“You know, doll … Just throwing out a hypothetical here. If we sold these chips, we’d make a nice chunk of E’s and could maybe quit this petty criminal racket for a little bit.”
Iridium’s hands stopped moving.
Boxer didn’t drop his genial smile, but he backed up a step out of habit.
She took a deep breath, so Boxer wouldn’t know how close he’d come to the truth. He was a lot smarter than he looked, in his tie clip and fedora and thinning slicked-back hair. “After this, we’re taking the show on the road,” she said. “I’ve spent five years being a thorn in Corp’s boot, and I’m tired of it.” She slammed her fist down on the workbench. Her neural inhibitor, purchased from the estate of Baron Nightmare, fell off it and rolled away into a corner.
“What are you talking about, Iri?” said Boxer cautiously. “You know how I feel about getting too visible on Corp’s radar. If my brothers or my nephew ever found me, it’d be seriously down times for ol’ Boxer.”
“I’m saying I’m tired of being a thorn,” said Iridium. “I want to be a fucking nail.” A red halo blossomed around her hands, her hair, in the corners of her eyes. “We’re going after Corp and its army of badly costumed minions, effective now. If you have a problem with that, motor before it gets rough. Got it?”
Boxer swallowed. “Got it.”
“Good. Now go out and get me a sandwich, will you? I’m half-starved. Jet caught up with me and got in a lucky hit.”
“That low-down dirty hero,” Boxer commiserated. “Oh, boss, before I forget … you got a message from the leader of the Undergoths.”
“Wonderful.” She wrinkled her nose. The Undergoths lived in the abandoned subway tunnels, not to mention any other holes in the ground … most of which were seeping with raw sewage.
Boxer jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “You want me to tell ’em to get lost?”
“Not until you find out what they want,” said Iridium. “Wouldn’t be the first time some junkfreak gang leader tried to bribe his way into my neighborhood. If he’s going to make trouble, let’s get rid of him now.”
“He wants to meet with you,” said Boxer, lighting an old-fashioned cigarette.
“Well, that’s new.” She wondered exactly how crazy the leader of the Undergoths had to be. “What’s his deal?”
Boxer grinned at her through a cloud of blue smoke. “I know you’re done with the do-gooder stuff and all, but you might like this: He says he’s got a vigilante problem.”
CHAPTER 15
JET
Not many people are aware of the Academy Runners-civilians who work ostensibly for Corp but actually act as gophers for the Squadron. Can’t have our heroes bothering themselves with things like laundry, can we? Our tax dollars, hard at work.
Lynda Kidder, “Origins, Part Two,” New Chicago Tribune, April 2, 2112
Not even two minutes after Jet stormed into her apartment, the door chime sounded. Still fuming from the debacle that had been the Goldwater show, the last thing Jet wanted to deal with was … well, anything. Barring some cosmic emergency, all she had on her schedule for tonight was curling up with a good romance novel. Maybe—maybe—she’d even allow herself to have some chocolate.
Thinking of which book she’d lose herself in later, Jet opened the door. And right there, cover-model gorgeous, was Bruce Hunter. As her gaze locked on his handsome face, she forced herself to smile, even though she really wanted to squeak and slam the door shut. Her heartbeat jitterbugged in her chest, and she was breathing too fast.
Damn it all to Darkness, how could one man fluster her so completely—and so quickly? He was just a man. A civilian, at that. Normal. Not a threat.
Except her instincts told her differently.
“Hey there,” Bruce said, his voice a sexy rumble that sent tingles running up her arms like electric shocks. He smiled broadly, his teeth bright enough to qualify him as a Light power.
When she remembered to speak, she said, “Hi.”
After a moment, he cleared his throat. “So, this is the part where you let me in …”
Hating the heat she felt in her cheeks, Jet stepped aside and threw the door open wide. There he stood, Bruce Hunter, Academy Runner, tall and dark and handsome in his black trencher and slacks, the dimple in his right cheek turning his grin into something boyish and altogether touchable, his blue eyes sparkling.
No, Jet thought, staring into his eyes, they’re nothing as soft or magical as that. They ripple with energy. They’re dangerous eyes. Sexy eyes.
She could almost hear Meteorite’s voice laughing, telling her she really needed to get laid.
And the truly sad thing was, Jet’s body agreed with the assessment. The tremors she felt in her belly had nothing to do with the aromatic smells emanating from the bag in Bruce’s hand.
The tremors shifted into small pulses, sending tiny waves of heat up to very sensitive parts that usually were very carefully hidden by her cloak. But she’d hung up her cowl and cape when she’d entered a moment ago. Telling her body to stop reacting like that to Bruce’s presence, she said, “Please come in.”
“Thank you.” He strode through the doorway, then turned to face her.
She tore her gaze away from his handsome face, forced herself to look anywhere but at those captivating eyes. Down. Torso covered by his black coat, but she imagined him with a broad chest to go with the shoulders his duster couldn’t hide. Hints of a bright green shirt flashed in the gap of his unzipped jacket. Long legs, wrapped in black slacks. Black combat boots. Not Runner standard, but Jet had seen a number of the gophers sporting them. She assumed they were comfortable and, indeed, allowed their wearer to run quite fast. Her gaze slid back up his long legs and paused for a split second by his crotch.
Stop that. Light, where was her brain?
Apparently, it was on sabbatical, because even that moment of imagining him without his pants sent a stab of desire straight through her.
Enough. You are a hero. Heroes do not fantasize about their civilian helpers.
In her mind, she imagined Meteorite chuckling, whispering: But maybe heroines do.
Bruce’s arms were burdened with two bags. As he stood by the table with her gauntlets and belt, the tantalizing smells of sautéed onions and garlic wafted from one of his packages.
“That isn’t roasted chicken I’m smelling,” Jet said, frowning around the saliva pooling in her mouth.
“Not tonight.” His eyes twinkled with mirth.
In response, her own eyes narrowed. Well, that was rather forward of him. Finally, a feeling she could understand and take hold of annoyance. Much better than the unsettling arousal that Bruce stirred within her. Yes, she’d be annoyed, would reprimand him (politely, of course), and extinguish the embers smoldering in her blood before they were stoked into a steady, burning flame. A hero didn’t have time for romantic flings with civilians. They barely had time for flings with other heroes.
She thought of a towheaded boy, remembered his gentle smile and strong hands. Her chest tightened, and she forced the feelings, the memories, aside.
Jet closed the door softly, deciding that it would be unkind of her to reprimand her new Runner with the door open for anyone to hear. Clearing her throat, she said, “I would have thought, by now, you’d have read my file.”
“I did.” He actually chuckled, like she’d said something cute. The gall!
Voice crisp, she added, “Then you should know that each night at six, when I’m not on assignment, I have three ounces of roasted chicken—”
“White meat only.” His smile was far too innocent for her to trust it. “You prefer the breast, but once in a while you have a craving for wings. And you have a cup of cooked carrots or string beans, and a half cup of Jasmine rice or a hard roll. I know. Like I said, I read your file.”
She cocked her head as she looked up at him. He was so tall … “Then why didn’t you bring the meal that I prefer?”
“Because I thought it would be nice
to surprise you.” He hefted the larger of the two bags, and the heady aroma slammed into her like a culinary hit-and-run. “Chicken enchiladas, Mexican rice. Small garden salad. And …” Lifting the other bag, his smile hinted at something wicked. “Wine. Pinot grigio.”
Jet blinked. “But that’s not what I have for dinner.”
“Tonight it is.” Without waiting for her approval, he walked into her kitchen and started unloading the bags. “Where do you keep your plates and glasses?”
“Just a moment,” she said, flustered. “I haven’t approved this yet.”
“That’s okay. Doesn’t bother me any.”
He was slighting her? In her own home? How dare he!
She planted her hands on her hips. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Getting your dinner ready.”
“I told you, I didn’t approve this meal. This,” she said, sweeping her hand to take in the unorthodox food and drink, “is completely unacceptable.”
He paused, one covered tray half-out of the large bag. Looking directly into her eyes, he said, “Part of the Runner’s job is to anticipate an extrahuman’s needs and to fulfill them. I don’t need your approval on this.” The smile on his face offset the casual tone of his words.
Her mouth opened, closed. Opened, and she spluttered, “What on the scorched earth makes you think you don’t need my approval?”
“Your file specifically mentions that on special occasions, you treat yourself to Mexican food and a single glass of white wine.” His smile broadened. “You received the Humanitarian Award today. Sounds like one for the ‘special occasions’ column.”
After a pregnant pause, she admitted, “That’s quite thoughtful of you.”
He tapped his forehead with a finger. “That’s me. Always thinking.”
Humph. Maybe he was thoughtful, but he was also arrogant. Which was thoroughly unappealing, no matter how sexy he was.
Crossing her arms, she watched him open and shut her kitchen cabinets and drawers until he found the shelves with the stacked plates and glasses. He was certainly making himself at home, wasn’t he?
He’s a Runner, Meteorite’s voice whispered in her mind, almost as if Jet were wearing her comlink. He’s supposed to know where everything is.
“Technically,” Jet said, “I didn’t receive the award.”
“No?”
“I left before the mayor could give it to me.”
Bruce chuckled as he set the small kitchen table for her. “Minor technicality. Luckily, I know the judge in this case, so you’re still eligible for the special occasions dinner.”
A smile flitted across her lips. “How considerate.”
“Where’s the corkscrew?”
“Third drawer, left side.”
He set the table—for one, of course; Runners didn’t eat with their clients—and poured her a glass of wine. When he offered it to her, she said, “I’m on duty.”
“What, with your cape and belt all hung up, and your gloves and boots stripped off? Maybe I missed the memo that said you’d changed your look.”
Damn it to Darkness, she was blushing again. What was wrong with her? “I was just about to change into my casual clothing when you arrived.”
His smile stretched, bordered on something sinful. “Don’t let me stop you.”
“Excuse me?”
“The food will stay warm.” He placed the glass on the table, positioned just so. “And the wine needs to breathe anyway.”
She sniffed. “I’ll change after I eat.”
“Worried about staining your casual clothes?” Playful now—a quirk of his eyebrow, the smile still on his face.
“I prefer to eat while my meal is hot.”
“Like I said, it’ll stay warm. Hot, even,” he said, his eyes telling her something altogether different, telling her that he wasn’t speaking of the food at all.
He wasn’t flirting with her. She was misreading his signals. Absolutely.
But the electric look in his eyes, the way his body practically hummed with energy, with tension …
Fisting her hands on her hips, Jet said, “You are the most impertinent Runner I’ve ever known.”
“I just have a personality. Most Runners don’t.”
Insulting his fellows? Or speaking plainly? Jet couldn’t tell, which truly upset her. Usually, she was quite astute at reading people. “Most Runners follow code.”
“So do I.”
“In spirit, or to the letter?”
He laughed softly, a rumble that did maddening things to parts of her way down low. “Whichever works best. Should I put the wine on the table for you?”
“Please,” she said coldly. Jet dearly wanted to change into her nightclothes, but she’d be damned to Darkness if she did so while Bruce was there. The man would probably think that she’d done it because it had been his idea.
Then she sighed and rubbed her neck, wincing from the sudden pain in her left shoulder. She was just cranky because her body was sore, and she desperately needed a good night of sleep. And really, Bruce was being nice. He was her Runner; she should at least attempt to be polite.
Trying to make amends, Jet said, “Thank you for bringing dinner. And the wine. It was very thoughtful.”
“Happy to serve.” He dipped his head in a small bow, but when he looked up at her his forehead creased. Frowning, he said, “What’s wrong with your shoulder?”
“Hmm? Oh, nothing.” She dropped her hand from where she’d been massaging the kink from her neck. “Just stiff. From the workout before.” It was a weak spot; ever since she’d dislocated it years ago, the shoulder tended to act up.
“That’s what you call fighting for your life? A workout?” He laughed, his broad shoulders bobbing. “I’d hate to see what you called something strenuous.”
“Really, the thing with the Grendels was nothing. Just kids playing at being toughs.” She wasn’t about to mention what had happened with Iridium.
“It still impressed the hell out of me.” His eyes softened from their sizzling electric blue to that of a summer sky. “Here. Let me.”
Before she could say anything, he was behind her, his large hands touching her, pressing down on her shoulders. With every stroke, her skin tingled, even with the layer of protection her skinsuit offered between his fingers and her flesh.
“Stop that,” she said, her voice breathy.
His hands froze. “What’s wrong?”
“You shouldn’t be touching me. Like that,” she added, feeling like a prude.
“I’m sorry,” he said, removing his hands. “I didn’t mean anything improper. Runners are trained in massage.”
“I’m well aware of that.”
“I just thought I’d help. You’re hurt.”
Worse than that, she was horny. “I’m fine. It’s nothing, like I said. Just tension.”
A long pause, filled with strained silence. Then Bruce stepped around her. “I’m sorry,” he said again, not looking at her. “If you want to register a complaint with Ops, I understand.”
She sighed. As much as she should make an official complaint, she didn’t want to see him reprimanded. The Academy would dock his pay, strip him of his privileges for two weeks. He didn’t deserve that. “There’s nothing for you to apologize for,” she said. “It’s just been a long day. I need to unwind.”
He stole a glance at her, like a schoolboy with a crush, then he drew the kitchen chair back and motioned to the seat. “Please?”
She smiled, feeling tired and stupid and wishing she could start the evening over. “Thank you.”
As she sat, he moved her chair in, smooth as any server at a top-notch restaurant. Then he stood by her side, waiting. She unfolded her napkin and placed it on her lap. “Thank you,” she said again, looking up at him.
He smiled—nothing wicked or sexy about it now; just a pleased smile of someone who’s happy to have been complimented. “You’re welcome. I meant what I said before. I’m a huge fan, and i
t’s a true honor to be your Runner.”
“You’re very sweet.” Her mouth felt dry, and her breath caught in her throat. He was more than sweet. He was so damn sexy that she could barely think.
His eyes darkened, and in a very soft, very low voice, he said, “If I may say … it’s really nice seeing your face for a change.”
What … oh, right. She still wasn’t wearing her optiframes. Or her cowl. Looking up into his blue, blue eyes, she said, “That’s nice of you to say.”
He offered her the wineglass. As she took it, her hand brushed his. Once again, she felt shocks jumping from his skin to hers, tingling through the sensitive pads of her fingers. She almost thought it felt too controlled, too precise, and just as she wondered if maybe he wasn’t a normal after all, those shocks worked their way to the core of her body, and her mind whited out in a moment of utter pleasure.
“Jet?”
She wetted her lips with her tongue.
“Jet?” He leaned down, peered into her eyes. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” she murmured, thinking about kissing him. “Just fine.”
She tilted her head up, and he leaned down more—
—and that was when her vidphone chimed.
Jet let out a startled breath. What in the Light had she been thinking?
Bruce straightened up, started to move toward the vidphone.
“Excuse me,” Jet stammered, “I have to get that.” She flew to the phone, nearly bowling Bruce over in the process, and silently berated herself for almost doing something unforgivable. Heroes didn’t take advantage of their Runners. It was a lawsuit waiting to happen. Worse, it was just wrong.
But that hadn’t mattered; she’d wanted to kiss him. To be kissed by him. Among other things.
Freaking great. Now she’d have to tell Ops to get her a new Runner.
Jet spat out a “Hello” when she answered the call, angrily punching the VISUAL button.
And then she paled when she saw who was on the other end of the connection.
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