Page 45 of Up in Smoke

“Your flirtations are wasted on me, Mr. Moretti.”

Sandro smirked. “My flirtations come with salsa.”

“I have changed my mind. Your flirtations are not wasted on me.” I realized I had issues with his cooking, but I would embrace my strangeness with a certain amount of glee. “I definitely like not having to scavenge for everything.”

“I definitely want you to teach me your trade, though. Your survival skills are spectacular. Some might call it scavenging, but surviving in the Alley on your own for as long as you did is remarkable. Few others can say they have challenged nature and won, especially here.”

“It comes at a price,” I warned.

“The lack of comfort, security, and having a home,” Sandro guessed. “But there’s something to be said for survival, for without the ability to survive, what use do you have for any of those things? Comfort and security can be earned or won. A home can be made. But once you’re dead and gone, that’s it.”

That sounded like something Batbayar would say, albeit in his strange and unique way. “That’s right. But I had my freedom. In a way, I still do, but only because I’m liking my changed circumstances. There is a hot ass bounty hunter that has something to do with that.”

“Hot ass bounty hunter?”

I pointed at Sandro’s ass. “That is your ass. It is hot. Then you went and got wet on me, and I put some serious thought into just surrendering. But I am my worst enemy, so I did not surrender. I ran.”

“The chase was half the fun,” he informed me. “But did you really think of me as a hot ass bounty hunter?”

“Yes, I did. And do. And don’t ask what my fox thinks about you. It’s positively perverted.”

“This is a good thing, seeing as you’re my wife.” Sandro grinned and gestured at an upcoming intersection. “We turn right here and cross half of Asylum to get where we’re going. Don’t be surprised if people stare at us. I have a reputation.”

“As what? A hot ass bounty hunter? Because you are that.”

“An artist with a temper, actually. Let’s just say I have a tendency to take hands when I see women or children being abused—and Mansfield supports that sort of bad behavior, because the last thing he needs or wants in Asylum are abusers and rapists. There are too many people in too tight a space. So, in a way, I’m the biggest baddy on the street. But there’s one thing everyone knows. I don’t strike without proof.”

“You don’t strike until you witness the crime?” I guessed.

“That’s right. Let’s just say there was a sudden reduction of bruised women in Asylum after the second incident.”

“The first could have been a fluke, but the second was a confirmation of how things will work down here?”

“Precisely.”

Thursday, June 25, 2043.

Asylum, Oklahoma.

The Alley.

A small signdistinguished Batbayar’s new studio from the neighboring buildings in the row. Due to the lack of windows, I couldn’t tell what the buildings were for, although one sign implied a hairdresser worked or lived in one of the buildings. “What is this section for, Sandro?”

“Small but critical businesses. He’s flagged to have a bigger space, but these buildings have space for the owners and operators to live, so this worked as a temporary place for him. According to the floor plan, Mansfield merged three shops to create the center. A lot of these buildings have temporary walls dividing them in case someone needs more space.”

“That’s fairly smart, I guess.”

“It was. He didn’t realistically know how much space people would need, so it was easier to design the building to allow for expansion. Studios like this need a lot of space, right?”

“I think so.” I tried the door to find it unlocked and peeked inside to spy an empty entry with two hallways leading deeper into the building. To my relief, the familiar sounds of students sparring filtered down the hall on the other side of the entry. “He’s running a class right now.”

“Let’s go observe, then.” Sandro urged me inside, spied the pile of shoes on a mat near the hallway, and took his off and set them to the side. I did as well, making sure ours stayed together. When Batbayar released the children he trained, they’d stampede and make a mess of the neat lines of shoes, and whomever left last would be responsible for restoring the remaining pairs to order.

At the original studio, the shoes had been stored elsewhere, but I suspected the old man cared more about keeping his students safe than worrying about storing their shoes.

I followed the sound down the hall to discover the building hid a substantial studio space, and Batbayar taught a group of older kids how to handle wooden kendo sticks. Judging from the hesitancy in their strikes, the kids had only just begun their kendo journey. I pricked my ears forward, peeking around the corner while Sandro opted for the bolder approach, taking up most of the doorway while watching.

“If she puts up a struggle coming in, I find grabbing her by the ear is a good way to get her to move,” Batbayar stated without taking his eyes off the kids he taught. “You must be Sandro Moretti.”