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You bury your face in his fine crimson coat when he shields you from the crack of electric gunfire, and much later, when he wraps a blanket around your shoulders and cradles your face between the kindest hands you’ve ever known, when he says, very seriously, “I’ll take care of you,” you believe him.

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You let him carry you past the trigger-happy corporate enforcer troops. You don’t question a storybook hero pulling you from your family’s collapsed corner-store. Especially when those folks are nine years old, covered in blood and rubble, and newly homeless. Folks are always keen to buy fairytales from someone who looks like he belongs in one. The way he looked-tall and fair and blue-eyed, just like an old-world storybook hero-helped him sell it. The man who fed it to me had his pick of stories, but he figured out fast that a shrieking orphan, plucked from the smoking remnants of a corporate raid, will gobble up a fairytale like nothing else. In long-lost days when the world was free, and the land still whole, there lived a man whose life was his country.Īt least, that’s the story I swallowed, once upon a time. “Ma’am.” He flirts with an old-world drawl that stretches his vowels out when he likes what he hears. Renaire’s fancy chrome hand catches the drink. “You are the regular show in this joint, aren’t you?”Ī refilled glass of blue slides back across the grimy countertop. “Because it’s the least awful hooch on offer at Fleet Street, and I never knew a musician who’d play a one-off gig here without getting plastered, much less a regular show.” My grin grows. “How’d you know we have the same drink order?” The burn fills me up inside, as I spin the empty glass down the length of the bar. I knock back the last of my shitty blue whiskey. I’ve been watching Renaire of the Killer Hands for weeks, long enough to know he likes his lovers easy. “Hey, ma’am, I wasn’t the one looking at the man on the keyboard like you’d have a better use for his fingers.” He waggles the digits on the chrome hand with demonstrative intent, impressively graceful for such an explicit gesture. He chuckles, throaty, sliding on to the bar stool beside mine. “Un-ironic fan of good music and shitty bars.” “Jo.” If my glass-clammy grip bothers him, he doesn’t let on. “But it doesn’t get old.” He extends the still-human hand. The bar’s shady lighting makes the blue inside look black. “Heard something I liked.” The cold whiskey glass sweats against my palm. Killer Hands finishes playing his set, then raises inky brows toward the open hunger in my gaze. The hands are the reason I’ve been sitting in this shitty-ass bar, drinking its shitty-ass whiskey.

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The hands, though-the hands are what you really notice. He’s good-looking in an off-kilter sort of way: black-curled and black-eyed, aquiline nose just a little too strong for his razor-boned face, the stubble at his jawline the barest suggestion of a shadow. The burn slides down my throat, while I drink in Killer Hands’ owner. A classic musician’s hand, save the swirling red tattoo curled like a bloodstain at the tender juncture of his wrist.

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The right is still flesh, the human skin well-tanned over long, lean bones. That design was trendy with corporate enforcer troops two seasons ago. His left is a chrome-plated work of art, the overpriced sort that catches the light with flashy metal detailing every time the fingers move. The man pulling music out of the old-world piano at this Fleet Street bar plays minor-key jazz melodies with killer hands.







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