Vengeful Bounty (9 page)

Then again…

Just where the hell was Damon, anyway?

Don't let him rent space in your head, Mina,
I thought.
Evict him.

“Bye, Rogue,” I said. He sat at my feet, looking up at me as if I were leaving him forever. “You be a good boy, and Mommy will be back after while.”

I leaned down and gave his chin a good scratch.

Before I left my apartment, I hesitated, shining red eyes in the dark recesses of my dream memories. I stared at the closed door of my weapon closet.

Sometimes I had to remind myself that I did live a dangerous life. One filled with sharp-toothed monsters.

I opened the closet, grabbed my Pixie laser gun, and put it in my black sequin handbag.

Just in case.

10

Reunion Tower in Dallas had recently been modified into a Sky Café, meaning it was one of twenty-five or so restaurants on the planet that lifted off the ground, into the sky, and hovered above the clouds, giving the ultimate view to its patrons. The globe-shaped dining hall originally sat at the top of a sky scraping hotel when it wasn't floating, and I normally would have taken the elevator up to it right before lift-off at 5:00 p.m., but Jackson's and my later meeting time (not to mention my penchant for being late for our meetings in general) resulted in my having to take a mini shuttle from the hotel.

I confirmed my reservation with the receptionist, and a gentleman led me to the shuttles. He pointed me to one in the middle, and I climbed into the seat in the center of the disc that could hold up to four people. Once securely in place with double-strap seatbelts crossing my chest, a glass bubble slid behind me from a slit in the craft and over the top of me, connecting in the front of the flying saucer. A man's voice came in over a small speaker:

“All items secure?”

“Yes, thank you,” I said.

“Have a good flight, and thank you for choosing Sky Café.”

“You're most welcome.”

The control tower guided me at stunning speed up and away from the Metroplex, and the city became smaller and smaller until it looked like a mere miniature of the real thing. Soft ascending electronic music played as a woman recited the same advertisement about Reunion Tower in English, Spanish, Vietnamese, etc. Soon I was above the cumulous clouds, which looked like a white fluffy carpet. Up above my head the restaurant hovered, rotating ever-so-slightly. The bottom of the café, thoroughly lit with blue and white lights, opened up a circle just wide enough for my craft to fit into. Once inside, the airlock
hissed
and
clicked
. I waited in a small, dark room, and then the clear dome around me slid open like a corvette top. A triangular door opened, and a smiling hostess greeted me from behind an onyx podium. Behind her, waiters bustled to rush meals to tables, ambient techno music played, and well-dressed people laughed, drank, and ate. Bright fiery beams of the setting sun poured in through the wall windows and bathed everyone in their glow.

“Mina Maxwell,” I said to the hostess. “I'm supposed to be meeting—”

“Of course!” she said. “Right over there, ma'am.”

She pointed to my two-o'clock and I thanked her, then headed to the table facing the window to which she'd referred. I passed curving onyx seats and tables with elegantly folded white napkins, and then stepped down into the outer rim and toward the back of two heads.

One was large, bald, and chocolate colored. The other was a structured mess of shiny black tresses mixed with sleek blue streaks. I knew without a doubt who that was. Jackson had this uncanny way of styling his hair so that it looked mussed, as if he'd just stepped away from a good romp in bed, yet the layers of it managed to fall in artistic perfection against his face and forehead. The touch of blue was new, but it—and the way he sat with one foot propped up against the empty chair next to him and his arm lazily slung atop it—was just so very Jackson Kincade. I smiled.

His bodyguard, DeMarcus Ward, was his friend from high school. Think of an army tank, and you've got his body type. He made a good guard because he scared most people away by simply standing in the vicinity and looking like the impenetrable fortress he was. But in truth, he was as sweet as a puppy and one of the most polite people I'd ever met.

“I hope you didn't start without me,” I said, walking into their line of vision.

Both stood up, Jackson dramatically pulling back his jacket sleeve and checking his watch, DeMarcus smiling a toothy grin and extending a hand.

“Hey, hey, Miss Maxwell,” DeMarcus said. “How goes it wichoo?”

I took his hand, or rather allowed his massive palm to engulf mine. “It goes well, DeMarcus, you?”

“Can't complain, can't complain.”

Jackson crossed his arms, his eyes hidden behind dark sun shades. His smile was a stunning flash of teeth and dimples. It was always refreshingly warm and welcoming, always sincere, a contagious smile.

“You better not complain, DeMarcus,” he said. “You get paid better than I do.”

“Whatevah!” DeMarcus said, his barrel chest vibrating with a deep laugh. “But I'll let you kids be. Need anything, jus holla. I'll be ova at the bar. Mina, you look beautiful tonight, by the way.”

He patted me gently on the back and stepped up onto the first level platform. Jackson's head slowly tipped down and then up as he took in the sight of me. He let out a low whistle.

“He's right,” he said. “You do look nice. I'm flattered.”

“Thanks,” I said. “You look great, too. It's good seeing you.”

His open black suit jacket had subtle dark gray pin stripes and matched his pants. Jackson wasn't rail-thin, as some music stars tended to be. He was tall, around 6 feet tall; his weight was what I'd call healthy. A little athletic, maybe—though I couldn't be sure. I'd only seen him decked out in layers of clothes. The silver shirt beneath the jacket shone with its top two buttons open to reveal part of his tanned chest. He wore a silver chain with a dark blue peace sign and a green globe on the end of it. His fingernails were painted black. He wore thick black boots.

“Are you going to lose the shades, famous big-shot, or do I not get the privilege of looking at your eyes tonight?” I asked.

“I don't know,” he said, a mischievous grin lighting up his face. “You might see my tears of frustration at your constant tardiness. Twenty-three minutes and seventeen seconds late.”

“Oh, good grief!” I laughed. “I really tried to be on time tonight. The day just got away from me.”

“Mmmhmm.
Rude.
Go ahead and sit down. I guess I'll let you eat with me.”

He pulled out a chair, and I took the seat where DeMarcus had been sitting moments before. Crossing my legs, I looked at the menu and tried to resist the urge to reach over and ruffle his hair. I generally didn't touch Jackson much, but when I was with him I felt playful. Safe. It was odd, considering we'd only known each other a couple of years and had only gotten together about a dozen times. It felt like I'd known him longer. Still, I felt strange about touching him. Almost as if I'd step over some line I personally didn't want to cross. Didn't make much sense, because he and I were buddies, not strangers. Was I concerned that he'd be uncomfortable? Or was I more worried that he
wouldn't
be?

Funny,
I thought.
In all the time we've known each other, we haven't as much as shaken hands. Definitely not a hug. And certainly never a kiss.

A little embarrassed at the sudden inappropriate thoughts, I looked out the window at the stretching carpet of clouds. Why in the world was I thinking about touching and kissing? Jenny must have gotten into my head too much. I could blame her. But in all actuality, this airy flirty feeling was a bit of a breath of fresh air. Before now, all I ever thought about was touching and kissing Damon. Maybe it was a little sign that I was getting over him. Maybe I was getting happier, and my libido was coming back. Jackson just happened to be at the right place at the right moment—could've been anyone. Depression lifting at last!

“The shoes are my favorite touch,” he said, pointing to them. He wore black, fingerless gloves. “Nice height, not too flashy, shows off legs more than the actual shoes. Shayne wore some ridiculous stilettos the other night that must've been eight inches tall, and the straps went up to her knees. I was more worried about her falling and breaking her ankle than anything else.”

“You know, Jackson, if I didn't know you, I'd think you were gay with your sense of style and luck with women.”

“Who knows?” He shrugged with a sigh. “I might be. Let me check someone out, give it a little bi-curious thought.”

He stared at a fairly good-looking waiter taking the order of the table next to us. He squinted, really concentrating, then sighed.

“Nope,” he said. “Sorry, not a gay bone in my body.”

“You are a total goofball.” I fixed the loose strap on my dress and smoothed out a wrinkle in the tablecloth. “So you said Shayne? Is she your most recent girlfriend?”

“Mina, I'm hurt. You speak as if I'm some sort of player.”

“You do date a lot of women,” I said.

“Not seriously. And it's more of them chasing me until I finally give in and go out with them than me pursuing them. Whatever happened to the chase?”

“It's still there, only reversed. So you went on some dates with this Shayne girl? She's what, a model?”

“No, actually, a Swedish tennis player this time. Doesn't really matter, though, because by the end of the same evening she wore those horrible shoes, she was throwing one of them at my head and ‘breaking up' with me, even though we'd only been out twice. You see, I was so rudely ignoring her when I said hello to some friends we ran into. I had a five minute conversation with them and ‘forgot she existed.' Shame on me. I should've shut out the world and focused on her lopsided implants.”

Trying not to scream with laughter, I covered my mouth and shook my head. It felt good to laugh. I did feel kind of sorry for Jackson; it seemed like every time we met up, it was in the aftermath of another of his messy break-ups.

“I have an idea,” he said, slowly taking off his sunglasses and revealing two sky-blue eyes lined in naturally dark black lashes. They were always such a strikingly stark contrast to his dark hair and tanned skin. “Maybe
we
could pretend to be together, and then these crazies would leave me alone.”

Was it his pretty—all right,
gorgeous
—eyes that gave me that funny jolt in my core? Or was it his first mention of dating, albeit jokingly? Either way, I found myself slightly fluttery inside. Boy, I was feeling strange tonight, wasn't I?

“Then again, Damon might not appreciate it,” he quickly added, then leaned back to peruse his menu. “Heard anything from him?”

“Actually, no,” I said, the flitting butterflies falling lifeless to the pit of my stomach. “We still haven't talked since that last conversation.”

“Ah, the one with Miss Mystery with the long black hair?”

“That same one.”

“Hmm. Well, I'm sorry to hear that.” His voice had a serious edge to it. “You seemed to be really into him. I was hoping he'd get his act together soon and get home, so you two could reunite and I could finally meet him. Give you both my blessing.”

His voice had a cryptic edge to it. Before I could try and decipher it, his face gave way to another dimpled smile.

“Oh, look here,” he said. “The dumplings. They have the dumplings.” He threw his head back and lifted a hand like a fire-and-brimstone preacher. “Hallelujah, they have the dumplings!”

Thank heavens he'd changed the subject so I didn't have to.

“What dumplings?” I said, scanning the menu, trying to find what he was talking about.

Before I could locate it, he snatched the menu from my hands and said, “We're both getting them. It's the chef's greatest creation. You'll die and go to heaven after your first bite. Even just smelling them. Holy crap, just thinking about ordering them is about to make me faint. Waiter!”

He waved over a tall, blond waiter and ordered for both of us. Jackson asked if I wanted anything to drink. He was already nursing a Belgian beer. I requested a glass of wine. I was feeling it tonight. I was in great company, I was coming to terms with Damon's absence (well, for the most part), and I was one catch away from going Global. Certainly an evening to celebrate.

“Glad I'm not allergic to dumplings,” I muttered. “What if I had wanted something else?”

“No, you will die when you eat these,” he said, flabbergasted. “You will just die. Nothing else on the menu matters.”

“But who will take care of Rogue if I die?”

“Aww,” he said, leaning back with a warm smile. “I would! He could play with Daisy. They could have pups. Little weenie dog family. How is Rogue?”

We'd taken our dogs to the park one afternoon for a walk, and Rogue really took to him and his dachshund. It was almost a pity that we couldn't do that more often. Rogue didn't like most other dogs—he tried to roughhouse too much with them. Daisy had proved his equal, and both animals had run themselves silly on their stubby legs, giving Jackson and me a good workout in the process. But it was when the paparazzi started to chase us that we'd gotten exhausted. We'd outrun them and barely escaped in our respective cars. Luckily I'd been wearing a winter cap with my hair hidden inside, and I had sunshades on my face. My blurry picture appeared on Entertainment News TV for a couple of days. Nobody could figure out who I was or how he knew me. The hype petered out when Jackson had started dating Flilipia Gregora, supermodel, about a week later.

“Oh, Rogue's doing great,” I said. “I got him one of those speakollers, and I can't figure out if I like it yet. Is Daisy doing all right?”

“Yeah, she's been staying with Mom while I'm touring around,” he said, waving away that tiny comment about his work.

The waiter placed my glass of wine in front of me, and I sipped on the golden liquid. Very nice. Tangy, but not too tart.

“I understand about having to get dog-sitters,” I said. “I had to leave Rogue with my brother when I got my last catch.”

“Oh? What number are you on now?”

“Twenty-four.”

He gasped. “One away! Look at you, my crime-fighting friend! Are you excited?”

“Very,” I smiled. Fun, the way we fed off of one another's energy. “Very, very, very.”

We both finished our drinks and ordered another round. We talked about everything under the sun, from local news to plant care tips to some of the weird dreams we had. When I told him about my recurring Roberto dream, the slight buzz I'd gotten from the wine waned.