“Okay, are you ready?” Mostly I’m hyping myself up more than giving her time to steel her will for the pain of peroxide. She snatches the bottle of whiskey from its precarious position on the inside edge of the sink and takes a generous gulp.
“Do it.”
When I dab peroxide on her wound, she sucks in a sharp intake of breath, muscles rigid. The sink creaks and groans under the pressure of her grip, but she makes no noise. A throb of sympathy strangles my heart when I see her in the mirror gritting her teeth and squeezing her eyes shut. Blowing air against her skin, I watch her muscles contract, then relax. “I’m sorry.”
When she opens her mouth to speak, she first squeaks out a weak grunt. “Why? You didn’t shoot me. You would have missed.”
“Oh, ha ha. Jerk.” I resume cleaning the wound and blowing on the burning skin until it is clean and an angry pink. “I’m impressed. I’d be screaming.”
“Like I said, I have had worse. You seem like a lightweight, anyway.” She smirks, and I chortle and shake my head at her deflection. “Done?”
“I don’t know, not every day an assassin in the fabled Order of Prometheus is half-dressed in front of you, at your mercy,” I say with a saucy wink.
“At your mercy?” She bristles, as if highly offended. “Hardly. I could still take you.”
The horny, stupid part of me wants to ask her to prove it, but my rational side wins out. Well, mostly rational. “Oh, I bet you could.”
Turning around into my space, she exposes her abdomen to me as she fondles the sink for her clothes. It is unfair how much muscle exists on this petite woman. The middle of her stomach is an intersection of muscle and tendon, powerful and firm. On the right side of her ribcage is another stark tattoo. This one is more easily recognizable—an eagle, black but for a slash of crimson on its belly and dripping from its beak. The eagle from the myth of Prometheus, right above her own liver, pecking it out. Two triangles, no bigger than a fingernail each, ride the diagonal line of muscle and bone leading into her waistband, obscuring whatever image they adorn.
Other tattoos on her chest and down her arms disappear as she re-dresses. I nod down to the Order symbol—five black flames styled as broken stained glass pieces, growing larger symmetrically outward like graduated lotus flower petals. “Whose idea were the tattoos?”
Taylor shrugs. “Nobody. Myself and a few others got them and it consequently became fashionable at HQ.”
“Isn’t it conspicuous?”
“Probably.”
“Do you have more tattoos?”
“Yes.” She spins on her heel and heads out the door, whiskey bottle in hand.
With a laugh, I follow her out of the bathroom. “Scandalous locales? Or is it the content?”
“What it is, Miss Piccolo, is none of your business.” Taylor pauses in her step and holds her hand out for me to stop. “Thank you for your assistance.”
“Don’t mention it. Or, you know, do. Loudly, and in front of others.”
Upon entering the main room, I’m smacked in the face with a slap of live music, clinking glasses, and scuffling of dancing feet. Tables are pushed to the perimeter of the room, the center converted into a dance floor. Clamorous, to say the least. I’m surprised my taciturn captor enjoys this sort of place.
“Do you want to dance?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is that an offer?”
She laughs. “No, but I will not stop you.” Reaching up, she pulls the bandana around my face, and on her tippy-toes, rucks up my hood. “As long as you are careful.”
A look out into the crowd and I find naught but bearded alcoholics and distressingly slack-jawed people, so I grimace and turn back to her. “I’ll pass. What about you? Ready to regale your compatriots with tales of past glory?”
Taylor avoids eye contact with the group of soldiers waiting for her return. “No.”
“Didn’t think so.”
Mason waves us over from a table in the back and Taylor makes a drinking motion with her fist. “Beer?”
“If you’re buyin’,” he replies with a grin. “Stout. Tell Johnny not to be stingy, neither.”
I place my hand on Taylor’s shoulder to guide her into the chair. “Why don’t you relax a second, Robin Hood? I’ll get you your drinks. I can manage two beers without getting kidnapped again. I’m sure you’ll be watching the whole time.”
Over a few dancing bodies I spot the bartender mixing drinks and chatting with the swarthy men who look like they live at the bar. They might have been born at the bar, beards growing on the counter like vines and an amber glass permanently attached to leathery hands. The bartender is a taller man, probably in his late twenties, with a curly mustache and a bow tie. It’s a handsome, whimsical look that fits in with the early-twenty-first-century vibe of this place.
