Beneath a Holo-Sky (Poison World Book 1)

by Lyn Forester

  “I really am sorry.” She reaches a hand into the beaded purse that hangs from her shoulder. “Please take this. Send me the cleaning bill.”

  “Oh, you don't have to.” But he accepts the small disc she offers and gives her his best smile. “I hope you have a good day.”

  “You, too,” she squeaks. Her face a deeper shade of red, she hurries to the elevator. She glances back as she gets onto the lift, and he waves. The blush returns to flood her cheeks as the doors shut.

  When he turns toward Reagen’s place, the empty corridor greets him. Déjà vu. The gel of the palm pad warms against his hand, flashes green, and the door slides open.

  “I want my lock fixed.” The shout comes from the office.

  “They’re working on it.” He kicks off his boots and heads into the bathroom. “I’m taking first shower.”

  “The fuck you are.” She appears in the doorway as he pulls off the soggy shirt. “Eww.”

  “Shut up, I’m sexy.” He runs a hand over his six-pack. No fat here.

  “She dumped that coffee on purpose.”

  “Yeah, it was cute.” The click of his belt buckle echoes off the bathroom walls.

  “Don’t you dare take off your pants,” she growls as his hands move to his zipper.

  “Shoot me now and deal with my naked ass.” He raises his arms in the air, pants dropping to the floor.

  “Fuck. Why would you pierce that?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” He rolls his hips.

  “Ugh, stop.” A hand flies to her mouth to hold back gagging noises. He turns and bends to collect his clothes and stuff them into the little washing machine he spots under the counter. “Seriously, stop. I’m going to vomit.”

  “You’re the one still watching.”

  “Fine, but this towel is mine.” The reflection in the mirror shows her snatching the towel off the hook next to the shower.

  “Hey, what’ll I use?”

  “Here." The washcloth smacks against his head. “And don’t drink the water unless you want the shits.”

  “How am I supposed to dry off with this?” He waves the tiny towel at her back.

  “Not my problem.” The door slams behind her.

  He tosses the tiny square of cloth on the counter and goes to the linen closet to check for something bigger. Inside, neat stacks of pants and shirts fill the space where towels should be.

  The small shirt he pulls out feels soft and absorbent. He sets it next to the washcloth and moves to the shower. Spoiled by the sanitizer in his apartment, it takes some fiddling to get the facets adjusted and the cold water to come out warm.

  When he steps under the spray, hot liquid slides over his body, pounding out the ache in his muscles from lying on the floor all night. Steam rises around him to fill the small space and hug him in a warm cloud. Pure bliss.

  He should get one of these installed at his apartment.

  Head ducked under the flow, he remembers at the last second to keep his mouth shut. He adds upgrades to his mental list: digestible water and speakers to play music while he gets ready.

  Unlabeled bottles hang from a plastic rack over the showerhead. He chooses one and pops the cap to give it a tentative sniff. Relieved to find the soap scent-free, he squeezes a big dollop into his hand and kneads it into his hair until masses of bubbles form thick around his fingers. Like giving himself a scalp massage. The sanitizer came with his Level 9 unit, but now he regrets denying himself the pleasure of a real shower. He’ll do a second wash to spend more time under the warm cascade.

  The water spray goes from warm comfort to cold torment in an instant.

  “Shit!” Ice needles pelt against his body, driving him from the line of fire.

  “That’s your five-minute warning. Move your ass,” Reagen shouts from outside the curtain.

  He jumps, elbow knocking into the stall’s wall. Instant tingles race down his arm to numb his fingers. Shit, he didn’t hear the door open. He flings open the plastic barrier, soap and water splashing in an arc to soak Reagen, who stands there with hands on her hips.

  “Turn the heater back on.” He points a suds-covered finger, and soap splatters her shirt.

  “It’s on a timer. You now have four minutes to rinse off or live with the itch of soap scum.” She grabs the curtain and closes him inside. “Two hundred forty seconds, 239 seconds, 238, 237.”

  “Shit, shit, shit.” The stall’s temperature drops, the steam beaten from the space.

  “Two hundred twenty-four, 223, 222.”

  “Shut up.” With a deep breath, he dives under the frigid stream, frantic hands rubbing at his hair. It doesn’t rinse out fast enough. “Time?”

  “You told me to shut up.”

  Ice seeps into his muscles, brings back the ache dispelled by the warm water. A quick turn to rinse off the rest of his body, and he slams off the faucets. Shudders vibrate through him, survival instinct’s attempt to drive up his temperature.

  “Towel.” He sticks a hand out, fingers waving.

  “I’m not your servant.” But the rough texture of terry cloth slides into his palm. He yanks it into the shower, stares at the stupid washcloth. It won't even cover his dick.

  He flings the curtain open to find himself alone. Gone, too, the t-shirt he planned to use in place of the washcloth. A glance to the left reveals an empty linen closet, door left open to mock him.

  The small washing machine dings. At least his clothes will be warm. He scrubs the cloth over his hair and face, wrings it out in the sink, and gets the rest of his body. The clean clothes cling to his damp skin. His tight pants stick halfway up his thighs. Hopping to bounce his way into them, his foot hits a patch of soap and slides out from under him. His elbows slam into the counter, catching his weight. One leg sticks straight out to the side.

  “You’re too slow.” Reagen yanks open the door and freezes. “What are you doing?”

  “Stretches?”

  “Yeah, sure. Get out. It’s my turn.” She leaves the doorway and then reappears, arms laden with the missing items from the closet. The full-size towel hangs over her shoulder.

  He slips and slides his way out of the bathroom, socks in hand. At least he got all the hot water.

  The door closes behind him to the distinct slide of the lock. Like ogling her skinny, naked ass is on his agenda.

  Stomach growling, he sets the socks next to his boots and wanders into the kitchen. The cupboards were low on food yesterday, but he checks again on the off chance a service came to restock her supplies. He finds two boxes of Bell-E Up bars stuffed in among small cases of tools and electronic parts. A long, bendy looking rod falls out. He catches it and presses the round knob on one end. It springs back and forth a few times, then stills. He tosses it into the cabinet where it clunks and rattles against other metal bits, and digs out two nutrition bars.

  The shower turns on in the bathroom. He doesn’t have much time.

  In the office, he slides into her chair. Metal contraptions in various stages of repair clutter the desktop. Next to the monitor, a set of prayer stones tip over, the smallest stone bouncing across the desk. Quick reflexes catch it before it hits the floor, and he gathers the set together.

  Black cracks mar the stones’ white surfaces, as if they had been in a fire. He hadn't pegged her as a True Believer. Carefully, he restacks them, the big one on the bottom to symbolize the weight of the past, a person's foundation. Then the medium stone, to represent the present, with the smallest on top for the unformed future. The stack wobbles as he pulls out the keyboard, and he steadies it with a finger.

  A couple taps on the spacebar brings the desk-port to life. An image of the rim fills the screen. Green and rolling, a faint orange haze from the toxic forest rises above the tree line. She forgot to lock it, unexpectedly sloppy of her.

  Two active files are minimized in the lower left corner of the monitor. With a fingertip, he taps one, and a log opens. A report of outages. Date, time, and location stamps for cameras on L4S9R4.
Laws prevent government surveillance, but local businesses are allowed their own security setups, and last night she hacked into them. The logs cover a half-mile radius. It must have taken her the whole night.

  He taps on the other file. A personnel document. The man’s face tickles Drake's memory. He squints at the image and remembers. The last time he saw the man, the blue guards were zipping him into a freezer bag.

  Blue flags mark additional information. With a tap, the first one expands. Careful notes line the screen. Reagen suspected the guy wanted to meet with them, that they were under surveillance while at The Hut. The note details her efforts to get into the club’s new security system without success.

  Another flag to remind her to pull personnel files from William Chattle’s other places of employment. He’d only worked at The Hut for six months.

  Why didn’t she say something? Doesn't she trust him with her theory? But she told him to take the guy's number. And later, he cut her off without listening. He was sure she’d keep teasing him.

  The shower cuts off. He closes the files, puts the desk-port into sleep mode. Out of the chair, he scoots it up to the desk and tilts it off-center, how he found it.

  When she comes out of the bathroom, his shoes are on. He lounges on the couch and munches a Bell-E Up bar. An empty water jar rests on the floor by his foot.

  Her eyes move around the apartment, scrutinizing. She pauses at the sight of the pillow and blanket, folded and on the cushion next to his hip. Her body twitches, but she says nothing. A plume of warm steam billows around her. He frowns at her rose-colored cheeks.

  “What?” She steps into her shoes and walks to the kitchen. A handful of Bell-E Up bars go into the pocket at her thigh before she grabs a GoGoNow from the ice chest.

  “I thought I used up the hot water.”

  She leans her butt against the counter, cracks open the energy drink, and brings it to her mouth. It doesn’t hide the upward curve of her lips. “There’s a system reset switch.”

  “I hate you.”

  “I thought we were friends now.”

  “I’m unfriending you.”

  “But we spent the night together.” Her gaze drifts to the office. “Don’t tell me you used me?”

  “Hey, you’re the one who used me for target practice.” Drake rubs a hand over his knees, still sore from crashing into the floor last night.

  Silence comes from the kitchen, and he glances up to find her gaze fixed on the office, smile gone. The can makes a hollow ring when she sets it on the counter and turns to stare at him.

  He forces a laugh. “Don’t worry, I’m not holding a grudge.”

  Her gaze slides back to the office. The fingers of her right hand tap against a thin thigh.

  With a sigh, he rests his head against the couch. “What gave me away?”

  “The faith stones.” The fingers still, and her shoulders relax.

  “Shit. Are they in the wrong place?”

  “You stacked them wrong.”

  “No, I didn’t.” He leaps from the couch, offended, and stomps back to the office. The stones wobble next to the monitor in a pyramid, just as they should be.

  “Yes, you did.” She flicks the stack over, lips tilted up at the small destruction. She collects the stones and stacks them again, medium, small, big.

  “That’s not right.” He points at the unstable tower. No wonder it fell over when he sat down.

  “Who says?”

  “The True Believer handbook.”

  “I’m not a True Believer.” Her fingers linger over the stones.

  “Then why do you have them?”

  “They were my grandmother’s.” Spine straight, her shoulders square. “So did you find anything interesting?”

  He allows the obvious subject change, unsure how to deal with a sentimental Reagen. “Why didn’t you tell me about Chattle?”

  “You didn’t want to listen.”

  “You could have pushed harder.”

  “You pissed me off.” A shoulder lifts and falls.

  “But you left the computer unlocked, assuming I’d snoop.” The guess feels right and gives him hope for their partnership. She won’t let her annoyance with him hold up the investigation.

  “You have a record for snooping.” She says it over her shoulder as she walks back to the kitchen space. The icebox opens and closes, followed up by the pop of another GoGoNow opening.

  “I’m sorry about yesterday. I was angry and acted like a kid.” She pauses, can halfway to her mouth. “Don’t be so surprised, I can admit when I’m wrong.”

  The energy drink makes it the rest of the way up, and her throat works to drain it in under thirty seconds. The aluminum container rings empty against the counter as she sets it next to the other can. She smacks red-stained lips and stretches, vertebrae crackling.

  “I’m sorry I almost killed Victor.” She meets his gaze. “Thanks for stopping me.”

  “What are friends for?”

  “So we’re friends again?”

  “Well, we did sleep together.” He steps past her to the living room and slides into his jacket. “Where should we start today?”

  “The tea shop.”

  “What?”

  “Did I stutter?”

  “Why a tea shop?”

  “Because Carmichael loves Silver Leaf 7, and we need a peace offering or he won't let you back in the Freezer.”

  TEA FOR TWO

  “We’d like a table overlooking the plaza,” Drake announces as soon as we step inside the tea shop. At the back counter, the startled waiter glances up from polishing cups. We’re unexpected customers, ahead of the morning rush. The light cycle hasn’t switched over to Day-Light yet.

  “We’re not here for breakfast. You already ate.” I’m hiding my box of Bell-E Up bars when I get home.

  “Those were snacks. Working out makes me hungry.”

  “I wouldn’t call that working out.”

  The waiter steps in front of us, menus in hand. “Seating for two?”

  “No.”

  “Yes.” Drake says at the same time. He leans toward me. “I bet they have cherry blossom tea.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “We have two varieties of cherry tea,” the helpful waiter butts in.

  “It’s still Half-Light, we have time.” Drake turns to the other man. “We’ll take a table by the window.”

  “Of course, sir. Right this way.” The slender man walks toward a table next to the large bay window. I’m left to either follow, or leave without Drake. The door, five steps away, tempts me.

  But I’m a big girl and can accept the blame for my current situation. I should have never brought Drake near food.

  The shop, with only five tables to seat customers, takes twenty long steps to cross. I arrive at the table alongside them. A tan cloth covers the round surface, the material nicer than the ones on the other four tables. Already set with plates and cups, it makes a nice view for passersby. Anyone seated here will be on display for the entire plaza.

  I don’t like the voyeuristic feel or the untenable choice of having my back exposed, either to the door or the rest of the room. For a small space, the walls feel far away. Drake puts his hand on the chair that faces the door and pulls it out.

  “Thank you.” I dodge around the waiter and slide into the seat ahead of Drake.

  “Hey, that’s my seat.” He shakes the chair. I hook my feet around the legs and grip the table.

  “Sit on the other side.” I won't be budged.

  The chair tips up onto its front legs, and for a moment, I think he’ll tip me over. He releases it, and the chair lands back on all four legs with a thud. I bounce against the seat, the bones in my butt slamming down hard. So worth it.

  Drake slouches into the seat across from me. Arms across his chest, he stares at the bowl of sugar cubes in the center of the table.

  “Stop pouting.”

  He flips me off.

  Wide-eyed, the waiter places t
he menus on the table and backs away to give us time to decide. I push mine off to the side, uninterested, and glance around Central Sip. It hasn’t changed since the last time I came here, six months ago. The counter in the back gleams, rich brown with fresh polish. The scale off to the left glints under the low lights, waiting to weigh out leaves. Four shelves line the back wall, with copper-colored containers storing the shop’s teas. The pale yellow upper walls contrast sharply with the dark faux wood wainscoting that circles the small shop. An amalgamation of odors fills the air: bitter blacks, earthy greens, sweet herbals.

  When the waiter returns, Drake has no problem ordering from the two-sided menu like a natural-born connoisseur of tea. Soon, a towering plate of sandwiches and a steaming pot of tea cover the tabletop.

  "Oh, rice puffs. I wonder what they're stuffed with." He snatches a small triangle off the top of the pyramid and breaks it open to reveal a thick, green mash. The vegetable protein paste smells like minerals and starch, with a hint of grass.

  “Sure you don’t want some?” Drake gestures at the steaming pot of tea at his elbow.

  “I’m good.” It smells good, like sweet cherries and the bitter flower of black tea leaf. But I have no interest in tea today.

  “Your loss.” Another sandwich disappears into his face. At least he chews with his mouth closed. He pauses in his hunt for the next rice puff victim, and frowns at me. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, why?” I realize I’ve been staring into space for a while. The sandwich tower lays decimated. Only three survivors remain. Crumbs lie scattered across Drake’s breakfast plate.

  “I don’t know, you look…” He waves a hand at his face, unhelpful. He tilts his head to get a different angle, before giving up and snapping up a puff sandwich. “You look not-Reagen.”

  “You know that’s completely unhelpful.” I relax my muscles, put on my blank face. “Better?”

  “Not really.” His eyes fall to the table, the enthusiasm of a moment ago gone. Drake unanimated is a pathetic sight.

  The waiter hovers nearby. As the only guests, we have his undivided attention. He notices my glance and steps forward, eager. I push my plate aside, a clear indicator I have zero plans to order. Drake’s eaten enough for the both of us.