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 the 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.”
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 the 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.”
