“Keep them on,” I whisper. “I’m sure.”
True to his word, Jackson stays rooted to the spot as he looks around, taking his time. My bookshelf is right beside him, and he runs the tips of his fingers along the spines of the books on my keeper shelf. They’re eclectic, I admit it. Alcott’s Little Women, Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card, Frankenstein, The Giver, The Catcher in the Rye, everything ever written by Christopher Moore, the complete works of Jane Austen, a scarred and well-loved set of Harry Potter, my mom’s old dog-eared Stephen King titles, The Last Wish and Blood of Elves by Andrzej Sapkowski.
He stops when he gets to those and murmurs, “I haven’t read these. But the game rocks.”
“The graphics kick ass,” I agree, then ask, “But you’ve read the others?”
“Some of them.”
I try to picture him engrossed in Little Women.
His fingers dip to the next shelf, where I keep my manga. “You read Bleach.”
I nod. “It’s one of my favorites.”
“You don’t have the latest issue.”
“They were sold out.”
He turns away from the books, back toward me, but he doesn’t say anything. I can’t figure out how I feel at the moment. Thrilled that he’s here. Afraid that Dad will find him. Stunned that he came. And a little weirded out that our conversation so far has been too normal. But the thing I notice most is how bright and true those emotions are. It’s like he’s a fresh breeze that blew in and chased the fog away.
Our conversation started out in whispers, but it’s increased in volume until we’re speaking in a normal tone, and that’s dangerous. I drop back to a whisper. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ll answer five questions, then I need to go,” he says, equally low.
“You came just to answer my questions?”
“Yes. And to see you.”
Wow. Okay. I have no idea what to say to that. So I say the wrong thing. “Why didn’t you come last night? Or this morning to run with me? I spent the whole day freaking about stuff.”
“Couldn’t last night. Or this morning. I was out of town until about twenty minutes ago.” He smiles a little. “And that counts as the first question.”
I roll my eyes. “No, it most certainly does not.” I take a breath and just lay it out there. “What are you? Are you Drau? Are you a shell?” My heart’s pounding so hard it feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest.
“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.