Starflight (Starflight, #1)(53)
“How’d you hurt your ankle?” the woman interrupted, sliding her gaze to Solara’s painted face.
“Turns out,” Solara said, and hiccuped for effect, “I’m a really bad table dancer.”
Renny hung his head. “Your mom’s going to kill me.”
With a barely contained eye roll, the receptionist pushed a data tablet across the desk and nodded toward the area behind them. “Fill this out and wait over there. Someone will call you shortly.”
Renny situated them in the far corner of the waiting room, where Solara drew the gazes of at least two dozen bored patients, gawking at her like they’d never seen a debutante before. She couldn’t blame them. Roles reversed, she probably would’ve stared the hardest. At first the attention made her nervous, but then she heard a familiar name on the news program playing above their heads, and the rest of the lobby ceased to exist.
“Still no word on the whereabouts of Doran Spaulding,” a female journalist said from the ceiling speakers, “the Prodigious Academy alumnus wanted for the same crime that landed his father, president of Spaulding Enterprises, in jail without bond while he awaits trial.”
In unison with Renny, she snapped her gaze to the telescreen, where Doran grinned at them in high definition, standing alongside an older, slightly taller version of himself in a three-piece suit. No wonder Doran couldn’t reach his father—the guy was in lockup.
“According to Solar League officials,” the woman went on, “both father and son orchestrated the theft of a substance known only as Infinium from a heavily guarded government transport. Prosecutors call the evidence damning, but the lead defending attorney continues to deny the charges on behalf of both men, despite the fact that DNA evidence at the scene has linked Doran Spaulding to the crime.”
Infinium? What was that, and why was it so heavily guarded? Solara tried to picture Doran sneaking inside a military vessel and pulling off a heist. There was no way. Maybe he’d done something to accidentally implicate himself.
“The young man is thought to be traveling with an indentured servant, eighteen-year-old Solara Brooks, a convicted felon wanted for questioning in a credit fraud investigation. She can be identified by her permanent tattoos and by the birthmark…”
Solara didn’t wait to see her mug shot appear on the screen. “Get me out of here,” she whispered to Renny, clutching his arm hard enough to make him cringe. For the benefit of everyone watching, she pressed a hand to her lips and moaned, “Oh god. I think I’m gonna be sick.”
He scooped her into his arms and returned to the sour-faced receptionist, who wasted no time ushering them into a private exam room once Solara started making gagging noises. In less than a minute, Solara was sitting on a padded table with a waste receptacle balanced on her lap. Renny whispered encouragements and rubbed her back until they were alone. Then he raked a hand through his hair and hissed a curse.
“Let’s not panic,” he said, contradicting himself by turning in a nervous circle. “With all the makeup you’re wearing, your own mother wouldn’t recognize you.”
“I guarantee she wouldn’t,” Solara muttered. “Go look for the Tissue-Bond. If anyone asks why you’re wandering the halls, tell them I sent you for Fizzy Ale to settle my stomach.”
“Fizzy Ale,” he repeated, nodding.
“Hurry. It won’t take long for them to figure out my ankle isn’t sprained. I’ll stall the exam for as long as I can, but…”
He left before she finished the sentence.
Alone in the sterile room, Solara tried to calm the butterflies in her stomach by reminding herself that Renny was right. Every blemish that made her recognizable, from her birthmark to her tattoos, was hidden beneath a layer of holographic cosmetics. Her fake identity would hold up as long as she didn’t give anyone a reason to question it.
Several minutes later, she heard the click of approaching footsteps and curled into a ball on the exam table, making herself as pitiful as her tight bodice would allow. The door slid open, and a man asked, “Miss Vanderbilt?”
Whimpering, Solara pushed into a sitting position and froze when her gaze landed on the boy in front of her—because with his smooth baby face and waiflike build, nobody would mistake him for a man. As young as he was, she thought he might be an orderly. But then she glanced at the badge affixed to his lab coat, which read DR. DEATH.
That had to be a joke.
“It’s pronounced ‘deeth,’” he said with a sigh, like he made that clarification a thousand times a day. “How are you feeling tonight?” Despite the polite inquiry, the flatness in his tone told her it was just a formality to move things along, clear one room and on to the next. His eyes shifted to a bone scanner mounted on the side wall, and Solara knew she’d have to be creative if she wanted to stall him.
“Much better…now,” she said, grinning and lowering the angle of her chin until she peered coyly at him beneath her lashes. She’d never flirted this way before, but it always worked in the movies.
His businesslike mask vanished, and his mouth opened as if he’d glimpsed an alien and wasn’t sure whether to believe his eyes. Based on his reaction, Solara guessed that most girls found him invisible, and she felt a tug of sympathy for the young doctor. She boldly looked him up and down, from his cropped brown hair to the tips of his sensible shoes, then widened her smile to show that she liked what she’d seen.