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  “I was talking to that woman, you know. You interrupted a very interesting conversation.” The corner of Elle’s mouth curved up.

  “I doubt that.” Jackson focused on her whiskey.

  “God, you’re so…has anyone ever told you how arrogant you are?” Elle didn’t really sound as if she minded.

  “Yeah, I may have heard that a few times.” Jackson shrugged.

  They sat for several minutes without speaking. The thumping base from the dance floor enveloped them. Jackson could feel the music in her chest like the pulse of a second heartbeat.

  “I haven’t seen you here before.” Jackson tried for neutral.

  “Is that the line you’re going to lead with?”

  “Is it a line if it’s the truth?” Jackson relaxed against the bar and half rotated to face Elle. She braced with her foot on the floor.

  “What do you want me to say?” Elle seemed momentarily vulnerable, or unsure. “I’m not a regular?”

  “I didn’t mean anything by the comment.” Jackson softened her words. “I only meant that if you’d been here before, I’d have noticed.” An equally unoriginal line, but she meant it as a compliment. Was Jackson normally this inarticulate? If so then maybe she should consider talking even less. She regarded Elle over the rim of her glass as she took a sip.

  “Thank you, I think.” Elle dropped her hand to her lap, revealing the green coin again.

  Jackson sensed the scales tip ever so slightly in her favor. Elle’s long dark lashes closed for an instant, and when she opened them she gave Jackson a soul destroying, heart stopping smile. Jackson fought the urge not to feel invested in where this was headed. She was beginning to sense the burn from that irresistible spark of attraction, the sort of spark you couldn’t snuff out easily. Elle’s skin was smooth and smelled of something both earthy and floral, her eyes were warmly appraising, and Jackson couldn’t help wondering if she was what Elle was looking for. She hoped so. Some women didn’t go for the butch-femme dynamic.

  Elle shifted on the stool, turning only a little in her direction. The deep vee of her blouse offered a teasing glimpse of cleavage. She wouldn’t have described Elle as athletic, but she definitely looked fit. Jackson figured her for a runner. The pants she was wearing hugged her svelte thighs like leggings, tapered at the ankle above—now that was an interesting detail. Elle had the look of a woman who preferred heels, but she was wearing sensible flats. Maybe it was the soggy weather. Regardless, heels or no heels, Elle was indisputably sexy and Jackson wanted to take this whole encounter upstairs for further exploration.

  * * *

  Elle watched Jackson’s confident repositioning. Jackson swiveled to face her, planted one booted foot on the floor, and undressed Elle with her eyes. Her skin warmed and she worried that Jackson might suspect she was a novice at this whole sex club scene. Hadn’t she just admitted as much?

  She knew about the Green Club because of her friend Jasmine, but she’d never actually paid for a coin, let alone planned to cash it. She usually preferred the safe distance of perusing dating apps.

  Yet, here she was, green side up.

  She still hadn’t decided if her decision to venture to this place was about some search for adventure or just desperation. Her last attempt at a hookup had been sort of a disaster. The woman had seemed safe enough based on her profile, but reality didn’t completely match the profile. The misfire of that encounter had kept her off the app for weeks. It had been just as well that nothing had happened. Who had time to actually date anyway? She was too focused on her research, and any time outside the lab was spent grabbing a few hours of sleep or worrying that her research would never get any traction with the higher-ups.

  Stop thinking about work.

  If she didn’t connect with someone physically, and soon, she feared she was going to lose her mind. Elle desperately wanted someone to rescue her from herself. She wanted someone to get her out of her head.

  There it was again. She’d lost herself in her thoughts, while Jackson’s blue-gray eyes were laser focused on her breasts. She chose to interpret that as a compliment. But was Jackson her type? Could she even go through with this? Elle would never describe flirtation as one of her top skills. She was too direct. She knew that if she took five minutes to apply eye liner and lipstick, and wore something besides a lab coat, that she could pull off “pretty.” At least she knew that much about herself. So, this whole uncomfortableness-with-seduction thing wasn’t a lack of confidence in the looks department, but in the experience department, well, that was another story. Elle preferred to know exactly what was happening, the steps that it would take to get there, and the payoff. This whole mating ritual thing was a black hole of unknowns.

  “Would you like another drink?”

  Elle hadn’t even noticed her glass was empty. Her response time slowed as she calculated the effects of more alcohol in her system and the consequences that would have on her ability to make smart choices.

  There was no denying that Jackson was roguishly attractive, handsome even. Jackson was close to six feet, with broad shoulders and long legs, the muscles of her thighs strained against the fabric of her slacks. Elle wondered if that sort of physique required chemical enhancement because Jackson was just a little too perfect. She was extremely fit and had the demeanor of someone in law enforcement. Jackson was wearing a dark colored dress shirt, but her brownish-khaki pants and shiny black boots looked like the lower half of a uniform of some sort. Possibly she was on the police force, Homeland Security or—the dark stubble of a crew cut made Elle guess military. Something about Jackson told Elle that she was used to telling lesser ranking personnel what to do. She had no doubt that Jackson was more experienced, and probably great in bed. She oozed sexual confidence. The trait that gave Elle pause was her arrogance. Jackson seemed so sure that Elle would swoon beneath all the swagger that Elle wanted to reject her advance, assuming she made one, simply on principle.

  But the Green Club wasn’t a place for principles, it was a place for one thing—sex.

  “Since you seem to be the only person this bartender pays attention to, yes, I’ll have another gin and tonic.” She decided to give this encounter a little more room to breathe.

  As before, the bartender scurried over the moment Jackson signaled and their second round was delivered promptly. Around them, the music and the uneven hum of voices seemed to grow louder. The noise was making it hard to think. Elle closed her eyes and pressed her fingers against her temple.

  “Headache?” asked Jackson.

  “No, just the noise.” She glanced over at Jackson. The second drink was kicking in. She rolled her shoulders and straightened on the uncomfortable barstool.

  “We could go somewhere quieter.” Jackson’s words cut through the clamor.

  Okay, decision time.

  The green coin bounced light from the dance floor strobe as if sending her a signal. But what? Agree or abort? Stop or go? Her hand rested near the coin as she considered flipping it to red.

  Chapter Two

  Elle studied the mosaic pattern on the carpet floor in an attempt to quiet her nerves as they rode the narrow lift to the third floor. Jackson seemed completely at ease. Given the bartender’s attentive, familiar behavior, she assumed Jackson was a regular. Should she feel lucky or offended?

  The door swished open and Jackson motioned for her to exit the elevator first. The hallway had low lighting similar to the bar and the décor was minimal, sterile even, except for the fact that each door was painted a deep forest green. Halfway down the hallway from the elevator, Jackson stopped near an unoccupied room. She paused with her hand on the sliding handle. Was she giving Elle a moment to reconsider?

  Jackson opened the door; she followed and stood silently as Jackson slid the latch to “Occupied.”

  It wasn’t as if the door was locked. If she wanted to she could stop this at any time. She told herself these things in a very scientific way, as if anything about this scenario was cont
rolled or controllable. That’s what made it exciting, right? She’d wanted to get out of her head and feel something, right?

  The room was obviously only meant for one purpose. Jackson ripped a plastic band from the wall mounted bed that read “Sterilized.” The simple, monochromatic bedding was tucked at the corners with formal precision. Jackson crumpled the plastic and tossed it into the corner. She sat on the edge of the bed and started unlacing her boots. She didn’t look at Elle, and that made her wonder if this was some tactic to tip the balance of power, make her uneasy by ignoring her.

  She couldn’t help noticing Jackson’s long fingers and her strong hands as she worked the laces free. Her biceps flexed beneath the dress shirt that pulled taut across her muscled shoulders when she bent over. Elle swallowed and considered the possibility that she was in over her head. Serious second thoughts began to swarm, and she was about to reach for the door when Jackson stood.

  “Music, volume low.” Jackson spoke to the room.

  A nondescript instrumental piece began to play, something you might hear in a soundtrack for a film—strings, and the occasional minor key change.

  Jackson slowly swept her palm down Elle’s arm. She shivered.

  “Kiss me.” Jackson placed her other hand at the base of Elle’s neck, beneath her hair.

  How had she managed that maneuver so stealthily?

  Jackson pressed her lips to Elle’s. Jackson held her firmly. She yielded, parting her lips until she felt Jackson’s tongue tease hers. She rested her palms at Jackson’s waist and squeezed lightly with her fingers. She angled her head as Jackson deepened the kiss. Her heart rate ratcheted up. She sensed Jackson’s hand move down her ribs to her hip and then, and then…Jackson’s hand on her ass pulling her closer. She broke the kiss.

  This was happening too fast.

  “Wait.” The word came out breathy.

  “Why?” Jackson kissed her neck and continued to caress with her fingers in very sensitive places. “Your kiss tells me you don’t truly want me to stop.”

  “This was a mistake, I’m sorry.” She pushed against Jackson’s rock-hard abs, moving out of her embrace. She reached for the latch, but Jackson followed and stood behind her with arms braced on either side, blocking the door.

  “Don’t go.” Jackson spoke very close to her ear, a request rather than a command this time.

  “This just isn’t who I am. I’m…” She didn’t rotate to face Jackson, whose firm body pressed against her back. She exhaled, weighing what course of action to take.

  “Look at me.” In contrast to the strength of her body language, Jackson’s words were soft.

  Jackson’s palms were still braced, with outstretched arms against the door. The scent of Elle’s hair invaded her air space. The smell was lightly floral and familiar. Elle rotated, tucking her hair behind her ear as she slowly looked up to meet Jackson’s gaze.

  Camille. Memory whispered her name.

  Jackson’s subconscious had become her enemy. She dropped her arms and took a step back. She stared at Elle, breathing hard. The room began to shrink and then tilt. That movement, the way Elle touched her hair, the expression on her face, the smell of her hair, the way her eyelashes seemed to flutter in slow motion, her vulnerability, the leaving—all of it came crashing down on Jackson. A horrible reminder of what she’d lost.

  “Is something wrong?” Elle’s expression was somewhere between puzzled and concerned.

  Jackson’s throat was dry. She took another step back and dropped to the edge of the bed, afraid that if she didn’t sit down she might pass out. She stared at the floor because she couldn’t look at Elle. Elle knelt in front of her, invading her line of sight. She felt the warmth of Elle’s hands on her thighs as she squeezed her eyes shut to block out the room.

  “Hey, should I call someone? Are you ill?”

  “No.” The knot in her throat made her response sound like a hoarse whisper. Jackson pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes.

  Elle stroked her face.

  “Don’t…don’t touch me.” She batted Elle’s hand away.

  “Okay, just relax, and breathe.”

  Elle’s tenderness was making it worse—the hurt, the loss, the despair. Tears threatened and one escaped to travel down her cheek. Fuck, she was going to lose it. She swallowed the memories and covered her face with her hands. That was the trouble with memories, they held on and sometimes refused to let go. Even if you tried to train your mind to bury them, to cut them loose.

  Maybe she’d made one too many jumps.

  Maybe it was starting to mess with her head for real.

  She’d discovered that no matter where the Slingshot dropped her off, everything she’d tried to leave behind was still with her. Even in the past, she was unable to truly escape the present.

  The problem was she could never outrun the memories. Even if she could travel to a time before they existed, before she existed, the memories remained. Those remembrances were like cold, echoing, erratic surges of feeling that she had no control over. A scent in the air would remind her of the perfume Camille wore on that day, the day they first met. Sometimes nothing more than the sound of someone laughing, a particular kind of laugh, light and airy, would bring everything rushing back. Even the remoteness of strangers reminded her of the day she’d lost her. The day her life slipped beyond Jackson’s reach.

  Like an ever-present shadow, the memories remained.

  She took several deep breaths and exhaled. The spinning room began to settle, and she remembered she wasn’t alone. She sensed the closeness of Elle, the warmth of her body, now quietly seated on the bed next to hers.

  “I need to leave.” Feeling somewhat stabilized, Jackson pulled on her boots. She loosely tied them and tucked the excess laces into the top.

  She stood and walked to the door without turning around. She hesitated and grasped the handle to still her shaking hand.

  “I’m sorry.” She stepped through the door without looking back.

  She took the stairs rather than the lift. The club was like some bizarre alternative reality. Jackson shoved her way through the thick crowd. At the exit, she had to circle back because in her haste she’d forgotten to claim her coat. The shoulders were still soaked and cold when she tugged it on. She held the front closed as she left the club and strode down the covered passageway toward the nearest train station. She left the cover and safety of the enclosure to cross the street. The door made a sucking sound as it sealed behind her to safeguard the air inside. If she walked very far in the open, she’d need a re-breather, but it was a quick crossing to the elevated station platform.

  The rain had stopped, but large puddles remained on the crumbling street making it hard to judge where the pavement was broken. Jackson dodged puddles, not knowing how deep the water was or where the concrete had crumbled. A black sedan bearing a military insignia on the door slowed. A train swept past on the track above at the same moment a flood light from the vehicle swept over her position. She simply held up her palm in greeting.

  “You want a lift, Captain?”

  She recognized the voice as First Lieutenant Nikki West. She approached the car.

  “Yeah, thanks, Nik.” This was a lucky break. It was too messy to walk, and the train would be crowded and Jackson wasn’t in the mood for a crowd. She rounded the car and got in on the passenger side.

  “Hey, you okay? You don’t look so good.” Nik hit the gas.

  “Bad day.” Jackson slouched in the seat, with the collar of her coat pulled up around her ears. She wanted to disappear. “Would you mind dropping me at my place?”

  “Sure.”

  Jackson was thankful that Nikki knew her well enough to be able to tell she wasn’t in the mood for small talk. Nikki didn’t ask her any other questions, and Jackson was happy to sit in silence for the ride.

  She angled her head and watched the dingy city sweep past. Piles of garbage punctuated several corners. Tent cities invaded abandoned buildings and
spilled out onto the surrounding concrete. The tents on the sidewalk sagged from the heavy rain earlier in the evening. Every so many blocks, a working streetlight offered a small oasis against the oppressive darkness. The naked bulb’s reflection multiplied by puddles of various sizes in the eroding asphalt. This was a mixed neighborhood; better than some, worse than others. It bordered the more affluent parts of the city, the parts that could afford uninterrupted solar power, piped-in purified air, and water. There were a few buildings near the Green Club that had suffered enough gentrification to have all the modern conveniences, but they were surrounded by the less fortunate.

  “Fuck!” Nikki slammed on the brakes. “I didn’t even see them—Jeezus.”

  The seat belt pressed into Jackson’s chest. A woman and child crossed in front of the car. Both were hollow-eyed and had clothing several seasons past wearable. The child held a breather to her lips and locked eyes with Jackson as Nikki accelerated again.

  So many people had nothing.

  Jackson wondered how people continued to have kids given the future was a toss-up. Resentment was palpable in the air for public officials and industry leaders who, for decades, had turned a blind eye as most of the world was swallowed up by the rising sea. Those that weren’t wading away from their submerged coastal cities were slowly being smothered by toxic air. In the end, it wasn’t that the one percent exploited the working class, or the planet, it was that they just didn’t care. They didn’t care about anything except the almighty dollar.

  Jackson couldn’t help but wonder about the long game of that approach. Where do you spend all that money when the world is dead?

  The scientific community and anyone who was really paying attention had been warning about climate change for almost a hundred years, at least since the 1970s. But the problem was so big as to be almost ungraspable. The death of the planet? Who could get their head around that?