“Boxing doesn’t seem like the type of thing a boy like you would have taken part in.” In her Old News app, she’s read plenty of articles from his time about rich families and their lifestyles. She imagines the type of teenager who had a trust fund, probably wore suits, and owned a pony would not likely voluntarily get roughed up at a boxing gym.
“That’s precisely why I did it,” he explains.
James Fletcher, a boy who grew up with wealth and privilege, was also James Fletcher, a boy who took up boxing to rebel against something. His parents, who he said forbade it, perhaps? It isn’t enough to shift her view of him, but it adds another dimension.
Dried blood stains his chin, likely from a split in his lip that is now healed. His beautiful, full lip. She realizes she’s inconveniently concerned about him as she takes hold of his hands, studying the angry red marks on them. “Your poor knuckles.”
“Barely hurts, and when I make enough to cover the next month’s lease, you’ll agree it’s worth it,” he says.
She willfully ignores his cocky smirk. “Don’t worry. I have the next month covered,” she says, fairly certain that’s true. “But how much are we talking?”
He proudly takes out his phone to show her his Blackmarks account. The prize funds are there, but . . .
“This is all of it?” she asks as a sinking feeling blooms in the pit of her stomach. He nods. “Oh, James. This is barely what I make for one task order. You’d have to fight dozens of times to cover your lease. I’m not sure this is worth the risk. If someone were to see you . . .”
She takes a deep breath, considering. He’s trying to contribute, which is nice, but her panic is transforming into something more troubling. Her fingers, all on their own, make their way to his lapels, twisting them in her fists. “Do you know how bad it would be if you were caught? They’ll decommission you and jail me. I wouldn’t be ableto get MediSpa treatments. I’ll age!” she exclaims, her knuckles turning white.
His shoulders tighten as the reality of what she’s said washes over him. “K8, it’s fine. No one is going to turn me in, considering we’re all there doing something illegal.” He pries her hands away, pressing them flat against his firm, warm chest.
“How do you know?” she asks.
He sighs. “Trust me. I do. I’ll fill you in later. For now, I need to get ready for this dinner, okay?”
She reluctantly nods, eager for the “fill-in” he’s promised.
When he releases her, he casually saunters toward his bedroom.
Speaking of his lease, she should probably check the balance of her Worldbank account. She’s been avoiding that since before she ordered him. She goes to her system and logs in. Her focus zeroes in on the available balance. That number seems low. Low enough to make a chorus of nervous bees swarm around her belly. Not to worry. She’s probably getting paid soon. Sure, since she’s had James, she hasn’t been able to pick up as many task orders as normal, but it will be enough.
Nothing to fret about now—checking was ill-advised. She should have put it off till tomorrow. Not give herself another thing to stress about when she has an announcement dinner to get ready for.
Deciding to put off worrying until later, K8 retreats to her bedroom. The hour flies as she meticulously performs her makeup ritual. Once she has on a smart skirt and jacket set and applies a final dusting of powder finish to every inch of exposed skin, she’s ready. The breath leaves her lungs as she steps out of her bedroom and is confronted with what her roommate is wearing. Particularly the interesting fabric that pulls nicely over his backside as he leans over her desk chair to click on the 3key. Her heel strikes alert him to her presence. Rising tohis full height, he turns around. As his eyes make an elaborate sweep of her person, hers does the same to him.
“What on earth are you wearing?” she asks. Not that she minds the look. The simple fitted long-sleeved black T-shirt hugs his broad shoulders and chest delightfully. Not to mention how he has the sleeves pushed up, displaying his forearms. And the way those strange pants sit low on his hips—she’s staring at his crotch now. K8 clears her throat, bringing her eyes back to his. Zorg, that bruise makes him look more rugged than he did before.
“They’re called jeans, sweetheart. I gather you like them?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest, looking excessively smug.
They must have been a part of his order from the vintage section. “They’re fine. Let’s go.” She doesn’t spare him any additional energy as she breezes past him and out the door.
“So, you mentioned my Blackmark balance isn’t enough to cover even a small part of a month’s lease,” he says.
“No, it’s not. And that’s what you got after two weeks’ worth of fighting?” she asks, trying to estimate how long he’d have to fight to earn even a month.
“Correct. So how much is my lease per month?” he asks tentatively.
As they step into the elevator, she pulls up GROW’s latest email offer to show him. His eyes widen at the figure. “Do you understand now?” she asks. “I don’t know what the point of signing up to fight is anyway.”
“Winning is fun,” he says defensively. But then he pauses in a way that makes her slightly nervous. “If the money isn’t in the fighting, it has to be somewhere.”
“The betting, I’d imagine,” she says before she can consider of the consequences of mentioning it.
“Exactly,” he says, seeming to have gotten there as quickly as she did. His face brightens. Oh Zorg, he has an idea.
She grabs his arm, making a mental note to keep better tabs on his whereabouts. She is responsible for him, after all. If he’s willing to fight another person in an unregulated venue, what else would he be willing to do for funds? In her sternest voice, she says, “James, I forbid you from doing anything stupid.”
The defiant tilt of his chin makes her think he’ll refuse to agree to such terms. She’s even more eager for the promised fill-in later, if only for the opportunity to drive her point home. For now, she decides to leave it.
A tense forty-minute SAT ride later and they are across town in B Quadrant at the swanky eatery Sear. K8 hasn’t been to the establishment since her birthday, the fateful night she ordered James. The same opulent black chandeliers hang from the ceiling, and the faux candlelight in them flickers throughout the space. Particle panes line the wall, displaying various cuts of meat hitting grill grates and sizzling. The hissing sound reverberates through the room, timed with the videos. James takes in the decadent space with an expression of awe that softens his features. Of course he would like this place.
