Instinct Ascending: Rabids Book 2 (31 page)

Amiel

Joyce winced as the tattoo gun hit a particularly sensitive spot on her shoulder. When Amiel had unveiled her plan to get a tattoo, Joyce had insisted on getting one along with her. Amiel wondered if she was regretting that decision now. Her friend clearly wasn’t enjoying the process. 

“How exactly is gettin’ a tattoo supposed to win Harley over, Suga’? I don’t think gettin’ his name painted on ya at this point in your secret relationship would be a winnin’ choice.”

Amiel fought the urge to shake her head, trying to sit as still as possible while the man named “L” worked on her neck. 

“It’s not his name.”

“His face?” Joyce guessed sarcastically.

“Nope.” Amiel bit down as the tattoo needles scored through her skin like a burning brand. The ink seared into her skin with intense pain that put her on the edge of her seat. She gritted her teeth against the pain, let it wash over her as she reminded herself this was going to be a regular part of her life soon, so she’d better get used to it. This was her medal to wear, the mark of her commitment to the life she now led.

“So? Explain,” Joyce pressed. Amiel sighed.

“This tattoo means everything,” Amiel stated simply. 

“Okay, then. You’re showin’ you’re ready to be part of his life. Part of his life like weekend dates and pizza, or like ‘I wanna stay with ya despite the smell of your dirty socks litterin’ my side of the bed and the vomit-inducin’ lullaby farts every night’, part of his life?”

Amiel scrunched her nose. “Um… the last one… I think?”

“Trust me, honey, it happens. I go to sleep every night with my side of the bed smellin’ like road kill on a hot summer day.”

“Well… I guess I want that too, then. I mean… not the smell, but…” She sighed in frustration. “If that is what it means to have him around forever, then yes, I want his stink. I accept him, and everything that comes along with him. Completely. And this proves it.”

“Y’all know there’s this thing called ‘talkin’ nowadays, don’t ya? You could just tell him.”

“No, talking is for girls.”

“Which you are, soo….”

Amiel ignored her friend. “I need something stronger than that. I need a visual and strong, silent statement. Something that shows exactly where I stand with him, to
everyone
that sees me.”

“Maybe try puttin’ a ring on it,” Joyce mumbled.

“Rings can be taken off, taken to the nearest pawn shop and traded for something else. That’s not forever, it’s a fashion statement. This is forever.” Aside from the fact that she would have to get it done again every couple of weeks. She left that part unmentioned.

“That’s what I’m worried about.” Joyce winced as the needle hit a particularly sensitive spot. “What if he don’t feel the same, Suga? What if this particular brand of crazy ain’t his cup of tea?” The artist working on Joyce’s shoulder finished, cleaned up and put the protective oil and wrap over her new ink while she talked. Amiel watched the process, mind sludging through the mire of self-doubt stirred up by Joyce’s words.

“Well… then I guess I’m left with a cool new tattoo,” Amiel answered at last. Joyce stood from the chair and her eyes bulged when she finally saw what Amiel was having put on her skin.

“And a whole lot of crazy to deal with after!” Joyce gasped. “You’re joinin’ a gang? How in Hell’s bells is joinin’ a gang supposed to show your devotion to him?” She slapped the arm of the guy working on Amiel, glaring at him accusingly. “And you! How could you willin’ly put that on a young, confused girl! You ought to be ashamed of yourself!”

L looked at his arm, then shifted his scowl to encompass Joyce. Joyce sobered immediately, taking a step back.

“I bet your mama’s ashamed, anyhow,” she mumbled. Amiel couldn’t hold back the grin. She bet Harley and L got along just fine during his biweekly visits here. Amiel held up a small mirror in her hands, relishing in how realistic the wolf looked. It gave her an excited chill.

“It’s not a gang, Joyce,” Amiel calmly assured her friend. Joyce waved both hands in front of her face, fanning herself as she had a mini-meltdown.

“Oh, my stars and garters. This is what ya meant when ya said y’all were in the mafia, ain’t it? Heaven help us all, I’m best friends with a gangbanger.”

L shook his head in silent annoyance at Joyce’s carrying on. Finally he turned off the ink gun and began cleaning her skin. It was then that Amiel separated the tingling of the tags from the burning of the ink. Harley, or one of the others, was near.

Her eyes flew toward the door, and L grunted, pushing her chin back to straight forward so he could finish. The bell over the door rang as L slathered the ointment on. She shivered in anxiety and excitement, waiting for the man to move so she could see who was at the door. Based on the buzz in her body, she already knew.

L finally moved away, and Amiel’s eyes collided with Harley’s. Instant emotion flooded through the current, like it had been backed up the entire time they were apart. She felt his nervous excitement to see her; she felt his worry and competing joy at seeing she was well.

Then she felt his utter heartbreak when his eyes dropped to the ink on her neck, and it rocked her to the core. The grin on his face vanished, replaced with an expression she’d never seen on Harley’s face: fear. He gripped the door handle like it was the only thing that kept him upright. She’d broken his heart, and that wasn’t at all what she was going for.

“Harley…” His name broke on her lips. Joyce’s breath caught.

“Oh, my stars and garters…”

“Leave your stars and garters alone, Joyce,” Amiel murmured, pushing up on legs that were suddenly very wobbly. “Harley?”

“Oh, kid. What have ya done?” Harley shuffled toward her in a daze. His fingers lifted to touch the new ink, but jerked away, as though he’d been burned. “Your skin. Your beautiful, flawless skin. What have ya done?” he repeated, his voice gaining a deeper inflection of twisted emotion. When his eyes lifted to hers, the look they held was devastatingly soul-wrenching.

“It’s just a tattoo,” she whispered. The heartbreak in his eyes instantly shifted into anger, a change so instantaneous Amiel stepped back, breath catching.

“
That
ain’t just a tattoo! Don’t ya understand what you’ve done?”

“Why don’t you tell me, Harley, since you seem to know so much!” she snapped back defensively, feeling an uncomfortable mixture of frustration, guilt, and sorrow.

“Oh, I do, since I have to live it every damned day! The way people will treat ya, look at ya now… you ain’t got no idea the cruelty you’re gonna face now, the rejection. I’ve tried to shelter ya from it, but apparently that was a dumb idea.” He ran both hands through his hair.

“Damn it, kid, don’t ya realize that Foundation’s got ya listed on their books, now? Y’all might as well have signed a contract with the devil, handin’ over your soul. Honestly, what were you thinkin’? What crazy idea was bouncin’ ’round in that head of yours, to make ya think this was a good idea?” He pointed at L. “We gotta scrub her name from the list. You owe me that favor, and I’m cashin’ it in now. Her record scrubbed, and your silence: then we’re even.”

L’s eyes narrowed in curious suspicion. “Why? She said she was one of you.”

“Not yet she ain’t, and she never will be, if I have my way,” Harley growled, walking toward the computer that L had entered her data on. Amiel bit her lip, tears pricking hot little embers in her eyes. Harley had always been a gentleman to her, rarely spoken a harsh word to her before. And the way he was looking at her… like she was some stranger on the streets that he didn’t know at all? It tore her apart inside.

“So, you are allowed to make the decision to join up at fifteen years old, but I don’t get to make that decision at eighteen?” she challenged.

“Not about this, ya don’t! I had to join to protect my brother, and now there’s no leavin’ for me. But you still got a chance at livin’. Takin’ ya patrollin’ is one thing. Lettin’ ya move into the devil’s den is a whole ’nother matter. Ya don’t know what you’re gettin’ yourself into, and I can’t let ya do it.” He ran a hand through his hair, then pointed a thick finger in her direction.

“But you’re right about one thing — you’re genetically similar to us. Which means your skin heals at a heightened rate.” His eyes lit up with the revelation. “So… maybe two weeks, three tops, and that curse’ll be completely pushed from your skin. So all we gotta do is keep it hidden till then.”

“What? Are you kidding me?”

He shot a dark glance her way, but wouldn’t meet her eyes no matter how hard she tried. He didn’t want her in their shared current.

Maybe it was because she had finally had the courage to do a rebellion that had been in her heart since she was a child, but it wasn’t what she had thought it would be. Maybe it was because, after all of that pain, it was a letdown knowing it was going to be for nothing. But somehow she knew it went deeper than that. This tattoo had been more than a rebellious statement. It had been a silent effort to brand herself in a way that meant she belonged in something bigger… with someone ultimately important to her. Someone who was now more than eager to get rid of that visible link. Whatever the reasons, she felt herself shutting down. She blinked.

“So what are you going to do until then, lock me in a cage?”

He paused, eyes distant. It didn’t take a Hybrid sense or connection to know he was clearly mulling over that idea.

“Is it truly so bad that I want to be a part of your life?” she whispered, putting her heart into the words, hoping he’d understand where she was coming from, what she hoped for with him.

“You don’t belong there!” He might as well have wrenched open her chest and stomped on her heart. She jerked back with the nearly tangible force of his words, tears brimming in her gaze. Catching scent of the pained shift in her hormones, he turned toward her. When he saw the broken expression on her face, his gaze softened slightly.

“Kid, I meant ya don’t belong in Foundation. It ain’t just a tattoo. It’s a life sentence. Maybe the tattoo will fade, but if I can’t clear up this mess, if I can’t get your name scrubbed from the system, you will have ruined yourself. Your life will be over.”

Her chin lifted, defiance in her watery gaze. “That’s right.
My
life. And you don’t get a say in it anymore. I release you from babysitting duty,” she replied coolly. Now it was his turn to look as though she’d slapped him. His jaw clenched, back straightening.

“We’ll talk about that when I straighten out this mess,” he replied stiffly, turning back to the computer. Amiel’s heart rebelled, screaming at her to run to him, to beg her friend to forgive the harsh words they’d just exchanged. But her fury and her pride had her retreating. Silently grabbing Joyce’s hand, Amiel backed out of the room, only turning and running when the bell over the door rang behind them. They slipped into the taxi, and Amiel quickly told the cabbie to drive.

“Well… that explains the tattoo connection,” Joyce said quietly. Tears eked out of Amiel’s eyes, the tags telling her Harley had run after them out the door, but wasn’t following any further. “So… he’s one of them?” Joyce pressed the topic, hesitant and gentle.

“Yeah. And so am I. Kind of.”

“Wow.”             

“Yeah.” Amiel sighed, rubbing both hands over her face as more tears came. “Ughh, I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t fit in with them. I don’t fit in anywhere. I’m just a freak of nature.”

“Don’t say that, darlin’. If y’all wanted so badly to be part of it, they can’t be all that bad. Maybe I’ll make a big potluck and invite the whole brood over. Heck, maybe I’ll join up with ya. Then we can both be outsiders,” Joyce offered, her tone making it clear she was actually trying to consider the ridiculous notion. Amiel laughed softly, leaning against Joyce and hugging her tightly.

“You’re kind of wonderful, you know that?”

“Well, I don’t like to brag or nothin’.” The statement was so similar to something Harley would say, Amiel’s heart clenched painfully.

“But please never join, Joyce. It’s not what it’s cracked up to be.”

“Well, their welcoming committee sure lacks finesse.” She sighed dreamily. “It’s awful easy on the eyes, though. I can see what’s got ya so hung up on him now. Mmm mm mm. Mama wants a ride on that crazy train.”

Amiel couldn’t fight the crazed sort of giggle that rose within. Joyce had a way of helping her smile at life, no matter what it threw her way. And in that moment, she wanted to make her friend happy. Tonight had been all about Amiel and her own brand of crazy train. Now it was time to do something fun for Joyce.

“What do you say, Joyce — still want to do something normal like a club?”

Joyce’s shocked face suddenly lit up. “Do I ever! It’s been ages since my man took me dancin’! We used to love goin’ clubbin’. They’ve got a bit of a reputation now, but I’m sure they ain’t changed that much since we used to go.” She glanced over Amiel’s outfit. “But first, we gotta get y'all somethin’ to wear.” Her eyes drifted to her neck. “And a scarf. Definitely a scarf.”

Amiel

Upon reaching the store, Joyce quickly maneuvered them about the building, snatching out several pieces of clothing, and had Amiel try them all on. Amiel, however, refused to even leave the changing room with most of them on. She finally emerged, wearing the last outfit: a too-short, denim miniskirt, a glittery black tank top, and four-inch, matching glittery black heels.

“Perfect!” Joyce grinned. “Pair it with your jacket and it’ll be just perfect. A little leather, a little denim, a little out of your comfort zone.”

Amiel shook her head, cheeks flushing even standing in the doorway of the changing room in the clothes. “I can’t go anywhere in this outfit, Joyce!”

“It’s not like you’re gonna be sittin’ on the back of a motorcycle anytime soon, right? Or doin’ the splits?”

“No, but I’m pretty sure if I bend over, I’ll be showing the world my SpongeBob undies.”

“You’re wearin’ SpongeBob undies?” Joyce asked in confusion. She quickly waved that off. “We’ll deal with that another day. For now, just don’t bend over. Simple.”

Amiel bit her lip, self-consciously doing the fingertip test employed back in her school days. The skirt was about an inch shorter than her fingertips.

“You’ve got long legs. It ain’t that bad,” Joyce assured her, wrapping a long, silky scarf around her throat and tying it off so that it artistically hid the tattoo. “Besides, I already bought it, so ya can’t say no. No way in hells bells my butt’s gonna fit in that skirt, so you’re stuck with it.”

Amiel sighed in self-defeat, pulling her jacket back on and sadly putting her boots and jeans inside the store bag. She missed them already.

She wobbled slightly in the heels, no longer used to wearing them on a nearly daily basis as she had in her mother’s life. But within the time it took them to exit the large clothing department, she found she was growing accustomed to them once more.  It was kind of like riding a bike, she supposed. She gasped slightly as a chilled breeze swept across her very exposed legs.

“Gosh. It’s chilly in skirts.” Amiel had never been big on skirts. She’d always thought they were cute, but just hadn’t been comfortable in them herself. She’d been forced to wear skirts often enough by Malinda, but they were always knee length. Joyce hadn’t been joking when she said it was out of her comfort zone. A man suddenly walked by, whistling in appreciation.

“Lookin’ good, hot legs.”

The guy was shady, to say the least, but the compliment still gave Amiel a boost of confidence. There was no denying the way he had been looking at her legs, and it felt good to know she was noticed. She felt an odd conflict inside. One part of her was more than happy to hide hunkered down inside herself, comfortable with anonymity. The other part of her hated that hermit lifestyle, hated the idea that her entire life might pass her by and she’d die without so much as a blip on the radar. She was tired of hiding. Joyce noticed her bright grin.

“Uh huh, see that? Confidence is a good feelin’, ain’t it?”

Amiel blushed, but grinned brighter. “Maybe. Not telling you,” she teased.

They wobbled into the taxi, and Joyce directed the driver to what she said was rumored to be the hottest club in the city. As Amiel stood outside the doors of the club in the line, the restless energy from the last few days returned. It pulsed within her to the beat of music, leaving her so wound up she bounced up and down on the already too-high heels. Joyce threaded her arm through Amiel’s, but soon relinquished the grip when Amiel’s bouncing jarred her too much.

“You’re more wound up than a hairball in the sink drain, Hun.”

Amiel grinned. “I’m just excited, I guess.”

Joyce eyed her uncertainly, but the line moved forward before she had a chance to speak. The music pounded, giving Amiel an instant headache, but she reveled in it. It was a good distraction from having to think. The huge crowd jostled them left and right, and they quickly linked arms again to keep from being separated as they held on for the ride through the wave of people. Eventually the wave spit them out at the bar.

“It’s a little different than what I remember,” Joyce mumbled, gnawing on her lip. Her worried expression said it was actually a LOT different than what she remembered. “Maybe we should go. I hate to waste that money for the ticket to get in, though. It’s nonrefundable.”

Two scantily clad women with fake cat ears jostled into them, bumping them into the bar. Then they turned and hissed, giving Joyce and Amiel an eyeful of their surgically modified facial features and scary, all-white contacts. They looked like demonic tigers in hooker boots.

“Um… yeah. Okay,” Amiel agreed quietly. “But to justify the ticket, let’s at least sit for a while and get a drink. Maybe the place will grow on us?”

Joyce nodded, though her lower lip pouted out in clear disappointment. “Clubbing used to be so fun, too.”

A guy with crazy, spiky hair and an inhumanly long, black tongue chose that moment to jump in their faces and shake that long tongue back and forth like some kind of psychotic lizard. With a final groin thrust in their direction, he spun and bounded away into the crowd again, loincloth flapping about so wildly they got a very unappealing view before he disappeared. They stared after him in silence for a long moment, both clearly unsure if they had really just witnessed that.

“Let’s make that a
quick
drink,” Amiel muttered, to which Joyce quickly agreed. They squeezed into the bar seats, managing to find two empty stools right next to each other. They each ordered a water, both clearly just wanting to leave yet too stubborn to do so right away. The air was hot and sticky, and the scarf around her neck was stifling. Amiel rubbed at the tattoo underneath it, tugging this way and that on the fabric. Nothing seemed to help. She quickly smoothed the fabric out when she caught the man next to her watching her from the corner of his eye.

A scream behind them drew their attention, as someone decided to crowd surf from the second level of the building. Obviously, that didn’t go well. Amiel watched as bouncers quickly moved in to drag away the moaning body of that somebody, who was dressed only in what appeared to be an adult diaper.

“For crap’s sake, ain’t nobody ’round here normal?” Joyce muttered. Amiel’s eyes searched the room as she chugged her water, before pointing out two twins dressed in t-shirts and jeans in the corner.

“Those guys look normal enough,” Amiel shouted over the pulsing beat. The men turned in their direction, revealing that they’d stitched their faces to one another using big, metal rings in their cheeks, noses and ears. Joyce gasped, pressing a hand to her chest.

“Well… I guess at least they’re close siblings… family bonds are important,” Amiel offered lamely. Suddenly the room tilted around her, and she grabbed the bar for support. The air filled with bright lights, and the music toned down to a steady thrumming beat that didn’t destroy her ears so much. Amiel shook her head, refocusing on Joyce, whose mouth was moving.

“What?” Amiel shouted. Joyce looked at her funny, but quickly repeated herself. Amiel zoned her out again, her body swaying to the beat. That inner restlessness was rising to the surface again, swaying along with her, encouraging her to move to the music. Joyce grabbed her arm, shaking it slightly. Amiel shook her off.

“I’m gonna go… cucumber…” Amiel giggled. “I like that word. Cuuuucumber.” Before she even realized she’d moved, Amiel was in the middle of the dance floor, moving to the beat. Bodies gyrated around her, moved with her, against her. She lost herself in the swirling lights, the heat of the air making her skin sticky.

“Amiel?” Joyce was at her side, tugging on her elbow until Amiel finally looked her way. “Wow, your eyes are
real
dilated! I think we need to get y’all home, Suga.” She held up Amiel’s jacket, encouraging her to put it back on. Amiel didn’t even remember having taken it off.

“No, not yet! I’m cucumbering!” Amiel pouted, pulling away to sway again.

“Merciful heavens,” Joyce muttered, eyes wide as her gaze focused on something over Amiel’s shoulder. Amiel turned to see Harley storming toward them, looking like he’d just stepped fresh from Hell’s depths, its fires still raging in his eyes. “Oh, he looks fit to be tied, girl!” Joyce cleared her throat as Harley neared, shoving people out of his way as he went. Joyce put on a wobbly grin.

“Hey there, big guy. Listen, maybe we need to just take a breather and…” She gulped as the full torrential force of his brooding gaze shifted to rest on her. “Riiight. We’re just gonna pretend I had nothin’ to do with this one. I’m gonna go over there and hide now.” Joyce retreated into the crowd with a silent, sympathetic apology on her lips for the friend she was abandoning. Harley called after her.

“Don’t wander off. Meet us by the stairs.”

Joyce’s eyes widened at his bossy tone, nodding in a sort of daze as she moved to do as he said. When he turned his back, Joyce shook out her hand, acting oddly like she’d been burned, her face doing a weird, puckered expression. Amiel’s eyes narrowed in thought, before she grinned brightly.

“Oh! I get it! He’s hot!” Harley quickly turned around, catching Joyce by surprise. She blushed before swiftly apologizing and scurrying off to the stairs.

“What the hell are y’all doin’ here, kid?” Harley growled at Amiel, his accent markedly pronounced under the gruff tone. The music drowned out the husky growl for those dancing around them, but Amiel could feel it reverberate to the marrow of her bones. She forced the internal shiver aside and glared.

“None of
your
business.”

“Amiel.” His growl turned menacing as he took a step closer. Though he still stood several feet away, she could practically feel the dominating heat of dark Hybrid power radiating from him. Her own Hybrid side shivered in excitement, and Amiel silently cursed it for its traitorous response.

“I’m having fun. Something you clearly don’t understand the need for,” she retorted.

“Fun? This ain’t fun, kid, this is
suicide
. Places like this ain’t safe — especially now.” His eyes fell on her neck, and her temper rose to meet the temperature of the flushed skin beneath his gaze.

“Why do you care? In fact, why are you even here? Don’t you remember? I fired you from stalker duty. You don’t get a say in my life anymore.”

His jaw clenched, nose suddenly lifting in the air. “What’s that smell? You been drinkin’?”

“Go home, Harley. I came here to cucumber, and that’s what I’m going to do.” Her belly did a strange flop as his glacial eyes ignited.

“Ya wanna dance, Thumbelina? Fine!” He stalked toward her, swiftly closing the distance with dark intent clear in those Hybrid eyes. She gasped as he grabbed her arm with one hand, spinning her to face the opposite direction. His other hand rested low on her belly, pressing her roughly back until her spine was nestled firmly against his chest. This time Amiel joined her Hybrid when it shivered, knees going weak as Harley’s lips pressed to her ear.

“So dance,” he commanded quietly.

As though on command, the music turned to a deep thrumming rhythm, dark and dangerous in the undercurrents it sent through the connection of their bodies. Sizzling jolts of an alien, electric need shot through her skin as their sensuously close press revealed the way each of his muscles bunched and flexed with every sway and dip.

“He dances,” Amiel challenged, still feeling fiery despite the breathlessness that fought for center stage.

“Never said I couldn’t.”

Her lips parted as his fingers flexed against the sensitive flesh of her stomach; somehow, whether from the dancing or by design, two of his fingers had found their way just beneath the hem of her shirt, caressing her hormones into a frenzy. Blinking, Amiel tried to force her way through the fuzzied haze of her mind, but the lines between anger and desire were so blurred she couldn’t find her way back to the right side. Which side was the
right
side, again?

She couldn’t remember, or care to try, as his free hand slowly slid up her arm. His touch was so light, so blatantly in contrast to the claiming grip of the other hand holding her to him, that the sensations played off one another like sizzling fireworks. The hand continued its journey, trailing goose bumps in its wake until it finally slipped into her hair. His grip was gentle, but held an unspoken claim of dominance. The Hybrid within her ate it up.

Her head fell back against his shoulder when his nose pressed ever so lightly behind her ear, his breath drawing in heavily to drink of her scent.

“You’re killin’ me, kid,” he groaned, and the heat against her back suddenly disappeared. Before she had a chance to miss it, she was spun and unceremoniously flopped over his shoulder. The mixture of the spinning, upside down world and pressure on her stomach had her fighting valiantly for control of its contents, rather than protesting her current situation. That situation became dire as he trotted up the stairs, taking them two at a time and jostling her with each leap.

When the sound of metal slamming open and the cool breeze shifting across the backs of her thighs signaled they had exited the club, she felt a momentary surge of relief. Until the cool breeze reminded her that the skirt Joyce had picked out for her tonight was far too short to be flung over someone’s shoulder modestly.