“Me too. I’ll meet you outside of your dorm then?”
I aim for the laundry basket and toss in my towel. “Sure.”
Chapter 7
I quickly shower and change into fresh clothes. If I dry my hair I can wear it down, but that would take too long. I slick it back in a braid and hurry to meet Ryan. I push open the door to the main entrance, and my mood immediately darkens as I watch Ryan talk with Kelly. I’m barely ready to be just friends, and I’m definitely not ready for group dinners with the two of them. I slowly close the door and slink out the back entrance of the dorm. I enter dining hall C because Ryan rarely eats here, and it’s a safe bet I’ll avoid seeing him. Fortunately, I don’t have to eat alone. Dean and Gregg catch sight of me and wave me over to their table.
After dinner, I intend to go back to the lab and work on the database, but as Dean and Gregg follow me through the dining hall exit, they link arms with me and turn north. Dean laughs, a big-belly laugh that I’ve missed hearing.
“There’s other ways to deal with the blues,” he teases. “You’re not burying yourself in work, not tonight.”
They lead me to the top of the base, into the warehouse section. I’d worry about heading into a barely used area of the base at night with two guys if it was anyone other than Dean and Gregg. But regardless of what their current job assignment is, Dean and Gregg are my teammates and would never let anything happen to me.
“I hope you’re not planning on helping yourself to supplies,” I joke.
“Not exactly.” Dean winks and leads me to a side entrance. His pounding on the door has a rhythmic pattern, which I realize is a code when someone slides open a peephole.
In the opening, a pair of eyes appears and narrows. “Password?”
“There brother say that,” Dean responds. Before I can question his odd phrase, the door swings open.
I pass the guy hiding behind the entrance door and follow Dean and Gregg down a long hallway and into a small office. A large desk occupies most of the space in the room. Stacked trays of poker chips cover its surface.
“Work hours, credits, or coins?” asks a voice from behind the stacks.
“I got this.” Dean reaches into his pocket, pulls out a handful of silver coins, and tosses them on the desk. I pick up one and examine it. About the size of a quarter, one side is completely smooth, while the other side is engraved—an eagle with the head of a lion. A snake drapes from its claws, lifeless and dead. I’ve seen the image before in a mythology book maybe, but don’t understand its purpose on the coin. I hand the coin over the stack of chips to the skinny guy who’s now counting out the coins.
The guy finishes counting, moves from behind the stack of chips, and slides forward two small trays. Dean hands me one and keeps the other for himself.
“White chips are worth one credit, red are worth five, blue—ten, green—twenty-five, black—one hundred,” he explains.
I nod. “Okay, got it. What are the coins for?”
Gregg picks up the chips he’s purchased and chimes, “You can’t just deposit the credit you win back onto your base account.”
“Each coin is worth twenty-five credits,” Dean adds. “They have a smaller coin for individual credits, but I usually use them to tip dealers, or spend them in the market.”
“Market?” I ask.
“That’s what they call the area where everyone trades their goods. Some of the stuff is ‘overstock’ from the warehouses, but then there’s manmade stuff you can’t get anywhere else,” Dean explains. I don’t like the idea of buying stolen goods, and my expression shows it.
“Hey,” he warns. “No pouting allowed. Before you pass judgment, let me give you a tour.”
The Market resembles a huge craft fair or flea market and fills the first floor storage bay. Tables and carts are laden with a wide variety of products and services. In just the first aisle, I can get my nails done, buy makeup, and even get hair extensions.
Dean drags me over to a stand in the far corner where a guy in a chair grimaces. Once close enough, I see why—he’s getting a tattoo. A freakishly tall girl in a bikini top looks down at me and asks if I’m interested in getting a tattoo myself. I stare at the pink and black butterfly tattoo around her belly button. The pale pink almost glows, and the gold and silver “wind” lines around it sparkle. When the girl aims a black light on her belly, brilliant swirls of blue and purple appear.
“You like?” she asks.
I’m tempted to touch it. “That’s amazing. How do you get it to do that?”
“It’s called an invisible tattoo and is very popular with the girls.” She grabs my hand and presses it to her stomach. “You can get it with or without visible coloring. Of course if you choose to have it with coloring, you’re limited to areas covered by clothing.”
Uncomfortable, I pull back my hand. “But how do you get all the colors, invisible and shimmering?” I ask.
“Sorry,” she says resting her boot on the chair next to her which helps me understand her strange height. Barefoot she has to be close to six feet, but the combination platform-stiletto boots she has on add four or five more inches. “Trade secret. All I can tell you is the ink is all-natural, made from plants, and it’s permanent. The color will be as bright in six months as it is today, without any funky chemicals or anything.” She turns to Dean and purrs. “So do I finally get you on my table today?”
It’s hard to tell with Dean’s dark chocolate complexion, but I swear he’s blushing. “Not yet, I need a little more for the size I want.”
The girl licks her lips. “Hurry up, then. I can’t wait to get my hands on you.”
I walk a few tables over and busy myself looking at some clothes while I wait for Dean. “Please tell me you’re just flirting with her and that you’re not seriously considering getting a tattoo,” I say when he finally rejoins me.
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand.” Dean balks. “You’re not the tattoo type.”
“That’s beside the point. Allergic reactions, skin infections, and even blood born diseases can happen with a regular tattoo—”
“That’s only if they don’t sanitize. Vixen knows what she’s doing.”
“Vixen?” I openly laugh at the stripper-like name. “What? Was Bambi taken?” But I immediately regret my behavior. “Sorry. Flirt with the girl all you want, but
don’t
get a tattoo.”
“None of the sellers use their real names.” His tone is understandably defensive. “And you can’t order me around. You’re not my team lead anymore.” Regret washes across his face the second after the words leave his lips. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. You just don’t understand. I’ve wanted a tattoo my entire life, but until now, black was the only color that would show up, maybe red or green, but with my dark skin it would never be bright. But now I can get the full color dragon I’ve always wanted.”
“I’m sorry, too. I’m sounding like a nagging mom instead of a friend. You’re smart. You have to know that the plants she’s referring to aren’t from our greenhouse bio-domes. Do you really want unknown, untested plants in your skin? I’m not saying never get a tattoo. Just wait until the ink has been tested, and we know it’s safe. Okay?”
Dean looks disappointed and I feel bad. He brought me here to cheer me up, and so far, all I’ve done is scold him. Trying to lighten the mood, I playfully jab him with my elbow and point to a nearby tent which looks like the tiny white tents used at outdoor craft fairs back on Earth, but this tent has white fabric covering all four sides of it. “Think they really do massages there?”
Dean scrunches his face, but then his eyes widen as he understands my meaning. His resulting laugh echoes through the bay as he gives me a look that say’s I’m a total dork.
Gregg reappears at our side carrying a small blue bottle which he holds up for me to examine. “Perfume. It’s a gift.” I inhale and enjoy the scent of vanilla.
“She’ll smell nice,” I say, “but everyone around her will hunger for cookies.” Pleased with himself, Gregg puts the bottle away and drapes his arm around my shoulder.
“Time to introduce you to the Cellar,” he says.
The Cellar is more impressive than its humble name. I feel as if I’ve entered a Vegas casino. A roulette table sits off to the right, craps tables to the left, and slot machines line the walls. Card tables are straight ahead: Blackjack, Poker and even Baccarat. We weave our way through the crowd and find a Poker table with three seats available. The table borders the edge of a noisy dance floor, one nothing like the dance floor in the rec hall. Scantily clad girls and guys dance in near darkness with only a strobe black light illuminating them and their invisible tattoos. Some kind of Electronica blasts loud enough to vibrate the table.
The freckle-faced kid sitting across from me reaches over and clasps Dean’s hand in a ritual shake that ends in a fist bump. He swirls his finger in a circle as he points at me.
“Who’s the fresh blood?” he asks.
Dean shouts over the music. “This is Brett, my old team lead. Brett, Chris.”
Chris tilts his glass toward me. “Cool. So you’re the girl who rode the rapids and lived to tell about it.”
I smile and pretend the guy’s lewd tone didn’t just make getting caught in a flood sound like something dirty. “So, how do you know Dean?”
“This guy?” He jerks his chin at Dean. “He’s on the crew that watches my butt while I build the superhighway to the sea.”
Gregg snorts. “Superhighway? That pathetic little strip that’s barely wide enough for two golf carts?”
Chris shoots Gregg a dirty look, then stands. “I’m dry,” he announces. “Anyone want something from the bar?”
“Homebrew.” Dean tosses a chip at Chris.
“Same for me.” Gregg hands over his chip.
“How about you, the same?” Chris looks at me expectantly. “My treat.”
Alcohol is banned on the base, and I can’t imagine what Homebrew might taste like.
“Water’s fine,” I reply.
Chris rolls his eyes. “Water? You must be joking. An adventurer like you needs something stronger than plain water.”
“Water’s fine.” I am tired of Chris and his sense of humor. “I need to be up early in the morning. I don’t want anything stronger.” I lie just to get him to shut up.
A wide smile spreads across Chris’s face. “Okay, nothing stronger, just sweeter.” He disappears into the dance crowd before I can argue with him.
Dean leans in. “He’s annoying,” he yells over the music, “but harmless and easy to beat—his left eye twitches when he has a good hand.”
We play a hand for fun while we wait for Chris. When he returns he juggles three bottles and a glass of bright red liquid—clearly not water. He sets the glass in front of me.
“What’s this?” I ask, eyeing it suspiciously.
“Something sweet, just for you.” Chris winks. “It’s got grenadine, soda, and some kind of fruit in it.”
“Like a Shirley Temple?” I ask, and he nods. I lift it and take a tiny sip. It’s a little heavy on the grenadine, but not bad. Then the bite of alcohol crosses my tongue. I want to chew out Chris when a sudden burst of applause distracts me.
I turn and see Brody, down on one knee slipping a ring on a dark-haired girl I assume is Rachel. The heck with being responsible and following the rules. Tonight I want to forget Brody, Ryan or Dr. Brant even exist. I take a long sip and focus my attention on the game.
“Ante up,” calls the guy chewing a toothpick. I think his name is Luis. Everyone tosses in coins.
I’m not entirely comfortable with what I’ve discovered in the warehouse, but I have to admit that playing for real credit versus toothpicks makes the game exciting. I observe the other players’ expressions to discover any obvious “tells,” but I’m easily distracted with small talk.
Nick, a tall, muscular construction worker with a slick smile plastered on his face leans across Dean who pulls his cards against his chest. “So how long do you think it will be until you’re back in the field?” Nick asks.
Great, in the field with Ryan, something I don’t want to think about.
“I don’t know,” I reply.
“You should come find me when you do know.” Nick leans in further, forcing Dean either to push back his chair or to have Nick in his lap.
His breath reeks of beer, and I turn away my face. “Why would I do that?” I ask.
Nick’s face is uncomfortably close. “Let’s just say there would be an economical benefit for both of us.”
Before I can respond, Dean pins me in my chair with a protective arm. With the other hand, he pushes Nick back into his seat. “I’ve already told you that’s not gonna happen. Mention it or approach any of my team again and someone’s gonna find out about your little fern supply.”
Nick backs off. “Fine, if that’s the way you want it. Keep drinking your bitter-tasting beer until someone else finds the perfect ingredient. Let them become filthy rich while you idly sit by.”
Dean’s glare shuts up Nick, but now everyone at the table is tense. Chris’s gaze darts between Dean and Nick. Then he jumps up.
“Time for another round. Nick, care to help?” Chris asks. Nick stands up, and several people toss a chip to Chris. He tosses mine back to me. “My treat.”
Gregg and Luis disappear to use the “can,” as they so elegantly call it, so there’s no point in playing a practice round. Dean still looks pissed, so I try to distract him. “Who comes up with the funny passwords to get in here?”
Dean looks at me and furrows his brow as if he doesn’t understand me. I open my mouth to repeat myself, when he says, “It’s 1-3-5-7.”
“What?” I’m confused.
A smile breaks out on his face; at least my confusion amuses him. “Every week a new book is selected for the ‘book club.’ Anyone who belongs here knows to look up the first word in the first line of the first page, the third word in the third line on the third page and so on, until they have the password.”
“Huh, that’s pretty smart,” I reply. Even if anyone overhears the name of the new book being used, unless they’re privy to the code, they have no hope of deciphering the password.
I’m actually happy to see Chris return. Once more, he’s juggling beer bottles and a bright red drink, but this time my drink’s twice as tall as the previous one. I don’t complain. Sipping it gives me something to do while we wait for Gregg and Luis to return.