My phone kept ringing—chiming church bells this time. The apartment is not in the Zone, I reminded myself. My cheap phone had just obviously been infected with magic juice.
I didn’t really believe in magic, but uranium was a dangerously reactive element. Which thought raised an unease that had been niggling in the back of my mind all day—what was in those pink particles? Of course, for all I knew, we’d all be blown sky-high before we had to worry about pink-particle contamination.
Once I had the casserole cooking, I checked my caller list. Max.
I really, really couldn’t afford to offend a senator, no matter how weird he made me feel. And I owed Andre a lot, as well, so I at least owed him an argument with my ex-do-gooder boyfriend’s conscience in an effort to keep the Feds from condemning the rest of the Zone. Still, it was hard wrapping my mind around Dane as Max—which was probably why I was avoiding him.
With a sigh, while my casserole cooked, I settled into a comfy chair in Julius’s front room and called Max back. I sure hoped no one was tapping his line or recording his calls, because they’d wonder why a powerful senator was talking to little old fractious me.
“Justy, I need you over here, now!” he shouted.
Okay, that was a surprise. I stared at the phone a full minute before returning it to my ear. “Why?” I asked cautiously.
He sounded immensely weary this time. “Because I asked you to, please?”
Wow, it surely must be serious for Macho Man to use the p-word. “Can I tell Andre that you’re not shutting him down?” I’m a tough negotiator.
“I can’t shut anyone down,” he said with disgust. “I have to stay as far from my family’s freaking plant as I can these days. Acme is a conflict of interest—you know this. I just wanted Andre to tell me what the hell was happening and if you were all right.”
The Max I knew would never give up, but I really didn’t know this Dane/Max person. Heck, I didn’t even know if souls inhabited brains or if he still had Dane’s brains or how in hell he was dealing with this weirdness. I grimaced as the microwave bell dinged. “Okay, let me feed a few people. Where should I meet you?”
“In Dane’s condo. Hurry, will you?” He gave me the address and we signed off.
I wouldn’t be human if my pulse didn’t beat a little harder at the thought of visiting a hunky senator in his luxury tower, but I had no intention of being anyone’s secret girlfriend. Max couldn’t parade me to embassy dinners, and I can’t stomach politicians, so we were so far from compatible as to inhabit different universes.
But Max had once been a friend. I could be there if he needed me.
I delivered the casserole and rolls to Julius, letting him work out how to feed whoever was hanging out in the warehouse.
Relieved that I no longer had to waste my evenings studying, I took Milo back to my place. Saturday night and now I had a date, of sorts. I glanced at my usual threads, removed the cotton T-shirt, found a fancier bra, donned a satiny shirt with my jeans, and considered myself well dressed. I added a leather jacket—after all, it was September and I was riding a Harley.
With my lion’s mane from the devil, I didn’t have to worry about helmet hair. I just snapped my hair into a clip I could take down when I got there. I wasn’t into bling, so Max would just have to take me as he’d found me.
I tried not to be too nervous when I drove up to the security gate at Dane’s place in Bethesda. The towering condos, ornate fence, and elaborate fountains screamed money, but the Vanderventers had million-dollar lines of credit at Tiffany. They could own homes like this all over the world.
I was just having difficulty picturing my biker Max living like this. He used to crash in a dive even more pathetic than my old one.
But it wasn’t my scruffy, curly-haired Max meeting me at the door once I was buzzed in. Senator Dane Vanderventer, with his stylishly coiffed chestnut hair, greeted me, wearing gabardine trousers, a quietly elegant tailored shirt, and a loosened silk tie.
We stared at each other uneasily. The senator was a little taller than Max had been, a little leaner, but he was still one good-looking dude, with broad shoulders and narrow hips and piercing blue eyes. His dimpled chin was even more impressive than Kirk Douglas’s.
“Lookin’ good, Justy,” he murmured as I removed my jacket.
The voice didn’t sound right, but the words were pure Max, and a shiver crept down my spine. He was the only one who used that nickname. Once upon a time I used to fling myself into his welcoming bear hug when he said that. I wanted to do so again. But it wasn’t the same.
Nervously, I resisted any such impulse. Hugging my elbows, I glanced around at the designer-decorated pad. Neutral tans and browns with splashes of black. Fat suede cushions, leather recliner, a huge flat-screen TV hidden behind a faux painting over the fireplace. It was obvious a man owned the place but didn’t really live there. No beer cans.
Gathering my wits, I dropped my jacket over the arm of the couch and sat down, crossing my leg over my knee and peering up at him as if I belonged here. “Okay, I’m here. I’m creeped out. It’s been a rotten long day, and I don’t want to fight. What do you need?”
In a familiar Max gesture, he ran his hand through Dane’s styled hair, disturbing the wax or whatever it is politicians use to maintain that polished image. A hank fell down over his forehead, and I almost smiled. I used to tease Max about the curl in the middle of his forehead.
“I need sanity, among other things,” he said bluntly. “Dane was a lying, cheating bastard. I’m still trying to pry his girlfriends out of my hair. Currently, they’re threatening to go to the media and tell them what a horse’s ass Dane is. I’ve told them to go ahead. I’d rather not even run for dogcatcher if it means putting up with their histrionics.”
“Histrionics, that’s good,” I said, knowing he was just venting and that he didn’t need me for this. “That’s a Max word if I ever heard one. If you used it on his bimbos, they know you’ve flipped out.”
A corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Yeah, after I blocked one girl’s calls, she threatened to call my grandmother to tell her I need psychiatric help. Dane didn’t mess with two-bit bimbos. These morons actually thought he’d marry them.”
“How many are there?” I asked in awe, trying to imagine dangling more than one expensive high-society babe on a string, even with the honkin’ big Tiffany credit line. D.C. really isn’t a very large world.
“Three,” he said with disgust. “He gave friendship rings to all of them. Who the hell gives people friendship rings anymore?”
“Your cousin,” I pointed out unhelpfully. “And you didn’t drag me over here to chitchat about your social life. You can handle that on your own. What’s really up?”
Instead of answering, he picked up a remote and flicked on the fireplace. Neat trick, like summoning the devil with a finger snap. I admired the dancing flames.
“Take a closer look,” he suggested. “Tell me if I’ve really flipped out. I don’t want to check myself into the nearest funny farm unless necessary. Maybe Dane was experimenting with hallucinogens and they haven’t completely left his body. But we’ve both seen hell, so it’s not as if we’re dealing with reality as we used to know it.”