TWENTY-EIGHT
I TAKE A QUICK SHOWER, INDIFFERENT TO THE ten-minute warning. I just killed a man. Those brown eyes are all I can see. I could have let him go over the wall. If I’d known who he was . . . what was going to happen. Yes. I could have let him escape. I would have given him a boost myself. If I had only known.
I stand beneath the spray of water, letting it beat down on my flesh, wishing—there I go again, still senselessly wishing—that it could wash away the day. Undo everything that happened. I search inside myself, reaching for the music that’s always there.
Silence.
I try harder, struggle to find the familiar notes, lyrics, anything, some whiff of a song, a tune. It’s no use. There’s nothing there except silence.
Dusty’s voice inside the bathroom startles me. I lift my head from the spray. “That you in there, Hamilton?”
“Yes.”
“It’s almost lights-out. Get out of there now.”
With a sigh, I turn off the water and step from the shower onto the cool tile, wrapping a towel around myself. I face Dusty numbly, gaze dispassionately at her sun-weathered face.
“That was good work today.”
Winning the challenge. Taking a life. For her, it’s one and the same. “Yeah. All in a day’s work,” I hear myself reply.
She frowns, and I’m guessing she doesn’t care for my flippant tone. I should be properly flattered at the praise. I had wanted to do well and impress them so much before. Too late, I know the price of doing well in here now. She looks me up and down where I stand, dripping wet.
“I’ll give you another thirty.” Then she will lock me in my room for the night. Another cage.
I nod. “Thanks.” She leaves the bathroom and I dress quickly. Going through the motions thoughtlessly. Clothes. Hair. Teeth. I pause at my reflection. The bandage is gone. I removed it while in the shower. All that remains is a short, jagged tear in my cheek. A bright scratch of red in my otherwise pale face. My dark blonde hair looks almost black plastered wetly to my head. I tie it in a quick braid, my fingers moving as nimbly as they once did over the piano or guitar strings.
Finished, I gather up my stuff. Stepping out into the hall, I cross to my room.
I’m at the door, turning the knob, beginning to push it open when I feel someone at my back. At first I think it’s Dusty, but then I’m being shoved inside, propelled into the room.
I drop my things and whirl around, not about to get trapped alone with a carrier bent on hurting me. Today’s been bad enough. I use my fists, whacking, slapping. Too tired to call up my recent training, my movements are wild.
My arms are seized, squeezed in an unrelenting grip. “Davy! Stop!”
I know the voice immediately.
Freezing, I glare up at Sean’s shadow in the gloom of the room. “What are you doing in here?”
His hands don’t drop from my arms as he shuts the door on us, sealing us in. He holds me from him. Looking me over in the near darkness. With one hand he flips on the light switch, his gaze scans all of me, setting my skin afire everywhere he looks . . . which is . . . everywhere.
“Are you all right?”
I lift up my shoulders and arms and throw off his hands. “Don’t touch me. Please. I just can’t have you touch me.”
Because it’s all I want. All I want and can’t ever have. Not anymore.
His eyes cloud over, so full of anguish. “I’m so sorry, Davy.”
I hold up a hand, closing my eyes and shaking my head. “Stop. We’re not doing this.”
“You didn’t have to—”
“Stop! Don’t say it.” I punch him then, furious. I slap his arms and chest with both hands. “Don’t say I didn’t have to do it.”
How can he think I had a choice? How dare he imply I could have let him die? The only thing I can cling to is the belief that I had to shoot that man.
“Davy.” He snatches hold of my hands. “I’m sorry. You’re right, of course.”
Panting, I tug my arms free and wave toward the door, shaking. “Just go. You shouldn’t even be here. This is the girls’ floor. They’re about to lock up.”
He doesn’t budge.
“I don’t need them thinking we’re closer than we are.” I say this even though I know that doesn’t matter anymore.
“They already know you’d kill to protect me. What difference does it make now?”
I swallow against the scratchy thickness in my throat. “I don’t want friends around they can use against me.”
“Well, too bad. I’m here.” He steps closer. “You don’t want to go through this alone.”
Want. I close my eyes in an agonized blink, thinking about what I want. I want this day undone. I want that man not dead. “What I want hasn’t mattered in a long time. This is what needs to happen.” It’s the only way I can live with myself.
“Look. I never imagined them making you do something like that. . . . Using me . . .” His voice fades away and he looks down at his hands. I study his profile, the lines of his face stark and harshly beautiful in the unforgiving light.
“They’ll do it again,” I whisper, lifting my face, staring blindly at the ceiling tiles. See only brown eyes. Hear only the crack of the gun, the drop of the carrier’s body on the dirt. That’s it, all there is, the only sound in my head. No more music. Just this. “God, I can’t do that again. There won’t be anything left of me—” I stop with a choke, wondering if there’s anything left of me now.
They were right all along. I’m a killer. The only hope I have now is to finish the program and get out of here as soon as possible. Get the imprint removed from my neck. Gain some semblance of freedom, of normalcy, for myself.
“You have to go. Don’t come here again.” I pause, take a breath, and swallow.
He looks up at me and just stares. “I can’t pretend you don’t exist for me.”
I stop just short of jabbing him in the chest. Something about him, so large, so close, the aroma of night and wind still upon him, makes me keep my hand to myself. I make a small sound, part laugh, part moan. “Sure you can.” I step past him to open the door for him to leave, but I don’t get that far.
He grabs my arm and whirls me around, smacking me right against him. I strain to get away, arching my body. His eyes hold me again. It’s always his eyes. The gray-blue so seductive, like smoke weaving its spell on me.
One of his hands cups the back of my head, fingers weaving into the wet strands. Everything inside me stills, locks tight as his palm curves around the back of my skull. I can only look into those eyes. Watch him watching me. Stare helplessly when his gaze drops to my mouth.
His head moves down swiftly, stopping just a half inch from my lips. Our breaths merge, mingle. His hand flexes in my hair, as if testing the wet texture.
Then he closes the space between us. Kisses me finally. Sensation explodes inside me when his lips touch mine. It’s not tentative or shy like most first kisses. The ones I’ve had anyway.
It’s urgent and full of need. Hungry and desperate. The perfect force and pressure. I slide my hands around his neck, twine my fingers up through his hair.
I stretch onto my tiptoes. His hand on my arm moves to wrap around my waist, lifting me, plastering me against him.
“You smell so good,” he mutters against my mouth. Feelings and sensations rush me, killing the misery, temporarily ridding it from my system. Later is soon enough to remember what I am, what I’ve become.
I make a small mewling sound, kissing him harder as he carries me to the foot of the bed. I’m glad for the small room. Glad to reach the bed so quickly.
His body settles over mine. I fist my hands into his shirt, clutching the fabric, hating it, wanting to tear it, shred it from his body as his mouth devours mine.
His hands move like the wind, soundless and sudden. Warm and caressing. His fingers slide over my skin, stroking, brushing everywhere. My hair. My face. My neck. Under my shirt. Against my stomach.
Wild pants break from my lips, spill into his mouth as his kiss consumes me. I let go of his shirt and slide my hands under the fabric, letting my palms test the expanse of his back and chest, touch skin.
With a groan, he pulls back, his hands going to the hem of his shirt. In one smooth move, it’s up and over his head.
Then he’s back. His mouth on mine. His bare chest pressing hotly over me. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, reveling in the moment—in him. Desire. Need. Connection to another soul again. In this, in him, everything else fades. The horror of earlier, a distant, faraway dream. Another life. Another girl. Another killer . . . not me.
Gradually, other sounds penetrate. The ding of the elevator, footsteps, doors opening, closing.
He says my name against my mouth, that deep voice vibrating against the sensitive flesh of my lips. “Davy? I have to go.”
I drag my mouth away from his, my body limp, boneless on the bed. Everything inside me quivers with emotion . . . with longing and desire for another. And not just anyone. Sean. A carrier who can be the opposite of all predictions. Good. Principled. Heroic.
His eyes glitter, making the darker outside ring more prominent. “I have to go.” I drink in the sight of him as he pulls his shirt back on over his head.
“Yes.” I nod and suck in another breath, remembering myself. A proven killer. I have to beat this place. Survive it and get out. “You can’t come here again. No more—”
He cuts me off. “Not that again.” His gaze drills into me.
I hold silent, my heart palpitating to the point of pain inside my chest.