The Stepford Florist

By JT Lawrence

Jasmine is arrested for performing a bootleg vampire facelift in her modded-out steampunk caravan.

She's thrilled, because it's worked out exactly as she planned.

Jasmine has mastered moonlighting.

She's a steampunk inventor, a cosmetician, and a gene-hacking florist.

And then there's her real job: exposing evil corps and dodgy clinics.

When Jasmine, the head of Alba—an underground biopunk organisation—is tipped off that something morally dubious is happening at the city's most luxurious high-tech spa, she takes it upon herself to investigate, and discovers a whole lot more than she bargained for.

(Warning: Contains colorful language and sex.)

This short standalone spin-off novelette is set in the near-future When Tomorrow Calls world, and introduces Jasmine, Seth and Keke, just before we meet Kirsten, the kick-ass main character in Why You Were Taken.

When Tomorrow Calls: The futuristic dystopia conspiracy thriller series with over 200 five-star reviews on Amazon. The binge-worthy boxed set is now available ... don't blink or you'll miss it.

1. The Sigma Surrogate (prequel novella)
2. Why You Were Taken (book 1)
3. How We Found You (book 2)
4. What Have We Done (book 3)

What will Jasmine discover in the back rooms of the luxury high-tech spa? And, more importantly, will she get out alive? 

Click now to find out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fire Finch Press
• Release date: Oct 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386592396

JT Lawrence

JT Lawrence is an author, playwright and bookdealer based in Parkhurst, Johannesburg. She is the mother of two small boys and lives in a house with a red front door.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Bootleg Vampire Facelift

Jasmine loads up the syringe with her client’s platelet-rich plasma, fresh from the blood-spinning machine. She’s just recently bought the secondhand centrifuge from the darkweb marXet, an absolute treasure trove of grey label bioware. She attaches a needle, holds the syringe up to the light, and flicks it with her violet nails. It isn’t strictly necessary, but she’s seen enough medical dramas on BingeStream to know how to act the part.

Jasmine pulls on some perfumed rubbersap gloves—clients prefer the vanilla-scented ones, while her tastes run a bit darker—and pumps the chair pedal with her open-laced KoBolt runners. She would have preferred a pair of Neo-Victorian ankle boots to go with the rest of her look: 50s Beehive Babette with a steampunk twist, but performing these vampire facelifts are murder on her feet.

She turns on her brightest smile and blinks her false lashes at Ms Fontaine. Ready?

---

Her caravan—as modded out as it is—isn’t the ideal set-up for backstreet cosmetic treatments. Jasmine overhauled it with other intentions in mind. Still, she’s not complaining. It’s serving its purpose for now. She paints some local anaesthetic onto Ms Fontaine’s cheeks and forehead, and the woman flinches.

Cold, she says.

Yes, says Jasmine. It’ll only take a few seconds to work.

She picks up her capped scalpel and uses the back of the implement to poke the skin stretching over Ms Fontaine’s cheekbones.

Can you feel that?

The woman shakes her head. No.

Jasmine inserts the needle into the dermis right below her client’s wide open eye and injects a small amount of the plasma. Before she retracts it, there’s a crashing at the door. Ms Fontaine bolts upright and Jasmine’s needle misses puncturing her eyeball by a hint of a millimetre.

---

Fuck! Jasmine shouts, cool exterior shattered by the fright adrenaline. Her heart is a jack rabbit. She whirls around to face the three cops dressed in kevlar vests who have just smashed their way into the cabin. Ms Fontaine shoots up from the chair and puts her hands up.

Don’t touch her, Jasmine says, about to demand a warrant.

We’re not here for her, says the cop with the tranqtaser. His holobadge reads ‘DETECTIVE SOLARIS’, but Jasmine knows that already. His hand, holding the weapon, isn’t shaking, not even a little bit. His bulletproof torso is of superhero chest-to-hip ratio. The other two policetrons look around at the bespoke steampunk interior with confusion and distaste.

Don’t touch that, Jasmine says to the cop about to touch her transparent timber cuckoo clock, but he does, anyway, and the clock sounds ‘cuckoo!’ and a copper bird shoots out and pecks his eye. He exclaims and drops his weapon as his hands fly up to his face. Ms Fontaine wraps her fingers around her throat and screams as if she’s in a Hitchcock film.

---

Jasmine pulls the injured cop’s hands away from his face to inspect the damage. A small cut on his left eyelid.

It’s just a flesh wound. Jasmine feels no guilt. He should have listened to her.

You should have listened to me, she says.

Sometimes people don’t pay attention to her. Perhaps it’s because she’s petite and wears fabulous lipstick. Maybe they assume because she’s well made up, that there’s no brain under the beehive. They assume incorrectly.

Jesus Christ, says Detective Solaris, looking at her copper bolted walls and recogged microwave. You’ve been hard at work. Is this whole place booby-trapped?

Maybe, says Jasmine. So my original advice stands.

The third cop is tending to the bleeding one. She breathes right into his face as she tenderly wicks away the blood with a pocket-warmed wipe.

They’re shagging, thinks Jasmine. She watches the way the woman’s brow is furrowed with concern, and the way