ARC10

Chapter 2

With blood-red letters painted all crooked without any real sense of artistic finesse, "The Kitchen Sink" welcomes me home. The PAHLM scanner beeps merrily to greet me. The two massive steel doors smoothly slide away as if they were expecting me.

Hands on hips, I stand at the entrance of the canteen and bask in the busted, blinking fluorescence.

Someone belches from a table in the corner.

"It's good to be home," I say to the sparse crowd at small metal tables crowded by mismatched stools. No one responds.

The air reeks with body odor. The floors hold rust like teeth hold plaque. The patrons toss stink-eye around like it's pseudo-sugar candy on Christmas.

After spending two weeks in the brig, the Kitchen Sink is paradise. All that time in close quarters with three other twitchy offenders and no private shower is enough to ensure my best behavior for months. My bar, my beautiful bar, is waiting for me. I pull myself up, swivel around, and slide right into place. The perfect fit.

Janika Lorn—compliant citizen of the United Regions of Earth, illustrious and responsible decision-making Captain of Earth's Militia, bartender beyond the scope of normal skill—reporting for duty.

Fingers flex, ready for someone—anyone—to order the first drink of my triumphant return.

When the doors slide open to announce the arrival of my first visitor of the night, the world returns to grim stupidity. That didn't last long.

With a clink, drag, clink, drag, clink, drag, my least favorite person in the URE sidles up to the bar. Warren, gray and gnarled like twisted pipe, slams his fist on the bar and snarls. It's a sound he makes so frequently, I attribute it to part of his working vocabulary.

This figures. I haven't even been out four hours this time before I have to see this jaundiced kumquat again. I'm serving the first drink of my new freedom to Warren Freaking Freyer.

I pour him a beer.

When the cool amber liquid runs down my fingers, I shove it into his fat hand.

The number of beers I've poured for him is probably far greater than the number of words we've actually spoken to each other. We've sat in this tense, half-drunk silence with averted gazes every single day as if it were as normal as needle-nose pliers in a back pocket.

It was nice to have a break. Too bad I had to be thrown in prison to get it.

Part of me wonders which of these two is the worse punishment. While I'm weighing the sides, he clears his throat.

"Nika . . ." he begins.

Good Lady Almighty, I hate it when he calls me that—when he acts like we're close. Just this word alone, coming from his bulbous lips, makes me want to strangle him with my dirty dry-rag.

"I haven't even been out for more than five hours. Can't this wait?"

"That's my son's contract yer lollygaggin' with." He points a crooked finger at me.

"I don't want to hear it." I select a glass to dry. My patience with this specific topic had already reached its boiling point. It's one of the many reasons why my loathing for Warren goes beyond human. It's a superpower.

Like a surprise beam of light in the darkness, the kitchen's saloon doors swing open. I breathe a sigh of relief when Simon emerges and wipes his hands on a grease-splattered apron.

"You're back." He reaches over the bar to grab my wrist and pull me toward him.

Leaning down, I let my dad take my head in his hands to plant a kiss on top.