Page 31 of Make Them Bleed
Heat punches low in my gut. I try for levity. “Don’t kink-shame vigilance.”
She laughs, a little breathless. “If you show up with a plastic knife, I might just lose it.”
I cross the room, stop close enough that she has to tip her face up. The mask’s hollow eyes reflect her own. “Noted.”
Sparks jump the distance like there’s a wire between our ribs. She wets her bottom lip. I shouldn’t. God knows I shouldn’t. But the mask makes me bolder and the clock makes me dumb, and caution takes one quiet step back.
“Juno,” I say, modulator-low, “we’ve got a window to make real progress. I need your head clear.”
“My head’s very clear,” she whispers, and the lie tastes exactly like the truth sounds. Her fingers twitch at her sides. For a breath we hover on the tip of something catastrophic and perfect.
I force air into my lungs and step away. The ache is immediate. “Then let’s work.”
Her exhale shivers, relief tangled with disappointment. “Right. Work.”
I am not the kind of guy who prays to inanimate objects, but I find myself murmuring apologies to the Herbert Hoover mask as I lay it to rest on the filing cabinet. “You did good, old man,” I tell the rubber face. “Time to retire to the Great Depression in the sky.”
Juno touches his face. “I’ll miss him.”
My heart warms at her sentiment.My Juno.
I slide back into the chair at our main station and bring up the HOLO-BURST dossier. “I scraped event calendars this morning. Gracewood Holdings is throwing a private ‘Neon Surge’ launch tonight for HOLO-BURST’s new formula. Every founding member on our board will be there, plus investors, brand managers, and whoever their PR team strong-armed into posting.”
Juno leans on the back of my chair, reading over my shoulder. The subtle weight of her hand on the chair’s rail is a gravitational field. “Where?”
“Hotel Delphine. Ballroom A for the public-facing demo, Ballroom C for the invite-only after party.” I click to a floor plan. “I can get us into the first. For the after party, we’ll need a split op. I’ll bring friends.”
“Friends?” She arches a brow. “You have friends who know about this?”
I consider the truth. “They know about me. They don’t need to know about you.”
She rolls her eyes. “Because anonymity has worked so well for everyone in this saga.”
“I keep you out of their crosshairs,” I say, firmer than intended. The modulator turns it into a command. “We move as ghosts. We gather intel. That’s all they need.”
She opens her mouth—to argue, to poke fun, to wring an explanation out of me—but something in my stance stops her. She exhales, then nods once. “Fine. Ghosts.”
I pull a canvas duffel from under the desk and flip it open. Four rubber faces blink up: Millard Fillmore’s unfortunate mutton-chops, James K. Polk’s dour jaw, Rutherford B. Hayes’s fluffy beard, Chester A. Arthur’s dandy stash. The Lesser-Known Presidents Squad. I feel ridiculous and oddly proud.
Juno stares, then snorts so hard she chokes. “Oh my god?”
“Waste not.” I tap Hayes’s forehead. “Ballroom C is ‘Neon Noir.’ Masks encouraged.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Their Instagram invite says‘come masked, leave legendary.’” I want to gag and also applaud their branding department.
She groans. “Influencers deserve unionization.”
“I’ll suit up my team.” I zip the duffel and stand. Time to recruit.
Gage arrivesat the loft first, sneakers squeaking on linoleum, two energy drinks and a bag of gummy bears swinging from his hand. He takes one look at the duffel of dead presidents and grins so hard his face might split. He grabs James K. Polk in his hands.
“Bro. Are we forming a government?”
“Shadow cabinet,” I say. “With snacks.”
Knight shows five minutes later with his denim jacket slung over his shoulder. He fist-bumps me, then lifts Rutherford B. Hayes like Hamlet contemplating Yorick. “This guy looks like he invented the tax audit. Plus we have the same last name.”
