#i've decided that kass doesn't have superpowers in this au

[semperintrepida]

The Sellout: chapter four

four: the first thaw

This was a mistake.

Kassandra only had time for that one, brief regret as she toppled backwards into the display case. A bang clapped through her skull and left her ears ringing, and a manic grin loomed before her as the world desaturated to grey, then black... and then her vision returned in a shock of light and color as crisp as sunshine on fresh snow. Then time slowed down, down, down and she stopped thinking and started moving: finding her feet, grabbing fistfuls of the man's coat, and launching herself forward. She pushed him along, gathering speed as she angled him towards the windows, and then she threw him into the wooden bar hard enough to send the stools on top of it flying.

He bounced off the edge of the bar and landed on the floor in a sprawl, and as she sank to her knees, she heard the slap of his shoes against wood, then the door opening and closing, and then silence.

Every straight line in the room curved in on itself, and she pressed her palm into the floor to keep from falling over. Her chest was a furnace, each hot breath harsh in her ears, and she knelt there, staring at a knot in the floorboards, fascinated by the way it punctured the woodgrain around it.

Footsteps approached her in a hurry, then a voice, thin and tight, said, "Are you— Hang on, okay?"

Kassandra studied the cracks radiating out from the center of the knot. A weakness in the grain. Stupid. She'd thrown herself in harm's way for a woman who hated her. Why? She didn't even know the woman's name. So stupid.

She heard metal jangling against metal at the door. Then the footsteps returned, and the woman knelt beside her, a phone in her hand, its screen bright enough to sear a halo into the edges of Kassandra's vision.

"I'm calling 911—"

Kassandra put her hand over the screen, and as their skin touched, the woman jerked her hand and the phone away as if scalded. Kassandra sighed. "Don't."

"Don't what? Call?"

"He's long gone. The cops'll never find him, and they'll bring you more trouble than it's worth." And more trouble than Kassandra wanted to deal with to keep her name out of the newspapers and off of Twitter.

"Fine. No cops. But you should still go to the ER."

Her head ached too much to shake it. "No. I hate hospitals."

"Everyone hates hospitals."

"No ambulance."

The woman exhaled, sharp and quick. "Then what do you want to do?"

"Call an Uber, and go home." Despite her aching head and stiff neck, the burn in her lungs was fading, and the lines of the floorboards, and chair legs, and table tops were straightening back to true.

"That's a terrible plan."

Kassandra shrugged, and then she started to climb to her feet. She got as far as raising herself on one knee before her body refused to move any further. She swayed precariously. The floor seemed a long way down, and she imagined how it was going to feel when she smacked face-first into it — but hands grabbed her by her shoulders and held her upright. So much strength in those hands, but not an ounce of warmth.

"Sit here and don't move," the woman said, guiding Kassandra down so she rested with her back against the window. "I'm calling an ambulance."

Desperation drove Kassandra to catch her by the arm. "Don't. Please," she said, and the light in the room chilled from warm yellow to cold fluorescence, and instead of coffee she smelled disinfectant. She shuddered with the memory of medication and pain and being trapped in beds in white rooms, and it set off a fresh round of ringing in her ears.

The woman stared at Kassandra's hand wrapped around her forearm. "Okay, fine," she said, and when Kassandra released her, she rocked back on her heels, putting space between them. "Have it your way."

Kassandra shivered again, her spine cold where it pressed against the glass window.

The woman frowned and leaned closer. Her irises were rimmed with red, and graphite smudged the skin below her eyes. She clearly hadn't been sleeping much.

Kassandra could guess the reason why. She looked down at her hands. Stupid, coming back here — she should have left things to her research and legal teams and stayed out of the way.

"How does your head feel?" the woman asked.

"I've got a headache."

"Did you lose consciousness?"

"For a moment, if that."

"Stay here, okay? I'll be right back."

Footsteps, then rustling, and a drawer opening and closing. More rustling. More footsteps. And then the woman was back and handing her a bag of ice wrapped in a clean bar towel.

Kassandra took the ice and pressed it against the back of her head. "Thanks."

"Don't thank me. This wouldn't have happened if I'd locked the fucking door like I was supposed to."

"And you didn't because I was distracting you."

"You sure as hell did." The woman shook her head irritably. "Offering to buy me out. You don't even know what my books look like."

"I don't even know your name."

Her eyes widened a fraction. "Don't you have... people to figure stuff like that out for you?"

"Yes, but I was holding out hope you'd volunteer it."

She snorted. "Even after I told you to fuck off."

"I guess I'm just optimistic."

"No, you're just used to getting whatever you want."

It's called winning, Kassandra's brain offered unhelpfully, but she clamped her mouth shut around the words just in time.

They stared at each other in a silence that grew more and more awkward until the woman sighed and gave in. "My name's Kyra."

Kassandra extended her hand purely out of reflex. "Kassandra."

"I know," Kyra said dryly, and after the slightest of hesitations, she reached for Kassandra's hand and shook it.

A handshake was a message, and Kyra's said I don't suffer fools gladly. Her grip was firm but not crushing — though the muscles in her hands certainly held the strength to do so. Solid muscles, calloused skin. Powerlifter? No, too lean across her shoulders and thighs. Her mystery remained unsolved.

The ice was working its magic, tamping down the ache in Kassandra's skull. "I'll call that Uber now," she said.

"How did you get here?"

"Drove."

Kyra said nothing for several seconds, lost in thought. Then she gave a quick nod and said, "Look. I'll drive you home, or wherever. If you want. It's the least I can do after you..."

She didn't say ended up with a concussion on my behalf but she could have. Kassandra considered the offer. Passing out in her own car was more appealing than passing out in some random Uber, but there'd be a stranger at the wheel either way. She could see herself now: out cold in the front seat of her Audi, a flash of brake lights, the door opening, then Kyra dumping her into the nearest gutter...

Of course, if she was that worried about it, she could just call an ambulance.

"Okay," she said.

"Okay." Kyra sat back. "You all right with waiting a few minutes? I've got to close out the till."

"Sure."

Time passed in the form of sounds and silence, and then Kyra was crouching in front of her and asking, "Ready?" and when Kassandra nodded yes, Kyra offered a hand and helped haul her to her feet.

The room tilted out from under her, the floor bending like a rubber band.

A strong hand slid under her upper arm and steadied her. "You gonna make it?"

"I'm fine." She stared at the floor until its planks straightened again.

"Sure you are," Kyra said, but she didn't let go. She guided Kassandra around the stools that had fallen from the bar, and only released her when they stood before the door to the shop.

Kyra unlocked the door with a twist and jingle of metal keys, and then it swung open and Kassandra stepped into cool, night air. She waved Kyra's hands away and took a deep breath. The damp breeze sweeping in from the river was almost enough to cover the greasy carbon smell of exhaust. Around them, the sidewalks were already empty. No city packed up and went home as early as Portland did.

Her Audi sat by itself a few spaces up the way, lit by a streetlight. "I'm assuming that's yours," Kyra said, nodding in its direction, and she could have been pointing out a garbage truck for all the enthusiasm in her voice.

"Yeah." Kassandra walked gingerly to the car. The streetlight blazed down, bright as a spotlight. It made her eyeballs throb, and she squinted as she opened the passenger door and eased herself inside the car, grateful for the darkness of its interior.

It was disconcerting, sitting on this side of her own car, a mirror universe where everything was reversed and a stranger was sliding into the driver's seat. Kassandra leaned back so her head held the bag of ice in place — and then she pulled her seatbelt extra snug.

"It's like the cockpit of the space shuttle in here," Kyra said, as she ran her hands over the steering wheel and eyed the blank computer screen that took the place of a gauge cluster.

Kassandra grinned. "Push the big red button to start the launch sequence. Just don't... stomp on the gas."

But Kyra didn't leap at the chance to drive it like she'd stolen it. She took her time adjusting the mirrors and getting comfortable in her seat, and only then did she push the button to start the car, biting off a curse at the sudden roar of a hundred explosions a second being contained in the engine right behind her. Then she checked her blind spot and pulled onto Belmont as Kassandra worked the navigation system to make the route to her condo appear on the display.

Kyra's driving was competent and composed, and Kassandra began to relax despite the growing silence between them. They knew next to nothing about each other, and what they did know was something neither wanted to talk about.

The car turned as smoothly as a greased bearing onto the Burnside Bridge, the river an oily black ribbon below. At the far end of the bridge, the big "Portland Oregon" sign flashed its lightbulbs and neon, a vintage throwback that set the tone for the neighborhoods behind it.

Kyra changed lanes. "I'm surprised this thing doesn't drive itself."

"In a few more years I'm sure they'll come out with one that does, unfortunately."

"Unfortunately?" The passing streetlights lit her face in alternating stripes of light and shadow.

"I like driving. The sound, the feel of it."

"Driving one of these, sure. You're like a shark among the sardines."

"True." Kassandra couldn't imagine driving a beater Honda in rush hour traffic, and was glad she'd never had to experience that particular displeasure.

They glided downtown in a smooth bubble of movement, and whether that was from the car or from Kyra's driving, Kassandra couldn't say. Downtown, where food trucks clustered under high-rise office buildings and tent cities squatted within sight of every luxury hotel.

Burnside Street took them to 10th and the Pearl District — a neighborhood as clean, shiny, and multilayered as its namesake. Dig far enough and you'd hit the industrial sands it was built upon.

"Turn into that driveway on the left," Kassandra said as she fished her keycard out of her wallet. The gate lifted and let them inside, and she guided Kyra through the cramped nautilus of the carpark until they reached another gate. This one led to her private garage, isolated and secure.

The garage had three bays, but she hadn't bothered to ship any of her other cars here. Instead, she'd brought a pair of motorcycles: her favorite Triumph custom for the street and another bike for the dirt. The riding here was supposed to be some of the best in the world, but she'd rarely had any free time to find out.

Kyra eyed the bikes as she shut the engine off and opened her door.

"You ride?" Kassandra asked from the other side of the car.

"Nah," Kyra said. "I'd never have the time." A shame. She'd look good swinging her leg over that Triumph, wearing a black leather jacket to go with the red lumberjack flannel and jeans she was wearing now...

Her voice brought Kassandra back to reality. "You've got someone at home to watch you tonight, right?"

This is what Kassandra would come home to: high ceilings, tasteful furnishings, a spectacular view of the city — all of it very, very empty in its solitude. She'd have to admit it one way or another, but if she stayed silent she wouldn't have to hear herself say the words out loud.

Kyra looked at her. "You don't," she said quietly, and Kassandra couldn't tell if she was surprised by it or not. "I fucking knew I should have driven you to Legacy and bounced you onto the doorstep of the ER."

"I'm glad you didn't," Kassandra said. "And now that I'm here, you've done your good deed and you're free to go. I'll call an Uber for you, or a taxi. Whatever you want."

"Oh no, I'm not about to let you go on alone, just so you can die all by yourself."

"Wanting to watch is a bit bloodthirsty, don't you think?"

It was a good thing there was a car between them, because Kyra looked about ready to strangle her. "That's not what I meant."

Kassandra couldn't help herself, and she laughed even though it made her headache flare. "Well, come on, then. You can hate me up close all you want."

Up close is exactly what they got: in the stairwell, in the narrow hallway to the private elevator that serviced the upper floors of the tower, and in the elevator itself, where Kyra stood as far away from her as possible. Kassandra slapped her keycard against the reader. The numbers on the floor indicator ticked higher and higher, until they weren't numbers at all, just "PH".

The elevator released them into a small foyer.

"I don't hate you," Kyra said suddenly.

"Jesus doesn't like it when you lie," Kassandra said as she used her keycard to unlock her front door, and whatever Kyra's answer would have been was swept aside by their arrival.

The lighting and window systems woke up as Kassandra's smartphone connected to her home network. A soft glow from unobtrusive fixtures brightened the open interior of the space, while the windows shed their tint to put the city skyline on full display.

Kassandra crossed the room and sank onto the low-slung couch with a grateful sigh. She kicked off her shoes, then set the melted bag of ice down on the glass end table beside her.

Kyra was still lingering by the door, where the nearest wall displayed a triptych of poster-sized, black and white photographs. A lone dirtbike outracing a dust storm across the desert. A crumbling building made abstract in shadows and light. A landscape of the mountains encircling the bowl of Death Valley.

"Who took these?" Kyra's voice echoed from across the room.

"I did." Back when she had time to ride and travel. Now most of her shots were hurried sketches taken with her phone.

Kyra's circuit of the wall pulled her past the flatscreen TV, past Kassandra's bookshelves, until she stood in front of the windows. "It's so beautiful," she murmured as she gazed at the twinkling panorama of the city's east side.

Kassandra nearly got lost watching Kyra enjoy the view before she remembered her manners. "Can I offer you something to drink? Beer? Water?" She grinned. "Coffee?"

That made Kyra turn and approach the couch. "Is it from Starbucks? Then no, thank you." She picked up the soggy bag of ice on her way past, holding up a hand when Kassandra sat forward. "No, don't get up. I can find my way to your fridge," she said, glancing at the kitchen in full view before them. A trace of humor instead of irritation. Seemed this evening would bring Kassandra one surprise after another.

But no surprise would top the fact that there was someone else here with her. She'd never invited anyone — no friends, no lovers — to her home, or to any of her homes, really, and now some stranger was rooting around in her refrigerator and cupboards.

She closed her eyes and listened to the sounds of Kyra making herself right at home: the fridge and cabinet doors opening and closing, a quiet "Ahh!" of surprise as Kyra found her coffee stash, and then the kettle being filled and a gas burner igniting.

Then there was a gentle swirl of air beside her: Kyra, perching on the armrest of the couch, offering her a fresh bag of ice and a bottle of water. "You should drink this," she said.

Kassandra raised the bottle in thanks and took a swig.

"You've got beans from Camber and Sweet Bloom. So you do know something about good coffee."

"Not as much as I should. But coffee's not really my gig," she said, well aware of how it sounded. "I know a lot more about buildings and the land they sit on." She'd cut real estate deals and maximized returns on investments for over a decade, always high enough up the chain where the numbers involved had at least seven digits, insulated from ever having to see that the mom-and-pop competition belonged to real people instead of numbers on a spreadsheet.

Kyra's jaw clenched around a response. "I hope you don't mind me dipping into your stash," she said instead, keeping up the détente between them. "I'm going to be up awhile."

"Have as much as you want."

The sound of the kettle whistling drew Kyra away, and when she returned a few minutes later, it was with a mug cradled in her hands. She sat at the edge of the armchair across from Kassandra and closed her eyes as she inhaled the steam. "I'd offer you a cup, but I'm not sure you should with..." She gestured vaguely towards her head.

"I'm fine with this," Kassandra said, tilting her water bottle. "Which one did you pick?"

"The Sweet Bloom." Kyra sipped from the mug, then shrugged. "Aspirational, I guess, given our circumstances. And this particular roast cuts a nice profile."

"How so?"

"Light, honeyed, lots of florals. And brewed right, the results are"—she sipped again and smiled—"amazing."

That smile was enough to fill Kassandra with the irrational urge to keep her talking. "Who's your roaster?"

"Heart, here in town."

"Ahh, I should have known." They had a coffee shop of their own just up the street. "Why them?"

"They're local. And they haven't sold out to Wall Street like Stumptown did." She stood up, abruptly, and took her mug over to the windows, drinking from it as she watched the city lights. "Do you know why all the indie roasters started focusing on lighter roasts?"

"No."

"Because Starbucks went in hard on the dark roasts." Then she laughed, a brittle sound that bounced off the window glass. "I got into this business as a barista first, because I love how the best coffee tastes. I still do. I'll never serve anything less." She gazed pensively at the city, seconds stretching into minutes. Eventually, she turned to Kassandra. "How's your head?"

"Sore, but I'll live." She turned her neck experimentally. Still stiff. At least her head wasn't ringing anymore.

Kyra returned to the armchair and sat down. "Tired?" she asked.

"A little." More than a little. She'd been up since five and it had to be well past midnight by now.

"Sleeping would actually be good for you."

"Really? I thought it was the opposite," Kassandra said, remembering being poked and prodded on team flights and buses, kept from sleeping by assistant coaches after games where she'd cracked skulls with some opposing player. But that had been a long time ago.

Kyra flashed her a wicked grin. "That's why I'll be here to wake you up every couple of hours, to make sure you're just sleeping and not slipping into a coma."

Kassandra had been prepared for awkward silences, and perhaps some talking spiked with vicious, vicious words. But falling asleep while Kyra had free reign of her home... This was a terrible plan.

Kyra's grin grew wider. "Don't look so scared. My face is all over your security cameras and you know exactly where to find me." She made a show of studying her manicure. "Besides, murder's not really my style."

She had a point — and an actual sense of humor. Kassandra smiled. "I'm not so sure. You seem to know a suspicious amount about head injuries."

"I've seen enough of them to pick up a thing or two."

"I didn't know the coffee business was so dangerous."

"Not at the shop," she said, rolling her eyes. "Out on the rock, and in the climbing gym."

Rock climbing. How had Kassandra missed that connection? "Cliffhanger."

"My three loves put together."

Coffee, climbing, and books. "Tell me about them?" Kassandra winced at how inane the question sounded.

"I can definitely bore you to sleep if that's what you want."

"If I fall asleep, it won't be because I'm bored." And right on cue, she yawned.

"Well, this won't take long, then," Kyra said brightly. "So speaking of the folks at Heart — they called me up last week, all hot about this small, family farm they'd stumbled across the last time they were in Honduras..."

And Kyra talked, about heirloom coffee, and how roasters searched the world for the most interesting varieties, and Kassandra stretched out on the couch and listened, sometimes asking a question, but mostly resting in silence, mostly thinking about what it was like hearing another voice in a room that was usually so quiet and still.

And much later, she woke up to Kyra's hands gently tucking a blanket around her. "I'm awake," she murmured, wriggling in the blanket's soft cocoon.

"So you are," Kyra said wryly. She settled back into the armchair and picked up the book she'd set aside. "Go back to sleep."

"Not yet," Kassandra said, her voice thick and drowsy. The blanket was warm, like Kyra's hands had been. "I want to know what book... you're..." And then her brain tucked itself in and said good night.

Chapter four of The Sellout. Continued in chapter five...