Chapter Three
Lace-fronts and Stilettos
“Number 3, step forward, please,”
The voice, disembodied and condescending, echoed from the speakers. Dusty stepped away from the wall, squinting.
“Damn, it’s bright in here,” she groused. All the money she didn’t pay in taxes, and they couldn’t afford a fucking dimmer switch? “You can’t turn that shit down, or something?”
“Line, Ms. Burdot.” The voice ordered, and Dusty rolled her eyes. Detective Braxton was a hatin’ ass ho and had been since she met the man. She wouldn’t be surprised if he were trying to blind her on purpose.
Dusty sighed and capitulated, eager to speed things along. Braxton and his partner had brought her in four hours ago, and she was beyond tired of their company. “On the ground?” she said with zero enthusiasm and no small amount of snark. “Move, and I’ll shoot?”
“Ms. Burdot-”
Detective Braxton sounded irritated, and a grin tugged at Dusty’s lips.
“Sorry,” she called, using her reflection in the one-way mirror to fix her braids. Once they fell just the way she liked, she reached into her cleavage and pulled out a tube of lipstick the cop who’d patted her down had missed for whatever reason. Dusty reapplied a swatch of crimson along her bottom lip, mouth a little O as she cleaned up the excess with the side of one finger. Perfect. Popping the top on and sliding the lipstick back between her breasts, she folded her arms beneath their heavy weight and scowled. “What’s my character’s motivation again?”
“Their motivation is they’re a piece of SHIT-” Detective Kensington’s irate interjection – cut short as someone on the other side of the mirror pulled her away from the mic - was a welcome change from Braxton’s sanctimonious calm. Nodding as if her response had told her all she needed to know, Dusty cleared her throat and tried again.
“Unless you’re ready to die today, Cher,” She tried again, gaze unblinking on the glass and voice a low, throaty threat. “You make sure to keep my name out of your muthafuckin mouth, you hear?” The air grew close, heated, until Dusty broke the growing tension with a smile. “How was that?” she asked. “Better?”
There was no response for a full minute. When Braxton spoke again, she could almost taste the defeat. “Number 3, back against the wall. Number 4, step forward and say your line, please.”
Dusty did as she was asked, leaning against the wall to take some of the pressure off her bad leg. She had no idea how long she’d been on her feet, but her muscles were cramping. Even worse, she was hungry and needed to pee. Dusty prayed for patience as she waited for the rest of the women in line to take their turn, knowing damn well Braxton and his little lackey weren’t going to find their suspect hiding amongst them. A waste of time, but she indulged the whims of the BPD on occasion for the sake of morale. If the police department gave up, things in Briarcliff would get real boring, real fast.
A few minutes later, a beat cop came and led the line of women out of the room. Many of them were returned to a cell, but Dusty was dragged back into the same interrogation room as before. She sat and kicked her feet up. A nap would have been nice, but she didn’t think Braxton would keep her waiting for very long. And she was right. Detective Braxton and Detective Kensington joined her a few minutes later, looking grim.
“How’s your civilian?” Dusty asked. She was going for ‘compassionate,’ but the way she bared her teeth as she spoke made it predatory. “Not too shaken up, I hope?”
Braxton sat before her, stormy gaze locked on her face. “You should be proud of yourself,” he said. “It’s the fastest we’ve ever lost a key witness. Congratulations.” Despite herself, Dusty basked in the praise, and Braxton's hands clenched where they rested in his lap. Tall and lanky, Braxton was all ropy muscle and dark brown skin. He always kept his hair freshly tapered; the waves up top shimmering like obsidian in the light. Dusty tried imagining Braxton at home at night, brushing his hair down and putting on a do-rag, and couldn’t. The man was so strait-laced and dedicated to the job he probably fucked with his badge on. Which, in all fairness, wasn’t the worst image in the world.
“This is all just one big joke to you, huh?” Kensington asked. Dusty glanced over at her and shrugged.
“Not really,” she said. “Jokes are funny.”
Kensington’s jaw worked. She hadn’t bothered with a chair. Instead, she stood with her back against the wall and her hands deep in her pockets. Almost as tall as Braxton, Kensington was an earnest sort with curly brown hair down to her shoulders and sea-green eyes. She was honest like Braxton, but without the confidence to back it. The interrogation room was as hot as Satan’s asshole, but the woman refused to ditch the blazer she wore to conceal her flat chest. The city would eat her alive before she learned to accept the faint shadow on her chin or the Adam’s apple bobbing in her throat, and that thought made Dusty sad. Still, it wasn’t her business, and Kensington wasn’t one of her own, so she quelled a surge of compassion to focus on the elephant in the room.
“Can I go now?” Dusty asked, turning back to Braxton. “Last I checked, you can’t keep me unless I’m being charged with something.”
And you’ve got nothing on me, she thought.
Braxton sat back in his seat, tapping his pen against the tabletop. “I just have one more thing I wanted to run by you,” he said. Motioning Kensington closer, he held out a hand. His partner pulled a folded-up piece of paper from her pocket and handed it over. Braxton sent it sliding across the table without glancing down at it. Suspicious, Dusty picked it up and unfolded it. Printed out on cheap printer paper was a faded still shot from a street camera, of a naked man in a G-string sprinting past a Whole Foods. He had a MARCO bot tucked under one arm like a football and a wad of cash stuck beneath the waistband of his underwear.
“You need to buy new ink cartridges,” Dusty said, sliding the picture back to Braxton. “I think the office supply place is having a sale-”
“Raphael Holtz,” Braxton ignored the photo. “Name ring any bells?”
Dusty shrugged, “No, not really. Should it?”
“Depends,” Braxton shrugged. “He’s a hired gun—former special ops. He's been off the grid for the last several years, but we’ve got reason to believe he’s working with the Legion these days.”
“So?” Dusty snapped. “What’s that got to do with me?” When they said nothing, she snorted in derision. “You really think I’m out here running around with mercenaries? I own a fucking bar, for Christ's sake.”
“Your father founded the Legion, didn’t he?” Braxton asked as if he didn’t already know. “It’s not farfetched to think you might be running in some of those same circles.”
“Rat’s been in jail a long time,” she reminded them both.
“‘Rat,’” Kensington mused. “Not Dad, or Pops, or Papa?” She whistled. “Those daddy issues must run deep.”
Dusty’s lips tightened, and she cut her gaze towards Kensington’s. A look passed between them; there and gone, before she turned away with a shrug. “Well,” she said finally. “He did kill my sister, so…” She let the thought trail off. They could fill in the blanks for themselves.
Only Braxton didn’t seem inclined to do that. Instead, he sat back in his seat, expression thoughtful. “I’ve studied your dad’s case-” he said, and Dusty’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. There was a gleam in his eye - of interest, of knowing. It set her teeth on edge. “-and last I checked, you’re the only one who thinks he didn’t.”
Dusty rested her cheek against the palm of one hand, eyeing them both in silence. “Am I being charged with anything, detectives?” she asked at last.
“It depends,” Kensington said. “You see, we picked up a few strays at the bank this morning. Figured we’d bring them in and find out if they have anything interesting to tell us.”
There was a knock on the door. Kensington and Braxton both turned, as the knob turned without awaiting a response, and a man entered. Dressed in a gray suit with a red tie, he was taller even than Detective Braxton, and so wide he filled out the doorway. His hair, reddish-brown and peppered with silver, had been slicked back into a thick ponytail at the nape of his neck. Thick, black lines were tattooed across his face like a mask framing his dark, dark eyes, so that when he smiled- like he was doing now -his teeth were a bright flash of white.
“Can we help you?” Braxton asked, getting to his feet. His hand drifted to where his gun rested in the holster at his hip before backing away.
“My name is Iwalani Kiana Natia,” the giant intoned, adjusting the glasses on his face before offering a hand to Kensington to shake. “I’m here to collect my client.”
Kensington’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re a lawyer?”
“Graduated at the top of my class,” Iwalani said, proud in his brownness and tattoos. At her snort, Iwalani glanced sidelong at Dusty. “Ms. Burdot,” he said expectantly.
The room stank like dirty mop water, and Dusty was more than ready to bid the stench goodbye. She stood. “Good luck with those strays, Detectives,” she said by way of farewell.
Kensington opened her mouth to protest, but Braxton lifted a hand. “Don’t bother Yvette,” he said. We’ll be in touch with Ms. Burdot again, very soon.”
His eyes remained on her as Dusty strode from the room, snatching her leather jacket from the back of her seat as she went. As she slipped past Detective Kensington, their hands brushed. The contact lasted less than a second, but it was long enough for Dusty to palm a slip of paper and tuck it alongside her lipstick.
“What was that about?” Iwalani asked as they made their way down the hall.
Dusty’s jaw was tight. She didn’t need to look at the missive to know what it said, or who it was from. The invitation came once a year and had done since the day she’d left. “Papa Tate,” she said, and Iwalani stiffened.
“Fuck,” he breathed, and she nodded.
Dusty would have to burn the paper once she got somewhere safe, but, for now, it was a brand against her skin. Eating away at her flesh. She wanted to tear it to shreds right then and there, but doing so in the middle of a police station would be suicide. If Papa had his claws in Kensington, there was no telling how many more of the fine men and women of the BPD were on his payroll.
Every time I think I’ve escaped that old bastard, he finds a way back in my life.
They left the precinct, trotting down the stone steps to the street below, where two motorcycles sat waiting in the fire lane.
Dusty whistled. “Bold move.”
Iwalani grinned, pulling off his red clip-on tie. “What can I say? I’m a helluva good lawyer.”
“Whatever you say, Mr. ‘Top of my Class.’”
Dusty checked her saddlebags and grabbed her knives, slipping them into their respective holsters. “Where’s Diesel?” She asked, tone growing dark.
“Tracking Raphael,” Iwalani assured her, taking off his suit jacket and stuffing it into the compartment beneath his seat. Underneath, he wore a white collared T-shirt that strained around his massive arms and across wide chest. In his mid-50s, Iwalani hadn’t changed much since he and Dusty first met. He was softer around the middle, but he was still built like punishment on legs. Which was just one of the reasons he went by Ape instead of the good, strong, Samoan name his mother had gifted him with. Dusty nodded toward her second’s clothes as he straddled his bike. “Who’d you steal the suit from?”
“Some intern standing in line at the coffee place,” He admitted with a shrug.
“You kill him?”
Ape shook his head. “Nah, he’s in a broom closet. He’ll wake up with a sore head and a public indecency charge, but honestly? Who isn’t on a list these days?” He glanced sidelong at her as she straddled her bike and pulled her leather gloves from the pocket of her jacket. “Speaking of killing-”
“Alive,” she said, eyes like flint. “I want Raphael alive.”
“He gonna stay that way?” Ape asked, more curious than concerned.
“Depends,” Dusty said, as she brought her bike to life. “On whether or not he was smart enough to bring me back a consolation prize.”
***
The south side of Briarcliff was a restless wanton of a thing. So different from the side of town Edward was used to they may as well have been night and day. This part of Briarcliff wore its sins on its face. A badge of honor for all to see. It was a hidden gem of jukeboxes and midnight dinners. Stray dogs and junkies crouched in doorways like sentries. A place where fluorescent lights were the closest you ever came to rainbows, and smog dragged the street like a woman's skirt. Neon lights painted the shadows, turned them into something beautiful, and Edward wondered if South Briarcliff was just as afraid of what lay beyond the dark as he was.
It would never be dark here, not really, and for some odd reason, knowing as much brought a measure of comfort. Flyers declaring ‘Vote Wilks’ had been snatched from their perch on lampposts and building sides and now lined the gutters outside where a line of motorcycles were stationed. Next to the bar, was a gated parking lot with a few run-down cars and a couple of dumpsters the bar shared with the wing spot next door.
A bus stop at the corner was decorated with ads for Viagra and an insurance company selling term life insurance. A bum was asleep on the bench inside, and the small space smelled of urine and unwashed skin. Edward turned around and headed back inside. Now, he sat nursing an iced tea and wondering if he should have asked the guy to scootch over. The company would have been better at least.
“So, a glass eye?” He said. “Nice.”
Silence.
Edward cleared his throat and tried again. “Does insurance cover the customization, or did you, like, have to pay extra for…” He gestured at the man’s face, realizing he was being rude but unable to stop digging the hole he’d been working on ever since he walked back through the front door.
The old Chinese man blinked in reply, his one Pepto-Bismol pink eye a stark contrast to the subdued brown he’d been born with.
Edward nodded as if his unwilling seatmate had responded. “Right,” he said, fingers tracing the lines engraved on the tabletop. “Okay, cool. Cool, cool, cool.”
Nico told Edward to “holla” if he needed anything before disappearing behind the bar to work the grill. Edward’s first instinct was to follow him, but he refrained. It was a bit like showing up at a party he wasn’t invited to. A party where there was just one familiar face. Edward resisted the urge to holla, but barely. The man glaring at him from across the table they shared did not seem to enjoy his company. Still, since he was the least intimidating of the bar’s patrons, he was just going to have to suck it up. Respectfully, of course.
The bar, dubbed The Hellhole, was run down but clean. At least on the inside. There was a mural painted on the brick exterior of a kid who’d been shot last June. Edward remembered watching the story unfold on the news. Remembered how the white men on his board of directors never lamented the loss of life, only the drop in property value. On the inside, past tabletops riddled with old beers, in the far corner, sat an aging jukebox with a cracked face, its lights growing with unsteady, uncertain strength. The speakers on it were uncertain of nothing, however, and the rock music playing at full blast drowned out the television hanging beside a massive wall of liquor. As much as he may have wished otherwise, the lack of sound didn’t stop Edward from reading the subtitles as a somber news anchor appeared on the screen. The man was standing outside of an all too familiar building, and Edward’s heart skipped a beat.
The closed captions jumped around, but he got the gist. Robbery on the corner of Manchester. Several suspects are in custody. Three members still at large and wanted for questioning in the shooting deaths of at least two people. Considered armed and dangerous. Police urging the public to call in with any information…
Edward’s knee bounced - slowly at first and then faster and faster. Soon, his second knee joined the first until he was almost vibrating in his seat. He stilled the motion, but it only made things worse. Lunging to his feet, Edward’s mind raced over what his next move should be.
Even if the police caught the hitman, nothing was stopping Andrew from hiring another. If Andrew was in negotiations with the military about MARCO, and the only thing stalling the deal from going through was Edward, going to the police for help might not be the smartest idea, regardless. Edward needed allies, and thanks to Ms. Bellum, he had a bargaining chip and the perfect opportunity to plead his case. He could use people who weren’t afraid to get their hands dirty, people motivated by something more than money. He’d play the part of a recruit eager to join their ranks and get a feel for Dusty and how much power and influence he held here in Briarcliff. Even if the guy was only qualified to gather dirt on Andrew and walk Edward to and from his mailbox so he wouldn’t get assassinated in his driveway, it was better than nothing.
Edward would need to make a strong first impression if he were going to convince Dusty of a partnership, which meant he had some work to do. From his vantage point, he could see an OUT OF ORDER sign taped to the bathroom, so he headed toward the back door instead, sending a shy smile toward the burly bartender as he hurried past. There was a woman dancing on the pool tables in the next room, and as Edward passed, her boyfriend grabbed her off. Their argument followed him as he slipped through the door and out into the alleyway unnoticed.
Sunlight hit his skin, a stark contrast after being in the dimly bar for so long. He breathed a sigh of relief only to gag on the sharp scent of rotting food and diesel. It might not smell the best, but at least he wasn’t surrounded by people. A win as far as he was concerned. The alleyway was crowded with old furniture and a huge metal dumpster. Tossing his Dollar General bag on an overturned crate, he dug past the red wig to pull out the bottle of water and the first sheet of tattoos. He peeled off the plastic covering, ripping the individual images from the larger sheet. Once he was done with the first one, he started on the second. It was tedious, but it soothed him, and soon, all his attention was focused on the task at hand.
Edward got a few of the tattoo sheets on, lining them up and down the length of both arms and up his neck. While he waited for them to dry, he picked at a piece of graffiti on the brick wall at random and tried getting his head in the game. When it came to talking to people, he had done extensive research, and the best way to get on Dusty’s good side was to open with an icebreaker of some kind.
“Oh,”—he turned as if he’d just noticed someone standing next to him—“you must be Dusty.” Holding out a hand to his imaginary companion, he scoffed “What? These old things? Got them in the pen a few years back when I was doing time for…um…for some crime. Ya feel me?” His voice went high and unsure. “You know what I’m saying?”
No, no, no. No African-American Vernacular. He was too white. It would only end up getting him punched in the dick. He tried again, this time throwing in some swag that hopefully said, ‘Look at my tattoos and muscles,’ but in a non-douchy way. “Hey, Dusty, from one badass motherfucker to another, you’re looking pretty swole today.” What was Andrew always adding after compliments? Ah. Right. “No homo.”
Better.
A husky laugh reached his ears, and he yelped.
“Your Dragon Tales sticker is peeling.”
Edward turned to find a woman standing at the mouth of the alleyway, a trail of smoke writhing around her like something alive. Dressed in black leather pants and a loose-fitting Tee, her waist-length braids had been pulled back into a ponytail at the crown of her head. He had never seen anything like it before. Brown bled into gold, and gold into silver ash that shone in the sun—just like her skin. Around five-foot-seven, she was built like an hourglass with wide hips and thighs thick enough to save a life or two. As she stalked toward him, Edward found himself transfixed. The way she moved was hypnotic, every step a dance. Like Edward, both of her arms were covered in brightly colored tattoos, though he couldn’t make sense of the mosaic when he was so caught up in the canvas. A stranger carved from shades of brown, like something born of the earth instead of man. A goddess born grown from the roots of some old oak tree. She had a heart-shaped face and a rounded, plump little mouth. Her brows, thick wings over eyes like the dark places between the stars. Someplace dark, forbidden, where prayers went to die.
What had they been talking about? He couldn’t remember. Those eyes, wide, dark pools with thick lashes, made it hard to keep track of his thoughts.
“Oh, it’s not a sticker,” he said, feeling stupid. “It’s a tattoo.”
“No,” she assured him, “it’s not.” Lifting her hand, she took a long drag from a blunt she held - careless and cocky - between her thumb and middle finger. “What you got there?” She gestured with her chin toward the bag at his feet.
Edward shrugged, his hand twitching a sporadic rhythm. “You ever interview for a job and not have anything to wear?” He asked, nodding too fast. Christ, she made him nervous. “This is the gang version of business casual.”
One brow rose, and she gave him a slow once-over that had his body flushing hot. “Lace fronts and stilettos, huh?” she teased, so gentle he didn’t even notice. “Well, shit, darling. Looks like I’m under dressed.”
Her voice was throatier than anything he’d ever heard before. A little rough around the edges and smooth in the middle. Like aged whisky. He wanted to taste it. Edward stared at her, unsure what to do or say beyond such a startling thought.
He was used to more petite women, slim, blond, and perfect. With the amount of money backing them, they could afford their versions of perfection, so he had come to expect it. There was no room for tattoos or piercings and scars. No room for anything below a size 12 if he were being honest, and even that was pushing it. Nothing like her had existed in his world before this, and something inside him shifted in some fundamental way he couldn’t quite understand.
Then her words registered, and with a grimace, he shifted in the heels he’d stolen from Ms. Bellum. To be honest, he’d forgotten he was even wearing them. Of course, Dollar General didn’t have his size anyway. No wonder everyone had been glaring at him, despite the fact that his calves had never looked better. His shoulders fell in defeat. At this rate, he might as well just go home and wait to die. There was no way in hell Dusty would ever accept someone like him. Maybe he was just a lost cause, just like his dad always said.
“I’m a dumbass,” Edward sneered, voice cracking around the edges and in the middle and all over. Something fragile he wished he’d kept to himself. A soft brush, warm flesh against his own for the first time in a long time, and Edward flinched back like a struck dog.
“Calm down, Pretty Boy,” she said, eyes going hard.
He stood still as she tucked the blunt between her lips and reached for his neck. Squinting through the smoke dancing between them, she pulled the ruined tattoo away from his throat piece by jagged piece.
Edward stared down at her, unable to look away as she wiped away any signs of the two-headed dragon. He used to watch the show on television when he was a kid. Back when a metal hanger from the closet shoved into the cable outlet was the best it ever got. He didn’t remember much about the show now, just that two little kids chanted a rhyme and were transported to a land of dragons and magic. Even back then, he’d wanted nothing more than to escape from the world he knew, and something about the soft, wondering expression she wore as she touched him said maybe she could relate.
“Want some help with the rest of those?” she asked.
Speechless, he nodded.
One by one, they peeled the paper backing away from each to inspect what had been left behind. She traced a bright yellow happy face with a rose in its mouth and nodded.
“Badass,” she said, voice bland, and Edward preened. “What job are you interviewing for anyway? You supposed to be the new cook? Want me to put in a good word for you?”
“Thanks, but I don’t think you can do much.” He’d been studying the sweep of her lashes, but his eyes danced away when she looked up at him. “This Dusty guy doesn’t sound like the type to put much stock in references.”
She froze, eyes going cold. “You’re trying to join the Legion?”
Edward frowned. “The Legion?”
The woman hesitated, then shook her head. “It’s a biker gang.” She glared. “You’re Initiating and you don’t even know what for?”
“It’s been a long day,” he said, defensive. His fingers twitched, the motion traveling to encompass his entire hand until his fingers were folding on empty air. Was he making a mistake? If he were smart, he’d take whatever cash was left in his underwear and lay low for a while. Hole up on his estate in Michigan for a few months. Andrew didn’t know anything about the property. He’d keep a low profile, work on perfecting MARCO’s code, and…and…
And what? Wait for life to go back to normal? What was normal anyway?
Edward had been laying low for the last fifteen years. Day in, day out, year after year after year. Sometimes, he lay in bed at night wondering if he were alive or dead. It was hard to find proof his heart was still beating. That he wasn’t wandering lost and alone through purgatory. No one spoke to him, no one touched him, and the little interaction he did have with the outside world was riddled with tension. Things had gotten worse ever since he’d developed MARCO. For the last several years, his every move had been subject to scrutiny.
His assistants and doctors, even his fucking cook and the guy who walked his turtle, were all looking at him. Waiting for him to slip up again. Waiting to carry back proof to Andrew that Edward was a walking basket case just as the rumors claimed. It forced him to be very aware of every move he made and every word he spoke. Every piece of him, down to the way he sat and ate his food, was contrived. Forced. Calculated. A desperate man’s desperate attempt to appear sane.
Normal.
His heart was racing, but he wasn’t sure why. Was he really afraid of going back home? Wasn’t home supposed to be the place you ran to, not from? And even if he did run, what would become of Briarcliff? It needed a Hero. It needed somebody who gave a shit. MARCO wasn’t much, but it was all the city had to help combat the encroaching darkness. A darkness threatening to swallow this city, and the innocent people in it, whole. He had to-
Fingers gripped his chin, forcing him back into himself, back to the here and now. He glanced down at the woman, and for some reason, it didn’t occur to him to resist as she pulled him close.
“Open your mouth, Cher,” she drawled, voice all honey and spiced cloves. She smelled of leather and vanilla, of amber and dark smoke.
He should have hesitated, but he didn’t. His lips parted, and eyes still on his, she took a drag of her joint. Held it. Then she pressed her lips against his and breathed into him, filling him with a heat that brought something violent and ravenous to roaring life from deep within his soul. Pulling back, she pressed a kiss against the side of his throat, right over the spot where his tattoo used to be. He could feel the imprint of her lipstick on his skin, and his face flushed red.
“There,” she whispered. “Much better than a dragon sticker, don’t you think?”
The smoke wrapped around his lungs, and he went lightheaded.
She grinned, stepping back as he began choking.
Smoke exploded from his nostrils and mouth. Edward crouched in the alley and dry heaved as the woman snubbed her blunt out against the brick wall.
“Good luck in there, Pretty Boy. You’re going to need it.”
Tears streamed from his eyes as he caught his breath. He wanted to call out to her, to ask for her name at least, but she strolled into the bar without a backward glance.
“Thanks,” he managed. But she was already gone, leaving him alone with his thoughts and a sneaking suspicion that she was someone there would be no coming back from.