Red...He likes red. I chose this dress carefully, making sure to pick one that would be both classy and slutty at the same time. The fabric is skintight, and I can't wear anything except for a G-string underneath, not even a bra. He'll notice for sure. Jackson always notices a woman's breasts. Mine aren't the biggest, but that's okay. He has a thing for nipples, and I've been told mine are perfect.

Next come the silk thigh highs. The dress has a slit that goes almost all the way up my right leg, revealing a lot of thigh. He'll notice the lace top, and the fact that I'm wearing something other than pantyhose will draw his attention. I put less care into selecting the heels I'll be wearing. We'll be in a car for most of what I have planned for him, so they're what I'd consider reasonable. They're just meant to draw attention to my calves, so the heels are only three inches. I like my calves. They're pure muscle, and extremely defined from all the training I do.

Now is the hard part, the wig. I don't want Jackson recognizing who I am at first, so securing my naturally brown hair underneath this platinum blonde wig is vital. I want this hair to look like it really belongs to me and not a wig. It's why I spent nearly as much money on the wig as I did on the dress, and I've practiced multiple times with the spirit gum to make sure it all looks natural. My eyes...well, blue eyes go with blonde hair all the time, but the false eyelashes I'm wearing can partially hide my eye color for awhile. A little bit of makeup will help soften my jawline. I've increased my food intake over the past few days, trying to add a little bit of body fat--at least enough that you can't see my jaw muscles flexing when I chew. I don't give a shit, since I like my body the way it is,but Jackson likes women with a little more meat on their bones. I'm glad at least I keep my hair short, not quite butch short, but it's still considered short for a woman. I don't have time to deal with that shit...I've got other issues to deal with.

Okay. Dress, stockings, shoes by the door, hair...check. As for makeup, I'm going with sultry and dark eye makeup to help my eyes look larger, more doe-eyed. I made sure to spend extra time on my eyeliner, because when I make my big reveal I want Jackson to know exactly who I am. I know he remembers my eyes. The lipstick I'm wearing matches my dress. Everything I'm wearing practically screams, 'Fuck me, Jackson DeLaCoeur!'.

I look at myself critically in the mirror. The woman staring back at me isn't Katrina Grammercy, the twenty-two year old orphan whose parents were ripped from her by a car bomb a decade ago. She isn't the Katrina Grammercy who did nothing but sob for weeks, living in a haze for months. That woman never heard the rumors, never had to learn that her best friend's father, Peter DeLaCoeur, had orchestrated the whole thing. I stare at my reflection, and I don't see any traces of the woman who swore vengeance on the DeLaCoeurs, the woman who no longer goes by Katrina, just Kat.

Instead, what I see is exactly what I want Jackson to see. He might have been my best friend ten years ago, but a lot can happen in ten years. The Jack DeLaCoeur I knew is gone. Jackson has followed in his criminal father's footsteps--partying, fucking, and ruining people's lives. While Jackson may not have had anything to do with my parents' death, this is the only way to put my plan in motion. Besides, I'm leaving him alive. That's better than what his father did to my parents.

Thinking about the bombing, the way the fireball rolled across the concrete ceiling and stained the parking garage by the convention center, singeing my hair even though I was fifty feet away, the smell of everything burning...knowing my parents were trapped inside, and I couldn't do anything but watch helplessly....

I shake my head. I can't let the blackness overtake me, not right now. I can't afford it. Before it sinks its eagle claws into my brain again, I go over to my dresser to retrieve a small plastic bottle. This isn't on any medical directory in the world, but this special concoction my herbalist connection makes for me works wonders. It's got GABA, a little THC extract, and some Chinese shit I can't even pronounce. Unscrewing the top of the bottle, I shake out four capsules. They look like rabbit food—little pellets of grass trimmings and yellow pollen sitting in my hand. I down them with a glass of water, then grimace. They taste like rabbit food, too. I lie down on my bed, the cheap springs creaking in complaint despite the fact I only weigh one hundred and twenty-five pounds. The bed's a piece of shit, but it's all the bed I need.

I made sure to leave myself enough time for this next part, and I close my eyes, starting my meditations.

It takes me fifteen minutes exactly to run through my meditations until I'm calm and my pills kick in. I sit up and double-check my outfit, noting that everything's still in place. Good. My training is still strong. I am still strong.

I go to my dresser again and pick up my work phone. It's a cheap prepaid burner, and I make sure to switch out the SIM cards every four days on a rotating basis. I take a deep breath, then punch in the number to reach Domino. That's not his real name of course, but he lets me call him that. He understands my need for secrecy, as well as the meaning behind the nickname I've given him. Once I tip him over, the domino effect starts.

“Domino? Yeah...yeah, it's me, Mercy. Yeah, you still want those pics of Jackson DeLaCoeur, right? Come on, Domino. You know once you break a scandal on the Big Easy's biggest playboy, you'll have a ton of website hits, and that's just the minimum. You know you can even sell some print copies if you work the angle right...Yeah, okay, I'm not gonna tell you how to do your fucking job, but I'll do mine. So you gonna be there, or not? If not, I can always call up Vicki at the Picayune. No? You know if you aren't there, I'm gonna come after you next...okay. That's right, Riverwalk, the event tonight. Don't sweat it, he'll be there. You'll get your money's worth and then some. Fine.”

I hang up with Domino, and place a second call, this time to Vicki. She's probably going to be there anyway, but it doesn't hurt to make sure that she's cued in. Domino's going to be expecting it anyway, and I'll let them jockey for the best position for the pics themselves. They're both vultures, but at least they're useful vultures.

I swap out the SIM card on my burner, and slide it into my tiny clutch along with a few other essentials. I also make sure to grab a pair of sunglasses for my getaway. Putting on my shoes, I check myself one more time in the mirror, then nod. “I hope you're ready, Jackson. Because tonight...I start to get my vengeance.”

* * *

She's moaning, her caramel-kissed skin dotted with sweat in the muggy New Orleans afternoon heat, begging me to fuck her, fuck her harder...give it to her the way she needs it.

“Oh Jacky, oh God baby, you're going to make me...Jackkkkkyyy...”

Her pussy tightens around my cock, and she's not faking it. I can tell that for sure. I've been pounding her like a machine for I don't know how many minutes, and she's barely coherent at this point. It's easier now to detect the syrupy accent of her native Acadian Creole, but I'm already bored with her. She might be beautiful, and she might be a student at Tulane, but this girl just isn't a good fuck. Besides, I hate being called Jacky. Jack—I guess that's okay, even though that's what I went by as a kid. Jackson's better. But never Jacky.

I speed up a little more. I close my eyes and let my fantasies push me over the edge so I can come. All glove, of course. I wouldn't give her the gift of my come even if I believed her story about being on the pill. I can't take that chance.

She collapses on the bed next to her friend. The other girl's been passed out for a good ten minutes by my estimate—I played with her for awhile, but she didn't have my stamina. They never do. I pull out and slide the condom off before taking it to the bathroom. I make sure to rinse it out in the sink before I flush it down the toilet. I'm not taking any risks. I don't need some gold digger saying I knocked her up or any stupid shit like that.

I rinse off my face and look in the mirror. My last shave's still holding up, so I'm not looking too bad. I can probably get by with just rinsing off quickly before I need to get ready for the charity event. But not here. This bathroom fucking sucks.

I go back into the bedroom and see both of the girls sprawled out across the bed, completely passed out. Earlier I'd considered taking one of them with me to be my arm candy for tonight's event, but looking at them now...that's a hard nope. I grab the bed sheet from the floor and cover them up. When they wake up, the house staff will see to them and show them out.

I leave the spare bedroom, walking down the hallway toward my room when I hear a disgusted cough behind me. “For fuck's sake, niichan, can you at least put on a robe after you get done?”

I turn around and see my half-sister Andrea behind me. Her almond-shaped eyes betray her mother's Japanese heritage, although her eyes are the characteristic DeLaCoeur sapphire blue. “Why, Andi? It's not like you haven't seen it before.” I smirk.

“So? That doesn't mean that I want to see it,” she says crossly. Andrea hates it when I call her Andi. She wrinkles her nose. “Besides, it's not that big.”

“Bullshit,” I brag, looking down. “I know your exes, Andrea. And none of them have what I've got.”

“What's that, an ego bigger than your dick?” she retorts. “Seriously Jackson, you can swing that meat around me all you want, but I'm not interested. Even if you weren't my half-brother, I'm never going to be interested.”

“Right,” I reply, turning around to head for my room and giving her a nice view of my ass along the way. I'm not seriously interested in Andrea. We've butted heads for far too long. Even if we weren't related, her personality really turns me off. Still, it's fun to needle her every once in awhile.

I shower in my own bathroom quickly before I start to get ready. Running my hand along my jaw and feeling the stubble there, I decide to shave a bit after all. A quick trim with my electric razor, some aftershave, and I'm good to go.

I go back out into my bedroom and start to get dressed. I throw on a pair of boxer briefs and decide on a moisture-wicking undershirt since the humidity here in New Orleans is no joke. After buttoning up a white dress shirt, I'm ready for my tux now. It's a Gucci with a shawl collar, but in a lighter fabric appropriate for the climate. I'm skipping a cummerbund today. I don't need that fussy bullshit. Plus it's just more that some lucky girl will have to take off. I take the time to put on a silk bow tie though. That's definitely classier than some damn cummerbund.

I check my shoes, and head out after slipping my billfold into my jacket pocket. I go downstairs and ring for Mike, my chauffeur. “Yo Mike, I'm ready.”

“And the young ladies, sir?” Mike's from Boston, so there's a hint of Southie in his speech, but he's actually been trained in England. It sounds impressive, but what it really means is that he has all the stuffiness you'd expect from a driver born and bred in London. He's worked for my family since I was in elementary school though, so I don't know why he won't just unclench his asshole around me already. “Are they not coming with us?” he asks politely.

“Oh, they came all right, but they’re not joining me this evening,” I reply. “Back to the Watering Hole.”

Mike frowns slightly, and I already know what he's going to say even before he opens his mouth. “Sir, I understand that you want some female...companionship for the evening, but do you really think it is wise to be picking up easy women from the Watering Hole? Think of your reputation, and that of your family's.”

I glare at Mike. My eyes have a tendency to change color when I'm pissed, and right now I'm sure they're an icy blue instead of the sexy sapphire I'm known for. “That'll be enough on that from you, Mike. You work for my family, and your job is to drive me around, not tell me what's wise and what isn't. I'm going back to the Watering Hole, then you're going to drive me to the charity event, and that's all there is to it. If you have a fucking problem with that, you can talk to Pops or Nathan.”

Mike presses his lips into a thin line, but he just nods before walking to the limo and opening the door for me. “And will Miss Andrea be joining you tonight, sir?” he asks dispassionately.

“She's taking a pass on this one,” I inform him as I get in. He shuts the door, and I watch him through the nearly opaque windows as he gets into the driver's seat. I wait until he's inside the limo, and then I deliberately engage the divider. I don't want to talk to him, and I sure as fuck don't need him telling me what to do. I sit back, trying to cool off a little. My family's reputation? What the fuck does Mike know about my family's reputation? On the surface I'm sure we look great. We go to events like the one tonight, handing out charitable donations and glad-handing every motherfucker with a cause, plus the sob story to go along with it.

But that's just our public face. It's all just an act. My father, Peter DeLaCoeur, has another side, a side I don't like. It's a side that...I don't want to deal with it right now. “Fuck this,” I say to myself. It's a party, and what's a party without the party favors?

I reach over to the little cubbyhole built into the wall of the limo, and pop the cover, taking out the contents within. Pops has his own favorites, specifically Colombian in nature, and I've had to be careful not to mix his shit with what I like. No way am I getting hooked through the fucking nose on coke.

But Special K and X? Ground up and sucked through a Benjamin into the nose, it'll brighten up any day. Best of all, it doesn't create physical dependency. I want it, but I don't need it. It's a small difference, but one that's important to me.

I get four bumps prepped, but I'm saving them for when I pick up some honeys. I leave them on the black glass topper I prefer for party time as Mike pulls around to the Watering Hole. It's not an actual business, it's just what we call this place near UNO where girls who are looking to party all hang out. A lot of the girls are pros, or close enough to it . But a lot of them are just sluts, college girls, or girls from the city looking to walk on the wild side a bit.

The car stops and I get out. The sun's just starting to go down in the distance, but I don't have time to admire it even though this is my favorite time of day in New Orleans. There's still enough light to see the girls, and I catch sight of a new face that has my jaw on the floor. She’s rocking shorter heels than what I'm used to seeing on the girls out here, but she looks like she's close to my height in them. Maybe even level with my height, and I'm six-feet-two. And her body...holy damn. Looking at that ass...my cock's twitching already, and I don't even know her name.

She's got a hot body, but a heavenly face. It gives her that sort of fallen angel look that I've always had a thing for. She has long hair, but what really catches my eye is the color. It's the same shade as mine, a blonde color that's so light it's nearly white. It really makes her stand out from the typical brunettes I see here in New Orleans, and gives her an almost exotic look.

“Well hello,” I say as I approach. Some other girls, regulars that I've partied with before, come over too, but I only have eyes for the new girl. I'm trying hard not to adjust my cock in my pants already. Jesus, even her eyes are sexy. They're a pale light blue, unlike any other eyes I've ever seen before, except for one pair over a decade ago. “I'm Jackson.”

“I'm Kitty,” the girl says, giving me a naughty smile. “Nice car,” she says admiringly.

“It is,” I reply confidently. “Think you might want to take a ride, join me for a party?”

Kitty looks over the limo, giving me a measured look, then nods. “Okay, big boy. My, are you into weightlifting or something? You're built like a comic book character. Sure your name isn't Bruce Wayne?”

“Nope, just Jackson,” I reply, smiling. Chick knows her comic books, or at least her comic book movies. I can get with that. “How much?”

“I'm just looking for a good time,” Kitty says. “If you're feeling generous though, I bet some of these other girls would love to join us. What sort of party is it, anyway?”

“Black tie. You're dressed perfect for it,” I say as I look over the other choices. “Okay, you...you...and you.”

The five of us get into the limo, and Mike pulls away. I pull out some cash and lay it on the seat beside me. All the girls except for Kitty are all over it immediately. Whatever... at least I know Kitty meant it when she said she was just looking for a good time.

She's practically eyefucking me as she leans back on the side seat. She turns a little, and it really showcases both her long legs and her tits. Damn do they look delicious. “So, Jack...did you say a black tie party? And is there going to be any fun at this party?” I know what she's getting at, and I grin. So maybe she doesn't want money, but she's definitely looking to score.

“We can have some fun beforehand, a little...preview if you like,” I say, gesturing to the black glass. “A little K-X mix if you're into that.”

“I think I'll wait a little bit,” Kitty says. “I know K can hit quick,” she says as she slides over next to me. Her hand's resting on my thigh, and she's pushing that hard body of hers against my arm. My cock's already fully hard for her. I can see the other girls getting mad as they scowl, but there's plenty of me to go around. Before I can say something though, Kitty touches my face, and I swear it sends a jolt of electricity straight to my cock as I stare into her eyes. “Hey, lover...I'm over here,” she says.

“Well, if he's gonna fuck her, at least we can have some party favors,” one of the other girls says scornfully. She reaches for the black mirror, but Kitty takes her finger off my face, and suddenly I'm free of her spell. My full attention is on the other three girls, and I'm pissed off.

“Stop. Mike! Pull over!”

Mike stops the car, and like I said, I'm pissed, staring at these wastes of my fucking time. “Take the money and get out,” I growl, throwing the cash at them. “Easy dough, right?”

The girls grumble, but they've partied with me before, and they know I’m not playing around. They take the money and get out, and I notice we're near the Superdome. Mike knows that after I stop by the Watering Hole, I always need a little time to decide what comes next.

The last one slams the door in a huff, but I don't give a fuck. Kitty's already straddling my lap. Her dress rides up as she begins massaging my shoulders and chest while she kisses my neck. I don't know what's so different about her, but my body's on fire. I've never been this hot before so quickly. She's got me trembling, ready to pop already, and as she grinds on my lap, I can't help the whimpers coming out of my mouth.

“Shh baby, we're going to have a lot of fun,” she reassures me as she shoots me that fallen angel's smile again. She reaches the waistband of my pants and cocks her head when she sees that I'm wearing suspenders. Well no shit, I'm wearing a tux, and you don't wear a belt with a tux. “I like it. Very fucking sexy,” she says as she gives me a seductive smile.

“You're fucking sexy,” I reply, reaching down to stroke her hair. I'm only dimly aware of Mike saying something up front, but whatever it is, it doesn't matter. All that matters is this sex goddess in front of me, and the way her fingers are unzipping my pants.

“Mmm, you're so big,” she whispers. I'm trembling again as she wraps her fingers around my cock and pulls it out. I'm rock-hard, and Kitty licks her lips as she leans in closer...closer...

Suddenly, she pulls back as she jabs me in the chest below my right pec, and I find myself paralyzed. I can only watch as she opens the door to a crowd of paparazzi. My cock's still hanging out for the whole world to see, and countless flashes are going off. I can hear gasps of surprise, but also mocking laughter as Kitty sits back. She gives me an evil grin as she pulls what I'm just now realizing is a wig off her head. “Well, well, Jackson...nice to see you again,” she says, but the tone of her voice indicates otherwise.

I blink as my body slowly regains the ability to move, and the face in front of me drops into focus. The blue eyes that I haven't seen in ten years, the angular jawline, and hair so dark it's almost black, but it's shorter than it was before...I can't believe it, but it's true.

“Katrina?” I whisper, which is the most I seem to be able to do.

“It's Kat,” she says as she pulls some sunglasses out of her tiny purse. She puts them on before getting out of the limo, leaving the blonde wig behind. “And you just got scratched. That's for my parents. Have fun, Jackson.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Pops asks as he angrily slams the tablet he's holding down onto the desk. He probably just broke the fucking thing, but I don't think anyone really cares right now.

“Why do you care? It's not like I had your nose candy out,” I shoot back. He's really pissing me off. Seriously, I just went through the worst night of my life. It was only because of Mike's fast reflexes that I wasn't arrested. Mike got me out of there after Katrina...no, after Kat got out of the limo. Once he realized something was up, he hauled ass for the Pontchartrain Expressway. By the time the photos went to print and anyone looking at the drugs in the photo instead of my cock could even ask questions, the limo had been taken care of. At this point I doubt even the FBI could find a damn thing.

“Coke, K-X, whatever it was...it doesn't matter, Jackson! The pictures are all over the Internet, and you even made the goddamn Picayune, for fuck's sake!” He makes a sound of disgust.

Yeah, I know all of that. In fact, I've already gotten five texts from as far away as London about the pics. At least the ones in the print newspapers were censored with a black box over my dick. The pics available online show everything, and of course everyone's focusing on the ones taken from angles that make me look damn near dinky-dicked.

“No shit, Pops. By the way, Ellie in London says hi.” What Ellie actually said was I thought the cucumber in the pants thing was just in Spinal Tap, but I knew what she was getting at. Pops, however, doesn't think any of this is funny.

“You want to make jokes at a time like this, you little shit?” he asks as he rounds the desk to get in my face. I'm ready and on my feet in an instant. He might have a temper, and he's got a violent streak that makes me look like fucking Gandhi in comparison, but I'm no slouch either. I've got an inch on him, a lot less body fat, and twenty-eight years less mileage on my body. Pops knows this, and while his hands are clenched into fists so tight that I can see his knuckles turning white, he manages to hold himself back. I take a step back before either of us do something stupid.

I sit back down. “Okay Pops, you're right. Just...fuck, that was Katrina. Or Kat, as she's calling herself now. What the fuck did she mean when she said that was for her parents? What the hell do we have to do with Katrina Grammercy's parents?”

Pops shakes his head, and I know he's not going to answer me. I learned a long time ago that some things were off-limits. The problem is, I need to know. When it comes to his dealings with crooked cops, or the groups that run the Ninth Ward, or any of his other criminal enterprises, he's right. I shouldn't be asking questions, and I shouldn't concern myself with any of it. But this is Katrina...she was my best friend when we were kids. And less than twelve hours ago, she gave me half a handjob, right before setting me up for global humiliation. No, this time I need to know.

“Pops...Dad, I need to know this time.”

Pops shakes his head again and acts like he barely heard me. “Mike's already been informed, but you're not allowed to use the limo anymore. I can't have him associated with your bullshit any longer. These are matters best left to others, Jackson. I'll let you handle them someday when you're ready, if you ever are. In the meantime, I need you to go tell your mother that I need to discuss something with her after I speak with Nathan. Tell her to come see me here in my office.”

Nathan. I can't help but shiver at the mere mention of that cold bastard's name. Officially, he's our head of family security. Unofficially, Nathan Black is my dad's enforcer, or worse. I don't know for sure, but I don't think I want to know for sure. Nathan has this perpetual look of surprise on his face due to a long scar that winds up and across his left eye, pulling it up slightly. On anyone else it'd be amusing, but there's nothing amusing about him.

“Fine,” I say and step out into the hallway. Nathan's already waiting. In the dark linen suit he's wearing, he looks like an undertaker waiting to collect his next body. He greets me with a slight nod as I come out of Pops' office, but his expression is as unreadable as ever.

“Mr. Jackson,” Nathan says in that quiet, icy voice of his. Jesus, if the Grim Reaper needs a voice, I know who he can call.

“Nathan. Pops wants to speak with you, I think, I respond.

Nathan's fifty years old, but he could pass for forty. Up close, it's easy to see the fine network of crow's feet around his eyes, but it's also easy to see how his eyes are completely devoid of any emotion. They're a green shade the color of swamps, and they remind me of gators. Maybe it's because Nathan's clearly a predator, just like them. “Very good. Later, perhaps we can speak on how to avoid further...incidents?” he says.

“Perhaps,” I reply, trying not to stammer. Nathan scares the shit outta me, plain and simple. I've got at least thirty pounds of lean muscle on the man, but I have a feeling that if he wanted to, he could drop me without even blinking. “I need to get going.”

Nathan nods and goes into Pops' office, closing the door behind him. I know I should run along, even if the request to fetch Mom is bullshit. I shouldn't be hanging around. But...it's Katrina, and the look in Pops' eyes...

I know this is stupid, but I can't help myself. It's been years since I've done this, but I should be able to eavesdrop through the lock on the door. The mansion is an old antebellum plantation house, and it took a small fucking fortune to repair the place after Hurricane Katrina. No relation to Kat, I think to myself. Still, the interior doors are mostly original, and this one happens to date from the original Civil War days. I press my ear against the office door.

“Mr. DeLaCoeur, how can I assist you today?” That's Nathan, professional as always.

“That bitch...the one who set up Jackson. I want her taken care of.”

“Sir, no offense, but haven't we done enough to this girl? You know, ten years ago?”

“I don't give a fuck!” Pops hollers, slamming his hands on what sounds like his desk. “That bitch dropped a lot of trouble in our laps, Nathan. I want her found and eliminated, got me?”

There's a long silence on the other side of the door, and I can imagine Nathan coldly processing my father's words. Before he can answer, I hear someone coming down the hallway and I beat a hasty retreat, going to look for Mom. As I do, my head whirls. Sure, I've always known that Pops is involved in some bad business, even if I don't like to think about it. Seriously, who the hell has the police chief at his house one night, and then well-known gangsters there the next, unless he's also involved in some shit?

But I never knew for sure how much shit he's been involved with. Of course I've lied to myself over the years. Denial is a powerful drug. And I guess maybe my coping mechanisms weren't the best, what with the parties and the sluts, and the drugs and the alcohol...but at least I've managed to keep my own hands clean.

Now I know for sure about my father, and I can't get it out of my head. What the fuck do I do? On one hand, Kat made me look like some high school dweeb who was whacking off in the back of a rented limo or paying some hooker to lose his virginity. But she was angry, and it wasn't the sort of anger I've seen before. It wasn't hot anger--it was the cold, obsessive type. Whatever she thinks my family did...she's been angry for a very long time. And it's the sort of anger that makes me think there's a genuine reason for her to be pissed off.

And then there's the way she made me feel. What the hell was that? A few touches, a few kisses, and I was ready to pop. Where the hell did she learn that? Was it because my body knew it was Katrina even if my brain didn't recognize her at first? Or does she know something that most women don't? I mean, I'd just busted a nut less than two hours before, and she had me trembling on the edge in minutes. I didn't even touch her skin other than feeling those lips on my neck...

I look down, realize that I'm sporting wood again, and adjust myself. Not what I need. What I need to be doing is looking for Mom. I find her in her bedroom, looking at herself in the mirror. She and Pops have separate rooms now. Great, just great. Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who's the craziest one of all?

“Hey Mom?”

“Jackson, do you think I'm starting to sag around my neckline?” Mom asks as way of greeting. Well, no Mom, I think you've got more plastic in you than your average Barbie doll, and that you can't even squint because you've more or less killed off your eye muscles with Botox. In fact, you barely look like a woman any more.

Instead of saying that though, I ignore her question. She doesn't want my answer anyway. “Pops was saying he'd like to talk with you in a few. He's talking with Nathan now.”

“Yay,” Mom says sarcastically, her nose twitching. I'm surprised it can still do that. The amount of putty and plastic in there is probably what you'd see repairing a minor fender bender on a car. “What's he want now, to discuss your little faux pas last night?”

So she's been sober enough to pick up the news. “Fuck all if I know. He just said to get you,” I say with a shrug.

Mom's eyes glance over to me, and I can see that she doesn't have them in. Or more precisely, she doesn't have in her colored contacts that she normally wears, the ones that give her the DeLaCoeur blue. Instead, I can see her normal muddy hazel eyes, and to be honest, it's refreshing. Hey Mom, nice to fucking see you for once. How long has it been? “You don't take that tone with me, Jackson Garfield DeLaCoeur. I am your mother,” she says coldly.

“As much as you wish you weren't,” I snap back, pushed to the limit. Seriously, when you grow up listening to your mother bitch at least once a week how giving birth to you ruined her figure, you kinda feel unwanted, you know? “I mean, I'm sorry I made your tits sag, but they're holding up...reasonably well. At least they stick out past your stomach.”

Okay, so I'm being a dick with the backhanded compliment, but she deserves it. Mom didn't even say anything to me on my last birthday. Probably because my birthday always reminds her that no matter how much Hennessy she sucks down, or no matter how much work she has done...fifty's just around the corner.

At the mention of her stomach, Mom touches her abdomen, checking that she's still flat there. I give her a little smirk. “I'll go see what Andrea's up to. You should go check on Pops soon, he might be wondering where you are.” I leave without waiting for her to reply.

Instead of finding Andrea though, I head back to my room, my head still trying to make sense of the look in Pops' eyes, and what he said to Nathan. What the hell am I supposed to do?

Success! Oh it was fucking sweet, too! The look on his face, the flash of the bulbs...and best of all, not a single soul knew who I was.

Don't get cocky, Katrina. Your work is just beginning.

I nod at the words from long ago, and take off my dress. I strip everything off before sticking the it all into a plastic bag for later disposal. It's going to suck throwing a thousand dollar outfit into an incinerator, especially since that's more than I make in a month sometimes, but it's necessary. Peter DeLaCoeur's going to send his men after me, I know it. I can ghost, but only if I leave as few clues behind as I can.

I go back over to my dresser and open it up, grabbing my favorite black gi pants, and the sports bra I prefer for exercise. I get dressed quickly, then turn and walk across the big, empty space of this old warehouse until I reach the post in the middle of the floor. In exchange for teaching kids' martial arts classes twice a week, the owner of the boxing gym downstairs lets me crash here. Right now I'm buzzing on adrenaline, and I need to refocus.

The post is steel, but I've wrapped it in old, bald tires that provide just enough padding for me to use it as my own personal training dummy. My sparring gloves are an old castoff pair I rescued from the garbage downstairs, but they serve their purpose well enough, which is to prevent scrapes on my hands. I take them off their hook, and pull them on, sneering at the tires. Except they aren't tires any longer. They're Peter DeLaCoeur's fat, piggish face.

My first punch lands hard, but it jars my body. The first punch always has that effect. I can punch far above my weight, but my first punch always knocks me a little off balance. Still, it doesn't take long for my body to adjust. It's trained to compensate for the shocks, turning them into energy I roll with and use to power the next strike. Kicks come next, then knees, and elbows...this is just a light workout for me. I can't practice my deadlier techniques on this simple training dummy, but it's a good way to relieve some of my stress.

With a scream, I throw an overhand elbow that would dislocate a man's jaw before falling to the floor, covered in sweat and gasping for breath. That's good enough for tonight. I'll get a real workout in tomorrow.

I peel off the gloves, hanging them up on their hook again and go over to the mat on the far side of the room. I've removed the lights, and darkness reigns. By pure muscle memory I find the lighter and light a single tea candle, setting it in front of me and assuming the seiza kneeling position that I learned long ago. I send my mind into the flickering light of the candle, and what comes up are my memories.

“You are filled with anger,” Virginia says, two days after I've come to her home. It's the third foster home I've been placed with, the other two having sent me back after what the social workers called 'inappropriate behavior'.

“No shit, lady,” I snap back at her, twisting my hair around my finger. “You'd be too if you got treated like last week's Big Mac.”

“Perhaps I would,” Virginia says. She's lean, and according to the file the social worker showed me before she dropped me off at the house, she's former military. She looks it too, with muscles outlined against her chocolate-brown skin, and eyes that look like they've seen some shit. “But I wouldn't be helping those people who treat me that way by acting like an inconsiderate baby.”

“Excuse me, bitch?” I snap, sitting up. “I ain't no goddamn baby.”

“First of all, it's 'I am not a baby.' Second of all, in this house, you will not curse me, nor any other person who is my guest. What you do outside I cannot control, but you will show respect to me and my house.”

“Or else what? You send me back to the orphanage? Return to sender, address unknown?”

Virginia gives me a little smile, which pisses me off for some reason. “Well, you can't be all bad, you at least have some knowledge of Elvis. As for what will happen...no, I will not send you back, for two reasons. First off, because I don't fail, and sending you back means that I fail. But more importantly, because I won't let you fail, and sending you back will guarantee you that you will end up a failure in life. You're not going to get another foster home, not with three strikes against you. Even if you are a pretty little white girl, the only place you'll end up is some pervert's house. And while I may not live in the best home in New Orleans, that's by choice, and you will not fail on my watch.”

“I ain't no failure!” I scream, getting to my feet. “You take that back!”

“Make me,” Virginia says softly, shifting her right foot back. “If you can.”

I charge her, my right hand already cocking back in a punch that comes from the depths of my rage, but instead of hitting her, I'm redirected. She ends me spinning through the air and crashing to the hardwood floor of the dining room. Virginia keeps a hold of my wrist and twists, and I howl, tears of anger and pain already flowing as she turns me over onto my stomach. She wrenches my hand around and up until I feel my little finger touching between my shoulder blades and her knee on my spine near my waist.

“Your anger makes you strong, Katrina. But you must learn to control it. Now tell me, before I have reason to dislocate your shoulder, why are you so angry?”

I cry, trying to look up to see her, but I can't, no matter how hard I kick or fight. Finally I howl, letting the truth out. “My parents! They got blowed up!”

Virginia eases off her armlock slightly, but keeps a strong grip on my wrist. “Tell me what happened.”

I close my eyes and struggle against the memories, but they come flooding out anyway, carrying me away. “Mama and Papa, we were at the Fair Grounds. We'd gone for the horse show...I'd begged them to take me after that movie, and after the hurricane. Mama said that she'd dropped her phone, and I told her I'd go get it. I run back and see it on the ground near the door to the elevator, and turn around. The car...the car blowed up! The fire...it's so hot...MAMA! PAPA! DON'T LEAVE ME!”

I'm sobbing, and Virginia releases my arm to pull me up into an embrace. She lets me sob and scream my horror, anger and everything into her chest. When the tears finally stop, Virginia lifts me to my knees and looks into my eyes. “This is very, very important, Katrina. What do you want to do with this rage?”

I sniff and wipe at my nose, looking into Virginia's sand-colored eyes. “I want to kill whoever killed Mama and Papa.”

I know I shouldn't say it. The social workers tell me that it's wrong to feel this way, that I'm supposed to live and let live like Pastor Gibb who comes by the orphanage says we should do...but I'm no Jesus. I want something darker.

But Virginia doesn't flinch, and instead she nods, brushing a lock of hair out of my eyes. “Good. You're being honest, which is a good thing. Then I make you a promise. Your training will not be easy. You may not survive your vengeance. But I swear to you, as someone who's been there...you will not fail.”

I open my eyes to see the candle's burned itself out. I smile, feeling refreshed. Using meditation to supplement sleep wasn't something that Virginia taught me, but I can't deny that I learned a lot from her. She was the first in a long line of instructors, of teachers who gave me the skills that have finally brought me to this point.

I shift positions, rolling onto my back because I know my feet are going to be asleep still after kneeling for what's most likely been an hour or more. As blood flow slowly returns to my toes, I feel pain that gradually subsides into the familiar pins and needles sensation that's always a part of this process. My feet are still tingling when I hear the door to my loft unlock. I sit up immediately—only a few people have a key to my place, but still I'm wary. It pays to be careful, and pays more to be paranoid.

The door opens, and the soft lighting above my door shows me it's Darcy. She's another one of my mentors, but more importantly, she's my best friend. She's thirty-two years old, but Virginia introduced us six years ago, on my sixteenth birthday. Meeting Darcy was my birthday gift from Virginia, and in the long run has been the best gift I've ever gotten. “Darce, I'm over here.”

“Damn girl, I know you want to cut down on your electricity bill, but you could run this entire setup right now with two nine-volts and a hamster wheel,” Darcy says, making her way through the dim space. “What, short on money again?”

“You know that's not the problem,” I tell her, although there have been times in the past when I barely had two dimes to rub together and another payday nowhere in sight. “The skills you taught me provide better than that.”

An anarchic, idealistic hacktivist, it took Darcy a long time to come around to my point of view on things, and agreeing to teach me more than the basics of computer science. Not that my education was ever traditional, but nowadays, under the hacker handle Coup De Grace, I'm able to earn enough to put food in my stomach and keep the lights on.

“Yeah, of course I know,” Darcy says, her boots clomping on the floor. She and I share somewhat similar viewpoints on fashion, and that's one of the things we bonded over first. Well, that and a hatred of all things Microsloth. “Jeff saw the pics a half hour ago. I dropped Henry off with his grandmother and hightailed it over here, telling her a client had a computer issue. She doesn't quite understand my work, so it's cool like that.”

“You didn't need to rush over here. I'm fine,” I say, getting to my feet. My little toes are still tingling, but it's not too bad. “Have you seen them?”

“Sho'nuff. Didn't think he'd be so...short. Thick, but short.” She holds the tips of her index fingers close together, indicating his length.

I laugh and get up. “Actually, he's bigger than the average man. I'd say a solid seven or eight, although I didn't have my ruler with me. I'm guessing the jacket hid some, and the angle of the photo hid some more. They get any of me?”

“They got your body and hair, but the photos released so far don't show your face. Don't matter though, since you're off-grid so much. But from what I did see...you were lookin' good, girl.”

Darcy's comment about me being off-grid is true. Katrina Grammercy has no driver's license, no photo IDs, no voter registration card, not even a library card. Everything is handled through 'Net identities and anonymous numbered accounts, or face to face with no paper trail. Cuts down on my income...but money isn't what I need. And it's definitely not what motivates me.

“Well, regardless, you and I both know that Peter DeLaCoeur's going to be coming for me. I just need enough time to take him the rest of the way down,” I say.

“And your friend? I know he's a womanizing asshole, Kat, but he was your best friend when you was kids. You take Papa DLC down, you take down Jacky-boy, too.”

I sigh and shake my head. It surprised me, but it actually hurt when I saw the look in Jackson's eyes. Once he realized who I was, there was a distinct look of betrayal I saw before I got out of the car. “You know there's no other way, Darce. I can't attack the DeLaCoeurs head on. Hell, I can't even hack their systems. Peter runs his business the old-fashioned way, with a lot of offline backups, and he only keeps paper trails on the stuff that's legit. From what I can tell, his memory's the only thing that keeps track of his illegal dealings. I need to pull the king out of his fortress, or else I'm dead before I get anywhere near him.”

“You could be dead either way,” Darcy reminds me. “And that, to me at least, is a greater loss than not getting your revenge.”

This is one of the few areas where we still disagree, but we're at peace with the situation. By that I mean I'm at peace with Darcy continually trying to get me to have a more positive outlook on life, and she's at peace with wasting her time trying to achieve that. “Not revenge, Darce. Vengeance. There's a difference,” I say.

“So you've told me for the past six years. But you know I disagree.”

We walk toward my sitting area, if you can call it that. By sitting area I really mean two old, patched-up wooden chairs from the boxing gym. The accompanying “table” is nothing more than a board of plywood sitting on top of two old computer towers. Since Darcy's here, I turn on the light, which is a solar-powered LED lantern that recharges during the day from the small amount of sunlight that comes in through the only window that isn't boarded up in the warehouse. “Darcy, if you really disagreed with me that much, you'd tell Jeff. If he busted a hacker like me, he'd get a promotion for sure. At the very least, it'd get him off patrols and a detective's shield.”

“And betray my best friend?” Darcy asks, shaking her head. “No honey, me and Jeff, we got ourselves an understanding. He don't ask about what I do besides put together custom computers for people, and I've backed off my online stuff for the most part. He helps me sometimes too though, when our purposes align.”

I chuckle. “Backed off? Since Henry's been born, I barely see you on the boards any more. Let alone see your traces around the systems.”

Darcy smirks and shrugs. “Ah, it's all good. I keep up-to-date, and besides, I make more money building kits for Tulane kids than I ever did trying to change the world one server at a time. And you know, if you really need my help, well, BlakDhal1A can always make a comeback.”

“You still worry about me though,” I say with a smile. “Why?”

“You know why, Kat. I already buried my family one time, when Katrina came through. I don't wanna bury you, too.”

“If by setting one’s heart right every morning and evening, one is able to live as though his body were already dead, he gains freedom in the Way,” I quote to Darcy, smiling softly. “The Hagakure.”

“I hate that fucking book,” she counters, then sighs. “All right Kitty-Kat, you my sister. You wanna run headlong to your doom...I'll be there to make sure you at least get a proper funeral. We'll have jazz and everything.”

I stand up, and Darcy follows. We hug at the door, and I give Darcy a bit of a smile. “Don't sweat it, Darce. Give my regards to Jeff and Henry. Someday I'd like to meet them in person.”

“I'd like that, too. Good night, Kat.”

“Good night, Darcy.”

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