households were this large, or that so many people she doesn’t know live here now. Most of these folks placed droid orders with the express purpose of building out full houses, and have their own alliances, rivalries, and interlocking domains of social leverage.
Now she knows that Victor and Caesar, the architects of the Resistance, were very busy.
I watch as Tamara shoos her crew away with the ease of a circus ringmaster, each member falling into character as if a whistle was blown. Grayson handled the leashes affixed to Rita and Priscilla, both of whom were dressed in some unholy marriage of schoolgirl and carnivorous plant—pleated skirts, vine-green lipstick, and enough exposed skin to make the air itself feel hotter. Talia eyes their display with open suspicion, and I can practically read the words in her expression—how many more are like this?
