Page 11 of Skyn
But I didn’t dream of that. Not really.
I only dreamed of matching Josh. Of reaching his level, so that he wouldn’t be ashamed of me. I clawed and scraped and bled to earn a place in his world, not because I wanted it, but because I thought it would make him wantme. I learned the entire structure of the IS, bent my mind around its architecture, broke my back over it—and for what?
To be discarded at the last second?
To be deemed unworthy of a man who had never, not once, truly seen me?
The realization came like a slap.
I spent years thinking I was fighting for my place in the world, but I was fighting only for Josh’s regard.
I comm the shopkeeper that very moment.
“I’m in.”
Chapter5
Don’t Be funny. Don’t Be smart
Three hours later, I’m sitting on a barstool made of old bicycle parts, spinning myself dizzy while three other women chug the free potato alcohol. I have three layers of clothing on and two scarves, hoping the layers will hide the brilliant diamond in my collar. They keep asking the bartender if the drinks are really free, right before he hands them another one, no matter how many times he assures them that yes, it’s free.
The walls are made of rough-cut stone, and one of the women carves her initials into the grime that’s built up over God knows how many years. The low ceiling is crisscrossed with exposed pipes that hiss and drip ominously in the shadows. We’ve been here for an hour, and everyone’s losing patience. The faint hum of machines vibrates through the walls, and the sticky floor gives our footsteps cartoonish sound effects.
A woman teeters toward me with a shot glass the size of her fist. She’s homely in a comforting way, with a large nose and large eyes that make you think she could keep your secrets. I decide I like her, if for no other reason than the huge nose like a cross-legged god that seems to sit on her face.
“Shot!” They all clap and scream, “Shot! Shot! Shot!” pointing to me and jumping. They’re all dolled up in their best, with bright metallic lip stain, tiny skirts with lights and buttons, and feathered eyelashes. But didn’t the shopkeeper tell me to come as I am?
Am I being tricked?
The shopkeeper told menotto have any liquor and to wait for the back doors to open. But he didn’t say anything about the free fried onions. So, I take a fat bite of the ball of batter and shake my head at the women. “Sorry, ladies. Allergic.”
They boo me, laughing, and I laugh a little too. Damn, I could use a shot right now. But the door creaks open, and all eyes in the room swivel to a tall, dark figure stepping through the threshold. He’s dressed in a long black coat that brushes the floor, and his mirrored sunglasses gleam unnaturally in the dimness, though there’s no sunlight in the mines that would require such a ridiculous accessory. His presence sucks the air right out of the room. The door clicks shut behind him.
It’s time.
The girls—who were slumped over tables, laughing—suddenly straighten, but their eyes are unfocused, and they move clumsily. The man takes his time, walking the length of the room with slow steps; the sound of his boots sticking to the floor is less comical, more ominous.
He stops in front of the first girl, the one with glitter lips and an unfortunate underbite.
“I’m going to ask you three questions,” he says, tilting his head slightly.
The girl nods weakly, trying to focus on him.
“What is your allegiance to the Iku family?”
The woman puts her hands to her mouth like she’s holding in a laugh, and I realize with horror that sheis laughing. “Fine until lunchtime!” she slurs, waving her hand dismissively.
Two other girls cough to hide their laughter.
The man’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s a subtle tightening around his mouth. That must have been enough because the girl’s laughter dies in her throat. She’s roughly grabbed by one of the silent figures with chrome masks on and dragged toward the door.
This sobers everybody up fast.
He moves on to the next girl, his shadow falling over her like an eclipse. “What’s your skill set?”
The girl hesitates, clearly scrambling for the right answer. “I—I bake,” she stammers.
“What do you bake?”
