Page 3 of Fever

The Hordesman named after Pestilence is sitting on the fence, one palm on his chest, the other on his knee. He’s drumming his palms off his hard armor. My neighbors are on the street, the more conservative ones bobbing heads, and the less conservative ones outright dancing.

I cross my arms over my chest.

Fever smiles. “Did your pussy quiver?” He winks.

I roll my eyes. He’s insufferable. “Get off my driveway, or I’ll run you over on my way to work.”

“You’ll crash against me because I’m sitting on the fence.” He hops off the fence and spreads his arms, then slides a palm down his abdominals. “Come at me, girl.”

Cue wolf whistles. Heat crawls up my cheeks, but at least he’s stopped drumming and singing. “I’m not going out with you, Hordesman.”

“Fever,” he corrects.

“Your name is Sotay.”

He turns to the audience. “Did you hear? She knows my name.” Cue drumming. “My name is Feverrr. I make the pussy quiver.”

I make my way to the bathroom. As I shower, I notice the soreness of my breasts and vagina. Ignoring the fantasy of how Fever could bend me every which way and in ways I can’t imagine, I dress and get my briefcase, then exit the house into the garage. The garage air presses on me. It’s stuffy in here. San Diego in October is pleasant, unless we have a late heat wave and the humidity rises so that the moment you step outside the house, your hair frizzes and you start sweating. I wipe the sweat of my brow and get on the moped I like to call my bike, then put on my helmet, under which I’m sure my hair will suffer even more. I can’t complain about the hair, though. Any day with hair is a good day. Latisha told me that, and I’ll never forget it.

Since there’s power this morning, the garage sensors open the door for me. And there it rests. A hound. He is lounging right in the middle of the driveway. The hound’s sharp hackles lower, and he groans as he slowly gets up, stretching the way a cat might, then walks down the driveway and onto the street, lifting his head, working that big sensitive nose, I presume. The hound has lived at my house for a week now. I’m unsure how long I’ll warrant this kind of free security, but I’ll take it.

The hound moves away, and I follow on my bike, nearly bumping into him when he stops abruptly. What now? Fever approaches with a paper bag, which the hound is quick to snatch. Right on the sidewalk, the hound settles down on his belly and rips into the bag. The thick beef bone crunches in his powerful jaws, and the hound purrs as he consumes his meal. “Great,” I mutter. “We’re feeding it on the street now.”

Fever steps in front of me.

He leans his powerful arms on the handlebars. Black eyes, full lips, strong jaw, high cheekbones. Is he wearing cologne? He smells like sex and a cinnamon stick. Abigstick.

“Why you gotta be so…?” I search for the right word. Sexy? “Annoying?”

He laughs. The Hordesmen purr when they laugh, and I’m definitely annoyed when my nipples perk.

“Where’s work taking you today?” he asks.

“I’m not telling you.”

“Stay away from the beach.” He taps the horn.

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

Sighing, I proceed down the street, ignoring Mr. Konse’s decomposing body still strapped to the pole. You’d think people would protest the Alphas’ barbaric ways, but most celebrated Mr. Konse’s death and some even went on manhunts of their own. They hunted the Betaren project people, the people involved in the development and distribution of Betaren, a pill that reduces the Omega scent thereby allowing Omegas to hide from the Collectors, and Alphas in general. The moment Fever strapped up Mr. Konse, we got full tech in our block of district seven. Nobody complains about the body even though Silence has been imposed again since the prince’s return. We have tech this morning, so he might’ve cut us some slack and decided to give us at least a few hours a day.

I exit my district and enter the busy street leading onto the highway, but hit a traffic jam as per usual. What’s not usual is that my moped backfires, nearly giving me a heart attack. Under the helmet, I scream and swerve a bit, righting the wheel just before hitting a car. The driver honks, and I jump, nearly fall off my seat. A bit late, I raise my hand, signaling a right turn, then pull up on the curb, get off the bike, and remove the helmet. I crouch beside the exhaust and stare at it as if I know what I’m looking at.

Rolling my eyes, namely at my lack of skills in the fixing-a-bike department, I get on the bike and fire up the engine again. It does another one of those fart things and dies. I try again. No, not moving. I throw up my hands, then reach into my pocket for a phone. No signal. I extend my hand in the air toward the sky and think maybe God will send the tech to this part of town. But no.

A black pickup truck pulls up in front of me, and two guys get out. Shawn and Greg Morrison, brothers I’ve known since middle school. Shawn locks eyes with me, and a shiver runs down my spine.

“You need help?” he asks.

“No, thank you.”Keep moving, asshole.

“You sure about that?” He points toward my district. “You’re far away from home, girl.”

My palms sweat. His brother stands behind me. I try the bike again. Greg puts a hand over mine, and I try to jerk my hand away.

He tightens his grip.

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