Free Devour by Kurt Anderson

with a hairdryer as the epoxy hardened. She had seen it done right before, at a small bar outside Reno, and she had been amazed at how the epoxy had given the long walnut bar a richness and depth that she would never have expected. Her first real job, the carpenter her first real boyfriend. And now, more than a decade later, how many little bubbles were cemented in her? More than a few.
    This bubble now, though, it was still rising. Still ready to pop.
    Remy caught her by the back of her shirt as she started toward the table.
    She turned, angry, and Remy let her go, holding up one finger. She took a breath and he nodded, then looked to the men in front of them until she followed his gaze. They were talking softly, elbows on their knees. When she turned back to Remy, he raised his eyebrows.
    “What?”
    “You know what ,” he said. “You gonna kick ass, you do it then, his paw down your skirt. He expect it then, maybe let you get a couple licks in. You go after him now, one o’ them big bastards just scoop you up, throw your pretty little butt overboard.” He paused, considering. “’Sides, them boys look like they got hard heads. You jus’ hurt your hand.”
    Destiny looked at the row of men standing along the far wall, seven of them in all. Four of them had come in with Latham and looked like crosses between NFL linebackers and mercenaries, close shaven and hard-faced, their pectoral slabs bulging through their black shirts. The other three had come on board with the older dude, Hamilton Prower. Prower was, she thought, the only man in the room who knew how to dress. He looked to be in his late sixties, with a ruddy complexion and a heavy New England accent, his portliness somewhat concealed by his tailored suit. He seemed very cheerful compared to Latham, his blue eyes watching and absorbing, his mouth ready to smile. He had a cane that he used constantly, though he didn’t seem to have much of a limp. The cane, like the rest of Prower, was dressed up nicely: burnished walnut shaft, with gold inlays near the handle.
    Prower’s bodyguards were smaller, ordinary-looking men, their eyes roaming the room constantly but always coming back to the slick-looking dude talking now, Frankie Rollins. One of Prower’s men, Hornaday, seemed to be the boss of the smaller bodyguards, just as the scary-looking dude with bloodshot eyes seemed to be in charge of Latham’s men.
    Another man stood apart from the guards and the three men at the tables. Tall and thin, slightly cadaverous, he had the look of someone not used to standing while others sat.
    One thing all these guys had in common, she thought, there wasn’t one of them going to fool her with kind eyes.
    “Hard heads, huh? Better hand me a wine bottle.”
    Remy’s face was impassive. “They doing business, girl. Go on, see if they want a drink. This good money, hon. You and me both.”
    She bit at her lower lip, closed her eyes for a moment, sealed in the anger. Another bubble, locked into place, never to pop. She reached down, adjusted the short black skirt that was her uniform, along with a white silk blouse and high heels. Nice clothes, but uncomfortable as hell and part of the reason she felt less like a hostess, which was how Frankie had described this gig, and more like the kind of girl who would do whatever, whenever, as long as the price was right. The other reason she felt vaguely whorish was because when Latham slid his hand down her skirt—not the first time something like that had happened—she hadn’t punched him. Which was a first.
    She glanced back at Remy. “Why are they paying us so much?”
    “How much you getting?” Remy asked.
    She pursed her lips. Ten grand for four days’ work, plus expenses. She knew working girls in Vegas, better looking than her, that would consider this a solid gig. And they’d damn sure be doing more than delivering drinks and picking up smelly ashtrays.
    “More than the going rate, let’s say.”
    He grinned. “My