Quinn shows up as Asrid pays the bill despite my protests.
“If I insist on eating healthy, then I foot the bill. Stop arguing with me.” She swipes her card.
“Feeling better?” Sara asks Quinn as he strolls up to us with his hands in his pockets.
“Much.” His eyes are brighter, a glittering silver from which I battle to tear my gaze. They’re too bright. We’re close to the depot, the addicts, and their assorted drugs. I’m not entirely convinced Quinn isn’t using. His unwillingness to eat, him dashing off alone then coming back all sparky—I can’t help being a little suspicious.
Sara and Asrid hold hands and lean into each other as we make our way through the Saturday night throngs. We pass a dozen windows smeared with angry words painted by robots. They must really hate us. Can they hate? We approach Club Haze and it’s splashed with graffiti like every other corner of downtown Baldur.
“I didn’t even ask about the age limit.” Asrid might get in without them asking for ID, but there’s no way I will.
“Didn’t think of that,” Quinn says.
“We’ll wing it T. Don’t worry.” Asrid unbuttons her coat and plumps up her cerise clad cleavage. I deliberately didn’t dress up too much for the gig, not wanting to give Quinn the wrong idea. Now I wish I’d gone with the corset instead of the T-shirt.
There’s a short queue at the door where a guy more hippopotamus than human takes cash and checks IDs.
“I’m not going to get in.”
“We’ll figure it out.” Quinn reassures me. “I don’t have ID either.”
Asrid and Sara go first. Sara hands over the money and her real ID; Asrid hands over cash and a fake one. The bouncer doesn’t look impressed until Asrid pulls Sara into a long kiss. He waves them through, and they wait for us across the threshold.
“ID?” The bouncer bars our way with a meaty forearm.
“We only want to see the band. We’re not going to drink.”
“Please.” Quinn adds in his polite little voice. How can such a big guy have such a quiet voice?
“Not unless I see some ID.”
“Could you please let my friends in?” Asrid leans across the bouncer’s arm and slips a wad of cash into his front pocket. She flutters her lashes a few times, and the hippo nods us through.
“Did you just bribe him?”
“It’s the way the world works, T. What’re you drinking?”
I feel so stupid and naive.
“Is it your first time at a club like this?” Quinn asks as we hand our jackets to the bot behind the wardrobe counter.
“Yeah, yours?”
“I’ve been to bars, but never to a place like this.” Wide-eyed, Quinn turns a full three-sixty, as if absorbing all the details.
“Isn’t it too much for you?” If the neon at the restaurant upset him, surely the strobes and thrumming music will be too much.
“The walk helped me regain equilibrium. “ He smiles, eyes shining, and I’m convinced he’s high. “This is incredible.”
Quinn goes exploring as I join Asrid at the bar. I order a soda despite her taunting me for being boring.
“What’s up with you and Quinn?” Sara asks.
“Nothing, why?” I say too quickly.
“Does Rurik know you’re out with another guy?” Asrid raises her eyebrow and sips on a drink the same color as her top.
“He wouldn’t care. We broke up.” It hurts to say it aloud.
Asrid chokes and splutters. “What? When?”
“Last night.”
“That the real reason you’re home early?”
“Yes.”
“T, I’m so sorry.” Asrid dumps her drink and hugs me.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not right now.”
“So, is Quinn the reason you broke up?” Asrid’s tone changes, becoming accusing.
“Not at all. It’s because Rurik’s a nullhead who cares more about politics than me.”
“Absolutely nothing to do with Mr. Perfect Fingers?” Asrid jerks her head in Quinn’s direction.
I don’t know how to answer that.
“Come on, T. You broke off a fairytale relationship for a guy you barely know?”
“It’s not like that.” My relationship with Rurik was hardly fairytale perfect. This would’ve happened even if Quinn weren’t in the picture.
“So this isn’t a date you’re on?”
“No.”
“And what’s up with that guy anyway? Rushing out of the restaurant and then coming back all happy squirrel.”
“Did you see his eyes?” Sara asks.
“Yeah, hard not to notice. Looks like he’s on flex. High as a freaking satellite.” Asrid turns her disapproving glare on me and folds her arms. “Hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I’m trying to be happy.”
“You’re right.” Asrid wraps an arm around me. “Let’s just have a good time. We can worry about Quinn and everything else tomorrow.”
Despite Asrid nagging me about my dress sense and problematic middle bits, she’s always there when I need her.
The band walks on stage, and I return Asrid’s hug before searching for Quinn. He’s standing off to the side engaged in a fiery argument with a tall black guy. In the murk created by the smoke machine and pulsating lights, I can’t be sure, but I think I’ve seen the guy before. He looks a lot like one of the androids at Nana’s funeral. In fact, he looks exactly like one of the androids, but he’s not wearing an orange armband, and why would Quinn be arguing with a droid?
Quinn turns and sees us approaching, his expression worried.
“Think that’s his dealer?” Asrid asks me under her breath.
“Hope not.”
“Hey Quinn,” Asrid starts calm and unfazed, the epitome of cool. “You going to introduce us to your friend?”
Quinn’s shoulders slump in defeat. “This is Kit.”
“Pleasure to meet you.” Kit shakes our hands, his gaze lingering on me before his face opens in a pearly white grin. “Want something to drink, Quinny?”
Quinn answers him with a glare.
“Not much of a drinker, this one.” Kit pretends to whisper to me. “Never seen him drink much of anything really. Never seen him eat either.” He saunters over to the bar.
Quinn studies the floor, his previous spark snuffed out quicker than a candle flame.
“Something wrong?” I ask. Kit’s right though. I’ve never seen Quinn eat or drink. Maybe Kit’s hinting that Quinn does have a drug issue. Or maybe he’s hinting at something else.
“I’m fine.” He glances at the stage. “Band’s about to play.”
The musicians pick up their instruments and dive straight into a throbbing mix of rock and neo-prog. They sound like Pink Floyd on steroids. I glance at Quinn. He stares unblinking, and I wonder what he’s hearing or seeing beyond the regular harmonies and flickering rainbow strobes. Maybe the synesthesia is nothing more than a side effect of the drugs he’s taking. He did say it was a recent development; maybe his addiction is too. Maybe I could help him with that like he’s helping me with violin. The perfect quid pro quo.
As the band heats up, bringing in synths to add another layer to their music, I slip my hand into his and squeeze his fingers. Perhaps I should establish that Quinn’s even using before I decide he needs saving.