by Aubrey Rose
"Wren? Wren, you okay?"
"Yeah," Wren said, her heard pounding hard. No enemy. She lowered the gun, her finger lifting off of the trigger. Goosebumps pricked the skin down both of her arms. "I'm fine. Thanks."
It was a dress. She'd forgotten to lock the door—she never forgot to lock the door—and Jessica had tossed her dress over the curtain rod. That was all it was.
Her hand was shaking as she flicked the safety back on her gun. She could have killed her roommate. Stupid her, forgetting to lock the door. She hated the vulnerability of showers, hated being naked. Hated being without her gun. It had been a while since the nightmares had stopped, but still she slept with the gun in the drawer hidden under her bedside table, loaded and ready should she need it.
She dried herself off quickly and strapped on her leg holster before tugging the dress over her hips. It was way too sexy, the green fabric hugging her curves tightly and stopping well below the top of her cleavage. She pulled the top up and felt a breeze across her butt. She pulled the bottom down to cover her ass and one of her boobs popped out of the top.
“This isn’t warm,” Wren called out. “And it’s too damn sexy.”
“Too damn bad,” her roommate called back. “And don’t you dare put your hair in a braid.”
Wren stopped, the braid already half done. She frowned and tossed a cardigan on to cover her shoulders. That was a little better. The snow had stopped weeks ago, but nights in D.C. were nothing to sneeze at. She ran her fingers through her hair, untangling the braid. There was no arguing with a fashion-savvy roommate over her hairstyle.
Coming into the living room, she saw Jessica leaning forward to see what was on the television. She lunged for it, but her roommate had already seen what she was watching.
"Why are you so interested in these old shifter tapes? It's morbid."
Jessica sat down, patting the side of the bed, and Wren shoved her half-unpacked suitcase aside to make room. Her roommate unzipped a large pouch, revealing an assortment of makeup brushes.
I like scary movies," Wren said, turning off the screen. "What can I say?"
"Shifters aren't scary. They're morbid."
Jessica began to dab makeup onto Wren's face. Wren scrunched her nose up and let her roommate work. The girl had been chosen carefully—she wasn't interested in politics or news, and she was an excellent screen. Wren would have preferred to live alone, but the CSE decided that this was the best cover for an assassin in retirement.
At least Jessica could do her makeup for her. And it was nice to know that somebody else was in the apartment, Wren had to admit. She felt safer with Jessica around. Well, when she wasn’t throwing dresses over the shower curtain, that is.
"Is that the word of the day?" she said, trying not to sneeze as Jessica powdered her cheeks. "Morbid?"
"Maybe."
"I seem to remember the word morbid has its root in disease – morbus." Wren put on her best professorial voice and tugged at her cardigan, so flimsy it wouldn't keep a stick warm.
"I think shifters were diseased," Jessica said. "In a way. How some of them needed to transform into animals—"
"I believe a word like petrify might be more, ahem, fitting," Wren said, waggling her eyebrows comically to hide the distaste she felt at even thinking about those animals.
Shifters were diseased, all right. They were a blight on society.
Jessica held up a mirror and Wren was surprised at how elegant she looked. The smoky gray makeup Jessica had applied made her green eyes blaze brightly. Her roommate tossed the mirror back down and began plucking at her brows with a set of tweezers.
"I know what petrify means," Jessica said, plucking away. "It means turn to stone. Shifters never turned anyone to stone." She brushed Wren's eyebrows—what was left of them, anyway—with something brown and shimmery.
"They turn your muscles to stone. They make you freeze." Wren turned serious. "Their stare disables you if you meet their gaze. I've heard."
Was that what had happened in the video? But no, the man had made a gesture first, before they attacked...
"Good thing they don't exist anymore," Jessica said, turning to the door. "You ready to go?"
"Yeah," Wren said, looking back behind her shoulder at the old TV screen. There was an afterimage of the shifters burned onto the screen. An optical illusion: the dark figures turned white, fuzzy and blurred. She flipped the apartment light off. "Good thing."
Chapter Four
Jessica abandoned Wren at the party as soon as they got through the door. Par for the course. Her fingers reached absentmindedly for the tip of her braid but found only a mass of dark hair. Breathing hard, she stepped into the room.
One. Check your surroundings. Clusters of well-dressed people all around the ballroom. Two exits in the back. The bar on her left. Wren headed to get a drink. At least she would have something to hold in her hand so that she wouldn't look quite so awkward. She wiggled her way through the crowd and ended up standing next to a tall, well-dressed businessman. Next to the bar, an elaborately sculpted ice fountain in the shape of a woman’s body poured rivulets of vodka down the front of her ice bosom. An attendant in a bow tie filled martini glasses of vodka from the tips of the ice woman’s nipples to pass out to partygoers. Wren rolled her eyes.
"A Coke please," Wren said to the bartender.
"Anything else?"
"Yes," Wren said impulsively. "A cherry on top."
"Designated driver or recovering alcoholic?" the businessman next to her asked. Gold cuff links flashed from his wrists.
"I don't like to lose control," Wren said. She took her Coke from the bar.
"Smart girl." He sipped at his whisky—god, the alcohol smelled strong—and the bartender turned away to help someone else.
"Smart, anyway." Wren winced at the word girl. Everyone who saw her thought she was younger than her age. More fragile. Even the curves that had come back to her hips didn't add any inches to her height. Even ordering alcohol wouldn’t help her with looking older, not if she had to tiptoe to reach over the bar.
"So let me guess," the man continued, unabashed. "You work as an accountant. Always in control."
"Do I look that interesting?" Wren said, swirling the cherry around the top of her Coke. "No, I'm a consultant."
"So you travel a lot?"
"Not as much as I'd like."
"Are you on a job here?"
Immediately Wren knew that he was asking her a different question. The businessman was asking her if she had a place to stay, a hotel room, somewhere discreet. She looked at his hand – no wedding ring. That didn't mean much. She wasn't going to play his game. Not in the mood.
"No, this is where I live. I'm actually here with my roommate," Wren said, searching the crowd for the tall girl.
"Why don't we step outside for a second?" the man said, leaning forward. She could smell the whiskey on his breath. His eyes swept over her body so obviously that she could feel it. "We can chat for a bit. Get some fresh air."
Wren opened her mouth to reply but before she could say one word another man had stepped in between her and the businessman.
"Sorry, this beautiful lady is already taken." The tall, handsome man with black hair took her by the elbow. Wren let herself be guided away toward the dance floor, leaving the businessman holding his whiskey at the bar.
"Olivier? What are you doing here?"
"Making sure you don't get stolen away by some other rich politician," he said, beaming down at her. One hand wrapped itself around her waist, and then he was leading her in a formal box waltz. Wren followed his lead easily. She loved to dance, all kinds of dance. Although she could follow the formal ballroom dances, she preferred the sensual rhythms of tango and salsa.
When they'd first started dating, Olivier had gone out with her dancing many times. Then the election had encroached, and she'd had to go by herself, but she knew he didn't like her going out on her own. Lately, she'd quit dancing altogether. So this moment
was one she savored—his hand on her waist, his other hand supporting her palm. She smiled brightly up at him.
"Seriously, what are you doing here?"
"Seriously, Jessica texted me and said you had the night off. I thought I could take a moment away from the office to come down and do cocktails for a while with my girl. You look amazing. You should wear makeup more often."
"Yeah, we'll see about that," Wren said. Olivier's smile faltered a bit.
"I'm sorry, should I not have come?" he asked. "Did you want to flirt with the wealthy socialites? You know I can't resist a good charity ball."
"Spoken like a true wealthy socialite," Wren said, poking him in the side. "No, I'm just tired. I shouldn't have come. Jessica dragged me away from my work."
"It's good that you're working," Olivier said. "You'll get a raise soon, with all the overtime you put in."
"Maybe," Wren said, resting her head on Olivier's shoulder. They swayed back and forth to the sounds of the piano coming from the other room. She tried to get back into the moment, the feeling of dancing with him, pressed against him, but it wasn't working.
"Are you okay?" Olivier said. He pulled back, concern written all over his face. "You seem kind of down."
"I'm fine," Wren said. His insistence irritated her. "You know, I think that guy was right. I could use a breath of fresh air. Can we walk outside a bit?"
"Sure," Olivier said, casting a distracted look across the charity party. "Let me just say goodbye first. The head of AeroCon was telling me about their lobbyist's plans, and it's really my one chance to impress him...There he is!"
He strode away quickly, leaving her standing on the dance floor alone. Of course. That's why Olivier had shown up at the party. Not to have drinks with her, but to schmooze with the bigwigs he knew would be here. The company exec he'd been talking with shook his hand and gestured to the other men in the group. Wren slunk back to the front door to wait for him.
“Chocolate pomegranate dip?” a waiter asked, bending to offer a silver tray of fondue.
“Sure, thanks,” Wren said. She took the tray from the waiter and set it down on the table next to her, swiping a handful of bread through the chocolate dip and into her mouth in one motion. The tartness of the pomegranate pips contrasted with the bittersweet chocolate.
“Delicioush,” she said with a half-full mouth. Wide-eyed, the waiter blinked and didn’t ask for the tray back.
It took five more minutes and half a tray of the chocolate dip before Olivier extricated himself from the group of executives. He walked over with a face brighter than normal.
"Great news!" he said. "The AeroCon people want to meet up and talk about the resolution I'm writing up."
She reached to take his hand but he pressed her palm instead on his elbow to escort her out.
"No holding hands?" she half-teased. He never wanted to hold hands in public.
"Come on," he said, "No kiddish stuff here, please. When we're outside?"
"Sure," Wren said, feeling her happy expression slide off of her face. He led her out and down the stairs to the city sidewalk. It was only when they were around the corner that he let his arm drop and hold her hand. The motion felt hollow, scripted. She wished he hadn’t come, then berated herself for it. He was only doing his job. He was good at his job.
Wren tilted her head back to look up. There must have been stars above them, but the lights of D.C. were so bright that they eclipsed any hint of the night sky.
"The lobbyists have been stalled for months now," he continued without interruption. "There's one clause they keep fighting for, but I don't think they need to bargain for it."
"Hmm. How does that work?" Wren asked. She immediately wished she hadn't.
"Like I was telling him, all you have to do is rewrite the first committee bill and get it through with the clause attached there as a rider. If it's already part of the bill, the oversight agency knows that they'll have to convince two-thirds of the committee to rework it, and nobody wants to rework it, believe me."
Wren believed him. She inhaled deeply and let it out, her warm breath clouding white in front of her. Her cardigan was too thin for this weather. Even in spring, Washington was cold as ice. Her teeth began to chatter.
"Then there's no way it can be struck as a line item in debate," Olivier was saying.
"Mmm," she said. He stopped and took her by the shoulders. For a brief second she thought that he would kiss her, and she raised her chin up slightly to meet him. Then he caressed her cheek with the back of his hand and she knew he was off in some distant place in his mind.
"I was thinking about your consulting company," Olivier said. "If you would just let me talk to them, I'm sure we could figure out a government contract that you could head up."
"Olivier—"
"I know, I know, you don't want any help. But if you want to get ahead, you're going to have to let other people help you. Tell me what you need. Let me pull some strings."
"No. I don't want you to pull any strings for me," Wren said. She turned and continued walking to warm herself up, and Olivier followed at her side. His hands were in his pockets, and she wrapped her arms around herself. It was still cold.
"It's not illegal," he said. "Just let me put in a good word with the Senate committee—"
"No!" Wren said.
"Jesus, Wren, stop being so stubborn!"
"Me? I'm stubborn?"
"Wren, gosh, come on." Olivier had a hurt expression in his eyes. "I only want you to be successful."
"I am successful," Wren said, softening her tone. "I have you, don't I?"
"You're going to be the best Senate wife there is," Olivier said, laughing. "Nobody can walk over you."
"Oh, really?" Wren asked, glancing over at her boyfriend. He'd been hinting at proposing for months now, but never more than that. Honestly, she wasn't sure what she would say if he did.
She would say yes, she supposed. Olivier was a good boyfriend, if a bit too work-obsessed. And she could hardly blame him for that when she was just as obsessed with her own job. And he was always considerate, never forgetting to buy her flowers on her birthday or Valentine's. But sometimes she wished he would be a bit less considerate, and a bit more... passionate.
"I can't wait to spend this weekend with you," he said, squeezing her shoulder. She gave a wan smile. It would be nice to get away. Olivier had planned two whole days out of the city at a fancy spa retreat in Maryland. Wren had seen his credit card bill and pitched a fit, but he had convinced her that it would be worth it.
Worth it? She'd make sure it was worth it. Olivier spent so much of his time doing senate committee work that he was too exhausted to climb into bed with her when he came home after working out at the gym. After a dry spell that he promised was due entirely to overstress, Wren couldn't wait to get away... but more than that, she couldn't wait to tear Olivier's clothes off and give him a real workout.
If there was one sore spot in the relationship, it was his sex drive. Or lack thereof. Wren had never pressed him about it, although she brought it up casually now and again, hoping he would catch the hint. He never did.
They continued down the street, walking alongside the closed up storefronts.
"What are you going to do first? The mud baths or the cucumber facial?"
"I'd like a cucumber facial from you," Wren said, nudging his side with her elbow. "If you know what I mean."
Olivier groaned.
"Terrible pun," he said. "Me, I think I'm going to get a full-body massage first."
"A massage?" Wren had been offering Olivier massages every other day for a year now. And while she thought it would be a sexy lead up to foreplay, that didn't really work when Olivier fell asleep under her hands every single time.
Wren's phone buzzed with a text message. She reached into her purse to turn it off—time with Olivier was too precious to be spent checking texts— and as she did, she saw out of the corner of her eye a shadow moving in the alleyway just up ahead. Her
eyes lifted, her father’s voice screaming in her mind: Surroundings! Check your surroundings!
Before she could say a word, the man had stepped out in front of them. He was young, with black stubble on his chin and a twitchy, nervous look in his eyes. He was wearing a dark jacket over raggedy jeans, and looked, if not homeless, then close to it. Olivier stopped in his tracks and held a hand up warily.
"Can I help—"
The man pulled out a gun. His hand shook as he raised the weapon and pointed it towards Olivier, then Wren. Wren's heart skipped a beat, and all of her muscles tensed under her skin.
Not like this. Not again.
She let go of her phone, preparing to jump or be jumped.
"Gimme your cash," the man said. He coughed into one hand. "Now."
Olivier stepped in front of Wren.
"It's alright," he said, his voice calm with only an edge of nervousness in it. "I'll give you my money. Just don't point the gun at her."
Stupid! If she had a clear shot of the mugger, she could take him down in a second. What was Olivier thinking?
He wasn't thinking. He didn't know what was going through her head, after all.
But no, it was her fault to begin with. She should have had better awareness of her surroundings, not been distracted by her phone. Then she would have been one step ahead of the guy. She really didn't want to try to pull her gun out from her leg holster. Not with Olivier there, anyway. He hated guns.
As it was, Olivier was digging into his pockets for cash between them, making it impossible for her to reach the mugger with any certainty that she would succeed. Worst case scenario, he would injure or kill Olivier before she could take him down. Dammit! If only Olivier would step away, out of her path—
"Here," Olivier said, holding out the cash with his fingertips at arm's length.
So frustrating! If Olivier wanted to take the gun away from the guy, all he had to do was palm the cash and make sure the mugger took a step forward. Just a single step forward, to throw him off balance. Wren rolled her eyes as the mugger snatched the cash easily and stuffed it into his jacket pocket.
