“I’m a guy, last time I checked.” His smile curls up on one side. “Wanna check for yourself?”
The question is so un-Jackson-like that it throws me for a loop. Then I feel my cheeks heat, which freaks me out because I’m not the blushing type.
He laughs softly and continues, “No, I am not Drau. No, I am not a shell.”
“How do I know that’s true? Why should I trust you?”
For a long minute, he just stands there. Then he grabs the hem of his T-shirt and drags it up. My jaw goes slack and all I can do is stare. His jeans hang low on his hips, baring about an inch of the waistband of his boxers, and above that, there’s smooth skin and ridged muscle, accented by the light leaking through my window. He looks like an underwear ad in a magazine. One that’s been Photoshopped to make it better.
“What are you doing?” I whisper frantically, and shoot a wild look at the door. I’d die if Dad walked in right now.
I grab his shirt and try to tug it down. My fingers brush his skin, making the muscles of his stomach jump beneath my touch. My fingertips tingle, and I feel like I’ve been hit with an electric shock. Dropping my hands, I practically leap away.
“Proving I’m not a shell,” he answers.
“What—” Then I get it. In the middle of all that smooth gold skin and lightly ridged muscle is a belly button, and below that, a thin line of light brown hair. Not looking there. Definitely not looking there. “Great. Thanks. Proved your point. Drop the shirt.”
“You sure?” He’s smiling. I can hear it. But I don’t see it because I have my teeth sunk into my lower lip and my head tipped back so I’m staring at the ceiling.
“I’m decent,” he says. “Shirt safely in place.”
I look at him to find that he’s telling the truth, about the shirt at least. I have a feeling he’s never decent.
“Okay, so you’re not a shell, and you claim you’re not Drau, but your eyes . . . they’re not like anyone else’s eyes that I’ve ever seen. Except . . . theirs.”
“Yes, my eyes are like theirs. No, they’re not like anyone else’s. And neither are yours.”
I freeze. “What? Luka—” I cut myself off. Luka’s eyes are the same indigo blue as mine only in the game, not in the real world. In this world, they’re rich, chocolate brown. And Richelle . . . I think of her picture on the net. What color were her eyes? I can’t remember, but I feel certain that they weren’t the blue that I saw in the game.
“What color are Tyrone’s eyes outside the game?” I ask.
Jackson shrugs. “Don’t know. Not blue. And not Drau gray.”
“Tons of people have blue eyes.” A weak protest, because I know what he’s going to say next even before he says it.
“Not like yours.”
It’s the truth. My eyes always make people stare the first time they meet me.
“Explain,” I say, then add, “Please.”
From the corner of my eye, I see him look around. He’s evaluating the possibility that anyone might be listening. He leans over and pushes my window shut. “Remember I told you about our ancestors. About how they became part of humanity, hiding in plain sight. They had children and grandchildren. . . .”
“Yes.”
“My eyes, and yours, are because we’re rare progeny, ones with a stronger-than-normal strain of a particular set of alleles.”
“Alleles are genes, right?”
“Forms of a gene. In this case, you have a stronger strain of nonhuman DNA.”
“So Tyrone and Luka have alien genes, and you and I have alien supergenes?”
He opens his mouth, closes it, shrugs. “I guess you could put it that way. The genetics of it don’t really matter. What matters is the result. You’re stronger, faster, more resilient than most people.”
“I thought that was because of kendo and my running.”
“In part, but that’s not the whole of it. And you see things the others don’t.”
“By “the others” you mean Luka and Tyrone.”
He nods.
“And the things I see . . . you mean the other sections of the lobby and the other people in those sections. Other . . . teams,” I finish, even though I know he’s always telling me we’re not a team. Every man for himself. But when it comes down to it, he’s more of a team player than any one of us. He’s watched out for me. I feel like he watches out for all of us. “And you see them, too. The others.”
“Yes.”
“So tell me about those teams. Do we ever work with them? Do they know about us? Do—”
Jackson reaches for me and cups my cheeks with his palms. My questions die an abrupt death. His hands are warm against my skin, his palms callused where they meet his fingers. “I have to go,” he says. “And that was more than five questions.”
He leans a little closer.
“Wait,” I whisper, frozen in place, heart pounding, half hoping, half dreading that he’ll close the distance between us and touch his lips to mine. “You can’t go.”
“Yeah”—he smiles a little—“I can.” His thumb sweeps across my lower lip. My breath locks in my throat. “I have to.”
“Why did you come here tonight?” My voice sounds weird, tight and strangled.
“Because you needed some answers. Because it felt wrong to leave you hanging, thinking I was a Drau shell. Because despite the fact that it goes against everything I am and everything I need to be, I can’t stand the thought of you here, alone, wondering and worrying.”
The question is so un-Jackson-like that it throws me for a loop. Then I feel my cheeks heat, which freaks me out because I’m not the blushing type.
He laughs softly and continues, “No, I am not Drau. No, I am not a shell.”
“How do I know that’s true? Why should I trust you?”
For a long minute, he just stands there. Then he grabs the hem of his T-shirt and drags it up. My jaw goes slack and all I can do is stare. His jeans hang low on his hips, baring about an inch of the waistband of his boxers, and above that, there’s smooth skin and ridged muscle, accented by the light leaking through my window. He looks like an underwear ad in a magazine. One that’s been Photoshopped to make it better.
“What are you doing?” I whisper frantically, and shoot a wild look at the door. I’d die if Dad walked in right now.
I grab his shirt and try to tug it down. My fingers brush his skin, making the muscles of his stomach jump beneath my touch. My fingertips tingle, and I feel like I’ve been hit with an electric shock. Dropping my hands, I practically leap away.
“Proving I’m not a shell,” he answers.
“What—” Then I get it. In the middle of all that smooth gold skin and lightly ridged muscle is a belly button, and below that, a thin line of light brown hair. Not looking there. Definitely not looking there. “Great. Thanks. Proved your point. Drop the shirt.”
“You sure?” He’s smiling. I can hear it. But I don’t see it because I have my teeth sunk into my lower lip and my head tipped back so I’m staring at the ceiling.
“I’m decent,” he says. “Shirt safely in place.”
I look at him to find that he’s telling the truth, about the shirt at least. I have a feeling he’s never decent.
“Okay, so you’re not a shell, and you claim you’re not Drau, but your eyes . . . they’re not like anyone else’s eyes that I’ve ever seen. Except . . . theirs.”
“Yes, my eyes are like theirs. No, they’re not like anyone else’s. And neither are yours.”
I freeze. “What? Luka—” I cut myself off. Luka’s eyes are the same indigo blue as mine only in the game, not in the real world. In this world, they’re rich, chocolate brown. And Richelle . . . I think of her picture on the net. What color were her eyes? I can’t remember, but I feel certain that they weren’t the blue that I saw in the game.
“What color are Tyrone’s eyes outside the game?” I ask.
Jackson shrugs. “Don’t know. Not blue. And not Drau gray.”
“Tons of people have blue eyes.” A weak protest, because I know what he’s going to say next even before he says it.
“Not like yours.”
It’s the truth. My eyes always make people stare the first time they meet me.
“Explain,” I say, then add, “Please.”
From the corner of my eye, I see him look around. He’s evaluating the possibility that anyone might be listening. He leans over and pushes my window shut. “Remember I told you about our ancestors. About how they became part of humanity, hiding in plain sight. They had children and grandchildren. . . .”
“Yes.”
“My eyes, and yours, are because we’re rare progeny, ones with a stronger-than-normal strain of a particular set of alleles.”
“Alleles are genes, right?”
“Forms of a gene. In this case, you have a stronger strain of nonhuman DNA.”
“So Tyrone and Luka have alien genes, and you and I have alien supergenes?”
He opens his mouth, closes it, shrugs. “I guess you could put it that way. The genetics of it don’t really matter. What matters is the result. You’re stronger, faster, more resilient than most people.”
“I thought that was because of kendo and my running.”
“In part, but that’s not the whole of it. And you see things the others don’t.”
“By “the others” you mean Luka and Tyrone.”
He nods.
“And the things I see . . . you mean the other sections of the lobby and the other people in those sections. Other . . . teams,” I finish, even though I know he’s always telling me we’re not a team. Every man for himself. But when it comes down to it, he’s more of a team player than any one of us. He’s watched out for me. I feel like he watches out for all of us. “And you see them, too. The others.”
“Yes.”
“So tell me about those teams. Do we ever work with them? Do they know about us? Do—”
Jackson reaches for me and cups my cheeks with his palms. My questions die an abrupt death. His hands are warm against my skin, his palms callused where they meet his fingers. “I have to go,” he says. “And that was more than five questions.”
He leans a little closer.
“Wait,” I whisper, frozen in place, heart pounding, half hoping, half dreading that he’ll close the distance between us and touch his lips to mine. “You can’t go.”
“Yeah”—he smiles a little—“I can.” His thumb sweeps across my lower lip. My breath locks in my throat. “I have to.”
“Why did you come here tonight?” My voice sounds weird, tight and strangled.
“Because you needed some answers. Because it felt wrong to leave you hanging, thinking I was a Drau shell. Because despite the fact that it goes against everything I am and everything I need to be, I can’t stand the thought of you here, alone, wondering and worrying.”
