by Kit Rocha
But this wasn't a fair life. It was Nessa's life.
Jas turned as the doors began to close. The stranger turned, as well, his gaze clashing with hers, and sudden, flustered panic made her shove her arm out. The elevator door bumped her elbow and slid open again, and there was no helping it. She could stand there gaping like a fool, or she could try to play it cool.
As if Nessa and cool had ever been within screaming distance of one another.
Still, this was her territory. So she stepped out of the elevator and let her pride of ownership stand in for confidence. “Hey, Jas. Can I help you find something?”
“Nah, I was just showing Ryder around. I'm glad you're here, though.” He held out his arm, ushering her closer. “Nessa, this is Ryder, the guy who took over Five. And this is Nessa.”
Of course he was. Of course he fucking was, because if her hormones were anything, they were reliably self-destructive. Why fall for a nice, boring boy loyal to Sector Four when she could get the hots for a guy Dallas still didn't entirely trust, a guy so dangerous he'd taken over Sector Five from the inside.
Touching him was out of the question. She shoved her hands in her pockets and nodded in greeting. Cool. Collected. Then she opened her mouth, and words fell out. “So you're the drug dude.”
He blinked at her. “I make them, yes. So do you, it seems.”
“What? Hell, no. I make liquor. Excellent liquor.”
He inclined his head. “Of course you do.”
Nessa couldn't tell if he was agreeing with her or humoring her, but the spike of temper was exactly what she needed. Pride overrode hormones, and she tilted her head. “I was going to check out some of the seven-year, Jas. If you're showing him around…”
Before Jasper could answer, Ryder folded his hands behind his back. “I'd like to see it.”
“Then follow me.”
She led them down the aisle and to the left, past hundreds of barrels labeled in her burned-in block letters with the date, the cask number, and her coded notes. Near the back of the room on the last few racks, the handwriting shifted to her grandfather's scrawl, legible only to the people who'd worked with him for years.
As long as these barrels were down here, she'd still have a part of him.
There was a sink against the far wall, next to a tasting table stacked high with glasses. She scooped up the whiskey thief and hauled the stepladder down the row until she found the cask she wanted.
In the old days, there'd been laws about bourbon. Hell, there'd been laws about everything, more and more every year. Her grandfather had sworn they were on the verge of another Prohibition when the Flares happened, but sometimes his stories of the life that came before sounded more like an old man's rage at a world that had fallen apart.
Pop might not have had much use for most of the old government's laws, but the sanctity of his bourbon was something else altogether. She could still remember the screaming match when he'd insisted Dallas had to find him new oak barrels and everything he needed to char them right.
The shit they're paying for now is practically jet fuel. They won't know the fucking difference between new and used barrels. They might not know the difference if you pissed in it.
I'll know. And a decade down the road, you'll be thanking me.
Her grandfather had gotten his barrels. He'd gotten every damn thing he ever asked for—not that it had taken a decade to make good on his promise. There was that, at least. Even though he'd died before her fifteenth birthday, he'd lived long enough to have Dallas thank him for holding the line.
And Nessa had bottled the first batch of straight bourbon without him.
Her eyes stung, and she hurried through drawing the sample and blinked away any hint of tears as she hopped back to the floor. Jas had already upended three glasses, and she watched the liquor as she distributed it between them, all too aware of Ryder's gaze on her.
“What is this?” he asked in that sinful rumble of his.
“Straight bourbon whiskey.” The flutters were back, and she fought them with facts. “Sixty-five percent corn. It's been aging seven years now, and I think it's getting close.”
“To what?”
“Perfection, obviously.” She lifted a glass and offered it to him. “You guys ever get the good stuff over in Five?”
“I wouldn't know.” He accepted the glass with a tight smile. “I don't drink very often.”
An odd stance for a man who peddled a goddamn glittering rainbow of mind-altering recreational pharmaceuticals alongside his more sedate medical offerings, but Nessa supposed she was just as much a hypocrite.
Except her mind-altering recreation tasted better.
She passed a glass to Jasper before raising the final one. “Well, here's to the finer things in life.”
Ryder saluted her in return, then tossed his whiskey back like a shot of cheap grain alcohol. His throat worked as he swallowed, and it would have been one of the hottest things she'd ever seen if it hadn't been so infuriating.
Offended on behalf of her liquor and her grandfather, she snatched the glass from his hand and replaced it with her own. “That is not how you drink good bourbon. Jesus Christ, did you even taste it?”
“Nessa.” Jas looked scandalized.
“What?” she shot back. “Where's your fucking pride?” Without waiting for a response, she curled Ryder's hand around the glass. Then, because Jas didn't deserve it if he wasn't going to stand up for her, she plucked his glass from his hand and lifted it to her lips. “Watch. Bring it up like you're going to drink it, but first you smell it. With your lips parted, like this.”
She rested the glass against her lower lip and inhaled slowly—and couldn't for the life of her tell what the hell she was smelling. Because Ryder's gaze was fixed on her mouth, and the butterflies were elephant-sized and stomping all over the place.
Oh Jesus, this was bad. “Then you drink it,” she told him, and at least she didn't sound breathless. Yet. “Sip it. Let it roll across your tongue. Taste it.”
He followed her instructions, his gaze locked with hers as he sipped the whiskey. Then, just when she was ready to break eye contact to save herself, he licked his lower lip. “You're right,” he murmured. “I stand corrected.”
Oh, she'd correct him. She'd climb that hard body like a tree and lick his lower lip herself, see what else he was willing to let roll across his tongue—
No. No, no, no.
Nessa set the glass on the table, untouched. “Good. Enjoy the rest of your tour.” She pivoted before they could stop her and disappeared between two aisles of casks, striding away so fast that she could hear the murmur of Jas's voice, but not his words.
She had rules, good ones. No men with brains. No men with power. No men who might find themselves on the opposite side of the O'Kanes for any reason that mattered. And, most especially, no men who made her feel things that might make her forget the reasons she needed those rules.
Nessa had always been the key to Dallas O'Kane's power. She was the heart of his whole empire. And once, at fifteen, she'd almost brought it crashing down because a pretty man had said all the right things to make a lonely girl grieving her dead grandfather feel like someone loved her.
Everyone else got to take big risks in the name of love. She didn't have that luxury.
Chapter Six
If the rooftop garden was the one place in Sector Four where Hawk felt on the firmest footing, the underground tunnels were the other extreme. Cold, sterile, and lifeless, the cement walls and artificial light were enough to give him a case of claustrophobia—even without the very real possibility that he could take one wrong turn and be lost down here forever.
But the new kid was in his fucking element.
“My grandpa used to do this,” Tank told him as he used his boot knife to open a small bag of the cement mix. “Before the Flares. He helped build the factories in Eight.”
It was a common story. So many of the people who scrabbled out their lives in the se
ctors were descended from people who had originally come here with a dream, following the promise of a grand future. A dream of working together toward a common goal and sharing in the fruits of their labor.
A dream that had died when the lights went out.
Hawk held the mixing tub steady for Tank and watched Bren and Jas fix the frame into place in front of doors leading toward the city. Bren had already used Noah's instructions to disable the control panel next to the door, but a broken door could be fixed with enough patience. Noah himself was proof of that.
The project they were working on today was a lot more permanent. “Are you guys almost ready?”
“Just about.” Jasper tested the makeshift wooden wall with the heel of his hand and squinted when it gave just a little. “You sure this'll hold it?”
“The stuff is light.” Bren tossed his hammer aside and knelt to check the charged air compressor. “The wood'll hold.” He jerked his head toward the large black bag he'd brought. “Don't forget the putty.”
“Right.” Jas retrieved a block and pinched off a piece, working it between his fingers until it was malleable. “This expandable shit freaks me out.”
“Dallas O'Kane's right-hand man?” Tank teased. “Never.”
“It should¸” Bren said flatly. “I saw a guy get pumped full of it once. They were reinforcing the wall over by Three after it was damaged by the firebombs. Poor fucker got impaled by a nozzle—”
Jasper groaned. “Stop.”
“—and they didn't shut down the pump fast enough.”
Tank grimaced. “Get the fuck out.”
“No, really.” Bren rose. “The worst part is that this shit takes a minute to expand. Literally—sixty seconds. Longest fucking minute of my life. His too, I guess.”
Horrifying, but still fast, no matter how long that minute dragged out. “I'd take sixty seconds over what happens when you wind up on the wrong side of a tractor. You get on toward the end of harvest, with Eden breathing down your neck and everyone around you hopped up on illegal stimulants, and shit gets ugly, fast. Limbs all mangled, trapped and waiting for someone to find you…”
“And people think running illegal booze in the sectors is dangerous.” Jasper held out a clump of the putty. “Patch the other side, Hawk. I want to finish and get the hell out of here.”
Hawk took the putty and set about his task. “So if this works, how many of these do we have to do?”
“Seven more,” Bren answered. “One for each sector. There are a few main tunnels that we know have collapsed over the years, but Dallas wants the doors sealed anyway. Just in case.”
Eight main doors. The hubs connecting the underground network between Eden and the sectors. Hawk hadn't even known they existed before coming to Sector Four, but it sure the hell explained how the military police had been able to appear in Six without warning and disappear just as fast.
Not for much longer, though. Not if Dallas pulled off his crazy plan to bottle the city up so tight it popped.
“Ready?” Bren asked. Tank nodded, and together they closed and sealed the mixing tank. The air compressor hummed idly as Bren slid the slim nozzle into the hole they'd bored through the wall and roughly caulked the edges with more putty.
The compressor firing up reverberated like a shot in the enclosed space, rattling Hawk's bones. The ground trembled beneath his boots, and he slapped a hand against the nearby wall to reassure himself it was steady. But it was vibrating, too, and the nightmare of being lost in a labyrinth of tunnels was replaced by the vivid image of being buried beneath the rubble.
Christ, his thoughts were grim.
The mixing tank began to churn, followed by a liquid hiss. The tube running to the nozzle wiggled like a trapped snake, one that could break free and turn on them at any moment.
They were all thinking it, even Bren, whose severe expression was set in even harsher lines than usual. And it wasn't just the uncertainty of this plan or process, either. It was the fact that they needed to do this, block off every one of Eden's possible access routes into the sectors.
It was another reminder that this was war.
Bren checked the readouts on the mixer, then cut the compressor. The sudden silence was deafening, and Hawk checked the urge to rub his ears.
“Now what?” Tank asked quietly.
Bren pulled the nozzle from the hole and quickly covered it with the surrounding putty. “Now we wait.”
“For?” Even as Jasper spoke, the wooden wall started to creak. As they watched, it bulged slightly, like an overfilled plastic bag. “Oh, that's not good.”
But it didn't explode. It stayed like that, bowed but sound, and they all held their breath until Bren looked up from his watch and nodded. “Now.”
Tank picked up a crowbar and proved that he deserved his nickname. Massive arms that put even Flash and Zan to shame bulged as he pried at the wood. His face had turned red by the time the first board gave with a snap, and Hawk jumped out of the way, still half-expecting the concrete mix to splatter out.
But the empty space revealed a concrete wall, looking as solid as if it had been there the whole damn time. Considering how little they'd pumped into the wall, Bren's story took on a new, horrifying light. “Shit.”
“Yeah.” Jas took the crowbar and swung it at the new wall. It bounced off without so much as chipping it. “Okay, I think we can call that a win.”
Bren ran his hands through his hair. “They can break through it, but it'll slow them down long enough for us to have some nasty surprises waiting for them when they do.”
Jas shook his head and shouldered the crowbar. “Let's report back. Tell Dallas and Lex it's a go.”
There were benefits to not being the new guy anymore. Tank gathered up most of the supplies with a good-natured grumble. Hawk fell in next to Jasper, eager to get the hell above ground. “How'd things go while I was out in Six? Any more trouble on the wall?”
“It's been pretty quiet.” Jas slanted a look at him. “Your visit went all right, I guess.”
The comment had nothing to do with Shipp's trunk full of flares. Hawk and Jeni had arrived back in Four just in time for a status update meeting, and every eye in the room had gone straight to Jeni's throat.
Even Dallas's raised eyebrow and assessing stare hadn't been able to crush Hawk's savage satisfaction.
Mine.
The whole damn compound would know by the time they got back, and Hawk nearly smiled in spite of the stifling air and claustrophobic walls. “Yeah. I'd say it went pretty good.”
“Uh-huh. Can't decide if you move too fast or too slow.”
Too fast at the things the O'Kanes were used to taking slow, and too slow at the things they always took fast. “Probably both. But she said yes.”
Bren caught up to them with his big black bag slung over his shoulder. “Who said what?”
“Jeni,” Hawk replied, and that damn smile broke through on a fresh wave of satisfaction. “I offered her a collar, and she said yes.”
“Yeah? Congratulations. She's a nice girl.”
It was damn close to sweet, and slightly surreal, coming from a man who'd been recounting death by expanding cement only a few minutes ago. Then again, Hawk had seen Bren's girlfriend cheerfully break half a man's fingers before tossing him face-first into the street, so maybe Bren didn't have to compartmentalize these things. “Yeah, she is.”
“Man, I've been out of the loop over in Three,” Bren said. “I didn't even know you two were a thing.”
“Oh, you're all caught up.” Jasper grinned. “Hawk went zero to sixty on this shit.”
Hawk jabbed an elbow into Jasper's arm. “You're the one who told me that's how you show you're serious. I'm fucking serious, okay?”
“No kidding.”
Bren stepped between them. “He's busting your balls. Don't listen to him. He did the same goddamn thing with Noelle.”
“Oh, really?” Hawk laughed. “I always wondered how that went down. I mean, it was big
news even out on the farms. Everyone was talking about how Dallas O'Kane had a councilman's daughter dancing in his bar.” It had been the moment Hawk had started paying attention, the moment he knew O'Kane had balls of steel and wouldn't hesitate to spit in Eden's eye.
“It was fast,” Bren confirmed. “And I say fuck yeah. When it feels right, why wait?”
Right didn't begin to cover the way his heart raced when Jeni sank to her knees, touched him for the first time with her tongue, or rested her cheek on his thigh, so sweetly obedient that he ached with it. Right didn't come close to covering how it felt to thrust into her, to ride her orgasm while her moans turned to screams.
“Fuck right,” Hawk replied. “It's perfect.”
Jasper laughed before turning to Bren. “Was I this bad?”
“We all were,” he answered solemnly.
“Then I eagerly await my turn,” Tank said, his voice strained by the weight of the equipment he carried.
Hawk grinned. It was easier now to joke, to laugh, as if the collar was an O'Kane ritual and now he truly was one of them. “Carry all that shit around the back way so the ladies can admire you, and your chance might come sooner rather than later.”
“On it.” He hitched his load higher and walked faster.
Hawk had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at the younger man's earnest enthusiasm. Hawk had been just as wide-eyed in his earliest days in Four—but he'd also had responsibility weighing him down. Tank was diving headfirst into everything the O'Kanes had to offer, including dancers who appreciated flexing muscles and fight night victories.
Tank disappeared around a corner, and Hawk let his laughter out. “He's gonna run the whole way back, isn't he?”
“Probably.” Jasper sobered quickly. “I didn't want to mention it in front of the new guy, but stay sharp, okay? The chance that Eden doesn't have spies in the sectors is slim to none.”
