“And you’re asking me first? I feel honored.” And Riya Natrajan really does. Rife isn’t the sort of guy who has to go around asking for permission.
“You know me better than that. Don’t shit where you eat, or so the saying goes.”
“Eighty thousand fans. Mass hallucinations. People are still freaked out about this terrorist thing, Rife. It’s too soon.”
“I’ll front the cost for extra security.”
“And my insurance rate hike when someone gets trampled to death?”
“Girlie, you’ve gotta trust me. People will be bragging about this concert for years to come. All you’ve got to do is your part, and let me do mine. I live in the details. I’ve always taken good care of you, cha?”
“I don’t know . . .”
Rife spins her around, pulls her in tight, stabs his tongue into her mouth. Riya Natrajan goes to putty in his arms, damn him and his rugged masculinity. She sucks at his bottom lip, split flesh tasting faintly of blood and jolting a prick of energy through her. Rife cringes at first, then gives himself fully, pressing his mouth so hard against hers, hands sliding up and under her bra. Her nipples turn as hard as the one-carat diamond studs upon her nails.
A minute passes, or maybe an eternity, then they come up for breath, still tethered by a slinky thread of saliva. Riya Natrajan wipes it from Rife’s lips, then notices the cut has vanished. The faintest of scars remains in its place.
Rife brings his hand to the spot. “What the . . .”
Riya stiffens, keeping her excitement hidden. If she can pull other people’s pain, she won’t have to keep hurting herself. “What the what?” she asks timidly.
“My lip?” He exhales the words more than says them. “It’s better.”
“Probably just looked worse than it was.” Riya Natrajan shrugs, then grabs his crotch, toes tingling at the bulk of his erection. She licks the cusp of his ear. That morsel of his pain turns her voice to velvet. “If you make me scream, I might just let you peddle your godsend at my concert.”
“You want to what?” Adam Patel says, cradling his head in his hands. Workers are putting last-minute touches on the stage, setting pyrotechnics, and taking all the props on a run-through. Adam sharply turns his attention to the electrician who’s aiming spotlights. “Iridescent bulbs?” he yells. “What did I tell you about iridescent bulbs? They make Riya look like pastry dough. Fix it!”
“I want to sing at the hospital. To sick people and stuff.” Riya Natrajan nods, as if it will get Adam to agree.
“The day before your concert? A concert that’s currently missing an opening act? You don’t pay me enough, Riya. You really don’t.” He runs his hands through his hair, and for the first time she notices that it’s thinning.
“Write yourself in a nice raise.”
“All the zeros in the world wouldn’t make my headaches go away.”
Riya Natrajan perks, then instinctively reaches out to feed on his discomfort, but he’s already stepped away to yell at some poor slob who’s got the curtains hanging uneven.
“Felicity will come through.” Riya falls into step with him. They climb the double spiral staircase of the center stage, down which she’ll make her grand entrance. “This is way too important for her to miss. This could launch her career!”
“Or ruin yours.” Adam lets out a burdened sigh, then stops, leaning heavily onto the rail. “You can’t just show up at a hospital and demand to see patients. These things are planned weeks ahead of time.”
“But I’m Riya Natrajan, damn it! Doesn’t that mean anything to anybody?”
“Yeah, and the Riya I know wouldn’t be caught dead near a hospital. Sick people? Blood? It’s a nice thought, but now’s not the time to go turning over a new leaf. Let’s face it, you’re not exactly known for your philanthropic endeavors.”
“Are you kidding me? What about all those donations I make to charity, huh? Millions of rand, every year!”
“You mean to the Riya Natrajan Foundation for the Arts?”
“There are others.”
“Could you name one?”
She crosses her arms over her chest and looks out over the expanse of stage beneath them. “I’m going to do it. With or without your help.”
“Riya, please. Can we talk about this when my world isn’t falling apart?”
Riya huffs, and starts down the stairs, salivating from the thought of all those broken bones, heart conditions, burn victims. If all goes well, she should be able to siphon enough pain to get her through this rehearsal.
“Wait,” Adam says, grabbing her arm gently.
“Let go of me!” Riya Natrajan shrieks and then shoves him. Hard. Adam stumbles backward over the stair railing and plummets down to the secondary stage below.
“Adam!” She rushes down the stairs, heart beating like a hammer in her chest. She gets there first, bites her lip as she looks at Adam’s leg bent horribly behind him. Riya Natrajan places her hand on his chest, ignoring his moan, and stiffens as the rush of endorphins surges through her, filling her to the brim. She doesn’t want to draw suspicion, so she leaves behind the bruises and scrapes, and the slightest sprains in his elbow and knee.
“Are you all right?” she whispers.
“My leg,” Adam moans.
“Can you wiggle your toes?”
Adam does, and Riya puts on a smile. “Not broken. Probably just banged up a bit. You’re lucky.”
“You’re lucky I don’t sue your ass for pushing me over the railing!” Adam winces.
Riya puts her hand behind his back and helps him sit up as stagehands swarm. She then says gently into his ear, “Give yourself a raise, Adam. Whatever you want. You deserve it.”
“Don’t you have some hospital to crash? Maybe you could give me a ride if you’re going that way.”
Riya Natrajan clears her throat. Her voice wells up within her, smooth as butter. “You know I don’t go near hospitals. Sick people give me the creeps.” She leans over and gives him a peck on the cheek. “Besides, I’ve got rehearsing to do.”
Chapter 25
Muzi
Muzi peels himself up from the ground for the third time in as many possessions. He spits dirt, grass, and blood from his mouth, then gives Elkin the stink eye. That no good ass-weasel is lobbing the ball back, slow, arching, high passes that set Muzi up to get his pip clocked by stocky Edgerstone Badgers. The Badgers are as intimidating as hell, dressed in black and dark green, faces locked in permanent scowls. They work together with superhuman synchronization, more like rogue bots than teenagers. It doesn’t help that Elkin’s still steaming over what happened back at his house. Elkin could give rocks whether their team wins or loses tonight, so long as Muzi suffers in the process.