“Like my clock is about to zero out, ya know?” She tugs on a buttercup-yellow shirt that has blue stripes along the sleeves, and bright blue tights decorated with lilies. “Vans won’t stop looking for me.”
She doesn’t know. “Vans is dead.”
Her eyes go wide with hope—and disappointment? “Are you sure? How do you know?”
“I saw his body. And I used his severed hand to open the gate and free you.”
“Who had the honors?” Her voice is strained.
“Killian.” My motions brusque, I dress in an outfit very similar to hers. A pink shirt that has green flowers sewn along the sleeves and green tights with pink stripes. The material is lightweight but stretchy, molding to my body like a second skin.
“I wanted Vans dead, but I wanted to be the one who killed him,” she says and stomps her foot. “It’s not fair.”
“If life was fair, Clay would be alive.”
She blanches and turns away. “So. What’s the plan?”
“Meet with the owner of the hotel whether he wants to or not, weapon up, and find a way off the mountain.”
“Yeah, but to where?”
“As far away from the institution and our families as we can get. I need to hide out until my eighteen birthday, and I’m sure you do, too. After that, I’m buying a house on the beach.”
She thinks for a moment, nods. “Sign me up.”
“You ever surfed?”
“No, and I never want to. I’ll soak up the sun and cheer you on while drinking margaritas. Then, after I turn eighteen, I’ll go home to Savannah and—”
Knock, knock.
I share a concerned look with Sloan before palming the scalpel I’ve managed to hold on to and making my way to the side of the frame. “Yes?” I call. There’s a peephole, and I steel a quick glance.
A little boy?
“Have you seen my mommy?” He’s trembling and looks like he’s going to burst into tears at any second.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Sloan mutters.
I open the door to find the boy—probably three or four—clutching a stuffed teddy bear to his chest. He’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen, even when he wipes his snotty nose on his shirtsleeve. His curly dark hair resembles a mop, and his eyes are big, slightly darker than his skin. They are familiar eyes. Where have I seen them?
“We haven’t left our room, kid.” Sloan walks over and crouches to meet him eye to eye. “We have no idea where your mom is.”
He hiccups. “But...but...”
“We can help you find her,” I add in a rush.
His expression changes in an instant, from somber to gleeful. He tromps into our room, saying, “Dude. I’m getting so good at this.”
My brow furrows in confusion.
He snickers. “You can’t tell I’m a Shell? You should be embarrassed. Well? Don’t just stand there. Shut the door,” he says, dropping the teddy bear to the floor to use as a stepping stool. He perches at the edge of the bed.
“You’re a Shell?” Sloan shuts and locks the door. “Okay. That does it. I feel like a chicken with my head cut off. Pissed as hell and kinda lost.”
Realization floods me. Those eyes...they belong to the old lady who manned the counter last night.
I move in front of the boy—woman, whatever—with my I-used-to-live-in-a-crazy-house face on. “Who are you?”
“The one who’s gonna save your skinny ass. Archer said you two are looking for a way off the mountain.” Such a sneering tone is weird coming from such an adorable face.
“You know Archer.” A statement not a question.
“Of course.” He kicks his legs, one after the other. “I’m Steven, and I own this place.”
“You own it?” Sloan presses a hand to her forehead. “How old are you? Really?”
“I’m seventeen.” His chest puffs up with pride. “A mature seventeen.”
This cute little snot-nosed kid is my age. I think I need to avoid the world today. There’s no way I can adult. My mind is scrambled again.
“I did not just get played by a seventeen-year-old punk,” Sloan mutters.
“An experienced seventeen,” he adds, wiggling his brows.
I try not to vomit in my mouth. “You’re with Troika?”
“Ding, ding, ding,” Steven says. “Though I’m currently on sabbatical.”
I stare him down. “Which means...?”
“I might or might not have gotten in trouble for selling black-market Lifeblood.” He buffs his nails on his shirt. “I might or might not have called it TOP. Taste of Pleasure.”
“And you’re, what, planning to help us out of the goodness of your sweet little heart?” Sloan might have used a sugar tone, but she gives the boy the stink eye. “Only later we’ll realize you expect us to hand over rights to our Everlife, right?”
“Weren’t you listening, blondie? Or is the air in your head clogging your ears? I’m not on duty, so I’m not signing no one. All I expect from you is a hand job.” He wiggles his brows.
Ugh! I do throw up in my mouth. I also throw a dirty sock at him.
He grins. “Fine. My help has nothing to do with you.” He hops down and toddles to the closet—to a hidden panel with a minibar. He offers up a bottle of vodka and when we turn him down—in our sitch, sober girls survive—he drains the contents. “I owe Archer a favor. He called it in.”
To trust this odd little stranger or not to trust? A choice. Not one I like, but one I’ll make of my own free will.
“I’ve got a car out front ready to whisk you to our version of an airport, where a plane is being prepared to fly you stateside. Anywhere you’d like to go. Oh, and there’s a gun for each of you below the floorboard.”
Trust, I decide. For once I’ll take the easy road. “Thank you.”
“Yeah, yeah. My job is now officially done.”
Sloan isn’t so easily convinced. “Maybe I’ll scoop you up and take you with us. You’ll be our shield, just in case you’ve set any traps.”
“Go ahead. Would you like a preview of what’s gonna happen when you carry me outside the inn?” He tosses the empty bottle at the trash can, misses, then skips over to scoop up the teddy bear. He meets Sloan’s gaze, his bottom lip turning down in a pout. Tears well in his eyes. “I tried to s-stop her, officer, but she t-touched my private p-place.”
“Why you little—” Sloan launches forward, but I grab her wrist, stopping her.
Steven, eyes now dry, cackles as he strides to the door. He has to stretch on his tiptoes to reach the doorknob. He steps into the hall and pauses to look over his shoulder. “Archer visited while you were sleeping. He cashed in a favor and asked me to help you. Otherwise, I would have let you fend for yourselves.” With that, he skips away.
Archer couldn’t help me directly, so he was helping me remotely.
Zero! I don’t want to like him. Not after everything that’s happened. But I do. He’s a good guy, and maybe...maybe he truly cares about me, not just my decision. Or maybe I’m deluded. How am I ever to know?
She doesn’t know. “Vans is dead.”
Her eyes go wide with hope—and disappointment? “Are you sure? How do you know?”
“I saw his body. And I used his severed hand to open the gate and free you.”
“Who had the honors?” Her voice is strained.
“Killian.” My motions brusque, I dress in an outfit very similar to hers. A pink shirt that has green flowers sewn along the sleeves and green tights with pink stripes. The material is lightweight but stretchy, molding to my body like a second skin.
“I wanted Vans dead, but I wanted to be the one who killed him,” she says and stomps her foot. “It’s not fair.”
“If life was fair, Clay would be alive.”
She blanches and turns away. “So. What’s the plan?”
“Meet with the owner of the hotel whether he wants to or not, weapon up, and find a way off the mountain.”
“Yeah, but to where?”
“As far away from the institution and our families as we can get. I need to hide out until my eighteen birthday, and I’m sure you do, too. After that, I’m buying a house on the beach.”
She thinks for a moment, nods. “Sign me up.”
“You ever surfed?”
“No, and I never want to. I’ll soak up the sun and cheer you on while drinking margaritas. Then, after I turn eighteen, I’ll go home to Savannah and—”
Knock, knock.
I share a concerned look with Sloan before palming the scalpel I’ve managed to hold on to and making my way to the side of the frame. “Yes?” I call. There’s a peephole, and I steel a quick glance.
A little boy?
“Have you seen my mommy?” He’s trembling and looks like he’s going to burst into tears at any second.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Sloan mutters.
I open the door to find the boy—probably three or four—clutching a stuffed teddy bear to his chest. He’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen, even when he wipes his snotty nose on his shirtsleeve. His curly dark hair resembles a mop, and his eyes are big, slightly darker than his skin. They are familiar eyes. Where have I seen them?
“We haven’t left our room, kid.” Sloan walks over and crouches to meet him eye to eye. “We have no idea where your mom is.”
He hiccups. “But...but...”
“We can help you find her,” I add in a rush.
His expression changes in an instant, from somber to gleeful. He tromps into our room, saying, “Dude. I’m getting so good at this.”
My brow furrows in confusion.
He snickers. “You can’t tell I’m a Shell? You should be embarrassed. Well? Don’t just stand there. Shut the door,” he says, dropping the teddy bear to the floor to use as a stepping stool. He perches at the edge of the bed.
“You’re a Shell?” Sloan shuts and locks the door. “Okay. That does it. I feel like a chicken with my head cut off. Pissed as hell and kinda lost.”
Realization floods me. Those eyes...they belong to the old lady who manned the counter last night.
I move in front of the boy—woman, whatever—with my I-used-to-live-in-a-crazy-house face on. “Who are you?”
“The one who’s gonna save your skinny ass. Archer said you two are looking for a way off the mountain.” Such a sneering tone is weird coming from such an adorable face.
“You know Archer.” A statement not a question.
“Of course.” He kicks his legs, one after the other. “I’m Steven, and I own this place.”
“You own it?” Sloan presses a hand to her forehead. “How old are you? Really?”
“I’m seventeen.” His chest puffs up with pride. “A mature seventeen.”
This cute little snot-nosed kid is my age. I think I need to avoid the world today. There’s no way I can adult. My mind is scrambled again.
“I did not just get played by a seventeen-year-old punk,” Sloan mutters.
“An experienced seventeen,” he adds, wiggling his brows.
I try not to vomit in my mouth. “You’re with Troika?”
“Ding, ding, ding,” Steven says. “Though I’m currently on sabbatical.”
I stare him down. “Which means...?”
“I might or might not have gotten in trouble for selling black-market Lifeblood.” He buffs his nails on his shirt. “I might or might not have called it TOP. Taste of Pleasure.”
“And you’re, what, planning to help us out of the goodness of your sweet little heart?” Sloan might have used a sugar tone, but she gives the boy the stink eye. “Only later we’ll realize you expect us to hand over rights to our Everlife, right?”
“Weren’t you listening, blondie? Or is the air in your head clogging your ears? I’m not on duty, so I’m not signing no one. All I expect from you is a hand job.” He wiggles his brows.
Ugh! I do throw up in my mouth. I also throw a dirty sock at him.
He grins. “Fine. My help has nothing to do with you.” He hops down and toddles to the closet—to a hidden panel with a minibar. He offers up a bottle of vodka and when we turn him down—in our sitch, sober girls survive—he drains the contents. “I owe Archer a favor. He called it in.”
To trust this odd little stranger or not to trust? A choice. Not one I like, but one I’ll make of my own free will.
“I’ve got a car out front ready to whisk you to our version of an airport, where a plane is being prepared to fly you stateside. Anywhere you’d like to go. Oh, and there’s a gun for each of you below the floorboard.”
Trust, I decide. For once I’ll take the easy road. “Thank you.”
“Yeah, yeah. My job is now officially done.”
Sloan isn’t so easily convinced. “Maybe I’ll scoop you up and take you with us. You’ll be our shield, just in case you’ve set any traps.”
“Go ahead. Would you like a preview of what’s gonna happen when you carry me outside the inn?” He tosses the empty bottle at the trash can, misses, then skips over to scoop up the teddy bear. He meets Sloan’s gaze, his bottom lip turning down in a pout. Tears well in his eyes. “I tried to s-stop her, officer, but she t-touched my private p-place.”
“Why you little—” Sloan launches forward, but I grab her wrist, stopping her.
Steven, eyes now dry, cackles as he strides to the door. He has to stretch on his tiptoes to reach the doorknob. He steps into the hall and pauses to look over his shoulder. “Archer visited while you were sleeping. He cashed in a favor and asked me to help you. Otherwise, I would have let you fend for yourselves.” With that, he skips away.
Archer couldn’t help me directly, so he was helping me remotely.
Zero! I don’t want to like him. Not after everything that’s happened. But I do. He’s a good guy, and maybe...maybe he truly cares about me, not just my decision. Or maybe I’m deluded. How am I ever to know?
