“No boyfriends? What about the rugby captain?” His gaze skims over me, and my face stings even hotter.
“Of course. I have—had a boyfriend.” I wonder at the slip and whether I’m talking about Zac or Sean. I’m not even sure.
“Ah, so you’re experienced then?”
“I didn’t say that, either,” I snap, not liking the implication that I’m a girl with a lot of mileage. That’s the last thing I want him to think. With that idea in his head, he might start to think I’m an easy conquest for him. That I’m just another girl ready to rush at him with kisses when he returns home from a mission. Yeah. Not happening. Save that for Tabatha.
“You said had. You don’t have a boyfriend now, Davy?”
I pause, not sure what Sean is to me. Things weren’t right between us when we parted, and with this time away from him I’m starting to see that whatever romantic future we had was lost when I pulled the trigger on a man to save his life. Right or wrong, things were never the same after that. They never can be. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about Sean. That he’s not special to me and my friend. That I don’t want to get back to him and Gil and Sabine.
And that doesn’t mean I’m somehow available or interested in a new guy. Decent or not. Romance is the last thing I need in my life. Merely existing is complicated enough. Hard enough.
“Davy?” he presses in that deep, lyrical voice of his that makes my skin contract . . . like his voice is something I can actually feel. A feather brushing my skin. “You do, don’t you?” he continues. “You have a boyfriend. There’s someone.” His brown eyes stare at me flatly, the bright amber there dormant, like he’s burying a part of himself away as he announces this.
“I didn’t say that.”
He moves to the door behind me, his bare arm brushing me as he passes. “You didn’t have to say it. That’s why you’re really in such a hurry to leave here. He’s who you want to get back to, right?” He closes the door with a soft click, sealing us in. My nostrils flare. Instantly, I feel caged, penned in.
I turn in a half circle, following him with my eyes.
“What’s his name, Davy?” He angles his head, looking at me intently, waiting like he has all the time in the world. The sound of my name on his lips wakes my skin with a shiver. It feels so intimate. Like we have some connection to each other.
I shake my head, pressing my lips into a hard line, refusing to go there with him . . . to get this personal, this close.
And there’s also the niggling little voice in me, warning that if I say Sean’s name out loud, then it’s an acknowledgment of what Caden is asking me. That Caden is then somehow right. That Sean is my boyfriend. He’s many things to me—all complicated, but he’s not that.
“It’s not a trick question.” He arches one eyebrow. “His name?” The question hangs in the space of his room. I glance around, scanning the surroundings. Bed. Desk. A single chest. A large map covers one wall. Very utilitarian. For some reason I have a flash of my girlified bedroom back home. That room that belongs to some other girl. That girl would never be here. This place looks like a soldier’s cell. And Caden the consummate warrior. Even if he does smile too much and come off as decent, his body hums with a tension, an energy, that puts me on edge. Like he could snap into motion at any time. I saw a glimpse of it when I woke in that cave with him. I’m sure if I stay here much longer, I will see evidence of it again.
Maybe being alone with him isn’t such a good idea. I curve my hand over my arm resting in the sling. Like hugging myself can somehow protect me.
He pulls back slightly, cocking his head again as he crosses his arms over his chest. I remember how solid that chest felt when he carried me. My eyes flick over him for a moment, skimming his lean torso, the golden-brown skin, before locking on his eyes again. Don’t go there.
He continues, “So which one is it? Sean or Gil?”
I compress my lips.
His eyes glint. Clearly he’s enjoying himself. “Not going to admit it then? What’s wrong? Have I gotten in your head? You can’t resist me and don’t want me to worry about this MIA boyfriend. . . .”
Outrage burns through me. I inhale sharply and for some crazy reason I feel the need to run. “No!”
He chuckles that damn laugh of his and I know he’s teasing me, but I’m not amused.
“You talk too much,” I accuse, pushing back down that swell of panic.
He laughs harder at that.
“And laugh too much,” I add.
His smile deepens, if that’s even possible. “Now, what’s wrong with laughing?”
“What’s wrong is that there isn’t anything to laugh about, is there? Certainly nothing to be happy about.”
“You don’t believe that. Now more than ever, it’s important to find reasons to smile and laugh. To have friends. To love.”
For some reason, heat swarms my face. I blink at him. Suddenly his gaze feels too much. Too probing. I struggle to sound normal and unaffected as I demand, “Are you kidding me? How do you manage to be so unflinchingly optimistic?” I wave my good arm wide. “We’re in an underground bunker in the middle of nowhere.” I start counting off, trying to pretend that I don’t notice him inching closer, wearing an expression of mockery. “The United States government has herded our kind into detention camps that we’ve barely escaped. They’ll shoot us on sight. Isn’t that the current protocol? And we’re fleeing into a country that doesn’t want us, either. They haven’t declared outright war on us yet like here, but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before they decide to put more effort into stopping us. Then what? How will these refuges”—I air-quote with my free hand—“hold up? There’s nowhere in the world for us to go.”
Still smiling, he says, “You worry too much.”
I stare at him in horror . . . and he chuckles again. “Isn’t this the time when we should seize every bit of happiness we can? Enjoy ourselves?” His gaze flicks over me, and my horror mounts. I’m immediately hyperconscious of what I must look like. Not a stitch of makeup on my face. My dark hair is a hacked-up mess, and I’m wearing a brown T-shirt and camo cargo pants, courtesy of who knows. Not Junie. She’s too small. My quick glance in the mirror today revealed that my face is still pink from my fading sunburn. Freckles that had never been there before generously dotted my cheeks and my nose.
I must be wrong. He’s not looking at me in that way at all. Not when he has girls like Tabatha flinging themselves at him.
“Isn’t it okay to take what pleasure we can find? Especially now?” His voice is softer, and goose bumps break out across my flesh.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “It’s not that easy. It hurts when you lose . . . when it all goes away.” God, does it hurt. To have everything you know and love ripped away.
His eyes crawl over my face, focused and intent, and it’s like I feel him peering into my very soul, reaching deep inside me.
“So you’ll keep yourself hidden away, because that’s safest.” He’s not smiling anymore. “That’s sad.”
Anger sparks inside my chest, spreading outward, suffusing me with warmth. “You don’t know anything about me.” An angry tirade continues in my head: Not where I’ve been, what I’ve been through.
“And you’re not going to let me know anything.” It’s not a question but a statement of fact. He looks a little disappointed. Or maybe just thoughtful as he frowns and studies me. Shaking his head, his troubled expression clears. “Did you have a reason for coming here, Davy? To see me?”
I blink and square my shoulders, gathering my thoughts, wondering if just like that he can switch from prying into my feelings to being all business. The guy is bewildering. “Junie told me you had her send a message to see which refuge my friends are at.”
He nods. “Yes.”
“When will we hear back?”
“I don’t know. Our system of communication isn’t the most reliable.” He studies me a moment longer. “You doubted that I would send t
he message. I told you I would help you.”
At this reminder, I lift my good shoulder in a partial shrug. “And you think I should just believe everything I’m told?”
“You can believe me. You gotta trust sometimes. Someone . . . eventually. Right?”
Like trust is such an easy thing for a carrier to do. He should understand that. He doesn’t trust me. He can’t. I rub at my temple with my good hand. “You make my head hurt.”
He sighs. “Don’t worry about it. Junie sent the message. Now we wait to hear something. If your friends reached one of the refuges, we’ll know soon.”
I drop my hand and look up at him. I don’t need a mirror to know that my face reveals all the hope swelling inside me. “Really?” It can be that easy?
“You’ll be on your way before you know it.” His voice sounds harder, clipped.
He reaches for a shirt draped over the back of his chair. His desk is littered with papers and maps and a few books.
There’s just one bed. My gaze strays to it. Full-size, it looks cozier than the one I’ve been sleeping in. The thick blue comforter is inviting. I guess being the quasi leader has its perks.
He pulls the gray cotton T-shirt over his head. It does nothing to hide the strong body on display moments before. “You should stay off your feet and rest up for the trip. It’s not the easiest journey. You’ll need stamina.”
“All I’ve been doing is resting.” Well, when I haven’t been working out with Junie or sitting in on her meetings with other scouts. I’ve also spent a fair amount of time people watching (trying to predict who might be another Hoyt). Eyeing his desk, I inch closer. I know I should leave. I got the information I wanted, but it’s not like my hours are full of stuff to do.
Dipping my head, I touch a book and turn it so that I can read the spine. Guerrilla Tactics and Principles of War.
So he’s not the pacifist he appears. He had made it sound like Marcus was the one given to violence, but apparently he’s not totally opposed to it. Of course. As a carrier he wouldn’t be. I feel somehow validated at this.
His hand comes down on the book. His long fingers brush mine, and I jerk away at the contact.
His lips curl in amusement, and I mutter a mental oath at myself. If I want to show how unaffected I am, I shouldn’t be so jumpy.
He sets the book aside, sliding it to the far corner as if trying to distance me from it. I glance at him warily. Is he trying to hide what he is because it smacks down his Boy Scout image? I never bought into that anyway. My gaze travels over the imprint circling his throat. He’s got the propensity for violence in him just like the rest of us.
“Don’t see too many books around these days,” I murmur.
“Books might be old-fashioned but they’re reliable. Terrence is our tech specialist and hacker extraordinaire. He’s rather possessive of all our equipment. He claims it’s too precious for me.” His mouth twists into a wry smile. “Claims I’ll break it. He’s not giving up any of our technology so I can read a downloaded book. And these belonged to my father. Some kids got Goodnight Moon at bedtime, I got books on hand-to-hand combat. But I wouldn’t have changed it. It prepared me for where I am today.”
Of course. Even as a child, he probably reveled in it. Some kids got bikes for their fifth birthdays. He probably got an automatic rifle.
I wonder if I would have reveled in it, too. If my father hadn’t been a banker. If my mother hadn’t been an interior designer.
“Interesting childhood,” I murmur. “Mine mostly consisted of voice and violin lessons—”
“You sing?” he cuts me off, the amber of his eyes glinting with interest.
“Not anymore.”
His expression turns to disappointment. “Too bad.”
Did he actually think I would sing for him? Here? What? Did he want me to put on a concert out in the main room after dinner?
I move around his desk. Not caring if I look nosy, I pick up a packet of papers and skim them. My eyes widen, and I raise my gaze to him. “This is how to construct some kind of . . . bomb?”
He plucks the papers from my hands. “You shouldn’t look at that.”
“Why? I’m not to be trusted?” I fling this out at him, angling my head, daring him to say he can’t trust me after he’s stated more than once that I should trust him.
“There are security protocols—”
“Right. I need to trust you implicitly, and be happy and laugh while you’re building a bomb to do God knows what?”
He drags a hand through his hair, compressing his lips before expelling a heavy breath. “If I knew you were staying . . . joining us, then I could let you into the fold, Davy.”
Everything inside me freezes at what he’s saying. “W-what?”
“I’m asking you to stay and be a part of this.” He splays his hands wide like he’s offering me something, handing it to me. “It’s better than hiding in some camp in Mexico, crossing your fingers, hoping that you’re never discovered, that the Mexican authorities never decide to get serious about hunting you down.”
“My friends—”
“We can send word you’re alive and well. And you can stay here and do some good. Have a purpose beyond surviving.”
I open my mouth to argue, but this last bit resonates, tempting me. A purpose beyond surviving. That’s the only thing that separates us from animals. Purpose.
“You obviously have some skills. That much you’ve proven. We could use you, Davy.”
Because I killed a man. Someone bigger, stronger. While I was weak from injuries, no less. Like it or not, the cred I wanted so badly for myself when I was at Mount Haven? I’ve earned that here.
He’s moved closer, I realize. The clean smell of his skin swirls around me, and I feel a stab of loneliness. Yearning. That’s maybe the worst part of this new life. The always being apart . . . alone even when you’re surrounded by others.
The gold flecks that make his brown eyes look so fiery are easy to detect standing this close to him. Stupid lashes. They’re longer than any girl could hope for even with the best mascara.
“I—I have to go.” Because being here with him makes me feel like a traitor. Even though those feelings I had for Sean died, I still shouldn’t feel myself leaning toward him like he’s something I need. Food for the starving.
“Always running. From this place to Mexico.” His lips curve, but he doesn’t look amused anymore. Not this time. “From me.”
I shake my head, refusing to believe he’s talking about him and me like there might be something there. An us. It’s so wrong I could laugh at the idea of it. If it didn’t terrify me so much.
“I’m not staying here.” I turn for the door and hesitate to add, “As soon as you get word—”
“I’ll let you know,” he finishes, his voice flat, emotionless.
I stare at him for a moment, not liking the feeling sweeping over me. That I’m somehow a disappointment to him because my purpose isn’t his. That I’m failing to do the right thing here. That used to be my MO. To do the right thing, perform the way everyone expected. My parents. My teachers. I even did that at Mount Haven.
Not anymore. From now on I’m going to be smart and live for me.
* * *
Text Message
8:19 a.m.
Tori:
Hey, hot stuff. Big anti-carrier rally at the capital. You coming?
8:52 a.m.
Zac:
What about a normal date for once? You know. Movies? Dinner?
9:09 a.m.
Tori:
Where’s your commitment to the cause?
9:10 a.m.
Zac:
Your cause. Not mine. I’m not into it. You know that
9:11 a.m.
Tori:
Fine. I’ll go with someone else. Let you sit around and sulk, thinking about her
9:14 a.m.
Zac:
I’m not thinking about her
9:14 a.m.
Tori:
Liar
FOURTEEN
THE DAYS ROLL INTO A WEEK, AND I BEGIN TO FEAR that we’ll never get that message. We’ll never learn which refuge shelters Sean, Gil, and Sabine.
Maybe they didn’t make it.
I ignore that negative inner voice, squashing it like a bug, hoping that it won’t get back up and come at me again.
I see little of Caden. I gather from Junie and Phelps that he leaves almost every day. Goes above to do whatever it is he does. I don’t get to know that kind of information. That much is clear.
I busy myself working out, determined to regain my strength, increasing from a walk to a light run on the treadmill.
I ignore Rhiannon when she suggests—repeatedly—this might not be a good idea with my arm in a sling. I need to get back in shape. It helps. Makes me feel like I have some control over my life again. When the message comes through, I need to be ready to go.
I jog lightly on the treadmill after lunch one day. My eyes scan the room. I have several faces and names memorized by now. Few talk to me, but I remain vigilant. That happens when someone tries to kill you on one of your first nights some place.
Caden steps from one of the rooms where they often hold meetings. By they I mean the “inner circle.”
My pulse jumps at my throat. It’s one of few glimpses I’ve had of him since we last talked. There’s been no sight of him at meals and the thought crosses my mind that perhaps he’s avoiding me, but then I dismissed it. That’s giving me too much credit. I have no hold over him.
He’s dressed in his usual fatigues. Tabatha walks beside him, her strides long to match his. She talks with her hands. He nods, his expression intent as he listens. Terrence, following one step behind them, catches me looking and glances between me and Caden with a lifted eyebrow. My face heats, but I don’t look away.
Marcus and Ruben bring up the rear. In addition to hating me for killing his cousin, Marcus craves power and sees me as a threat. I’ve learned that much from what Junie has said as well as what I’ve inferred. Caden broke procedures to bring me here. Letting that slide undermines Marcus.