Her daddy's surGENs fixed her up after the opera. She went unmedicated, wanting to feel the biting of stitches, the antiseptic slathered over raw tissue. She gritted her teeth against the pain, but she had to live up to her father's name, now. Amber Sweet had traded in her identity as a Largo in exchange for an image that she'd just destroyed, on stage. Because she'd been doped up and hastily pieced back together, just in time for her father to die right before her eyes as she watched, helpless and unwanted.
He'd yelled at her. She turned in her chair in his office, empty now. She loved her new look: white, catlike eyes, an auburn wig, and her consultants had let her pick her own clothes. One of Pavi's sluts had left behind a hot pink, sequined dress, the neckline dipping to her belly button, and Amber salvaged it. Pavi loved her. He loved hot girls. Tits and his baby sister were his weaknesses. Ergo, seizing the company would be all the easier in this number.
It wasn't all Amber's decision. The hench girls had taken her aside and told her she was the best choice. She'd pouted and stomped her feet; her daddy didn't even like her, so why should she run his fucking company? Bye-bye party life. Given that the other options, other than the spoiled rotten princess, were two homicidal freakshows, it wasn't like she could refuse. This was her last day of freedom.
Tomorrow was the press conference. She'd have to be sober for the cameras. The sobriety could turn into a forever type of deal. She'd have to stop being lazy and be the daughter her father could never have imagined.
He'd underestimated her. He thought all she did was take his money and skip around in lace. No, no, no. There was so much he'd never taken the time to notice. Wrapped up in the past and his own greed, he'd ignored her. She didn't have much in the way of ambition, but she was sly. She'd gotten that much from him. Luigi claimed he was the smartest, which was a laugh. Smarts did not mean killing someone out in the open, with your own two hands.
She went out alone, praising herself for setting up the Zydrate Support Network for just such instances as this. Everyone thought it was a failure, but it did what she wanted. She had a way to get Z and its provider whenever she demanded it. There was nothing like Street Z to take away her agony, her bitterness.
A doorway was plastered with posters for the anti-Zydrate organization, and she stalked through, her ire growing with each measured step. She added a sway to her hips, in case he was watching. He liked her assets.
Graverobber crouched in the trash-strewn room over a gasping slut, the gun at her neck. It went off and Amber licked her lips in anticipation. He wasn't alone, but that didn't matter. She'd drag him off by that rainbow head of hair if she had to. She kicked a trash can over in impatience as he moved to the next person in the clutch of worthless vermin, and the clatter drew his eye. He narrowed his eyes, unhappy to see her.
"Graverobber," she hissed, her hands on her hips.
He shot up another junkie without looking away from her. "I should've assigned a lookout," he grumbled. "What do you want?"
"Goodbye hit." She sauntered to him, the addicts parting in fear. He didn't stop her from getting physical with them, or him. Her fingers hooked in his scarf and drew him to his feet, until he could look down at her from his considerable height. "Pop's gone, Graverobber. It's all up to me to be the head of the company."
"Why's that mean you must say goodbye to Zydrate?" he mused, firmly removing her hand.
Ignoring that, she touched his lips with a manicured finger. "Street Z's il-le-gal," she pronounced with a pout, tapping his mouth with each whined syllable. "So are you. Ain't it sad, dear? I won't see you again."
He shoved her, and the unexpected action sent her to the ground. He got rough when her guards weren't around to protect her. "Heartbreaking."
She crawled to him, disguising her anger with lust. In a moment, she wouldn't be faking it. "Let me pay you my way," she offered huskily. "Come on, Graverobber."
Amber usually went to him in a hurry. Don't keep her waiting, she's got an appointment to keep, a new piece of her carved up like Thanksgiving turkey. This time, he kept her waiting. He pointed to the sidelines and told her to sit and wait her turn, and he took his time dealing with the rest of the group. It felt like agony. Her stitches were all but cleanly healed, but the pain was real. The boredom was real.
The wanting him was real.
She sat with her legs splayed, running a hand teasingly up her thigh whenever he glanced her way. It made his movements twitchy, until finally he shoved the last of the group out the door, dragging a frayed couch in front of it.
The settings didn't much interest her. It looked to have been a store at some point, the type where people scrounged out a living one floor up. What did interest her were the joys found on Graverobber's body, vials and otherwise.
"Is there a place upstairs?" she asked, getting to her feet.
"Yeah." He was slow, agonizingly slow, walking to her.
"Don't keep me waiting anymore," she whined, meeting him halfway. She took his hand and walked ahead, leading him.
Upstairs, alone, no paparazzi or cops to bother her. She figured he'd been sleeping here, on that pathetic, dusty cot. This was a sad attic of a place, but she forgot where she was because he pressed his body along her back, and his hands went to her shoulders. She inclined her head and he nipped her neck.
"Miss Sweet," he said with a chuckle. "Where's your little song and dance? Feeling shy?"
She spun out of his grip, her eyes flashing as she fought off an unexpected blush. "Hardly." She swayed for him, her hands playing over her clothed flesh, brushing at old scars. "We both know I don't need to bother." But she did. She liked to cause that heaviness in his hands so they were awkward and tense at his sides, uncertain of where to touch her. She liked the intensity in his mouth as he watched her.
He threw his coat aside, unwound his scarf. His layers unpeeled. Her outfit was less elaborate to take off, and he could do it quick when he had to. She grabbed him by the shirt and threw herself onto the bed, pulling him onto her. The bed coughed up dust. There was a brief tussle for power, and he had her wrists, dragging them over her head as he ground their hips together. She tilted against the friction, her eyes defiant and pleading all at once.
She was helpless. So was he. In the rhythm and heat of this clash, he became more involved than he wanted to. He couldn't stand her, but this? She watched as he released her hands so he could stroke down the neckline of her skintight dress. He wanted her.
Amber helped him with the buckles around his waist, careless with all strappings but the Zydrate holsters; that, she lowered carefully over the rest of the bundle. Her leg went around, her heel digging into his back. It was a mad scramble, and she flipped up her skirt. He moved down her body and tore off her thong with his teeth, grinning up at her.
"Do it," she dared him, grabbing the front of his jeans. To help him out. She unzipped him and he helped himself out the rest of the way.
The palm of his hand forced her head up, and he licked her neck, slow, and left harsh bites back down. How many times had they met in back alleys? How many times had he been just like this? He pushed inside her and she gasped, open-mouthed. Her leg tightened around him, the other dangling over the side of the bed as he roughly went in, deeper. She threw her head back rather than shove her face into his neck. That would be weakness.
"Take me, take me," she gasped, barely more than mouthing it.
He set the pace once he'd settled inside her, fast and even strokes. Their breaths grew harsh, and she'd have to get new lungs, between the moaning and the dust their desperate movements were stirring into the air. He bent his head to kiss her, and she didn't allow that. That was the one boundary that she had kept, to save herself that indignity. To save herself that hurt. A kiss would make her think they were real, that he cared. In this moment, he could say he cared, he could say he wanted her to squeeze out four of his graverobbing babies. After that, when they broke apart, he went back to hating her. He'd avoid her.
She turned her head to the side and his lips met nothing.
"Fickle bitch," he grunted. "What difference does it make?"
To which she shoved his face angrily down to her chest. He took what he could and kissed at her cleavage. Her hips tilted up again and again to meet his thrusts, bringing him onward, teasing that reaction from his body. He tensed and quickly pulled out to come on the mattress. There was sweat ruining his makeup. She touched at a bead of perspiration on his forehead and he scowled at her with amused contempt. There it was. She'd expected it, braced herself for it as she always did.
"Get me off, you-" she started. He twisted a finger inside her, watching her face for signs of when her buttons were being properly pushed. Her hands reached for the bedposts, gripping hard on the metal. She felt her body trigger, and she writhed at his touch. No tenderness was lost between them, and she didn't care. She panted there, an eagerness settling in as he fitted the Zydrate gun with a vial full of glow.
"What are you getting done this time, Miss Sweet?" he asked with a lazy, satisfied smirk.
As the gun went off, she admitted, "Nothing at all."