Liquid Lies Page 4

  The Allure: the desire for what you could never have. The longing for the other side. The intense attraction to a Primary, not because you wanted to spend the rest of your life with him or her, but because they were different and you wanted them right now.

  They actually taught it in Ofarian sex ed. Ofarian parents had to talk about it with their blushing prepubescent kids. Gwen remembered those talks vividly, remembered thinking to herself: Why would I ever want to be with anyone who’s not like me?

  And she hadn’t. Until today.

  He smiled and it transformed him. Holy stars in hell. A single dimple slashed deep into one cheek. Early sunlight caught the crystalline blue of his eyes. Easy crinkles radiated out from their corners.

  She drew in a lungful of air then let it out slowly. If he thought himself forward or strange for asking to come up to her place, he didn’t apologize. He didn’t say anything.

  Looking into his eyes felt too intimate, so she dropped her gaze. Though his head was shaved clean, the stubble on his cheeks and chin burned silver and gold. The tilt of his head was infinitesimal. A smudge of dark below his ear caught her eye. The black line of a tattoo peeked out from the neckline of his T-shirt. It snaked around his neck and stretched for his ear. He swallowed and the tattoo danced. As he crossed his arms over his chest, his sleeves rode up, uncovering a tease of similar lines on his hard left biceps.

  She fought an overwhelming desire to tug up the T-shirt and discover just how much of him it covered. Ofarians didn’t get tattoos.

  “Do you feel safe here?” he asked, nodding at her building.

  He didn’t ask about Yoshi, why he’d grabbed her, and she realized this guy never would. The reasons behind her predicament didn’t matter, only that she was safe now. To him, it was just another day. That frightened her…and gave her a weird sense of security.

  “I do,” she replied, and meant it. Because the second she got inside, she would dial Griffin and let him know she’d made it home.

  “Good.” Another small smile touched his lips. “So…you want me to walk you up?”

  Griffin’s exact words. Spoken from the exact spot Griffin had stood not so long ago, and where they’d talked about their impending engagement. And here she was, actually playing with the thought of giving in to the Allure.

  It hurtled her back to reality.

  Why was she still standing there? How had she let herself be corralled by a pair of strong arms and crinkly eyes and a voice that promised things she hadn’t even let herself fantasize about? She didn’t like how she’d allowed this strange man a too-long look into the window of her life. She didn’t like her response to him. Not because he wasn’t worthy, but because he wasn’t Ofarian.

  She backed toward the door. “No, I don’t.”

  He raised his hands and lowered his chin. “Sorry. Understandable. Forget I asked. I’m no danger to you.”

  And that was the danger, wasn’t it?

  “I’m…I have to go.” She whirled away from him. Her hand shook as she dug out her building key and jiggled it in the lock. It took two tries. All the while she felt his eyes on her back…and other places on her body that made her frantic to get away before the sensations turned her back around.

  As she bounded up the stairs, every step washed cooler air over her. It squelched the heat of his chest against her cheek and erased the imprint of his arms around her back. She had no business remembering either.

  FOUR

  Reed Scott clanked his coffee cup on the tiled countertop. Nine-thirty a.m. He’d been at the counter of the family-style brunch place since seven, injecting himself with caffeine and eating for two. His gut didn’t feel right, and he couldn’t tell if it was the sick worry and excited anticipation that always came before a new job…or her.

  He clutched a folded newspaper in one hand, but the words were in Chinese for all he knew. Every story, no matter how sappy or morbid or anger-inducing, sent his mind circling back to the events of that dawn. A blurry black-and-white photo of a protest in France had somehow morphed into a vivid, color image of the blonde. How screwed up was that? Her makeup had been a little smudged and her hair had been tangled in the back where that asshole had ground her skull into the building, but still she’d radiated strength. Fortitude. Intelligent reason and courage. And she’d been bothered by the fact that Reed had helped her.

  There was a whole hell of a lot of mystery there. When it came to women, secrets didn’t do much for him. He had his own to deal with, thanks.

  But he hadn’t imagined it, had he? That spark of connection between them? That lust? The entire situation was crazy, so maybe it was all in his head. So why hadn’t she pulled out of his arms when it was safe? Why had he seen those brown-bottle-colored eyes melt for him, just for a second, before she turned and ran inside?

  The phone in his jeans pocket buzzed and he jumped, rattling the coffee cup on the counter. The waitress, an attractive forty-something pinning order tickets to the cook’s overhead clip, glanced his way again. She’d been making eyes at him all morning, and had even slipped him a free apple turnover.

  He took out the new, disposable phone purchased at an all-night convenience store and flipped it open. The moment he’d bought it, he’d texted the number to the one person who needed to have it. “Yeah.”

  “Is this…the Retriever?” The female caller was trying to hide her snicker but the smile in her voice came through loud and clear.

  A stupid code name, but he hadn’t given it to himself. A long-ago client had called him that, and it had spread like wildfire. In this line of work, word of mouth meant everything.

  Call the Retriever. He’ll get you who you want. For a price.

  Now more than ever he wore the anonymity like shield and sword. With Tracker gunning for him, he needed all the protection he could get. Of course, it would have been smart to lie low and not take on any new jobs after bailing on Tracker’s contract, but Reed wasn’t wired that way.

  Phone in hand, potential client on the line, an invisible wall rose up inside him, dividing Reed Scott, the man, from the mercenary who collected the Retriever’s substantial paychecks.

  Slam. Lock.

  It was the only way he could survive, keeping the two separate. The only way he could live with himself sometimes.

  “Yeah, that’s me,” Reed said. “You must be Nora.”

  “Yes. It’s good to finally speak to you myself. I do hate electronic communication.” Her soft, wisp-thin voice was not at all what he’d expected.

  “Tonight,” she said, jumping right in, which he always appreciated, “you’ll meet with my two colleagues, Xavier and Adine.” She told him where to go and at what time, and he committed the info quickly to memory. Never rely on print or pixels, if you could help it.

  He frowned into the phone. “Not you personally?”

  Dealing with henchmen was never on the top of his list, but he’d take a chance on it this time based on where he’d discovered her money was coming from and what he heard in her voice.

  “No, no,” she chuckled. “I’m too old to travel that far.”

  Everything she said—even things she didn’t—added small clues to his arsenal of puzzle pieces. Before he’d meet with her two people, he’d do more homework. If it came down to playing dirty, he’d need his own bargaining chip.

  “They’ll give you information on the target,” she said.

  Chin to chest, he kept his voice low. “Delivery point? Timeline?”

  “That, too. Everything you’ll need. Upon your acceptance of the job, I’ll forward the second twenty-five percent of your payment.”

  The first twenty-five had already made a comfortable home in his off-shore account. Potential clients needed that much just to open the lines of communication with him. Nonrefundable. It secured secrecy and gave him clues about those who were paying him. His connections were very good at unraveling the most complicated of knots. When he wanted, he could track clients hiding behind multiple networ
ks of bank security.

  For instance, he already knew where Nora’s money came from. Or from whom, rather. And it was a very, very good piece of information.

  “Fine,” he told her.

  “I hope you can help us.” She hung up.

  His mind buzzed, setting off a dazzling chain reaction throughout his whole body. This old woman had thrust the starting gun into the air and pulled the trigger. The challenge of a new job sent him exploding from the starting blocks. The Retriever lived for this rush. Sometimes it was a short sprint to the finish line, to target delivery. Sometimes it was a long slog. Didn’t matter. Jobs gave him what he craved: that intense concentration, the severe separation from everyday life, the high that could last for days or weeks.

  Only after did the guilt set in.

  Only after would he dream of another life. The life he might have had, had he once possessed any kind of foresight or courage or goals.

  “You finally done?”

  The waitress splayed her arms on the counter in front of him. Her lipstick had worn away everywhere but a faint line around her lips. The only reason he noticed was because of the way she was smiling at him.

  Unlock. The wall between the Retriever and himself fell.

  Reed looked down at his two desiccated plates of pancakes and corned beef hash, and saw how his fist had tightly crumpled the Chronicle. “Think so.” He unfurled his fingers to spare the newspaper a sweaty death.

  “Nothing else?” She leaned slightly forward, her eyes drifting to the bit of tattoo just below his ear. “My number, maybe?”

  The blonde’s eyes had found the tattoo, too, but he’d enjoyed her curious gaze. He’d even turned his head so she could see more.

  He recognized the look on the waitress’s face, that desperate need to escape your skin, if only for a little while. They both wanted out. They both wanted another chance, a rewind. Maybe she’d fallen on hard luck early on. Maybe she’d busted her ass right out of high school to support a family. Maybe she’d just got trapped in a bad life track, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t wrench the wheels out of the rut.

  But Reed was not the key to the doors of her past or future, and she was not his. Not even for the little time she was clearly offering.

  He gave her a small, sympathetic smile. “Thanks, but I have to say no.”

  She nodded without anger or judgment, and glanced at his bare left hand. “Taken?”

  He laughed shortly. “No.” At least, not in the way she was talking about. He was taken, but the chains that held him were made of adrenaline and money and lack of other options.

  The only long-term relationship he’d ever had—and even that label could be debated—hadn’t done what it was supposed to. He’d failed at it because he’d been selfish enough to want it to be something other than a relationship. He’d wanted a cure, a way out. A good enough excuse to leave his business. She’d wanted him, though, and the job refused to give him up.

  Reed slipped a fifty under the check, tapping it twice. “Take care,” he told the waitress, and ducked out into the sunshine.

  He’d never been to San Francisco. Countless things to do and only one that truly interested him. He could try to convince himself he wanted to see the blonde again because of the awesome way she’d stomped on her attacker’s cell phone and hissed foreign threats in his face, but the truth was, he worried about her a little bit. And he liked the way she’d felt in his arms.

  Toeing a bit of crumbling sidewalk, he gazed around at the concrete waves of the city streets, rolling in all directions. She had made it pretty clear that her secrets were her own. Who was he kidding?

  The blonde’s apartment was six blocks north. He headed south.

  FIVE

  “Tell me, Gwen. Before we go in there. Please.”

  Griffin’s hand slammed shut the glass front door of Company HQ before Gwen could open it, forcing her to look at him.

  “I don’t want to have to say the whole thing twice,” she replied evenly.

  He licked his lips. “It’s going to look bad for me when you tell the Board I wasn’t at your side. That I left without making sure you were safe inside your place.”

  She’d thought the same thing, only there was another angle to consider. “Maybe. But you wouldn’t have caught the real Yoshi otherwise. You followed the ambulance to the hospital and took care of him there, right?”

  His nostrils flared and he did that chin rub again. He’d had to kill two Primaries in less than twelve hours.

  “Besides,” she added, “Dad was with you when you took off. If they hold you accountable, they have to point the finger at him, too. And we both know that’s not going to happen.”

  That seemed to let him breathe easier.

  “Walking to HQ alone was a stupid, stupid idea that I’m embarrassed to say I ever had, and I’m sorry.”

  He reached out, hesitated for a moment, then dragged a soft hand around her skull and down the back of her clean hair, the action tender but not uncomfortable.

  After stumbling into her place at daybreak, she’d finally gotten ahold of Griffin on his cell phone, and told him the ambulance he’d likely just seen near the diner held the real Yoshi. She’d assured him she was safe at home, and he’d raced to the hospital. Then she’d taken a shower, spending a long time under the hot spray scrubbing off Yoshi’s attack…and trying to rid herself of the Allure. She’d had more success with the former than the latter.

  “Thank you for saying that,” Griffin said. “Look, I know you want me to apologize for acting without orders back at Vaillancourt Fountain, but you’d be dead or taken if I hadn’t have done something.”

  She opened her mouth to refute that, but realized it was pointless. They were both wrong. They were both right. They could run in verbal circles all day. But the Board was waiting for her report.

  “Can we go in now?” she asked.

  Wordless, he released his hold on the door. He tagged so closely behind he practically clipped the four-inch heels of her knee-high boots. She supposed she’d have to get used to it; the Board wouldn’t let her sneeze without Griffin handing her a tissue from now on.

  One security guard nodded at Griffin, their boss, as she and Griffin skirted around the semicircular front desk. The other guard squinted at a bank of monitors. Both wore heavy cloaks of Mendacia, disguising them as portly and inattentive when in reality they were two of Griffin’s best. Threats were more likely to be careless if they thought security was lax.

  Gwen walked quickly past the rows of false elevator fronts and went right for the fountain against the back wall. Twelve feet high, water gushed from the ceiling and burbled over a mass of smooth, giant, and artfully stacked rocks. She placed her palm against a cool, round stone at shoulder height. The water came alive at her touch, sliding over her hand to cover her wrist, glove-like. She called to it in silent Ofarian, and it answered, testing her identity.

  “How’d you break Yoshi’s leg? Water’s not that strong,” Griffin asked behind her.

  For a moment she lost her concentration, then she regained it.

  The wall behind the fountain shivered and melted, its two halves drawing apart in a liquid curtain that dissolved to mist. A mixture of Mendacia and water magic, and the ultimate barrier between Primaries and Secondaries.

  Gwen pulled her hand from the stone, spoke the Ofarian words to absorb the water from her wrist and hand, and turned to face Griffin.

  His face was impassive. “I’m not going to like it, am I?”

  “Probably not,” she acknowledged, and turned to enter the main floor of Company operations.

  Around a hundred Ofarians worked here at HQ, but that wasn’t indicative of all who were involved in Mendacia or with the Company in a peripheral manner. Almost two thousand Ofarians in existence and each and every one had something to do with the product, whether it was related to business or security or even washing the floors at night. Like the Primary world, their jobs depended on their lev
el of education, their drive, and their connections.

  If you worked at HQ, you were part of the ruling class. If you worked in the Primary world—whether in technology or government or law enforcement, with the purpose of identifying then hiding any leaks of Ofarian movement—you were considered cunning and extremely intelligent. If you worked at the Plant, well, you were considered very special.

  Gwen and Griffin wove through the maze of sky blue cubicles, buried in the dense murmur of office activity and the gentle susurrus of the waterglass windows. The boardroom was at the far end of HQ. She prayed she wasn’t late.

  “The Chairman?” he asked.

  “Hey, Casey,” Gwen called to her dad’s secretary, who waved back, her shoulder holding a phone in place at her ear. “No,” she said to Griffin, flicking a warning glance in his direction. “He won’t like it either. None of them will.”

  She was glad she couldn’t see his reaction.

  The Board was all assembled. Their hazy shapes appeared through the waterglass walls dividing the boardroom from the general Company employees. A thin veneer of enchanted water streamed slowly from floor to ceiling, enclosed between two layers of glass, and it completely shut out the voices inside. Gwen should know; she’d spent many hours trying to eavesdrop—trying to rechannel the magic to allow her to hear—during her internship years. She’d been known to attempt it again as a vice president.

  The waterglass in the building’s main windows looked like gold-tinted, reflective glass from the outside, but it prevented any Primaries from seeing in. It canceled out heat-seeking devices. It stopped projectiles. It made them anonymous. Safe.

  If the entire Board was already gathered, she didn’t want to keep them waiting. She knocked twice and let herself in, Griffin trailing.

  She walked into chaos.

  An argument raged across the table. The Board had divided itself along its usual lines: five members siding with Dad, four with Jonah Yarbrough, the Vice Chairman and Director of Production. The two men had never gotten along personally and clashed repeatedly when it came to Ofarian matters, but that was one of the reasons they’d been chosen to lead together. Checks and balances. It wasn’t perfect, but it also meant the leadership wasn’t a monarchy. Dad was the face, the spiritual and cultural leader. Jonah ran everything else.