“How much did you have to pay him?” asked Marisa, practically shouting to be heard over the pounding music.
“Pay him?” asked Anja with a laugh. “I just pointed at Sahara’s dress and let his business sense do the talking. Those guys in line outside will wait hours to get in and try to pick us up.”
The club was packed with people, dancing on the open floors or crowded around the circular bars that rose up like glowing blue trees. The ceiling rippled with a pattern of dark blue circles, shifting and interlocking like unpoppable bubbles, and here and there a thick oval pillar shimmered with a coruscation of otherworldly green. Even the floor seemed to glow, faint lights tracing waves under their feet, and as the girls pushed their way through the crowd Marisa couldn’t tell if the lines were moving, or if it was just an optical illusion.
A raised stage bulged out from one wall, the same bulbous shape as the glowing bars, and an Aidoru band was projected there in full 3D, playing a variety of impossible instruments synced almost flawlessly to the music. It was Kopo music, of course, a kind of Korean/African fusion that had gripped the LA scene for nearly three months, drums and bass and synthesizers creating a seamless wall of dance-hall techno; Marisa started moving in time to the familiar rhythms, dancing almost unconsciously as they made their way across the floor. Her dress glittered, catching the blue and purple lights from the ceiling and refracting it into a riot of rainbow colors. A tall Chinese boy caught her eye and danced toward her, dressed in black jeans and a cowboy shirt that seemed to shimmer in the light. Marisa smiled back slyly, signaling a quick I’ll catch up with you later to Anja and Sahara. She danced with the boy for a moment before moving deeper into the crowd, eager to explore all her options before spending too much time with any one guy. They were barely into the second song of the night when Sahara pinged her with a single, wordless photo: Sahara and Anja, on a plush red couch, sitting with the man they’d glimpsed leaving Anja’s house the night before. He was even more gorgeous than Marisa remembered, but she couldn’t help but scowl. Hadn’t Anja said that was her dealer? There was no way Marisa was letting her buy more Bluescreen.
Marisa left the dance floor immediately, wiggling her fingers in a flirty farewell to the muscly Mexican boy she’d been dancing with. She blinked her tracker back on, and followed the ethereal line through the dancing crowd to a small cluster of furniture in the corner. The handsome stranger sat between the two girls, dressed in cream-colored pants and a red jodhpuri suit accented with burnished brass buttons. He looked maybe twenty years old, his hair a dark brown mess of calculated chaos, his stubbled chin strong and narrow, his slim nose as sharp as an axe. He smiled up at Marisa as she approached, the corner of his mouth wrinkling in a kind of boundless confidence. Rich trash, thought Marisa. It was people like him that were bleeding the rest of the city dry. She smoothed her dress and sat demurely on a plush red chair opposite the couch, crossing her legs and smiling back with a nonchalance she’d spent hours perfecting in her bedroom mirror.
“Saif,” said Anja, “this is our friend Marisa. Marisa, this is Saif.”
Cameron buzzed idly overhead, probably looking for a good vantage point to perch on, but Camilla was resting silently on the Synestheme table between them, soaking up as much of the conversation as her speakers could pick up in the noisy club.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” said Saif, nodding politely. He smiled again. “Didn’t I see you last night at Anja’s house?”
A message from Sahara popped up in the corner of Marisa’s eye: He didn’t say that to me.
Marisa faked a smile. “Was that you? I wasn’t really paying attention.” She stole a glance at his cheekbone, trying not to stare, then hid the glance by tracking her eyes all the way down to the Synestheme, touching the screen to call up the drink menu. She knew she should stay polite, but couldn’t stop herself from making at least one subtle jab. “You had the car, right? The Daimyo? I hope it didn’t drive you here—a car that expensive makes a tempting target in a neighborhood like this.”
“You have a good eye for cars. Don’t worry, though—a Daimyo can defend itself pretty well.” He grinned. “Any of those bums outside try to mess with it, they’ll get a surprise.”
Marisa wanted to smack him, but instead laughed as fakely as she could. “Ha, ha! Stupid poor people.”
Another message from Sahara popped up in Marisa’s vision: What the what? I thought you liked this guy.
Not as much as I like laughing at poor people, Marisa sent back. Ha ha!
Saif looked at her a moment, like he was trying to decipher her attitude. After a moment he smiled again, and gestured at the menu screen with as much authority as if he owned the club. “Where are my manners? Please, ladies, have a drink, it’s all on me.”