68
Hands clasped in a combative stance, elbows on the beer-stained table, forearms vertical as muscles bulged. Teresa felt the strength in Jennika’s sinewy arm, the smooth ebony skin rippling with tendons and hidden strength. She admired her well-toned forearm muscles, the brachioradialis (she remembered the Latin name from Arthur’s copy of Gray’s Anatomy).
Now she had to use them. She felt like a panther.
Across from her sat the off-duty BIE guard: square jaw, square shoulders, square head. His face flickered with a glint of amusement. Obviously, he didn’t consider her a worthy arm-wrestling opponent, and that gave her even more motivation to win.
Teresa needed all the motivation she could get.
After studying public employee files from the Bureau of Incarceration and Executions, she had learned that one of the escort guards—José Meroni, a well-known womanizer—had a passion for arm-wrestling. He often hung out in a small neo-pub and challenged unsuspecting customers, much to the delight of the regulars. The stakes were usually no more than a round of drinks or a handful of credits. Tonight she had something much more substantial in mind.
On the night before Eduard’s scheduled upload, Teresa had entered the neo-pub, attempting to recapture her wide-eyed waifish look, despite Jennika’s athletic and iron-hard body. She peered around the bar, smelling sour beer and greasy food. Very different from Club Masquerade.
Teresa had recognized the escort guard sitting with his friends, gulping beer from an imitation medieval tankard. Given the man’s penchant for winning, by now he must have had a difficult time finding new arm-wrestling opponents.
She strode across to Meroni, looked down at him, and watched his expression of surprise turn into a leer. Good, that was even better. When she challenged him to a contest, he had let out a guffaw echoed by his cronies. Her expression soured, and she repeated her challenge. “Or are you afraid of me, do you think?”
The others swept their tankards aside, clearing the tabletop. One vacated a chair so Teresa could slide herself across from the surprised José Meroni. She shucked her coat and thumped her elbow on the table, holding up her hand, ready to clasp his in a tight grip.
“Stakes?” he said. “I don’t want to take too much of your money, lady.”
“Just a friendly match the first time.” She hoped he would fall into the trap, hoped she could pull it off. Mind, muscles, stamina, strength. Confidence. “Loser buys a round of drinks for your friends.”
The spectators cheered, delighted to be the beneficiaries no matter which contender won.
Teresa and the guard gripped palms, squeezed, tested. She dropped deep inside herself, concentrating, drawing on her inner strength. She had inhabited many bodies before, and could feel the muscles, the potential physical power inside her new form, if she could just release it.
They pressed their hands together, sweating and straining. Her eyes half-closed, she barely registered the look of surprise on Meroni’s face. He pressed harder. His face turned red. Teresa countered and pushed, the power building in her arms, giving not a centimeter.
The guard fought back, delving into his own reserves, possibly for the first time. Their elbows ground against the sticky tabletop. Her forearm wavered from vertical as she lost ground. Sweat trickled down her cheek. She drew a deep, cold breath, and resisted with even more strength.
Meroni fought for his pride in front of his friends, but she was fighting for something much more important. She envisioned Eduard, helpless, captured after all this time. He had sacrificed so much for her, for Garth, for himself. Eduard. She pushed harder.
The guard’s elbow slipped, and she pushed his forearm toward him. As he began to waver, his dismay increased, his confidence waned. Teresa saw the chink in his armor and pressed harder, gaining leverage. She winked at him.
The back of his fist slammed onto the tabletop, and she released her grip, standing as the spectators tittered nervously. They’d never seen Meroni lose, especially not like this. Teresa flexed her fingers to loosen them. “The gentleman here is buying us all drinks, I believe.” She met the guard’s gaze, saw his wounded pride.
“A fluke!” he said, because he didn’t know what else to say. He challenged her to a rematch, but his confidence was already crumbling.
So she defeated him again.
“Now’s your big chance,” she said, while some of the patrons chuckled, others sat astonished. “The chance to prove yourself.”
Teresa flirted with Meroni, stroking his sweaty cheek with her long fingers. His voice was gruff, on the edge of surly. “What do we do now?”
“Now we swap. Do it again.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Let me prove I can beat you in your body, too.” She didn’t want the man for his muscles—she just needed his uniform, his identity, and his access to the termination facility.
José Meroni blinked in surprise, assessing her lean female form. “What’ll that do? I can’t possibly win if I—”
“Oh, really?” She raised her eyebrows. “I just proved that this female body is strong enough to beat yours. It should be a sure thing for you. Muscles are muscles—see if you can do it yourself.” Teresa continued, as haughty as she could manage. “It’s all in the mind, total self-confidence . . . or are you afraid you don’t have enough confidence?” She waited a beat. “You can just surrender now, if you like.”
“What are the stakes this time?” he growled.
She gave another sexually charged smile. Rhys had trained her how to do it. “It’s just a matter of whether I get to be in the male body first later on tonight, or you.”
The spectators gave appreciative whistles and catcalls, tinged with envy, and that was enough to puff Meroni’s confidence again. “Sounds good to me.” He rubbed his sweaty palms together with a whickering sound. The bar attendant brought the round of drinks, and each of the spectators grabbed a fresh glass. No one ventured a toast on Teresa’s behalf.
The guard leaned across the table, nostrils flaring. They hopscotched, then placed their elbows on the table again. The spectators hooted, urging Meroni to win back his honor.
But Teresa knew this time would be easy. The guard had more brawn, heavier weight—and inside her already tired body, he would have no idea how to tap her deep reserves of strength. And he had already been beaten, his confidence shattered, his embarrassment crippling him. The first two times, Teresa had been somewhat outmatched, but had still managed to turn the tables on him. For this rematch, Teresa started out with a decided advantage, not just in weight and musculature, but in attitude—and easily trounced him.
Head low, still in a female body, the guard stood up. Leaving his fresh drink unfinished, he grabbed Teresa’s arm—his own arm. “Let’s get out of here, then. Synch your ID patch with mine.”
“Oh, no hurry for that.” Smiling warmly, Teresa and Meroni sauntered out arm in arm. “We’ll be swapping a few more times before the night is done.” The bar patrons hooted or applauded, and the shamed Meroni added a little more strut to his step.
Outside, she walked with him on the night streets, trying to pick up the pace. While still wearing Jennika’s shape, she had swallowed a powerful, timed tranquilizer before entering the neo-pub. She hoped they would get to Meroni’s place before the drug kicked in. She didn’t want to drag him all the way home.