Overlord: The Fringe, Book 2 (9 page)

Michael moved a jumble of random garbage off the passenger seat and showed Mary how to strap on the restraints. He couldn’t help but notice a shift in her scent when he touched her. He grinned, pleased to discover that minuscule brushes of his fingertips elicited her citrus floral desire.

Once settled, she set the fuzzy green dice swinging. “What’s this for?”

“From Earth. Traditional decoration for motorized transport.” The oversize dice hung from the center light of the cramped shuttle.

“Were they all gamblers or something?”

“I believe it’s whimsical, not representational.” Frankly, Michael didn’t know. Customs from ancient Earth were things Duster was into, not him. His shuttle didn’t have anything dangling from the center light.

She looked around at the battered interior of the tiny craft and he followed her gaze. Wadded-up paper cups littered the floor along with the scattered remains of crackleseeds. Fingerprints and smears covered the dusty windows. A subtle scent of dirt and stale sweat emanated from the cloth seats and ratty carpet. All of it indicated this was a well lived-in space.

“I haven’t cleaned it in a while.” He flashed her an embarrassed grimace.

“You mean you haven’t ordered—I mean, I like it.” She set the dice swinging again.

He realized she struggled to curb her nasty tongue, but she did for their truce. “I like it too.” He offered her a tentative smile that she echoed.

As he took off from base command, she leaned back and looked out the window to her right. “’Sides, Duster likes the crackleseeds, not you.”

“Explain yourself.”

“You have perfect teeth.” She kept her gaze on the barren desert that raced below them. “Duster has a notch in his incisor, right where he pops the pod apart.”

Impressed by her powers of observation, he began to regret taking her out of House at all. What else had her sharp eyes noticed?

She nudged the dice. They twirled together, then swung around in a lazy circle. “Why does that I noticed surprise you?”

“Because I didn’t think you would notice.”

“Why?”

“Whoever dubbed you Remarkably Average Mary needs to have his head examined.” He glanced across at her in time to watch delicate pink wash her cheeks. She seemed unaccustomed to compliments, and he had a burning desire to give her about a hundred more.

“Most folks outside of Pine Glenn only call me that once. If they live, they don’t make the same mistake twice.”

He took a deep breath, trying to read her scent.

“Why do you do that?” She scowled. “Sniff like that, I mean. You’re not a Push addict, are you?”

“No.” He almost laughed at the idea his unique ability made her think he sniffed the stimulant Push. Better her to think that than to know the truth.

He landed
Scuttlebutt
next to the plant where the books were printed, bound, battered and then exported. He showed her around, using the catwalks above the pounding, clanking machines.

“That’s where they come out.” He pointed. He yelled so she could hear him over the cacophony.

“They look new.”

“Right. Markus there is going to start feeding them into the batterer.”

“The what?” She stuck her fingers in her ears and pulled them out again.

“The machine I invented to batter the covers.” He raised his voice even higher.

“Why?”

He led her away from the main floor to the much quieter offices in the back before he answered. “Because they sell better.” After he closed the door, he sat on the edge of a cluttered desk.

“I don’t get it.” She looked out the window, seemingly disappointed to find nothing but miles of desolate high desert. “Why would someone want a book that looked like it’d been through a war zone?”

“Cachet.” He shrugged. “Battered paperbacks have a feel of contraband, feel like they have a history. Fringe folk seem to like the idea that the books have passed through many hands. Used books sell three times better than new ones. Twenty times better than electronic ones.”

Over her shoulder, she smiled and arched her brow. “You’re not a bandit, you’re a book smuggler.”

“Surprised?” He wanted her to be impressed and intrigued. From his reports, he knew she loved books as much as he did, and finding common ground between them would be the first step in seducing her.

“Well, yeah. I just figured you’d be into something a little more dangerous, like weapons, or maybe drugs.” She scowled at the floor. “You sure do seem to sniff a lot.”

“I assure you, I’m not on drugs, nor do I sell them. Contrary to what you think, books are far more dangerous to deal in than weapons or drugs.”

“I don’t see how. I know books are illegal and the IWOG—”

“Do you know what they do if they catch a book smuggler?”

She frowned and shook her head. “No.”

“They pile up the books, toss the bound smuggler on top and set the pile ablaze.”

Velvet-brown eyes went round. “While he’s still alive?”

He nodded. “A horrible way to die, I imagine.”

“Yeah-huh. Well, I can’t think of a good way to die.” She looked out the window. “Death sucks all the way around.”

“Indeed.”

When he stood, she took a wary step back from the window and closer to the door. He tried to look smaller by leaning against the wall, but Mary wasn’t having it and took another sidestep to the exit.

“On the flipside, if the IWOG catches a drug smuggler, they take the drugs for their own use and incarcerate the smuggler in pay prison. All things considered, it’s far safer to deal drugs than books.”

“Then why do you deal in books?”

“I like danger.” He flashed her a wicked smile, which she echoed.

“It’s more than that.”

“I like tweaking the IWOG. I also enjoy providing a cheap pleasure to the Fringe folk. Funny that books are considered more dangerous than drugs to the IWOG. I guess it’s because drugs generally keep the teeming masses complacent, but books have the power to educate and even incite.”

“You don’t just sell pleasure books?” She attempted to flip open one of the books on the cluttered desk.

He pressed the book closed. If she read the publishing information, his deception would be over. “I produce and sell all kinds. Contrary to what you might think of me, I know what it’s like out there. If what I do brings even a few moments of escape to Fringe life, I’m happy to do it.”

“I’ll bet the script doesn’t hurt either.” She softened her tone. “I mean I’m sure it’s profitable as well as pleasurable.”

“Win-win.” His wrist com let out three short beeps.
Not now.
He turned away from her. “Yes?”

“It’s that Jones business again.” Duster sounded frustrated. “Can you meet me over at R and D?”

“Give me half an hour.”

“Sooner would be better, Mi—”

“I’m at the printers and need to get Mary back to base.” He opened the door and stalked toward the production area, hoping he’d cut Duster off before Mary heard his slip.

“Yes, Commander.” Duster’s voice dripped with snide annoyance.

Mary looked at his wrist com. “Jones business?”

“It’s nothing for you to worry about.” Michael wished he didn’t have to worry about it, either. Jones, his newest scientist in research and development, had turned out to be a major pain in the ass. Smart as three Einsteins, Jones also postured as fussy as a ship full of divas.

Pounding and clanking prevented any further conversation as Mary followed him back into the shuttle. He watched with amusement as she set the fuzzy green dice swinging again.

“You do a lot more than smuggle books, don’t you?”

“I am a man of many interests.”

“A man whose name starts with my.”

“What?” He tried to pitch his voice to a distracted air as he flew back to base command.

“Nice try, but I’m not deaf. I heard Duster say ‘my’ before you cut him off. Your name starts with M-I or M-Y, maybe M-A or M-E.” Humming, she touched her tongue to the corner of her grin. “Is your name something really horrible, like Maurice? Myron? Oh, I know, it’s Marion, isn’t it?” She practically jumped up and down in her seat. “That’s why you don’t want to tell me your name. You have a girl’s name!” Her eyes sparkled with genuine delight and a strange, playful malice. She exuded a scent reminiscent of whisky and bubblegum.

“And you wonder
why
I won’t tell you?” His glare settled her. “Besides, I thought we had a truce. No more teasing.”

“I wouldn’t tease you if your name was Marion.” She appraised him from head to toe. “Is it?”

“Yes, you would, and no, it isn’t. Not even close.”

She played with the dice as she hummed. “Your name does start with M though, doesn’t it?”

Michael vowed to fire Harper, the operative who filed the report that said Mary had average intelligence.
I’ll fire him after I put him in a locked room with her for an hour.

“Maybe it’s Mary, like yours.”

“A man named Mary?” She laughed with a delightful, skipping sound. “Sounds like a song lyric, but I vote no. You don’t look much like a Mary.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should—Martin.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. It didn’t take her long to find a new way to annoy him. He had to nip this game in the bud. “My name isn’t Martin. Call me—”

“Ishmael,” she tossed off with a challenging grin.

Smart and quick.
“I’m not a book by Herman Melville. Although you referring to me as Moby Dick could be rather compelling, I think it best if you call me—”

“Commander.” She stuck her tongue out. “I know. ’Sides, even if I guessed right, you wouldn’t admit the truth anyway. You couldn’t bear to give up one iota of your power.”

Her snide comment hurt, and he wished they weren’t trapped in the roles of captor and captive. Softly he reminded, “A truce isn’t any good if you repeatedly violate the terms.”

“Okay, okay.” She sighed. “Christ, you’re touchy. You don’t play much, do you?”

“Depends what you mean by play.” He winked.

“
Now
who’s violating the truce?” she shot back, all false indignation, then laughed. “Are we a pair or what?” She set the dice swinging again.

He couldn’t help but laugh. She nailed the truth dead-on. He didn’t play much. Five years of fighting off the IWOG made him a rather sour, dour bore who drank more than he laughed.

“I guess we’re going to have to get used to this. You not being a smart-ass, and me not being an irrepressible flirt.”

“Difficult to curb one’s nature, isn’t it?”

“Indeed.”

He landed the shuttle and ushered her back into the center of his fortified base. Surrounded by House, Mary had access to her bedroom and the main portion of the inner sanctum.

“I’m sorry our outing was cut short.” He wanted to touch her but couldn’t find one acceptable reason to.

“Well, running a huge smuggling empire demands a lot of time, I imagine.” She shook her head. “I mean I understand that you have work to do.”

He realized how hard she struggled to be civil. Nasty comments popped unbidden from her mouth, but she softened them in the next breath. He imagined it would take a while for her to act with any semblance of manners.

“Make yourself at home. If you need anything, ask House.”

“What if I need my freedom?” She switched gears so fast her words damn near caused his head to spin. The playful gleam in her eyes vanished, in its place, a focused demand.

“Give me what I need, and I’ll give you what you need.” He dipped his head, lowering his face close to hers. Her scent shifted to that floral citrus of desire. She closed her eyes in anticipation. He didn’t move. He wanted her to complete the kiss. He needed her to finalize the promise he offered.

Fear, base as turned earth, drew her head away.

Damn.

“I think my needs are easier to meet than yours.” She stepped back, right into the wall. She straightened and offered him a brave-front smile with a determined lift of her chin that only clarified the smell of her terror.

“I would never steal from you, Mary.” The dark compost of her fear forced him to lean back.

“That’s good.” She swallowed hard. “I won’t steal from you, either. I mean, not anymore. I mean I won’t swipe anything.” Her gaze dropped to his pants. “I wouldn’t ever make you do something—” She bit her lip to stop babbling.

“There are many things I could force you to do. My mind swirls with potential.” With a step forward, he lifted her chin and lowered his lips close to hers. “But I would much rather taste your surrender.”

He turned and walked off without a backward glance.

Chapter Nine

Commander wanted her surrender. He swore he wouldn’t force her, and Mary knew he didn’t have to. If she stayed, she knew she’d eventually submit to him. When he placed his mouth so close to hers, she kept waiting for him to complete the motion and kiss her. She wanted him to, so she could taste his mouth.

She touched her lips, lost in a recurrent fantasy that involved Overlord pressing a passionate kiss to her before he rushed off to fight the IWOG. But now, Overlord didn’t have a shadowed face. His face looked like Commander’s. She swore she could also smell that maddening scent of his pine and citrus zest emanating from the Overlord in her mind.

“Christ!” She pulled her hand away from her mouth, vowing not to make Commander the star of her Overlord dreams.

Even more determined to escape, she searched the rest of the rooms she had access to, twice, and found a big load of nothing useful, except for more plastimirror. Not sure how she could use the malleable substance, she nonetheless hid stashes throughout House.

Looking out the windows proved equally pointless. The solarium looked into the big birdcage filled with so much foliage she couldn’t see beyond the steamy glass. The bank of windows in the grand ballroom had a thick wall of trees blocking the view of what she could only imagine was high desert after her ride in the shuttle. Her bedroom windows were of smart glass, energized and opaque.

She was certain that if she tried to break the windows, alarms would go off, or worse, set off her bracelet. She considered fiddling with the plastimetal bracelet but didn’t want a dose of Baka for her efforts.