False Hearts (False Hearts #1)(31)

“We’ve had people plugged in since Friday morning. Why didn’t you tell us this?”

“We only just found out about it. And it’s unlikely, but I wanted to warn you to take precautions.” I am pretty certain the thought has only just occurred to Nazarin. The lines around his mouth are tight. I wonder if he’s thinking about the night he had to provide security to the off-grid lounge. Tila told the SFPD she hadn’t been asked to lucid dream within Zenith yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Was Vuk sent here to tamper with the supply, and is that why Tila came to blows with him?

“I’ll check the Zeal daily myself,” Sal says.

“Good. Please let us know if you find anything unusual and send a sample directly to us for testing. No one else.” His voice sharpens.

“Of course not,” Sal says, all smooth charm.

With a last look out the window at glittering San Francisco sprawling below, the owner of Zenith walks away, and Nazarin and I are left alone.

“Are you OK?” Nazarin asks.

“Yes, I am.” It’s not a lie: my fingers shake a little, and I really want to get out of this room, but I’m holding it together. Mana-ma’s training is in full effect, and I’ve dampened my emotions enough to function. I ask if he thinks Vuk has tampered with the Zeal here and mixed or replaced it with Verve.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so, but I’d rather warn Sal than risk the supply being contaminated.”

“Right. So am I to stay for the whole six hours of Tila’s shift?”

“We’ll see how you get on. If you like, we can leave early.”

“Are you going to be posing as a client?” I ask.

He pauses and turns to me. “Yes. I’ll be watching along with you. It could be someone here knows more than they let on. Pallua, maybe.”

I nod. “OK.”

He moves close and slings an arm around me, and I start in surprise.

He leans close enough for me to feel the heat from his skin. “We have to sell it, don’t we?”

I consider, and then nod, pressing my hip against his, resting my hand against the warm dip in his waist. It feels strange, to be touching a near-stranger like this. It happens so rarely for me, these days. It’s also a comfort. I want to lean closer to him, breathe in the scent of his skin.

In the Hearth, there was a lot of touching. Not necessarily sexual—people just touched each other more. Greeted each other with hugs, or casually threw an arm around someone else. Here in San Francisco, people are more reserved. Maybe that’s why so many feel the need to come to places like Zenith, where they can pretend the barriers between people are thinner.

I shake my head, patting my shorter hair and trying to gain a bit of composure. The door swooshes open. We sidle through, still touching. Nazarin settles into his role with an ease I envy. He laughs, warm and deep in his throat, his hand lingering on my hipbone. I feel the strong ropes of muscle on his back beneath his shirt. I resist the irrational urge to stroke my hand down his spine.

We make our way through the club, which is busier now. Beautiful men and women with perfect bodies, perfect faces, perfect clothes, laughing their perfect laughs and drinking their perfectly delicious drinks. The minty mist of cigs fills the air, mingling with the flattering blue and purple lighting. There’s that sameness to so many people in San Francisco and the rest of Pacifica. When anyone can choose to alter their appearance at will, so many tend to go for the same bland, symmetrical features. Now I feel like I’m a little more like them.

I still miss the simplicity of certain aspects of the Hearth. Knowing that if you looked at someone, it was the face and body they were born with, shaped by their experiences. Everyone in San Francisco wears a mask.

Having said that, there’s plenty about the Hearth I don’t miss one little bit.

We perch at a round table. I access my brainloaded info and lean toward Nazarin to say, “What’ll it be to drink?”

“Gin and tonic,” he replies.

I go to the bar and order two drinks, which will be added to Nazarin’s tab. The bartender’s name is Ira, and he smiles at me as he gives me the glasses. We chat for a bit, but Tila didn’t give much information beyond his name, so I’m glad when other hosts and hostesses come up with their drink orders.

I take my gin and tonics to the table. It’s synthetic, like all alcohol in the city. No damage to the liver, non-addictive, no hangovers. I pass Nazarin his, and we clink our glasses together.

I take a cautious sip and fight the urge to make a face. It lacks the peppery, juniper punch of the true stuff. Not that we had that much of it at sixteen in the Hearth. But at the start of each season, anyone could have a glass or two (or ten, in the case of Mardel) of whatever had been brewed for the celebration. The blueberry vodka from the summer we were fourteen was my favorite.

I wonder if Nazarin’s ever tried real alcohol. If he was raised in cities, in this supposed perfection, and if he’s ever seen through the pretty illusions to the ugliness beneath. He must have, within the Ratel at least. I shudder.

We keep to ourselves as the bar fills with more attractive people. I match the faces and names to the sketches that I gleaned from Tila through the brainload. Eventually, I spy Leylani. She’s tall, with razor-straight dark hair to her waist. She has tanned skin, bright green eyes, and wears small shorts and heels so high my ankles hurt just to look at them. She’s obviously with a client, an Afghani woman in a hijab, wearing a long, dark blue dress with bell sleeves.