A Dangerous Game (H 1.6)

So close. I'm so close to what I want. All I have to do is get through this date without ruining it, and the Sipps will have the Merrimack, Pellet will be safe, and soon enough, Lucky will have his revenge and I'll be free again.

I glance at the gold-covered elevator, sitting here with stable power, just waiting to release us to what I'm sure will be a meal better than I've had in...maybe ever. Is freedom from this really the sort of freedom I want?

There isn't time to consider that question right now, so I bring my focus back to Wells and incline my head.

"Fair enough." I slip my arm around his waist, turning to face the door, ready to move along before I lose all my nerve. "Let's make this a ship-worthy date then."

As soon as the elevator reaches the second floor, the Whispers return.

"You fool! Now he won't show you any more goodies!" a sharp voice accuses.

"You're the one who has to impress HIM now. Or he'll kick you out and you get NOTHING but the memory of this food." another whisper tells you.

True to my prediction, the moment the Whispers return, after a brief period of relief, I wish they were quiet again. I frown as I study the buttons on the elevator, wondering where they might have taken us, and where they're taking us now.

"I always had to impress him," I answer them with more confidence than I feel. "Nothing's changed."

But the tides are different now, the temperature in the water is changing, and Wells' pleasant smile might be that of a shark spotting a vulnerable target. It's too late to take anything back now though. My only move is to make sure Wells will still agree to my terms when the day is through.

"It sounded like you have a menu already decided," I comment, trying to be pleasant and amiable. "Do I get to know what we're having?"

To the Whispers, I jab back with, "If you're so worried, then tell me something helpful."

Wells presents the coming meal like it's poetry and I wonder how many women he has wooed with these words. It's foolish, both vain and selfish, but it bothers me to consider it.

He offers an option of cobblers, and I know apples. They travel well and last longer than other fruits. Blackberries, though, are a treat.

"Black is my favorite color," I tell him. "I couldn't say no to blackberry." I look up at him. "Suddenly I'm glad I didn't have too much of that cake. I want to try everything."

I force a smile up at him as I say this, actually using Blackjack's advice that smiling and flirting brings in more tips. I hope it works outside the Belly too.

The gleeful way the giggling Whisper gives the story of what happened to Wells' mother makes it somehow even more gloomy. I wonder if they've ever giggled about my past to Mikkie or Nuport, or seas know who else.

"That was actually useful," I admit to them begrudingly. "Maybe you do like me."

I do my best to keep up with Wells' quick pace as we head down the hall, but his steps are longer than mine. Before I can talk myself out of it, I reach for his hand, holding onto it like we are old lovers.

"There's no need to rush," I tell him, slowing him. I give him a smile. "I want to make sure you have all the time you need to see what I have to offer."

He does slow down at your urging, but he doesn't stop, except to move to some panel on the wall where he leans his face close to the panel. A red light emits from a section of the panel, hitting him right in the eye! He doesn't flinch, and a moment later a soft voice intones,
"Identity accepted."

The doors ahead open up to reveal a large room.


As you pass through the doors, you see two long couches with the oddest art piece in the middle:


There's also a gigantic vault door, all gold and steel, beautifully ornate as the gears inside it turn and whir while it slowly opens on a titanic hinge without a sound.

When you step into the room, you see a long bar to your right where a man in servant's livery stands waiting.

I watch in silent awe as Wells opens the door, that mere act alone impressive. It's staggering, then, to be treated to the grandeur that lies beyond. It is gold and gears, guilded walls and ceilings, a grand glamor.

I'm so taken aback that I almost don't hear what Wells says. I blink myself back to the present as he leads me over to the couch. I follow without hesitation. "Your...abode," I echo the words I nearly missed. "You live here." It's as much a statement as a question.

I perch on the edge of the couch, turning my head to take it all in. Is that bartender's whole job to stand here waiting to make drinks for Wells and his guests at a moment's notice? I try to imagine Parcher doing the same, but all I see is him scowling about being bored up here. Kiwi could've done it, though. He should've. He'd still be alive, safe behind that eye-locked door.

Now you have to impress him.

The Whisper's reprimand is a mirror in my mind, reflecting back how underqualified I am to be negotiating my life for ships. For a second, my hand rests limply against Wells' neck, instinct from the Belly telling me to pull away and get back to serving tables. But the shaking of the ice in the background reminds me that I'm not the server here, or at least, I'm not the type of server I used to be. My wares have changed even if the customer remains the same, and I would rather give Wells a massage than pull fish guts from their cold corpses for hours on end.

I turn on the couch a bit further to face him and bring my other hand up to his neck, trailing my fingernails gently across his skin and into the hair at the base of his neck. I do this a few times before I increase the pressure with my fingers, moving from his neck out to his shoulders as I consider his question.

The music at the Belly drowns out the Whispers, and that has been the primary role of music in my life, a purely practical one, apart from the one piece of music I own myself.

"I have a CD I like. The artist is called Yo-Yo Ma." I give him the name the woman who sold me the CD gave me, hoping she wasn't lying to me. "Have you heard of him?"

You see Standish there holding a tray with two tall glasses of a mixed drink you've served Wells at the Belly before. He hands Wells a glass, then when Wells nods to you, he hands one to you as well.

What is it about this mixed drink that's particularly sinful, Helix?

As Wells sips his drink, what do you do?

When Wells speaks to Alexa, I turn, expecting to see some other servant appear out of the wall, but there's no one there. Instead, music begins playing as if by magic and I turn back as it fills the room, certain Alexa is watching from some secret servant's space I can't see. I lean close to Wells' ear and say softly, "I hope I've scored more than one point by now."

I lean back and continue the massage while the music plays. It relaxes me and makes even this golden place seem more like home. When Standish appears in front of us, I pull my hands away from Wells' shoulders. I notice that Standish doesn't offer me a drink until Wells gives him approval and for a moment there's a little spike of fear in my stomach, fear that whispers that as easy as it is for Wells to spoil me, he could equally easily deprive me. I push the thought away, reminding myself that Lucky's promise to avenge his mother means Wells wouldn't have me for long anyway. I should enjoy this while I still can. I'll be missing it when it's no longer available to me.

I take the drink and when I lift it toward my lips, catch the familiar scents of a cocktail called The Sun Also Rises that we serve at the Belly. The glasses we use aren't so nice, unless it's going to the VIP area of course and even then it's not the same, and our version doesn't have the mint leaf on top, or the frothy white foam. I thought I heard an egg crack behind us earlier. Is that the whip on top? The base of the drink, at least, seems the same. It's mostly alcohol - rum, cherry liquor, and absinthe - mixed with just enough citrus juice to take off the edge, which is why it's so dangerous. Of course, most people at the Belly can't afford more than one, but then one is usually more than enough.

And these are doubles.

I don't often allow myself the luxury of getting buzzed, and drunk is a state I've only found myself in a handful of times past. Perhaps things like that are the reason Pellet referred to me as "oddly chaste." It seems everyone allows themselves more freedom than I do, but my caution is a learned trait, gained from so many years of needing to watch my own back. Do I dare allow myself to relax now?

I lift my glass in a little cheers to Wells and take a sip. "Delicious," I tell him as it settles in my chest, warming me from the inside with a blossoming reach. "You have great taste." I settle a bit on the couch, but reach the hand not holding my drink up to continue playing casually with the hair at the back of his neck. Maybe because it is so close a concept to me right now, I find myself asking, "What's the biggest risk you've taken, Wells? Did it pay off?"

My jaw tightens when he brings up Mr. Stanley and fleetingly, my fingers freeze on his neck as the memories flood back. I'm now accustomed to troublesome customers at the Belly. I've weathered the insults and innuendos, solicitations and short-staffed nights, but meeting Stanley was trial by fire. He set the bar, and maybe that's why I've stayed at the Belly so long. People are bad, but he made everyone else seem tolerable by comparison.

Every time he came in, Kiwi had to remake his drink no less than three times because it was never quite right. The last time he sent his drink back, Stanley dumped the drink out on my feet when I came to collect it, telling me all it was good for was the mop bucket. The shoes I was wearing that night still smell like cranberries when they get wet. He made Dakota stand by his table and feed him his french fries one by one. She told me later that she didn't mind, that Blackjack could've intervened if she needed her to, but I never really believed her.

And then there was Moxie, the water moccasin we had before Orion. The reason Kiwi hated Stanley.

He ordered a snake bite, and I warned him about the potency, reminded him that it was made with the snake's venom. He insisted.

I wanted to tell him that while Rafters and Boaters are tough enough to handle the drink, Vaulters in the VIP room usually aren't, but I know he'd only have been insulted. After he downed the shot and his tongue started to go numb, he went on a tirade. He accused me of trying to poison him, of Kiwi trying to kill him, and he made his bodyguards storm into the back to make sure the culprit paid.

Moxie was a kinder snake than Orion. We all miss her.

To top it all off, he never tipped. Ever. That bothers me even more now that I know what the Vault is like.

I blink back to the present and my fingertips resume their movement. "He's hard to forget."

"Betray Lucky's intent to him, Ivy," a Whisper insists.

A flat-toned Whisper adds, "You don't deserve this. And you could have it anyway. No more wants. No more Belly. Who cares if he killed some Sipp you never knew?"