She walked down the short hallway and opened Gustavo’s door. Gustavo had about the same status in the apartment as King Jaspar; he was certainly equally dependent—her houseguest, her charity case, her work in progress, her release. She’d found him in an alley behind a swish club seven weeks ago, beaten badly by a furious husband’s security team. He was nineteen and male-model handsome, so he explained, which was why he’d come to Rio in the first place, loaded up with excitement and hope. Except the modeling work had never arrived, despite his being on the books of three local agencies. Instead the agency bookers suggested he escort aging fashionistas to parties,
Gustavo was sprawled on the bed, snoring softly. She’d gotten him on a program, and he was staying clean; he’d even snagged a couple of gigs modeling sports gear and once as an extra in a music viz-u. But as charity cases went, she knew exactly what she was doing, and altruism didn’t much enter into it. He was convenient. Nothing more.
Her heel knocked the door shut. The noise woke him, and his head came up, showing him blinking sleep-confusion away. She grinned down at him as she tugged the spoiled Lycra top off over her head.
“Holy mother, what time is it?” he croaked.
“It’s morning.”
“You haven’t slept again, have you?”
“A few hours.”
“You need to sleep more.”
She wiggled out of her shorts. “I can sleep when—”
“You’re dead. Yes. You keep saying.”
“That’s right.” Kandara tugged his sheet away and climbed onto the mattress beside him.
There was a moment when he might have resisted. But instead he gave a sigh that played at reluctance. That left him soon enough as her hands moved proficiently across his lean body, banishing the last fog of sleep. After all these weeks she knew exactly how to rouse him, how to keep him hard while she rode him greedily. The sexual gymnastics her gened-up muscles let her perform on his bed never strayed into true intimacy. They were fuck-buddies, not lovers. All she wanted was the physical.
The doctors had cautioned her about her anger management. The glands infiltrating her mesolimbic pathway were not a cure, they said with their wise nodding heads; the neurochemicals would only treat the symptoms. In doing so there might be side effects.
Now she couldn’t even remember how she used to think before her parents had been slaughtered. Which behavior trait was new, artificial, psychological, bioneural, divine…Her trio of driving daemons had been brought under control: psychopathy, hypersexuality, insomnia. She ruled them with an iron fist now, used them as she needed to, gifting herself the perfect personality for her work. An avenging angel, cleansing the world of unchecked evil.
After she’d finished with him, she watched with mild fondness as he quickly fell asleep again before she slipped out to shower. Breakfast was a smoothie of her own concoction, a half dozen different berries and yogurt (natural organic; she didn’t do printed food if she could avoid it) mixed in her blender. She drank it, sitting beside the open balcony door, wearing a robe, her hair wrapped in a towel.
Gustavo wandered in when she’d already drunk half of the smoothie. He was naked, a beauty that competed with the view of the beach for her attention. “Sheesh, don’t you have any real food?” he moaned.
“Such as?”
“Orange juice? Toast?”
“I’m sure they’re out there on the street stalls somewhere.”
“Okay, okay. I get it.”
“I can mix some honey with yogurt for you.”
“Gee, thanks.” He slumped on a stool at the kitchen’s small bar.
She grinned as she busied herself with the array of expensive cookery gadgets she’d carefully acquired for her galley kitchen. All organic ingredients blended carefully, the deep-fill tray heating up to the perfect temperature.
“That’s yogurt?” he asked, puzzled, as she poured the thick, creamy liquid out of the blender and into a measuring jug.
“I’m making you waffles. My thank-you treat for this morning.”
His smile won out against the sun.
“You got anything on for the rest of today?” he asked as he wolfed down the third waffle.
“Meetings,” she said. Which wasn’t quite true; she’d booked a couple of hours on the shooting range to keep up her proficiency. Then she was due to meet a dark supplier to review some of the new lethal peripherals coming out of northern Russia. She probably wouldn’t have any implanted, but it would be good to know their capabilities.