He just hoped she didn’t get him anything that had itchy seams or tags.
And what she got for herself wasn’t too revealing — or unrevealing in the ways that were worse than just revealing.
He sighed.
Who was he kidding?
She could dress up in a huge bathrobe that made her figure look like a rolled up towel and it was just as bad. Or maybe that was just that it was a bathrobe, which brought to mind that she’d been in the bath, with soapy water and no robe — and then come out in just the robe, which meant that underneath she was …
No, he had to keep those kinds of thoughts away.
He had enough trouble dealing with people without getting into any of that.
Every relationship like that he’d seen was complicated — very complicated. It seemed that the guys he hung out with, before they decided he was weird and he wasn’t welcome anymore, did nothing but complain about being unable to understand what the girls wanted from them.
Since Mason couldn’t even understand what the guys wanted from him, how was he supposed to have a chance with girls?
They were freaking aliens from what he’d heard. Always saying one thing and expecting another, never being satisfied with what you did, constantly wanting to change you — and Mason didn’t like change to begin with.
But, damn, Fuentes had looked good in that bathrobe last night — and the fruit thing …
He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable.
Maybe she was different. She didn’t seem to get too upset even when he didn’t understand something — she just called him a dumbass and that was it. It was almost like it wasn’t even a personal insult when she said it.
The door chimed, interrupting his thoughts.
He answered it, finding Frederick outside with a rolling cart full of boxes and bags.
“Good morning, Mr. Guthrie — these were just delivered. It appears Ms. Fuentes has been a busy girl.”
Mason had to agree — the cart was very full. He moved aside and Frederick wheeled the cart in.
“From the store names, I gather her first stops were with you in mind, Mr. Guthrie.”
“Me?”
“All of these stores carry men’s clothing.”
Mason stared at the cart wondering what he’d gotten himself into.
It wasn’t nearly so bad as he first thought, once Frederick left and Mason could begin opening the packages — if they were for him, then he wanted to see what he was in for.
But for as many packages as there were, there were surprisingly fewer articles of clothing. It looked as if these stores boxed or bagged everything separately, with tons of extra material in with them — as though every shirt was some precious relic and needed padding around it in the box so it wouldn’t break if jostled.
He unpacked and set things out on a table in the main room to look at them.
All in all, they weren’t bad, he supposed. But they were new, and different — and different always sucked until he had time to get used to it — but it wasn’t as though he could get his own things back right now. Maybe once he could contact his mom she might be able to send him his old stuff.
But these were okay — they weren’t flashy or garish and the colors were all brown, black, or grey. Mason supposed they had other names, but to him they were all the same. He’d never seen the point of having so many names for brownish.
And the only leather was a jacket — he’d been a little afraid that Fuentes might have thought to dress him in her favorite, but it looked like he was safe from that, at least.
He sorted things by type — shirts, pants, sweaters, jacket, socks … underwear, but he didn’t want to look too closely at those just yet, a brief glimpse had been enough — and looked at the stacks.
He picked up a sweater and looked inside — then looked some more. Then he grabbed another one and looked inside. Then another, then one of the shirts.
All of them, every single one, was of a type that had smooth seams inside, without any edges of fabric or rough cuts to scratch at him. If he’d been with Fuentes, these were exactly what he’d have picked — never mind the choices of color and style, he didn’t care about those, but something made like this.
More than that, none of them had tags — not just the store tags with the price or the security tags, but those annoying little bits that always, always, always scratched at his skin until he could get them off. And not just torn off, either, he could see where they’d been in some cases and someone had carefully cut and pulled the thread where they were sewn on in order to leave the seam as smooth as if the tag had never been there.
Mason sat back and looked at the clothing-covered table. He’d gotten a little carried away in looking at the seams and tags, and it was a mess, so he started folding everything neatly again.
Were these just really expensive and that was why? Or was there something about seams and tags in space that required it?
Either way, he was happy with them.
Once he had everything folded again, he decided to get rid of what he’d worn up from Earth. Those were new and different, too, but didn’t fit with what Fuentes had bought him. Two things new and different that were also different from each other was worse.
She’d gotten him too many different things, though, so he decided what to wear the way he did at home, taking whatever was on top of each pile. A brown, collarless shirt, a brown sweater — it was a little cool on the station — and some jeans. The closest socks to the top of the pile, brown.
He stripped out of his old things, glad to be rid of them. Even the fabrics of the new stuff seemed to be smoother and less itchy.
That brought him to the underwear, though, and what Fuentes had bought him.
The Bright Hors issued ones he’d been wearing were out — they were the worst he’d ever imagined — but these new ones …
He held a pair up.
They were boxers, not briefs, and that wouldn’t do. How could anyone stand to wear those? Nothing would stay where it was supposed to.
Between those and the Bright Hors' ones, though —
The door chimed again.
Mason grabbed a towel from the bathroom and wrapped it around himself, then opened the door.
It was Frederick with another cart.
“Ms. Fuentes has certainly been busy,” he said, smiling.
“Uh, yeah, I guess.”
Mason moved aside so he could wheel the cart in. The butler left it and took the old one with all the empty boxes and bags from Mason’s clothes.
“I don’t know that we’ve ever had such a large delivery from the station’s lingerie stores,” the butler said as he closed the door behind him.
Mason froze and the towel dropped to the floor, leaving him naked next to a cart full of Fuentes’ underwear.
The next few hours were much the same, but at least Mason was dressed for it.
He’d finally settled on wearing the new boxers for texture and the Bright Horizons ones over that for support. Once he got the jeans on, he didn’t think anyone would be able to tell the difference.
He moved his stuff from the table to the drawers in his bedroom, then, figuring there’d be even more deliveries coming and Frederick would want his cart back, he gingerly — holding each box or bag with no more than his fingertips and at arms length — moved the lingerie packages from cart to table, trying very hard not to think about what might be inside each one.
Mostly failing, and his mind filled with images of Fuentes with strawberry juice glistening on her skin.
It didn’t help things when the banquet changed from breakfast to lunch and there was a whole tray of chocolate covered strawberries sitting right there.
The door chimed.
Mason went to answer it.
“Hey, Frederick, I nearly have the last cart unloa —”
It wasn’t Frederick.
Some guy in a dark suit stood outside. He smiled when Mason opened the door,
but the smile only made Mason feel scared.
“Mason Oliver Guthrie?” the man asked.
“Uh … yeah?”
“Are you enjoying your stay at the Waldorf, Mr. Guthrie?”
Mason relaxed a bit, maybe the guy was with the hotel, checking to see if everything was okay.
“Yeah, we are, it’s great.”
“Wonderful.”
Mason wasn’t good at picking up on tones, but he didn’t need to be for that. The man’s voice was flat and emotionless.
“Might I come in and speak with you about a matter?”
The last thing Mason wanted was to be alone in their room with this guy. He’d like to slam the door and bolt it — maybe drag one of the couches over and block the thing. Was there a welding torch in the suite, by any chance? The Waldorf seemed to have supplied everything else …
“I don’t know, my … uh —” What was Fuentes anyway? “My friend isn’t here and —”
“Come now, Mr. Guthrie, surely we can have a chat without Ms. Fuentes, can’t we? She’s not your mother, after all.”
The way the guy said mother made Mason a little queasy. Maybe because he still wanted to contact her and make sure she was okay — and let her know he was okay, since she was probably worried about him.
“What do you want to talk to me about? Who are you?”
“My name is Mikko Stenner, Mr. Guthrie. I work for the Perigree Corporation.”
Twenty-Six
Mason would have slammed the door if he could move.
He seemed frozen in place, staring at the man, Stenner, trying to make sense of what he’d just heard.
“Inside, Mr. Guthrie?” Stenner said.
“I —”
“Is there anything you need, Mr. Guthrie?”
Mason had never been so glad to hear a voice as he was Frederick’s, coming from behind Stenner. The butler was in the hallway, with another cartload of packages, smiling with far more warmth than the man from Perigree.
Stenner glanced at Frederick. “We’re fine,” he said.
“Of course, sir,” Frederick said. “Mr. Guthrie, I have another set of deliveries for your suite.”
“Bring it back later,” Stenner said.
“Mr. Guthrie?” Frederick asked.
“Uh —”
Mason had no idea what to do or say. He was worried about Stenner, glad Frederick was there, but he didn’t want the butler to get hurt if Stenner turned violent — and Mason was almost certain he could. The man now had the dangerous look of a streetie — and Mason had at least learned to run when he saw that.
“I said later, Jeeves,” Stenner said. “The kid and I have some business to discuss.”
“Of course, sir,” Frederick said. He made to leave and then turned back. “May I ask, sir, how familiar you are with the Waldorf Orbital?”
Stenner scowled. “What the hell difference does that make?”
“Well, sir,” Frederick said, “one familiar with our facility might be aware that the suite opposite Mr. Guthrie’s is taken by the crown prince of Indonesia, currently under a death sentence by the military regime there. Just a bit over on the hub, we have Mr. Sarr in a fine suite — you may remember that he exposed the UN’s difficulties in the Baltics two years ago, a messy, messy matter and Mr. Sarr is very much in demand by the Assembly these days.”
“What does that —”
Frederick went on as though Stenner hadn’t spoken.
“We also have in residence Ms. Cisse, whose testimony was so helpful in exposing that nasty business in the Detroit Towers — you may remember it?”
“Fuck’s your point?” Stenner demanded.
“My point, sir, is that the Waldorf Orbital has a number of guests eagerly sought by Earth-side organizations and governments — and while the station administration’s view of Earth-side interference may be dim, the Waldorf’s —” Frederick’s voice went cold. “— is black as pitch, sir.”
Stenner turned to face Frederick and Mason was tempted to slam the door then, but he was fascinated by Frederick’s calm, even cordial, tone in the face of Stenner’s hostility.
“Jeeves, you’d better back the fuck off and —”
“May I show you the way to the public station access, sir?” Frederick said. “If only for the ease of the cleaning staff?”
Even Stenner seemed bewildered by that. “The cleaning staff? What do you think you can do to me, Jeeves?”
Frederick gestured to the ceiling of the vestibule.
“Indeed, sir. I ask you to note that there are currently four laser turrets trained on your person, and the outcome of your continued presence near Mr. Guthrie’s suite, or anywhere else on Waldorf property, will result in a serious issue for our cleaning staff — who’ve truly done nothing to deserve it.” Frederick’s smile widened. “It could very well mean overtime for them.”
Rosa was in a fine mood.
She ended the day — well, her trip, really, for the station had no set day or night cycle. It catered to passengers arriving from all over Earth and its time zones, as well as those departing for the planet, so all of the shops and facilities were open twenty-four hours, with only an employee’s own schedule to determine night from day.
So she ended her trip to the shopping zone with a couple hours in a spa, something she’d seen on the vidshows, but never experienced herself.
She let her mind wander, relaxed by the skilled hands of the masseur — and why did that relaxed mind keep wondering if she might have one of these tables delivered to the suite and see if the kid might like to learn a new trade — realized that she’d need to make a second stop at the luggage store, as she needed a trunk of some sort for the shoes.
Rosa’d never had more than two pair of shoes before. There was the pair every lowlie had, good serviceable sneakers, that would stand up to hours of walking — and the occasional run from the flashies — and her leather boots, made more for show than for walking, but that was okay because when she wore them she was most often headed for a club and wanted to be on show.
Now, though, she had the money for more than that — and the selection had been too much to resist.
A good, wheeled trunk, though, would hold her new collection and there was always someone, in her new life as a billionaire, who’d be willing to help with the luggage.
She breezed back to the Waldorf, quite relaxed and pleased with herself, eager to see the kid in some of the things she’d bought him and judge whether he looked good enough to be seen with her or if more work was necessary — she still couldn’t decide if she wanted to take him to a stylist for that hair or just accept it the way it was. She had a suspicion he’d never do more than comb it, if that, which would put the task of keeping any style on her — unless she hired a full-time stylist to accompany them, or would that be too much?
She ran a quick calculation — not quite one-point-two billion put in Mars First bonds at, she had Seymour check the going rates, three-point-four percent would gross her —
“Holy shit,” she said, getting her a look from a passing woman — the guy she was with was already looking at Rosa, so Rosa gave him a little finger-wave, and that gave the woman something else to really be pissed about.
Yes, all was right with the world — Rosa Marie Fuentes was massaged, the center of all male attention, and looking at forty-fucking-million a year just in interest earnings.
A full-time stylist — and masseur, she decided — was definitely on the table. Maybe a driver, too. And a chef — that spread in their suite was really nice and she couldn’t be sure every place she stayed would be up to the Waldorf’s standards. She might need to think about someone to manage the staff.
Rosa wondered if Frederick liked his job at the Waldorf too much to make a move.
Twenty-Seven
“Shit,” Rosa said, then, “Fuck.”
“So what do we do?” the kid asked.
It was like he’d been waiting for her to get back and decide — which was
good, because he hadn’t gone off and done something stupid on his own, but bad, because he seemed to be relying on her a lot. She was still a little torn on whether to keep him around — he did look good in the clothes she’d bought him, and he’d been wearing them when she got back without complaint.
“Let me think,” she said.
Seymour? Can you find anything out about this Stenner guy?
“I initiated a search as soon as Mason Oliver Guthrie said the name, Miss Fuentes, but all information retrieved indicates different individuals.”
What about Perigree or Bright Hors? Anything in the news?
“Nothing, Miss Fuentes.”
Not even our escape?
“Other than the initial alert to the authorities, which now appears to be rescinded as an error, there has been no mention of you or Mason Oliver Guthrie in the databases I have access to. The incident at the tower is being reported as a search and apprehension of a drug ring operating there — there is no mention of its being initiated as a pursuit of escaped fugitives.”
That was odd — or maybe not. Perigree wouldn’t want it widely known that the two of them had escaped — might damage future contracts or something. This Stenner guy must be some kind of fixer, working directly with Perigree to clean up the mess.
That presented some opportunities — the flashies were usually bribable individually, not really in groups like the ones who’d chased them, but there was always the chance of getting one who hadn’t been on the job long enough to learn how things were done. A fixer, on the other hand, would be his own decision maker and might have more malleable rules. She wondered how much she’d have to give the guy to report that he hadn’t found them — or that they weren’t the pair Perigree was looking for?
Probably not even a year’s earnings on those bonds.
She relaxed at the thought — she had money now, and money smoothed all the bumps.
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