Her leg maintained a steady jitter as her agitation grew stronger. There was much to accomplish before the shuttles ignited. The screen dominating each glass wall of the train showed her apartment building was in three stops. A hard jog would calm her, making her more productive. The life of a good man depended on her doing more than pining for his child or his love, which she never really had to begin with.
She stood and moved briskly down the aisle for the queue forming by the closest exit. No concern for the handicapped on the Metrarail, only the nimble dared board. If the line was too long and the door closed in her face, she’d be positioned to hop from the bullet train at the next stop.
Only ten people ahead, she disembarked with eight seconds of grace. Once again someone was behind her, but if she turned to look, she’d delay getting a handle on what had to be a perfected agenda. She needed a plan—a foolproof one—and so far she’d done nothing except bounce between depression and feeling like bursting into the
Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah
song.
Sam Dexter held me, kissed me, fucked…made love to me. Me, Jenna Jensen.
She pounded the pavement at a steady pace, oblivious to her surroundings as deep green eyes danced in her head and wheels turned. When the skyscraper she called home loomed, she slowed and wiped the sweat from her brow.
She headed round back to the less trafficked entrance and stairs spiraling up and up, apartments getting cheaper the farther into the clouds one lived. Barely breathing hard, she’d jog up the steps in sync with the beat of an idea percolating in her brain.
Except—
tempest fugit.
Better take the elevator. Skip the shower. Keep the feel and scent of her lover close for a few hours at least. She carried a spark of desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, what happened had been something a bit more than an act taken too far for him—that at least affection at first sight, first touch, first kiss was actually possible. He’d held her as if he treasured her. Looked so sad after he’d kissed her goodbye on the forehead. As for herself, she’d loved him since she’d read his first blog post.
She felt her cheeks sizzle as a major plus to interfering with Sam occurred to her. She’d get a glimpse of more than a hot frontside. She’d have backside mental images as well to dwell on while doing laundry or peeling potatoes, hoarding bars of soap, staring at the gray walls of a cell. Of course not much, no bottom, she snickered to herself, could top the sight of his cock grasped in her hand, as long as she got over the fact she’d not had the chance to taste as well. She smiled as she thrust her wrist phone at the building’s door to unlock it.
I’ll save his fine butt, whether he likes it or not.
A few steps into the dark corridor and the foot coming down behind her, catching the door, froze her limbs.
“Hey, wait up. I think I recognize that ass, but let me be sure.”
The guy’s voice sounded frighteningly familiar. She twirled to face—Gary Fenton?
Fenton gave a clipped nod, his way of saying they knew each other.
Fear twisted her gut, and her lungs locked as she took in the closed exit he blocked. Her gaze darted from his smirk to acknowledge the deserted corridor.
“I’m so glad you remember me,” he whispered.
Right. Like she’d forget two days ago, the worst afternoon of her life. Another winner with the Love Center, Fenton was scheduled to depart on the same shuttle as Sam. She’d had Fenton’s arms around her in the same bathroom. Unlike Sam, he’d unzipped before he’d opened the stall door. She’d barely had a second to grab the pill from her pocket and throw it in her mouth. His pale blue eyes lit with heat like they were now. Fenton had grabbed her, spun her, clamped his hand over her mouth then wedged his knee between her legs.
She hadn’t been able to speak a word, let alone get him on board with honeymoons from hell. Her struggling, jerking as if she was having convulsions, didn’t deter him from shoving his hand and her face to the wall and gleefully muttering in her ear.
“Hell yes. Except I bet any friend of my brother’s didn’t pay for long. A looker like you must be a fortune. I also can’t believe he even has a friend who thinks that schmuck could get it up for more than a lap dance.”
He’d ripped one-handed at her slacks, popping the button, yanking them down with panties.
“I better take your ass first, in case there’s a pimp busting in here soon. Hope you’re not ready. The tighter the better.”
She’d chomped at the pill, catching the inside of her cheek, stopped breathing and went limp.
“Damn it. You want to do this on the floor? Stand up, loosen up, before I tear you up.”
He’d arched, jabbed at her, drawn back, readying to jackhammer—and, thank God, stopped.
Drops of her blood mixed in with induced spittle had splattered between his fingers gripping her mouth, over his arm, and the fact she didn’t respond to his cock, mercifully small, did the trick. At the time, the irony of her thoughts about doing or not doing the trick helped her pretend she was in the midst of a nightmare she’d soon wake from.
He’d gasped and dropped her—stared down at her collapsed body, her gaze deliberately fixed, bloody froth bubbling from her slack mouth, then ran. Ten minutes later she’d stopped heaving into the sink, cleaned herself up and left, wishing Gary Fenton would get close and personal with the front grill of an obsolete bus like the handicapped and elderly used before he dragged some dewy-eyed bride onto a lunar shuttle.
And here she was, facing the same guy again who reeked with anticipation and righteous strength. The floor was eerily quiet. People were at work or locked safely in their soundproof homes. Looked like she wasn’t about to get her wish that Fenton would drop dead. Karma stabbing her where it hurt because she’d prayed for worms to eat out his heart?
Run, idiot, run.
She tensed, but he was already coiled. A cobra about to strike, he was too close. She’d not make it far.
That large hand shot out. He grasped her arm and she swallowed her scream. “It took me a while to get it,” he said. “Some sort of pill to fake all that crap coming from your mouth.” He shook her hard enough to rattle her teeth. “The scam being I’d not say a word about a dead hooker and you’d get paid for nothing.”
All she’d wanted to do was find someone already on the shuttle’s manifest who’d board and look for evidence that she was or wasn’t delusional, get authorities and press involved as needed. Flood the Net with pics before they landed on the moon to find nothing behind the curtain of a paradise getaway except crematoriums.
In retrospect, it was a half-assed plan doomed to go wrong. She could have done something less altruistic but so much safer, such as screw with a guy’s heart. Have sex, pretend to care in the off chance he’d fall for her and propose.
Most of all, armed with nothing but pills then pepper spray, she shouldn’t have dealt with strangers. A smart woman would have involved a cop who’d stick his neck out with her, play the part of a groom and not just cuff her and cart her off to a psych ward. All she had to do was tell the truth. Risk some randomly picked officer would not only believe her, but that he was neither on the payroll of the LC nor would he unwittingly alert any authorities that were, leaving them to disappear the problem by a bullet in her forehead as well as his.
Instead, she’d stuck with the idea of recruiting a groom. Never expecting there’d be any way the second guy would have a sort of connection to her, and the first would be so into entitlement he’d stop at nothing to get satisfaction.
Oh God. After spending ridiculous amounts on illegal wrist phones, she sincerely wished she’d picked Sam before she’d contacted Fenton.
Fenton must have gone back to the bar, waiting for God knows how long, hoping she’d return, which was exactly what she’d done. Like an idiot, she’d texted Sam to meet her at the same bar—the cleanest one she could find with a large bathroom that had an inside lock on the door.
She fought to keep her face blank. “Let go. Please. You don’t understand. No one hired me. I was trying to warn you about the Love Center. Your life is in danger. If you get married and board that shuttle, you’ll probably die.”
Fenton burst out laughing. “You found me on the winner list. Next you’ll tell me you’ll have a chat with my bride unless I pay a fortune.” He began dragging her toward the stairs. “Which floor is yours, whore? I won’t wait long. No worries. The stairwell will do to start.”
She dug her heels in and he stopped.
“The angrier I am,” he snapped, “the more I’ll—”
She clawed out, raking his skin under her fingertips.
He jerked loose and chuckled. “That’s all you have? You fight like a girl. Hey, if I was a shmuck who’d pay, how much does it cost for upscale pussy like yours?”
She reached for her wrist phone. Thank God for the scientist—a woman—who’d perfected the ability to electronically transmit DNA directly to local authorities.
Fenton grabbed her elbow, squeezed and released her. He thrust his face inches from hers and winked. “Go ahead. Press the rape-in-progress app. I’ll pop up as a sterilized male who hasn’t left a bruise—yet.” His grin widened as he straightened. “Police will rush here within hours. After they take care of all the fertile males getting what was promised them.”
A sob welled in her throat. Sam had recently done a blog post claiming that very thing. He’d come up with stats that one out of a hundred women, and one out of forty girls or boys would be raped at least once in their lifetime, with males who were sterilized getting but a high-five slap of one to ten years, based on whether or not loved ones of the victim raised a public outcry.
Non-neutered rapists were guaranteed twenty years to life, depending on severity and whether a survivor finding herself pregnant didn’t willingly run to get an abortion. Standard admitting procedure for prisons in every nation included delousing, shaving and sterilization before handing the convict an orange jumpsuit.
Fenton’s claim to being infertile didn’t make sense. “Then…how did you win a honeymoon?”
He scowled. “I applied, you little fool. How else?”
She swallowed hard. Might as well keep him talking. Maybe someone would come. “I…um…had access to databases. A friend of a friend works at one of the LC hubs. She said as far as she could tell, only the applicants whose background showed no record of being incarcerated or voluntarily sterilized were chosen.”
Fenton threw his head back and snickered. “Ahh. Caught me. I didn’t actually win. My twin brother filed and paid for the marriage license. I made sure he thought he stayed the loser that he is and seduced his slob of a fiancée. A few pics of my brother with his hands all over a male hooker had her blubbering on my shoulder. Then I showed her some real dick. She agreed she’d be my bride and switched his and my wrist phones. What better way to leave my brother to deal with scumball collectors than disappearing off the face of the Earth… Why am I telling you this?”
Christ, really? He’s this much of an asshole?
She stiffened. “Why indeed? You’ll screw over your brother, renege on gangsters, loan sharks or whatever but you hung out for hours then stalked me because you think I was paid for sex you didn’t get?”
He jerked her forward, his hold on her arm so tight she could feel the bruise forming. “That’s right, sister. But I’m a nice guy. You can suck your way into my good graces. Then decide if it’s face against the wall or the steps.” He released her, undid his buckle and started to unzip. “You owe me, so stop whining.”
Whining? Jesus. She didn’t have time for this creep, for a rape on a stairwell or anywhere. Victims—the underdogs—needed the voice of people like Sam Dexter. To implement some sort of plan to help him, she had to burn through multiple firewalls and hire felons who may or may not have the ability to burrow into impenetrable security files. She needed documented proof showing the intense propaganda—contests to win free homes that flooded every advertising spot on the Net for months—wasn’t just aimed at recruiting couples to jump into marriage with the only benefit to the LC being a thousand dollar a pop licensing fee. Concrete evidence exposing a hidden agenda, other than wanting to ease the stressed resources of Earth by spending billions to make dreams come true, had to be out there.
So, she had to come up with more funds and a higher credit limit than her bank account held, as well as time and time and more time to forge credentials, change names and so on, while begging everyone she knew to loan her every cent they had so she could hire cyber-tech experts who wouldn’t take an IOU for payment.
She stopped chewing the inside of her cheek and braced to do whatever she had to in order to free herself from the two hundred plus pound obstacle presently in her way.
“Fine. I’ll make things right.” She forced a smile and averted her gaze from his open pants. “No need to get nasty or to risk someone finding us.” She gestured forward. “Apartment 102 is vacant. I…er…have an arrangement with the landlord. No alarms when I unlock the door. I swear.”
Fenton licked his lips and glanced down the hall ten feet to number 102.
The moment his head turned, she grabbed the pepper spray out of her pocket, raised her arm, shot him directly in the eyes and ran.
His screams rang in her ears as she flung herself out of the building into the street.
She heard him again, his bellow now filled with rage, as she raced around the corner into an area of bustling commerce. A desperate burst of speed shot her toward a café. She bounded through the opening door and came to a grinding halt. The clawing stitch in her side threatened to drop her to the floor of the crowded coffee shop. Jenna sucked in a deep lungful as she raised her head.