Rosa's teeth sank into his neck. His breath ran down hers.
A moment.
This moment—she got to keep.
But at what cost did she get here?
He thrust, and she pulled him closer. He yanked her hair; she clawed his back. He choked her; she slapped him. He threw her against the window, just enough for the neighbor's son to catch a glimpse. The teenager's face was frozen in awe.
He turned her around, and she leaned into the glass, her chest pressing hard against it. She moaned. He growled.
She spun around and leapt onto him. He collapsed onto the mattress beneath her.
It was a nice hotel room. White and light brown decor. A fireplace, a flat-screen TV, a balcony with silk curtains.
Fancy. High-end.
But the bed was the real showpiece—elegantly made, with decorative sheets patterned with roses and thorned vines. The blanket was an art piece titled Farewell, My Rose, created by Rothell Lowe. It depicted a man reaching for his lover, unable to grasp her as time pulled her away. Another man, with a devilish grin and long, sharp fingernails, tugged her back.
She was a rose, plucked by another.
They went on like this for hours.
Until Rosa was out of energy—
And he was out of ammo.
She lay there, staring at the ceiling fan spinning round and round.
What was his name?
Where was he from?
How did he make money?
Why this hotel?
Not a single question had been asked before now.
He sat up, facing away from her, his feet touching the floor.
He stood and wiped his eyes.
"I'll leave something for you," he said, grabbing his pants from the floor. He buckled his belt, sat back down to pull on his socks, and looked at her.
She just stared at the ceiling, as if he wasn't even there.
"Hey. You hear me?" he asked.
She inhaled through her nose, loudly enough for him to notice, then looked at him.
"Hm? What?" she blinked rapidly. "Say that again. Lo siento."
She rolled to her side and propped herself up, letting him see all of her. Clearly.
He shook his head. "Forget it."
He dressed: socks, shoes, shirt, jacket. He pulled five hundred dollars from his wallet and placed it on the nightstand.
"It's all I can do right now."
"I didn't ask for any fucking charity," she snapped.
He sighed and stood. At the door, he paused. Looked at her like he had something more to say. But instead, he settled on, "Bye."
He walked out and closed the door behind him.
She looked back up at the ceiling fan.
What the fuck was his name?
She sat up and ran her fingers through her hair, fluffing it lazily. She reached for the bottle of tequila he'd brought and took a swig.
She gagged with a soft burp, coughed, cleared her throat.
From the drawer, she took a cigarette, then stood up.
Isaac?
No.
Luther?
No.
Goddammit.
With the bottle in one hand and the smoke in the other, she slid open the balcony door. She stepped out, arms stretched wide.
The teenager was still there, gawking at her from the house next door. She waved at him with a smirk. A line of drool slipped from his lip before he wiped it and ran inside.
She struck a match and lit the cigarette, dragging deep and slow, savoring the flavor through her nose.
She scrolled through her contacts. He's gotta be in here somewhere.
After five minutes of aimless scrolling, she tossed the phone onto the bed and stubbed out the cigarette.
"Screw it," she muttered under her breath.
She took another swig from the bottle, coughed again, fought off a gag by clenching her jaw and baring her teeth.
She collapsed into a lawn chair—decorated red cushions, gold-painted wood.
Her phone rang.
She checked it: Unknown Number.
She declined the call and went back inside to get dressed.
Before she could grab her underwear off the floor, the phone rang again.
She picked up but said nothing.
There was a beep, then a voice:
"Hi, is this Rosa? Rosa Irenez? I'm Bobby, calling from the office of Kurt Jenker, Kyne Tech Head of Development. He says he'd like to speak with you. It's been five days since he last saw you and he'd like to know if you still plan on reviewing his latest—"
She cut him off. "You have my answer. You've had the same answer seventeen fucking times. It's still the same. Stop calling me. I am no longer interested."
She hung up and got dressed.
The phone rang again.
This time, she snapped.
"Listen, asshole! I'm not fucking interested, so you—"
A voice interrupted her. Deep. Almost too deep to be human.
She only knew one man with a voice like that.
It had to be Kurt.
"Rosa," he said, his tone firm. "Stop jerking me around."
She furrowed her brow and sat at the edge of the bed.
"It's you," she muttered.
"Yes, it is. And I'm still waiting for you. What's been keeping you?"
"My own fucking business," she snapped. "What do you want?"
He let out a soft chuckle, like a smug breath through his nose.
"God, Rosa. How many times are we gonna ride this same ride? You know what I want. Come in and talk to me."
She sighed, rubbing her forehead between her thumb and fingers.
"Why can't you come to me if this is so important?"
He took a slow breath and clicked his tongue.
"Like I've got time to take a little field trip to your charming, temporary abode. Did you get his name?"
Her eyes shot to the sliding glass door. Her head whipped toward the windows.
"You're watching me!?" she shouted, holding the bottom of the phone close to her mouth.
"Lucky someone is. You didn't even notice what he took," he said, his voice wearing a shit-eating grin.
"Wha—?"
She lunged for the nightstand, yanking the drawer open and rifling through it.
Then slammed it shut.
"Shit!"
"I once thought you might learn from your mistakes," he said. "But you keep surprising me. So… no name, then?"
"No, Kurt. No goddamn name," she snapped, then hurled a glass tumbler across the room. It shattered against the wall.
"Guess I'm not meant to understand how you do it," he said casually. "Do you know where he stays? Anything about him?"
She could hear him typing—fingers clacking against keys.
"You're not here. There's no way you're here," she said.
He laughed, low and subtle.
"How do you think I knew where you were?"
She bolted back out to the balcony, scanning the streets below.
"I'll give you a hint," he added. "It's blue this time."
"I fucking hate talking to you. I hate knowing you. Fuck you," she hissed.
Her eyes darted to the parking garage a few blocks to the east.
"Warmer," he said.
She scanned the levels in view. The top was most visible.
Nothing blue.
"Ice cold," he snorted. "I moved."
She growled and stomped back inside, dragging the phone from her ear.
She shoved her shoes on and tied the laces quickly.
A buzzing came from the balcony.
No.
No way.
It got louder—closer.
She turned to look. A hummingbird?
No…
She smacked her palm to the side of her head and blinked hard.
It was a drone. Small. Buzzing. Floating a couple feet from her face.
She lifted the phone again.
"Really?"
"Piss off! This thing's awesome," Kurt said, giddy. "Matte black exoskeleton, bug wings. Designed to look like a bird or an insect. Blends in. Best recon build I've ever made."
Rosa groaned and sighed.
"Jesucristo, spare me the details."
"Why the hell are you spying on me?" she asked.
"Well, we've got business to wrap up, and I need you for another job I've been cooking up. Big pay, low risk—not that you care. First, I want my winnings from our bet. The Bruisers won. That's a hundred.
As for the job... I'll tell you more in person—if you promise not to stab me, strangle me, or break any bones."
The drone zipped around the room like a mechanical hummingbird, fluttering and darting through the air.
"This place is nice," Kurt added. "That guy loaded or something?"
"I didn't ask," she replied. "He left me five hundred and said bye. That was it…" She clicked her tongue. "I wanted more."
He made a gagging sound.
"You need some Jesucristo in your degenerate life."
She smirked.
"A degenerate, maybe. But I get what I want most of the time, mister computer. You still watch that… oh, what is it—hentai? Is that the one with young girls or old ones? Hard to tell, they all look the same in those cartoons."
"They're not just cartoons!" he snapped. "They're better than anything else on TV!"
She shrugged.
"Whatever helps you live your life, pendejo. I'll bring you your cash, and we can talk. Where are you?"
The drone zipped out through the sliding glass door. Rosa followed, stepping onto the balcony as it zoomed toward a café a block away—Iggy's Spot.
"I'll be there in a few."
She hung up before he could reply.
She waited a moment. No call came.
Then she grabbed her pistol—a Marauder Type-7C, known across the wastes as the Whisper Fang. Perfect for appendix carry. She never left home without it. The custom holster had a spring-loaded mechanism that could launch it into her hand in a flash.
She pulled her shirt down over it, checked the hallway—clear.
The carpet was patterned in purple and gold arches, walls adorned with electric candelabras instead of typical lights. The ceiling gleamed just enough to reflect her silhouette. At the end of the hall was a massive spiral room, crowned by a gold chandelier trimmed in amethyst and dangling diamond-encrusted pyramids. The electric flames arced and sparked inside their glass spheres, lighting the space with an almost magical glow.
She made her way to the elevator and tapped the button, her foot tapping in sync.
A woman passed by. Rosa caught the scent of weed and smiled to herself.
I gotta get some more.
The elevator dinged. She stepped inside, hit the button for the lobby, and checked her phone. A text from Peter. She ignored it.
The doors opened to the lobby. The smell of bagels and coffee from the hotel café hit her immediately. She headed outside, slipped on her sunglasses, and walked the block to Iggy's Spot.
Inside, she scanned for Kurt.
There he was—a short guy, a little heavyset, but fit enough that it showed he put in gym time. Shirt tucked into a pair of khaki cargo shorts. Not a bad watch. Rosa approached the counter.
"Hey there! What can I get going for ya?" chirped a slim blonde girl in glasses, wearing a brown apron and matching visor. Iggy's Spot was stitched across both in bubbly white letters.
"Just a cold brew, cream and sugar," Rosa said.
"Okay, anything else? We've got some baked stuff you might like."
Rosa shook her head and handed her a ten.
"Keep the change."
She took her coffee and walked over to Kurt's table, sliding into the seat across from him.
His eyes were glued to his laptop. No drone in sight—it was likely recharging or uploading data. He didn't acknowledge her, didn't say a word. Just hummed, grunted occasionally, and sipped on a 16-ounce cup of what looked like mostly cream with a whisper of coffee.
"Sweet tooth, huh?" she asked.
No answer. Just more typing, more clicking. He briefly glanced over his screen at her, then back to work.
"So…" she tapped her fingers on the table, then shrugged. "Good talk."
She started to get up.
"Sit down," he said, raising a hand. "Just let me finish this."
She sighed and sat back down.
The girl from the counter brought over her drink.
"Here you are."
Rosa nodded, took a sip, and glanced at the back of Kurt's laptop. It was covered in stickers—superheroes, action stars, and a few naked ladies for good measure.
She drummed her fingers on the table. Her foot tapped again.
A few more keystrokes—then the drone flew in through the open window and landed neatly in Kurt's hand. He pressed a button on it, set it aside, then shut the laptop and folded his hands on the table.
He looked at her.
"You know you're sloppy as shit, right?"
Rosa sighed, stood up, and turned to leave.
He grabbed her wrist.
She yanked her arm away and glared.
He held up his hands in a placating gesture.
She hesitated, then sat back down—still glaring.
"Lot of fucking nerve, Kurt. Don't touch me again."
He placed a hand on his chest, bowed his head slightly.
"I apologize," he said, then laid both hands on the table.
"But you've been sloppy. The drinking, the smoking… the fucking."
She snorted, grinning, and flipped him the bird.
He gave her the look of a disappointed parent.
"You've been all over the place. I want to know why. What happened?"
She crossed her arms and looked down at the floor.
"You should already know, spy guy."
Kurt leaned back in his seat, scratched his chin.
"Peter?"
She clicked her tongue.
"Bingo."
Kurt gets a confused look on his face when Rosa glances at him, taking another sip of her coffee.
"What happened?" he asks.
Rosa raises an eyebrow. "You don't know? How could you not know?"
He shrugs. "I haven't spied on you that much. What happened with Peter? Tell me."
She sighs. "Can we at least talk outside? I need another smoke."
He nods and packs up his laptop.
Outside, Rosa takes a seat on a bench. Kurt stands nearby—shorter than she remembered, but the muscles were still there. He watches her with expectant eyes.
She lights a cigarette and blows smoke toward him. He fans it away.
"Fuck off. Just tell me already," he says.
"He left," she says flatly. "Wanted to be like his dad. Kill bad guys. He went to the desert—Africa, I think. Puto idiota. I wanted him to stay. I asked him. I offered to pay for everything. But no, he wanted to be 'in the shit.' So he's not here. And I'm alone again."
She takes a long drag and blows the smoke away from Kurt this time. He watches her quietly.
"So fuck him. I'll drink, smoke, and fuck as much as I want. And if I see him again, I'll tell him all about it. I'll tell him how much fun I had while he was off playing soldier, like killing motherfuckers was more important than his fucking fiancée!"
She looks around, realizing she's shouting. Another drag.
"That's what fucking happened."
Kurt brings a hand to his mouth, thinking. He stares into the concrete like it holds the answers.
"Peter's more rational than that," he says, scratching his cheek.
Rosa laughs—too hard. She coughs and spits a loogie into the street.
"He's a jarhead. Loves his orders. Wants to be a good little soldier. Meanwhile, I'm here, alone. He was all I wanted. Everything. He filled every need. He gave me stability. Compassion. He was my shoulder to bawl into if I had a shit day or just needed to cry. He was my rock, goddammit—and he just left. Poof. Like I meant nothing."
A few heads turn. Rosa doesn't care. She lights another cigarette and flicks the old one into a sewer drain.
"Can we move on to business now? I've had enough drama and gossip."
She pulls a clip of bills from her back pocket, slides out a crisp hundred, and extends it toward him.
"For the bet."
"Nah, keep it," he says, smirking. "We'll hit the bar after this—you can buy me a few rounds. But first, we gotta go back inside. I need my laptop to explain everything."
Rosa bows her head slightly and holds an arm out, palm up, mockingly. "Spymasters first."
Kurt raises a clenched fist, his other hand slapping his bicep. "Eat shit."
They head back inside and sit. Rosa sips her coffee as Kurt opens his laptop.
"Okay, so—no multiple choice this time. Fixers aren't pumping out jobs like they used to. I've got a gas station that's been manufacturing meth in an underground lab. Attendant's in on it. He's the key inside. You get close, worm your way in, and grab what you can carry. I'll send you in with luggage to haul the product. I can even set you up with a two-man crew if you want."
She scoffs. "You know I don't work well with others. Cuts into my profits."
Kurt shakes his head. "It also puts all the risk on you. If something goes sideways, if someone gets the jump on you, you're alone."
She sips her coffee again, dragging it out with a little slurp. "Mhm. And I get all the reward when I come home. I don't have to babysit some rookie who is shit at everything."
Kurt chuckles. "Not everything."
She snaps her eyes to his. "Everything. My last partner couldn't even break into a Kamada Axis with a screwdriver or wire hanger. Couldn't figure out the lock or some shit. That was the first car I learned to boost. Drove it into the river just outside town."
Kurt smirks. "I know someone. Someone good. Like you. He's been at this a long time. Made himself—and me—very rewarded. He's looking to expand—"
Rosa kicks his shin under the table.
"Gah! Wha—?" He looks at her, confused, then catches on.
He nods and waves it off. "Fine. No other bodies. You want the job or not?"
She doesn't answer right away, just stares. He feels a chill run down his spine.
"Would you quit that? Freaking me the hell out," he mutters.
"No. Fucking. Bodies. And I mean never. I work alone. From now until I'm ashes—or worse."
Kurt wipes sweat from the back of his neck and dries his hand on his shorts. "I'll never bring it up again," he promises, miming a zipped lip and tossing away the invisible key.
"I get into the lab, grab what I can, then what?" Rosa asks. "That's a lot of hot cargo."
"You'll take a ride from there. Someone's dumping a car with the keys in the wheel well. Feel for a cutout, push in. Inside the rig, there'll be coordinates in the center console compartment."
"Any resistance?" she asks, scratching her forehead.
He nods. "Tweakers guarding their chemical gold. Nothing you can't handle."
She smirks. "You've never seen a tweaker in a life-or-death situation, have you?"
He shakes his head. She nods. "I'll deal with it. When and where?"
He hands her a folder labeled Scouted.
"Everything's in there. Got you as much intel as I could. You pick the window and hit it."
She stands and turns to leave. He rises, too.
"Just like that? What about our usual bullshit session after the business?"
She glances over her shoulder. "Business hasn't concluded."
Then she leaves the café and hails a cab.
"Where to?" asks the cabbie.
"482 Marlowe Ridge Drive. I'll pay extra if you're quick," she says.
He nods and hits the gas.