A/N: Hey everyone! Thanks for all the reviews, favorites, & follows! Happy New Year!

# # #

# # #

Kris scowled at the papers and books spread out on the coffee table. She wanted to do this back in her study area, where there wouldn't be any people-interruptions, but a seven-month-old kitten was a guaranteed bigger interruption, especially when little Shell claimed all feet as her special pounce-toys. Papers, pens, books, and three humans spread out over her floor while trying to organize their research project were guaranteed kitten-attractors. Frank's on-campus place was out — she definitely didn't want to deal with Chet and his latest hobby, either.

The creak of Frank and Joe's hall-door made Kris look up, in time to scramble to her feet and grab two more kittens — the tuxedo twins of Momma Moggie's litter last June — before they darted through the archway and out onto the potentially dangerous landing overlooking the commons. "Frank!"

Frank barely avoided tripping over Kris as she struggled with two squirming kittens who were not happy at being denied their freedom and were letting the whole Center know it with squeaky yowls. Finally Frank dropped his books onto the armchair and took one of the kittens from her. It latched onto Frank's wrist and started to gnaw. "Ow — Purr-oh, stop it!"

"I call a play date," Kris said. "They can keep Shell busy and she'll keep them busy until they all crash."

"Or until they burst your waterbed again."

"I've got the quilts on it," Kris said. That particular lesson in kitten-care had been a soggy mess, luckily confined to the waterbed frame-liner and one unhappy, squeaking kitten.

"Too bad Joe missed that fiasco," Frank said, as he sat down and pulled a pile of books over. "He's still talking about getting one of those."

"He'd never use it. I mean, he's always in Jamie's — what?"

Grinning, Frank shook his head. "Your mind's in the gutter today, Tag."

Mewing pathetically, Purr-oh clambered up onto Frank's shoulder. The kitten's name was Joe's fault: the little tuxedo had a black mark under his nose like a mustache, Joe claimed the kitten looked like Agatha Christie's fastidious detective, and Poirot had devolved into Purr-oh within seconds. The second tuxedo escaped Marple by also being male, but Frito had stuck after the kitten pounced on a pile of chip bags, the resulting crash-crackle-pop scaring all three kittens into scrambling, unable-to-get-purchase-on-the-floor hysterics.

Rolling her eyes, Kris took Purr-oh from Frank and, both kittens in her arms, headed back to her room, first cracking the hall door open enough to make sure Shell wasn't behind it before slipping through. Mar was working on getting a door added to the archway into the whole suite — they'd tried baby gates, only to learn that kittens could jump that high, and putting two baby gates on top of each other encouraged enthusiastic climbing. Until the door was a reality, though, Kris, Frank and Joe had to keep the kittens confined to their rooms to prevent fights with the established Center cats, and it made a handy excuse to Chet for Frank's trips to the Center.

Kris dropped Purr-oh and Frito onto her bed just as Shell jumped up to check out the newcomers — the gray-and-black tabby's fur pattern reminded Kris of scallop shells — then all three kittens tumbled off to chase and pounce each other.

"We could lock them in Joe's room," Frank offered, as Kris came back out into the living room. "He's out with Jamie."

"You could always take them back to your place, too," Kris said, but Frank sighed.

"Chet's found out that they allow pets out there. He's talking about getting a black cat. For his 'familiar', he says."

Kris rubbed at her forehead. She shared a class with Frank and Joe this semester, Myths & Legends of the Pan-Celtic Diaspora, which gave them an excuse to meet on-campus for lunch between classes. Now the semester was wrapping up, and a good quarter of their grade in that class rested on this group project. Every time they thought they were done, they found something else that absolutely had to be in the presentation.

Thankfully, Chet hadn't taken that class. However, he'd bumped into the growing San Francisco occult scene, stumbled onto a couple makeshift student groups who were too impressed by The Golden Dawn, and had decided that he'd found the Ultimate Truth of the Universe. Kris wasn't worried about that, yet; once the allure of the silly robes, mystical chants, and weird symbols wore off, following the Golden Dawn was time-consuming work. But Chet had then spotted Kris's pentagram, somehow concluded that she was A Real Witch, and that Frank and Joe were also into Something Big that they wouldn't share and weren't talking about...

"I've been trying to talk him out of it," Frank was saying. "But you know Chet."

"Let him. After he does the litter box thing for a week —"

"Then he'll dump it on me."

"I'll adopt it, big brother," Kris assured him, as she shuffled through the papers to find their most recent outline and charts. "Josh says I'm already a crazy-cat-lady. One more won't hurt."

"Wow," said a voice from the archway — Rafe Hollen leaned there, eyeing the spread of books and papers. Stocky and muscled, with his wiry black hair slicked back in a tight tail, Rafe wore denim jeans with a white tank-top, with his leather jacket slung over his shoulder. His gaze moved from the papers to Kris, and his mouth quirked in that sly, cocky smile that made Kris's gut flip. "Lookin' good, cielito."

Oh gods. She did not need this right now.

Rafe was the guitarist for the band Karma. Saying there was history between them was an understatement. With Vão Carvalo added in — the band's singer — it became extreme understatement, along with extreme confusion, uncertainty, and a ton of other multi-syllable words added in.

Kris hadn't expected to see either of them again, not after the fiasco in Seattle. She had wanted to surprise Vão on his birthday by showing up backstage at their concert there, but her plan had backfired, painfully.

She clenched her jaw. It hurt. It still hurt.

"Hey, Rafe." Frank sounded friendly, but Kris picked up a flash of something — irritation? That was unusual. Frank was such a quiet thinker that even Mar — Kris's adoptive mother and a strong 'path — rarely got more than a sense of presence from him, and his calm manner almost never broke.

There was history between Karma and Frank and Joe, too. Owed history, in the red on Rafe and Vão's side, the same history that had crippled Joe. As far as Kris knew, the owing had never been paid back, but Frank and Joe didn't seem to care.

"You're corruptin' her the wrong way, ese." Grinning, Rafe dropped into the other armchair and nudged the books with his foot. "We're tryin' to get her to loosen up, not tighten down."

"It's our semester project." Kris could smell the beer on Rafe's breath, even from her spot on the floor. "What do you want, Rafe?"

"I just said. Vão's downstairs. We've got our bikes. Let's ride."

Kris felt her face get hot. Trust Rafe to make those two words a come-on. "I thought we broke up."

"We did?"

Frank was now scowling at Rafe; Kris didn't want to drag Frank into the middle of this at all. But how could Rafe not know that being caught with other girls — groupies, at that — was a problem?

Granted, Vão and Rafe hadn't known Kris would show up in Seattle. But seeing those heavily-made-up girls in skimpy tube tops draping themselves all over Rafe and Vão had still been a shock — and girls was another major understatement. Worse, no one else, not the rest of the band, not the roadies, not the security, not the road managers, and certainly not Vão and Rafe, had seen anything wrong with it. Just part of the show, part of the scene, boys will be boys.

It was all the horror stories of the runaways at Wings, all the horror she'd lived through with her original parents, all wrapped up in a giant tube of rancid cherry lip-gloss stinking of semen and cheap beer.

"Yes." Kris dropped her gaze to the papers. She would not break down. Not over this. "We did."

Rafe scowled. "News to us. You comin' or not?"

News to them? After she'd walked out in Seattle — what had they thought she meant?

Frank laid his hand on her arm, and Kris caught a faint wisp of thought. :Need help?:

Frank wasn't Gifted, not in the ways the Association defined it, anyway. But Kris was a jack — a mix of many minor Gifts, save one. While her telepathy was weak, she could pick up nearby thoughts, and skin contact strengthened the connection. Emotional connections made it even stronger: Frank and Joe being her big-brothers-by-choice all these years guaranteed that she'd never be able to block them out. Ever since the CIA fiasco, Frank had been determined to wring every last advantage and application out of Joe's and Kris's Gifts that he could without being Gifted himself.

"Tag?" Frank said.

Kris shook her head. Her problem. She had to deal with it. "I'll be back."

"I'll look over everything and see what we can trim down. We can't finish it without Joe, anyway." Frank hesitated, then, another bit of thought, this one rock-solid and precise: Let me know if you want legs broken.

"Watch out for my bookshelves." Kris got to her feet. "Shell's been getting up there. She likes pouncing."

Frank's mouth quirked, but she didn't hear his response, as Rafe draped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her out and down the hallway.

"Don't you ever stop working, chica?" Rafe said. He smelled of warm leather, cheap beer, and wood smoke. When Kris tried to pull away, Rafe pulled her in tighter, making her stumble against him.

They were out on the landing overlooking the commons, with a good chunk of the Center's residents in ear- and eye-shot. Kris didn't want to make a scene. Rafe…well…was Rafe Hollen, famous, personable, well-liked, and popular. People wouldn't be on Kris's side in any trouble, not with that against her.

The commons was Bay Area Center's common room and entry hall, a huge room with varnished hardwood floors and brick walls, lined with heavily-laden bookshelves and filled with battered tables, comfortable sofas covered in patchwork quilts and throws, and overstuffed floor cushions in a riot of colors. Some were putting up the initial winter decorations — garland, stockings, and lights strung around the railings and fireplace, a menorah in the biggest window — with kids and a few of the younger teens sprawled in front of the TV.

The girls squealed: someone had turned on The Donny & Marie Show. Kris made a face: it was that re-run. Donny Osmond appeared on-screen, dressed like Luke Skywalker, and the girls squealed again.

"Cy's been after us to add something spacey to the show," Vão said, behind Kris; he'd freed himself from a chatty knot of people and come over. Vão was scrawny, black hair tangled around his face with a beak of a nose that made him look like a bird-mop, a 'Niners' sweatshirt with a denim jacket, bright red Nikes, and — blushing, Kris looked away. Vão's jeans were designer-tight, and there were definite things to look at. "We should show him that as a hell no. C'mon, let's blow this joint."

He tried to kiss her, but Kris pulled away. He hadn't even asked.

Vão was a 'path on the Empath side, and a strong one. He had to know something was wrong. He looked at her for a moment. "Rafe tell you about my new bike?"

"Too much for you to handle, Carvalo," Rafe said. "Let the big boys have the toys."

"So she gets to ride with me, after all?"

"Only to warm up." Rafe turned that sly grin on Kris. "Gotta thaw the Ice Queen somehow."

Kris stiffened, but held her peace. Jaw clenched, she followed them out the Center doors — mindful of the folks setting up the outside light display — and around to the gravel drive and the two motorcycles. She didn't know anything about 'cycles other than the obvious Harley-Davidson logos, but they looked fierce and raw, gleaming black, red and dusty chrome. Scuffing at the gravel, she hung back. Her heart pounded; her head ached; her breathing became shallow and short. She'd thought this was over and done with months ago. She didn't want a fight. Not here. Not with them.

"You check the flicks?" Rafe said to Vão. "Or we headin' up to Mount Tam?"

"Watership Down's at the Castro." Vão grinned at Kris. "Right up your alley. About little fluffy bunnies. Seriously, though, ride with the street rat, caro — I'm not used to riders yet."

"Bunnies?" Rafe stared. "You're high, ese."

"Shows how much you know. Those rabbits rip throats out." Vão cocked his head. "Kris?"

"C'mon, cielito, hop on." Rafe patted the leather seat of his cycle. "Just like you — takes a good long while to warm up for a chilly ride."

Stomach churning, Kris didn't move. It was over. She'd made that plain in Seattle. They'd made it plain. And insulting her like that? How could they even think that was okay? Somehow she managed to keep her voice even. "I'm not going."

"Here we go again," Vão muttered.

"Frank told you go ahead," Rafe said. "Jesus, chica, cut loose for a change."

They really were that clueless? "Rafe…"

"She thinks we broke up with her," Rafe said to Vão.

"This is about Seattle." Vão's face was unreadable, and Kris couldn't pick up anything from him. Not good. "Why you walked."

Trembling, Kris crossed her arms to steady herself. She was an adult. She was a Blade. "I broke up with you. Both of you."

"You walked, chica," Rafe said. "You didn't say nothin'."

"I didn't think I had to! You were with those girlsand you're making fun of me and you think it's okay?"

"We're just teasing. Mierda, chica, get a thicker skin."

Papa had always said that same thing whenever she'd cried. "What you really mean," Kris snapped, "is that you want to keep being a jerk."

"No, I mean you can't take a fuckin' joke!"

"Making fun of me ain't a joke!"

"Groupies," Vão broke in. "You're angry about groupies."

"Girls."

"Groupies."

"Like it matters," Rafe said. "Not like you givin' us any."

That shocked her silent. Kris went hot, hands clenched.

"You lead us on and leave us hangin'," Rafe said. "Don't get mad at us for gettin' it elsewhere, chicacita. You don't give, we don't give. There. I'm not jokin' now. Happy?"

"Every rock band in the world has groupies," Vão said flatly. "Big deal. We take 'em up on what they're giving away and everyone has fun. Just because you're frigid —"

Frigid? Stunned at this line of attack, Kris backed up. "I'm not the one screwin' kids!" With that, she stormed back into the Center, wanting to get back to her room where she could calm down, could think…

But Vão had followed. He grabbed her arm and yanked her around to face him, right in the middle of the commons. "You little bitch — we don't mess with kids!"

Chatter, decorating, TV-watching, all stopped as everyone in the commons turned to watch the sudden show that had erupted in their midst. Kris could feel the stares, the snickers, the head-shaking.

"Don't ever say that," Vão snarled. "Don't you dare. Sex, drugs, rock and roll, yeah, it happens. But kids? Not us. Just because you don't want sex. You're the liar, girl. That boyfriend-girlfriend act of yours — you're one cold little —"

"We broke up! What part of that don't you get?" Yanking her arm free, Kris fled up the stairs. She couldn't think, couldn't hear anything but her pounding head and chest —

The hall door slammed open and Vão stalked through to halt just inside her room, Rafe right behind him.

"No, you don't get the easy out," Vão said. "We're settling this, girl. Now. Whether you want to or not."