Free Sugar Skulls by Lisa Mantchev, Glenn Dallas Page A

yet.”
    “Cool, man, cool. Keep in touch. I might have a few additions to your itinerary.” He offers his hand before I can press for details. “This awkward bit of small talk was a delight. See you around.”
    I nod, ignoring the handshake, pissed I couldn’t get more out of him. After I carry two cases out to the bar for him, I launch back into the mob scene in search of an exit. Even the chaos of the Palace is preferable to shadow games with Rete.
    I begin scanning for the right cover. The skylight trick only works as a way in, so I need a decent-sized group looking for some fresh air, and I can slip out with them.
    Before someone spots me first.
    V
    It practically takes a crowbar to extract myself from Adonis’s grip. Every time I move one hand away, another materializes, holding on to my waist, running down my back, sliding a finger along the edge of my skirt.
    Fabric ripping. Fingers wrapped around my neck—
    My throat starts to close with panic until I realize that I’m imagining it.
    Remembering it?
    The applejack is fucking with me, that’s for sure.
    “What’s the matter?” Adonis murmurs into my mouth.
    “Nothing, I guess.” I expect the words to slur a bit, but they run together like water into a drainage ditch. “I need—” Shit. What do I need? A minute ago, I wanted to climb on top of him. Then the drugs had me imagining the overture to a fucking assault. Three seconds to catch my breath ought to even this out. “I need to visit the ladies’ room.”
    “Don’t go yet,” he complains, dark eyes trying to memorize my face.
    Fair enough. With all the new faces, he could lose me in the crowd in a hot second.
    “I’ll be right back, I promise.” I kiss the golden god one more time to seal the deal, but before he’s quite done, I pull away and duck into the crowd.
    The music transforms the dance floor into a mosh pit, elbows and arms jostling me from all sides. I ride the tide toward the bar and smack into the only guy in the room not dancing.
    “Sorry about that,” I purr into his chest, then look up.
    The guy’s face comes into focus, and it’s him. Him. What’s his name? Shit. The guy . . . from Hellcat Maggie’s. The drugs in my system ate his name for breakfast, but I’d recognize him anywhere. Just like before, he’s trying to fade into the shadows. Unlike every other writhing, grinding, sweating body on the dance floor, he doesn’t want to be noticed. He isn’t part of the scene. He isn’t moving to the music. He isn’t high on anything.
    He isn’t on the grid.
    Before he can bolt, I grab his wrist. My other hand locks on to one of his belt loops. “Where are you headed, love?”
    His eyes jump from my hand on his waist to my eyes, but except for a raised eyebrow, he’s still stone-faced. He mumbles something about “important” or “urgent” or whatever, but all I hear is “I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date.”
    “You . . . don’t remember me?” I peer at him, the sharp pain in my chest shifting from disappointment to relief.
    Not a spy, then. Or the worst one in history, if he can’t recognize Clark Kent without his glasses.
    Which makes him just a guy. And I’m not that girl with the voice, I’m just a body. A warm body. Shit, a really hot fucking body, liquid gold running through my veins. I can feel the sweat gather in the small of my bare back as I lean into him. “Really?”
    He steps back and bumps right into the wall. His hands are rough and callused, trying to pry mine from his belt loop, but he’s going at it gently. The next time he speaks, I get every word.
    M
    “I’m sorry, believe me, I wish I did remember you.” A pause. “I have a hard time believing I wouldn’t remember you.”
    Okay, there are distractions, there are distractions , and then there’s this girl, glistening with sweat and radiating pure, unadulterated sex. Her barely-there shirt offers tantalizing glimpses, her untamed ringlets of hair bouncing with