“I think you did the right thing today. Accidents happen, and you can’t blame yourself. If you hadn’t shot that guy, I might be dead. You might be dead. There’s no way to know. But I do know that every time we strike back at Valor, we’re doing honor to their memories. All these people, dead, are not our fault. You can’t blame the gun for shooting someone. Valor turned us into weapons, and it’s not our fault.”
“Are you sure?”
I nod. “I have to be. I like the Forgetting House. It’s a way to forget them . . . the victims . . . while doing honor to them. Putting them to rest.” And I feel lighter. I do. I just hope I can keep that attic room locked for a long time. I don’t want to fill any more drawers.
He goes quiet, idly stroking his flat fingers up and down my arm. After a few moments, he takes a deep, sighing breath and turns around to sit cross-legged in front of me.
“Did you lock up the old man in your Forgetting House?”
He grins and nods.
“Do you feel better?”
Wyatt licks his lips and leans in to kiss me, so gently, just a peck. “I’m working on that part. All that adrenaline today—it’s still in me. It’s crazy. I feel so alive.”
“Almost dying will do that to you.”
I go warm all over, and something rises up in me, like an animal, making me want to grab him and pull him down over me on the bed. We’ve never kissed with any freedom, with any time. An entire bed and all night? No one to kill on the other side? I’m starving for him. But he’s going slow, so I’ll go slow.
The peck turns into a long, lapping kiss that leaves me breathless, and I slide farther down against the pillows. Wyatt goes with me, his legs tangling with mine and his fingertips tracing my cheeks, my nose, my jaw. I slip a hand under his tee and stroke up his back, rubbing a thumb over the knobs of his spine and the wide wings of his shoulder blades. A groan rumbles against my lips, almost a purr.
He pulls away and looks down at me, fond and sweetly smiling. “I need you to know three things,” he says. I nod, my lips parting. “For one, I’m sorry I snapped at you last week for saying you just wanted to not be alone. I get that now. You weren’t trying to use my body. . . .” I blush. “You were trying to feel human again, weren’t you? Trying to feel . . . real. Alive.” I nod and bloom with affection for him. I didn’t know how badly he’d wounded me with that one, nor how much his apology would mean to me.
“Thank you,” I say, and it comes out all breathy.
“Second, I’m not a virgin. You said you were, but I’m not, and I thought you should know that.”
When he says the word “virgin,” I blush redder . . . and go warm all over. Does he want the same thing I want? Does he know about the condoms? All I can do is say, “Hey, at least one of us knows what they’re doing, right?”
His eyes go dark, his lashes lower, and he kisses me again, slow and deep, before pulling away to say, “Right. And the third thing is that I think I’m falling in love with you.”
Outside the realm of Valor, this is possibly the most unexpected thing anyone has ever said to me, and it’s like what happens when you hold a piece of paper up to a match. I am the paper, and I want to be consumed by this boy. He must be thinking the same thing, because before I can answer him, he’s stretched out on top of me, his weight on his elbows and his mouth on mine.
It gets awkward only once, when I tell him where the condoms are.
16.
I see now why they call it “the afterglow.” Because what we just did? Was like being on fire. By which I mean it was very hot and hurt a bit, but it was beautiful, and now I feel glowy.
“Told you I was just using you,” I say, stretching luxuriously, completely naked and comfortable for the first time in a long time.
“Yeah. I’m really suffering.” Wyatt stretches out beside me under the covers. He’s asked me several times if I’m all right, if he hurt me, if it was okay. It’s weird to see him so insecure and confident at the same time. “But you never said anything. About what I said.”
My mouth drops open. Am I ready to say it? Do I even know what it is?
“I think I might be feeling the same way,” I say, and I nudge him with my forehead. It’s easier to be physical than to match words to feelings. There was an eloquence to what we just did that I’d like to think showed him how I feel. But words help too.
He wraps his arm around me, and I settle myself in the crook of his shoulder. Even yesterday, it would’ve felt very, very strange to be in a guy’s bare armpit, but now it feels . . . mature? Natural? At least animalistic. I belong here, up against him.
After kissing my forehead, he takes a full-body breath, relaxing against my side. “My dad once got really drunk on my parents’ anniversary and told me that I should only marry someone who lights up every time I walk into a room. He said that was more important than anything else. That he knew their marriage was over when he would walk into a room and my mom would look away or sigh or look down with a little V between her eyebrows, like she was disappointed in him before he’d even said anything.”
“That’s so sad.”
“Right? I don’t even remember noticing them, how they interacted. I don’t think I ever saw her light up.” He pauses, and I hold my breath. “But you do.”
“I do?”
His lips brush over my forehead, and I close my eyes and hum a sigh.
“Yeah. Every time you see me, no matter how horrible I look, no matter how covered in blood I am, no matter what sort of horrible things we’ve had to do, you light up. Like a lightbulb. Like Matty when I give her half a burger.”
“I light up like a fat dog, huh?”
He laughs like a little kid and snuggles me closer.
And that’s when some absolute asshole decides to bang on our door.
It’s not a friendly knock, not an, “Anybody home?” knock.
It’s a “You’d better be wearing a shirt and holding a gun, sucker” knock.
Matty barks at the door. When it opens, her barks turn to growls. I’m already shimmying back into my clothes, commando and braless in my desperation to be covered.
“Didn’t we lock the door?” I hiss.
“We did,” Wyatt says. He’s barefoot and shirtless in his jeans, gun already in hand, and no wonder I light up whenever he walks in the door. He’s a damn good-looking guy when he’s acting lethal. And he’s the kind of guy who goes first when scary knocks are at the door.
I tuck my gun into the back of my waistband and follow him as he peeks out the bedroom door and into the hall.
“Can we help you?” he shouts in his tough-guy voice.
“I’m here to speak to Patsy.” The guy’s voice is gruff and familiar.
“Maybe you could wait outside?” Wyatt says, opening the door just enough to show his gun, probably. “We need a minute.”
I peek around Wyatt and see a bearish guy in his forties with a big beard and a beanie cap—the guy who took the laptops away from Wyatt in the high school gym the night we met the CFF. He sees me looking, and his eyes lock on mine and narrow.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” he says. “I’m not a Crane. You can come on out.”
But I don’t see a gun. And I do not, in fact, wish to come on out.
Wyatt opens the door and reaches up with one arm to hold the jamb, his other arm dangling the Glock. I recognize the posture of a pissed-off ape showing muscles and confidence as he hides his prize from a challenger.
“You’re not her boss. So who are you, and why did you break into our trailer?”
The guy smirks, blue eyes twinkling. “I’m the guy who helped her debug the Valor car today. I heard she did a good job. And I didn’t break in. I’ve got a key.” He holds it up, dangling from a carabiner. “Figured she could use one.” He looks around, sniffs the air, and frowns. “Didn’t know there were two of you shacked up in here. Nice dog, though.”
“Not much of a guard dog,” I say, feeling testy.
As if
to show Wyatt that he’s not scared, the guy kneels and gives Matty a full catalog of pats and rubs. “You’re a good girl, aren’t you?” When she shows him her belly, he looks closer, and his frown deepens. “Where’d you get this dog?” As he says it, he stands, and his hand looks like it’s itching for a gun. He seemed pretty chill and friendly before, but now he looks pissed. And dangerous. And much older than I originally thought.
Suddenly, I realize why he looks familiar, and I push out from under Wyatt’s arm.
“What’s your name?” I ask, voice high and squeaky. “Your real name?”
He looks at me with blue eyes the same shade as mine and says, “Jack Cannon.”
The air punches out of my chest, and I can only gape and blink. I’ve been waiting for this moment since I was four years old, since the day he left. I have a million questions, a billion words of spite, a trillion words of love. I want to run into his arms, bury my face in his neck, cry into his jacket, kick him in the shins, but I know what I smell like and there are too many guns in the room.
It’s him.
It’s my dad.
“How’d you know?” I squeak. “How’d you know it was me?”
“I’m the one who decrypted the files on the laptops. Unfortunately, Leon was standing right behind me at the time. He knows your real name, but he doesn’t know you’re my daughter. He can never know.” His grin is fond and wondering and near tears. “It was hard as hell to hide that I knew it was you at the meeting the other night. I never dreamed . . .”
“I did. I dreamed it. Every day. Every day for thirteen years.” My voice breaks. “Where the hell have you been?”
“That doesn’t matter. I’m here now, honey. God, you’re so big.”
He opens his arms, and I freeze, suddenly shy and unsure. When he left, I was tiny and love was an automatic thing unencumbered by awkwardness. Throwing myself into his arms was natural then. But now I have reasons to pull away, too. Wyatt presses gently on my back, urging me forward, and then I’m hugging my daddy, just like I always dreamed of.
Well, almost. I stink of sex and I’m not wearing a bra or underwear and my boyfriend is five feet behind me, half naked with a gun in his hand. And my dad works for the Citizens for Freedom. He works for Leon Crane.
“And that’s Ash’s dog, isn’t it? I remember when she got that scar on her belly. How’d you end up with your uncle’s hunting dog, pip-squeak?”
I pull out of the hug and step back, hugging myself instead.
“I think we need to talk,” I say.
His eyes shoot around the trailer, and I imagine him tallying everything he sees. Bullet holes in the wall. Me and Wyatt, obviously doing things no dad ever wants to know about, not even a missing-in-action dad. The fact that this trailer belongs to the Cranes and the guys who used to live in here are dead. They were tech guys, I heard, and on the phone today, Leon called my dad his best tech guy, so maybe he was friends with them. Hell, maybe the place is bugged or rigged with cameras, although I haven’t been able to find any. In any case, I’m not surprised when he puts a hand on the doorknob and inclines his head.
“Let’s go for a walk.” His eyes shoot from me to Wyatt, and his eyebrow goes up. “Get cleaned up, first. And dress warm. I’ll be waiting.”
He watches me a moment too long, his eyes soft and wet, before stepping outside and closing the door. Wyatt and I stare at each other.
“You sure that’s your dad?” he says, all cagey.
“I know my dad,” I say.
“You sure you can trust him, then?”
I snort. “Of course not. But I want to.”
I walk into the bathroom and close the door. The shower takes a few minutes to get hot, and I’m scrubbing Wyatt off me with harsh soaps only a boy would choose. My skin feels swollen and puffy, and I think I understand why people act like virginity is something you can lose—or, more accurately, something you can give to someone. I feel exactly the same and yet completely different. And I feel like Wyatt and I, we’ll have this forever. It might be a short forever, but we’re stuck together now. My mind bounces between what just happened with Wyatt and the fact that my dad is waiting outside, which is awkward and confusing. I’ve been waiting to see my dad every day of my entire life, and now is when he shows up? Shit timing, Dad. Just another thing you messed up.
The room is full of steam as I towel off and slap on some lotion. Wyatt’s stubble has left the most kissable parts of me red and raw, like he’s marked me. My lips are pouty and pink and my eyes are soft, the pupils as swollen as the rest of me feels. This is not the way a girl wants to look when she talks to her dad for the first time in thirteen years. This is not what I want on my mind, my memory replaying Wyatt’s face and hands and body. I want to fall asleep, warm and protected, in his arms. I do not want to step outside, where it’s cold and dark, and tell my father what happened to his brother.
But I’ve done worse things, and I can do this, too.
And isn’t this what I wanted? What I’ve been yearning for?
Isn’t this the secret, the truth I kept in my locket, right up until Valor stepped into my life?
I never imagined I would feel this conflicted.
I wrap the towel around me and bumble into the bedroom, trying to find all the layers I shed in a giddy hurry. Screw this—I have new stuff in my backpack, awkward and creased and a little scratchy. I pull out a new pair of underwear and almost fall over when stepping in. Wyatt watches from the door, silent. I’m surprised by how natural it feels, how I’m not embarrassed by the strangeness of getting dressed as he stares. But he’s seen all of me now, hasn’t he? Inside and out.
“Bra?” I say.
He hands it to me, and as our fingers brush, we both giggle. He had trouble getting it unhooked and he threatened to rip it apart, but it’s the only one I had, so I stopped him. Soon I’m fully dressed and pulling on my hoodie and my mom’s rosary, hunting for my puffer coat. My socks don’t match. My sneakers are spattered with dried blood. My hair is roughly hacked and frizzy from using crap shampoo, and no matter how much water I splash on my face, I look like I’ve been doing exactly what I’ve been doing. There is no way that my father will be proud of what I am, not of the surface or what lies beneath.
Oh, but God, I want him to be.
“You okay?” Wyatt asks as I stare in the bathroom mirror.
My only response is to charge him and bury my face in his bare chest.
“No.”
“You don’t have to go with him.”
I look up, begging him to understand. “Yeah, I do.”
“But you don’t want to. You’re scared.”
“Not of him. Of me. Of him finding out what I’ve done. My uncle . . .”
Wyatt holds me by my shoulders, stern but gentle. “Don’t be ashamed—do you hear me? You did what you had to do. Anyone who’s still alive right now, anyone who knows what’s really happening? They’ll understand. Especially if they’re here.” He smooths my hair back and rubs a proprietary thumb over my swollen lips. “If he’s not proud, he’s an idiot. And an asshole.”
I nod and try to swallow it down. I know he’s right.
But I’m still scared.
“Take care of Matty,” I say, patting her wide back as I head for the door.
“Wait.” I turn, and Wyatt holds out my gun and the scarf I knitted for him. “It could be cold,” he says. I don’t want to hunt for my holster, so I just put the gun in my waistband, against my spine, then hold still while he wraps his scarf around my neck. The last thing he does is kiss me on my forehead. “You’re going to be great. It’s going to be great. He’s going to love you.” When I still don’t touch the door, he adds, “And don’t take any shit from him. Or anyone.”
That makes me smile. “Thanks,” I say. And then I’m stepping out of the trailer into one of those crisp November nights when the sky is dark as ink and the stars sparkle like knives. Our little tent city is quiet—most likely, they’re all hiding af
ter what they heard happen in the trailer a few minutes ago. Jack—my dad—my dad!—is waiting in the field beyond, hands in his pockets and staring up at the big house. My sneakers crunch through the cold, dead grass until I stand beside him, humming with excitement and bursting with questions. And anger.
Was he here, all this goddamn time, all these years, just a few miles from my house and working for Leon? I want to ask, but I don’t want to be the one who talks first. I don’t want him to be just another shitty Crane goon, just another pawn.
“You did the graffiti by the map, I take it?” he asks without looking at me.
I rock back on my heels, trying not to smirk too obviously. I really enjoyed spraying FUCK THE CFF on that stark white wall. “Leon blew up my house. And Mrs. Hester.”
My dad looks down at me. “You don’t think Leon had his reasons?”
I meet his gaze, unflinching. “Oh, I know Leon has his reasons. That’s what worries me. Do you really take orders from that asshole?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it. For a few long minutes, he chews on the inside of his cheek like he wants to say something and can’t. Finally, he says, “We should get some distance on Leon. Have you ever seen the preserve?”