“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” babbled Pru. She craned her neck, trying to check the UCC woman for a reaction without being obvious about it. To her relief, the latter rolled her eyes in extravagant disdain, returning to the shrimp cocktails.
Pru waited for Alex’s hand to leave her thigh. It didn’t, calluses steady and rough against her bare skin. Maybe from handling musical instruments. Maybe from handling plasma guns. Probably from both.
“Oh, I’m sure you do,” he drawled. His tone, dipped low and flirtatious, was pretty obviously an act, but it shot a completely inappropriate shiver through her. He still hadn’t removed his hand. Did she want him to?
Oh, no no no. Don’t go down that path, brain. You came here with a job. Focus. Who here’s pulling purse strings on what the father of wyverns is selling?
The answer, to Pru’s immense frustration, could have been anyone. Jellicoe’s associates at the next table—including the prudish Incorporated couple—seemed more interested in discussing the quality of the tuna tartare than weapons markets.
“The shrimp leaves a bit to be desired, but this must be a fresh catch, much better than last year’s ceviche!”
“Now, the champagne on the other hand—”
“Adequate. Even that reclusive Lamarque boy had a glass!”
“But to pair with this grade of tuna—”
“Truly divine tuna.”
Well, it wasn’t like Pru could fault them. Even evil arms dealers needed vacations from time to time, and the tuna tartare had been pretty excellent.
As Pru finished her final plate—a miniature soufflé more decorative than edible—and stood to push her chair in, one of the other guests careened straight into its legs. The sandy-haired man grunted, splattering them both with his half-empty champagne flute.
“Shit,” said Pru, hands reaching for the man’s elbows to steady him. “Shit, shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t . . .” She trailed off when he raised his eyes toward hers.
“Pretty, pretty Prudence!” slurred Dick Masterson, pupils blown over the rims of his red-tinted spectacles. “Fancy seeing you here, huh?”
The weight of unspoken barbs clung to Pru’s tongue. Found a new comic collection dealer to betray yet? she wanted to ask, or Better than last we met, asswipe, or even just, Fuck you. Fuck you, you sold me out, you almost ruined my life and now—
“Masterson.” Anabel slid between them, so silent and smooth, Pru hadn’t even noticed the other girl’s hand taking Masterson’s elbow until Anabel was already there, smiling her society girl smile. “You’ve had a bit to drink, now haven’t you?”
“Not drinks, babe,” Masterson drawled, dragging out the word. He didn’t look right. His eyes, unfocused, rolled wildly. His bicep flexed beneath Anabel’s deceptively casual fingers. “Come on, pretty pretties, you two were always smarter than that, eh? You two were always . . .” He shook his head, as if to clear the fog in his gaze, and managed to still his eyes, for just a moment. “You should run while you can,” he said to Pru. “Shoulda given you the chance, last we met, with those Incorporated enforcers, eh? Bunch of bitchy, fun-ruining, book-burning bastards, those UCC police brigades, am I right? UCC’s full of bitches.” He pointed a waving finger toward her. “Well, I’m giving you the chance now, huh? Poor little Barricader girl better run. Better run before . . . before . . .” Helplessly, he began to giggle.
“All right,” said Anabel, still utterly placid. “Clearly, someone’s been having more than No-Man’s-Land-issued champagne. Guess even Incorporated types need to let loose every once in a while. Come on, let’s go find your keeper.”
She glanced at Pru, just once, past Masterson’s lolling head, and nodded a subtle little Anabel Park “I got this” nod. Then, still gripping Masterson’s elbow like he was some common party drunk—and not at all, say, the sniveling Incorporated book-smuggling customer who’d gotten them into this mess in the first place—she hauled him off to some corner of the party. Like magic, she deflected the inevitable stares from other guests with self-deprecating laughter and little smiles, as if to say, “Ah, look, someone’s had a few too many uppers mixed into his drinks; isn’t that a shame? You know how it is, of course you do.”
Cat watched them for a beat, narrow eyed, and without a word, followed after, looking for all the world like Anabel’s menacingly elegant, half-cyborg bodyguard, which, if you thought about it, was actually pretty on-brand for them both.
That left Alex to walk Pru back to the rental cabin, cautiously quiet in the wake of Pru’s thin-mouthed reticence, until they reached the lift. “That was fun,” said Alex. “Are you going to tell me who that guy was?”
Pru snorted. “What, you don’t recognize him from the news reels your uncle blackmailed me with? He’s the guy I used to sell black market comics to, up until he blew the whistle on me to those UCC enforcers. The rest, as they say, is history.”
“Was he high?”
“On uppers? A lot of them, probably. And drunk, to boot.” The beachside breeze had effectively blown dry the splatter of overpriced champagne on Pru’s frock, but not the discomfort lingering beneath her skin. Trying to change the subject from Masterson’s intoxicated pawing, she cleared her throat. “So. Dinner. Overhear any good leads from our friendly Incorporated neighbors at table seventeen?”
“Unless tuna tartare is code for a new breed of war mech, no. I also had no idea they thought I was such a shut-in.”
“You are kind of a shut-in. I literally didn’t even know you lived on campus until you stole my library study. Wait, were you just groping my leg under the dinner table because your manly virility felt insulted?”
“Me? I was merely following the orders of our uncrowned queen and future Head Representative Anabel Park.” His voice was pure innocence. “Besides, you started it with your impromptu neck massage. I only escalated.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls.” Pru’s heart drummed a steady staccato in her throat. “Typical pretty boy behavior, blaming us for your floozy ways.”
She caught the rise of Alex’s inky brows beneath the moonlight as he bent down to say, “You think I’m pretty?” He was taller than her. She forgot that sometimes, flying around above him on dragon wings, or talking hundreds of feet away over an earpiece, but she couldn’t escape it now, the breadth of his shoulders, the play of tendons beneath the delicate skin of his neck, as he gave the lacy strings of her frock a little tug.
Pru’s tongue, suddenly dry, cleaved to the roof of her mouth. Her pulse grew louder, insistent, drowning out any remotely witty comeback she could have formulated.