“You want my kids ?” she asked the lawyer in the pressed black suit. “Honey, I am the kid you ran out of orbit.”
Jett grinned. “I wasn’t planning to.” bb_jett
She built her first working thruster at sixteen in a stolen shed behind a scrapyard. “BB” stood for “Bad Business,” a joke she’d carved into the casing after the thruster melted through two concrete blocks and singed her left eyebrow clean off. The social worker who showed up a week later took one look at the crater and said, “You can’t stay here, kid.” “You want my kids
Jett never knew her real first name. The foster system swallowed it somewhere between the third placement and the sixth runaway attempt. What she did know: speed. Not the chemical kind, though she’d tried that too at fourteen and hated the way it made her heart rattle like a loose engine part. No — real speed. The kind that came from four hundred pounds of thrust and a titanium frame. “BB” stood for “Bad Business,” a joke she’d