“I can’t get enough of you,” she moans in my ear right before she kisses me, our teeth crashing, lips moving with a hunger that I mirror.
I’m still coming, incapable of speech, my hands on her breasts, her ass, her hips – I want it all – and then we’re both twitching and panting, my head spinning, and Lindsay laughs so hard I fall out of her.
Evicted.
She’s half propped up against the bathtub, her skirt around her waist, the back of her hair a rat’s nest and she’s hooting, giggling so hard she makes an adorable snorting sound.
Which means this is the perfect time to give her my gun.
No, not the flesh one I just fired into her.
A real one.
She crab walks, scrambling to get away from me as I hand her the tiny pistol.
“What the fuck, Drew? Is this some military custom I don’t know about? Sleep with your girlfriend and give her a gun or something?”
Girlfriend.
All the air in my body whooshes out. White spots dot my vision, then clear to give me the truest vision of Lindsay I’ve ever experienced. We’re ragged and sweaty, soaked in each other’s musk and half dressed, on Jane’s bathroom floor, as a group of enemies seek to destroy us.
And I’ve never been happier.
She is radiant.
I press the tiny pistol into her palm as I kiss her deeply.
“You need this. Just in case. And you need something even more important.”
This is when I pull out my syringe. I came prepared.
Her eyes bug out.
“What the hell, Drew? My mom speculated you might be on drugs, but -- ”
I show her the microchip.
Now she pulls away from me.
“What the hell is that?” The mood is gone.
“A microchip.”
“You’re the Terminator, aren’t you? A cyborg from the future. This explains so much.” She’s rambling and starts to stand, searching for her panties. I point to the light switch.
“Why are you so focused on time travel, Lindsay?” I stand, too. I’m faster at getting dressed, and by the time she makes eye contact, I have the syringe with the chip in my hands, ready to explain.
“Because right now, I want to be anywhere, any time, but here. Now. What the hell, Drew?” She looks at the gun in her hand, then pings to the syringe in mine. “What is this? You want to...”
“Microchip you.”
“I’m not a pet!”
There are so many replies to that one. I smartly hold them all back and just look at her. I lick my upper lip and taste her.
“This is simple. Your dad is making all the wrong decisions.”
Bang bang bang.
We both jump and I almost drop the chip, but catch it at the last second.
“Ms. Bosworth?” It’s Silas, from the outside door. “We need to get you home.”
What he’s really saying is, Get the fuck out of there, Drew.
“We don’t have much time,” I say tersely. “I need to insert this in you.” I pull out the alcohol swab and grab her wrist.
“In me?” She snatches her hand back.
“Yes.”
“I have an ‘insert one item per day’ limit with you, Drew.” She shoots me a smug smile, but she’s creeped out.
“Not today.”
She just blinks, the truth of what I’m saying slowly sinking in, her cheeks going red.
“You’re not kidding.”
“No.”
“You think I’m in that kind of danger? So much danger that I need to be chipped so you can track me in case they – in the event of a -- ”
“Yes.”
“Is that why you just slept with me?”
Bang bang bang.
This is all too much, too fast, too jumbled and full. Emotion and action don’t mix for me. They just don’t. You act on instinct and override fear to get the target to safety. Sometimes I’m the target. Most of the time, it’s someone else.
You don’t feel for the target, though.
And the target never has feelings for you.
But this is different.
The stakes are higher.
The stakes are everything.
“I slept with you because I can’t keep my hands and heart off you, Lindsay. I want to chip you so I never have to stop touching you and loving you.”
Her neck snaps back with shock, anger melting into desperate love. “Oh, God. It really is that bad.”
I give her a look that says it is.
She deserves the truth.
“You cannot trust anyone. Not a single soul,” I say, holding out my hand. She puts her shaking palm in mine and squeezes.
“Not even Jane?” she asks.
I don’t reply.
Because I don’t know.
Then I drop to my knees at her feet.
“Again?” she gasps. “Now really isn’t the time for -- ”
Bang bang bang. “Ms. Bosworth!”
“I’ll be there in a minute, Silas!” she shouts.
“I’m not going down on you, Lindsay. I’m looking for the best place to plant the chip,” I explain. Just under the ankle bone? No.
I grab her hand again, pinching the fleshy web between her thumb and index finger. One swipe with the alcohol wipe, then jab.
“Ow!” Her other hand is on my shoulder, digging in, but she doesn’t move. Doesn’t jerk away. Acceptance on her part surprises me, but she’s always been smart. Quick. She gets it.