Trade Me (Cyclone #1)

I think of that commercial—of Blake running away from his home, of his father sending him a sorry. I wonder if his entire life has been turned into publicity for products.

“There aren’t that many people I’m willing to let that close,” he says, “and most of them work at Cyclone and would tell my father. My options are limited.”

But you don’t even know me.

He takes a deep breath. “Also, if you’re going to write the launch script, you’ll need to get Cyclone prototypes. It’s not like you can write a launch for a product you’ve never held. And there’s only one way for a non-Cyclone employee to get a prototype. You’ll have to meet my dad. Which is bad enough in and of itself. But. Um. He’s pretty protective of our new tech, and that’s a huge understatement. It’s not like he just hands out prototypes at my request.” He glances down. “When you meet him, you’ll have to pretend to be my girlfriend.”

A wash of heat goes through me. For a second, I imagine what that would be like. And even that second’s imagination—of Blake touching me, holding me, kissing me—is too much.

“Whatever you’re imagining,” Blake says, “it won’t be like that. Just one afternoon. And Dad thinks PDA is gross, so no kissing even. Just holding hands. Nothing else; I promise.”

I swallow. “You still haven’t answered my question,” I say. “Why me? I doubt I’m the only person in the world who could pretend to be your girlfriend.”

Blake looks me over. It’s the kind of look that makes me think of lottery tickets and unicorns, of things that don’t happen in my world. I can feel his gaze like a caress.

“I’m shit at lying to my dad,” he says. “I can only pretend so far. It needs to be someone I have reasonable chemistry with.”

Reasonable chemistry. That’s what this is for him?

“As for the rest…Tina, when do you think we first ran into each other?”

I swallow. “In class? A few weeks ago?”

“Last September. In the library. You helped me find a book.” He looks over at me. “Like I said. I’ve been seeing you for longer than you’ve been seeing me.”

I don’t know if I believe him because I want to believe him, or because he’s so genuinely sincere that I can’t help myself. All I know is that if there is a chance in hell that this is legitimate, I can’t say no. I can’t afford to.

“If I do this,” I say slowly, “I’ll have to quit my job. I need a written guarantee that I’ll get the money you’ve promised me for the entire semester, even if you can’t hack it and quit after the first week.”

“Done. Anything else?”

This still feels incomplete. Dangerous. I bite my lip and consider.

“You offered me a trade,” I say next. “Not a purchase. You’re not hiring me. You just told me that the thing I want is worth millions to you.” I still don’t understand how that can be true, but I know that if I don’t insist on it now, it will never be recognized. “That means that what I put in has value.”

He nods.

“So we come into this thing equally. I’m not going to spend three months listening to you bitch about how pitiful my life is. The things I care about, the things I have to worry about—for the rest of this…thing, whatever it is, they’re as important as anything you have going on. I’m important, too.”

“Agreed,” he says. “You’re important.”

He’s standing close to me, his gaze so intent on mine that it almost feels like the next step is for him to lean down and brush his lips against mine. He hasn’t touched me since I told him not to, but I’m so physically aware of him right now that my skin prickles. It itches for what could come next.

I don’t buy lottery tickets. I can do math, and I know the only thing you’re purchasing is the right to scrape false hopes off a card with a nickel. You fool yourself into believing that the universe is on your side, that even though everything else is going down in flames, help will come like magic.

Spending time with Blake is dangerous. It’s irresponsible. And I know that the more time I spend with him, the more I’ll want to believe in the impossible.

But this time, the irresponsible choice has a hell of a lot of dollar signs attached to it.

I let out a breath. If you’re ever forced to buy a lottery ticket, you have to set rules. You can only purchase one. You can’t tell yourself that you’ll spend anything you win on more. If you lose, you can’t say you’ll get one more, just one more. It’s the one more that will do you in every time—never the single ticket itself. And so before this starts, I know I need to make sure that I never let myself believe in one more.

“One last thing.” I swallow. “When this is over, it’s over. No strings. No entanglements. We’re not friends. We’re not Facebook friends. We’re not anything.”

I watch his eyes as I speak. They don’t flicker, not one bit. Not with disappointment, not with hope.