Dark Taste of Rapture (9 page)

“Go easy on me? Why, Agent Mean, I’d be disappointed if you did.”

He was not impressed.

“Same rules? Meaning, it’s on like Donkey Kong, and we get a freebie if you’re hit?” she asked.

He nodded. Donkey Kong? And goddamn it, her voice. That husky, smoky quality once again made everything she said suggestive and dirty. Like,
same rules
somehow became
inside me
.

So now he would have to give her everything he had
without
using his arms. The burning had cranked up a notch, the tattoos glowing through the material’s pores. He prayed no one noticed. Or, if they did, that they assumed it was an optical illusion.

Not a farfetched thought, he told himself. As exhausted, hungry, and abused as they were, they’d believe anything. Surely.

Hopefully.

In a world where aliens walked among humans who did not yet accept them, discrimination was rampant. How much worse would that discrimination be for a horrendous genetic mutation? And that’s what Hector was. He knew it. He’d researched the hell out of himself, his past, and his family, and that was the only explanation that made sense.

“
Soooo
, are you just going to stand there or what?” Noelle asked.

Shit. Distraction wasn’t going to help his cause. “All right. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

“Oh. Okay.” Eyes gleaming, she lifted her tank and bra. “I’ve got thirty-six C’s.”

The male trainees might have whistled, the females might have gasped. Hector couldn’t be sure because he lost focus of them. Lost focus of everything but those perfect breasts. Honest to God, his thoughts derailed, his nerve endings going white-hot throughout his body.

Rose-colored nipples, beaded and ripe for sucking. She had no tan lines, was the same sweet cream and honey all over. And she was closing the distance between them, jiggling, those breasts staring at him, tempting him, daring him, almost within reach. Totally within reach.

He flexed his fingers; he wanted to reach.

She double tapped him in the mouth so hard he was spitting blood as he fell. Stars winked through his line of vision before he landed. And then, when he hit, his skull cracking against the same rock he’d tripped over,
the stars vanished and thick black cobwebs took their place.

Night, night, Hector.

However long passed before he blinked open his eyes and saw a flame of white flashing over him, he wasn’t sure. All he knew was that his temples throbbed and the stars had decided to do an encore.

More flashing.

Seriously, what was—Understanding dawned, and he growled with barely suppressed rage. The white flame was from a fucking camera phone.
Humiliating
.

Scowling, he grabbed the device and crushed it into multiple pieces.

A grinning Noelle bent down, looming over him and blocking the sun, becoming all he could see. “That’s okay, Agent Mean. I’d already emailed myself a copy.”

“Fuck me,” he breathed, the words slurred past his rapidly swelling lips.

That grin brightened. “I can’t. You’re Ava’s.”

He was … Ava’s? Wait.
What?

“So,” Noelle said, grinning slowly, wickedly. “Do you want to know where you went wrong now, or should I wait and tell you later?”

E
IGHT-YEAR-OLD HECTOR BECKHAM GRIPPED
the bars of his cage and peered over at his ten-year-old brother, Dean. Dean lay in his own cage, not asleep but not moving either. He’d lost more weight. Bones protruded sharply on his bruised and dirty face, making him look like a skeleton with hair
.

Hector probably looked just as bad. Why wouldn’t he? All the other boys and girls around him did. Also like him and Dean, they were trapped in cages and utterly helpless
.

There were twenty-six cages in total, some lined side by side, some stacked on top of each other. Old, rusty cages once used to contain dogs. But then, that’s what they were. Dogs
.

A week before every fight, they were all locked inside their new “home” and placed in this barn. That way, they were good and feral when they were released. They were purposely starved, even though that left them weak, because hunger made them do very bad things
.

Plus, what better way to reward them for a job well done? Turn your friend’s face into pulp, and earn a sandwich
.

Yeah, Hector had made friends with most of the kids in here. After all, some of them had been doing this for over a year and they were the only ones who understood his pain—the only ones he could ever talk to about what happened. Come tomorrow, though, when the fights started up again, he’d forget he liked them and they’d forget they liked him
.

Until it was over and all any of them would want to do was cry
.

What are you, a sissy?
his dad’s voice suddenly screamed inside his head
.

How many times had Hector heard that particular question? Too many to count. Not that he knew how to count. He’d never been to school, had never learned to read
.

Well, he wouldn’t cry tonight. Or tomorrow. He was better than that. And, well, he just didn’t have the strength
.

He hadn’t been fed today, and the only thing he’d gotten yesterday was a single scoop of slop. He’d hated the bitter taste but he’d licked the bowl clean—because they were never given a spoon. Now his stomach was twisted into itself, no longer growling but burning. Burning so bad
.

“Hector,” Dean whispered
.

Hector met his brother’s gaze. Tonight their cages had been placed one in front of the other. “Yeah,” he whispered back out of habit
.

The Zoo Keeper—the man responsible for their “care”—had already done his nighttime check, so they didn’t have to be quiet. Besides, kids were moaning and groaning all around them, some even sobbing. One girl was praying for someone to help her
.

This was her first time in the cages, and Hector didn’t have the heart to tell her that no one ever would
.

“Dad told me I have to kill the first person I fight this round,” Dean said
.

A sharp intake of breath. The smell of disgusting things filled his nose. From himself, from all the others. They were never taken out to go to the bathroom. “No.” He shook his head, dirty hair scratching at his cheeks
.

“He says I have to.”

“No!” That’s the one thing they’d never allowed themselves to do. Kill another kid. A kid in the same situation, locked away, forgotten when he was lucky, forced to fight for every scrap of food when he wasn’t
.

Dean’s golden eyes—eyes so like his own—were grim. “You know what’ll happen if I disobey him.”

Yeah. Hector knew. A whipping far worse than anything they ever experienced inside the ring. “At least you won’t feel guilty or hate yourself.” Hector might cry sometimes after hurting another kid, but Dean shut down. He’d cut himself, and wouldn’t speak for weeks. Not even to Hector
.

If Dean delivered that final blow … he would never recover. Hector knew that, too
.

He and Dean had tried running away together, but their dad had caught them two days later. At some point during the beating that followed, Dean had thrown himself over a blacked-out Hector, and gotten his arm broken for his daring. An arm Dean had had to treat himself. An arm that was still bent at an odd angle, six months later
.

“Who are you fighting?” he asked
.

Silence
.

“Just… don’t kill him, Dean. Please. I don’t want you to suffer about it later.”

Again, silence
.

“I’ll do it, okay? I’ll do the killing. Whoever I fight, I’ll kill him, I promise. You just … don’t. Okay?”

Silence
.

Hector tried reaching his brother another way. He worked his arms through the bars, gripped Dean’s cage door and shook
. Rattle, rattle.
“Listen to me. After this round, we’ll run away.” Risking another beating had to be better than this. Living on the street
would
be better than this. “This time, he won’t find us. I won’t let him.”

“I just wanted you to know,” Dean finally said, his voice low and emotionless
.

Hector spent the rest of the night telling his brother how wonderful things would be when they were on their own, but Dean never said another word. Then the sun was gleaming brightly in the sky, illuminating the crumbling barn filled with dirty cages, listless kids, and human waste
.

Outside, Hector heard what seemed to be a thousand cars drive up, and even more doors slam. Footsteps shuffled. Carefree laughter drifted to his ears
.

There was an arena set up in the surrounding field. The bleachers were always overflowing. Beer and popcorn would be sold. Just the thought of that popcorn made Hector’s mouth water
.

People would watch the fights, cheering and booing. That always set Hector’s already raw nerves on edge. Why didn’t they help? Why didn’t they realize the cruelty of what they were doing? Watching? Why didn’t they care?

His own mother used the money she made off his and Dean’s fights to buy her drugs. Hector hated her for that. Why couldn’t she love him? Why couldn’t she love
Dean?

Dean was the best person in the whole world. Smart, kind, generous. A few times, Dean had pretended not to be hungry so that Hector could have his portion of slop. Hector was ashamed to admit he’d actually accepted once
.

Fear shuddered through him when the Zoo Keeper strutted in a few minutes later
.

It was time
.

A short, squat man with thinning hair and a few missing teeth, the Zoo Keeper liked wearing overalls stained with blood his “animals” had spilled. Grinning with satisfaction, he rapped a stick against each of the cage doors
.

“Rise and shine, my little mutts. Today’s your day to shine. Or not.” He chuckled cruelly. “We’re gonna kick things off with a big bang this go-round.”

He dropped the stick and grabbed two of the leashes hanging on the far wall—a pink one and a blue one—then he strode to Dean’s cage. Fear intensifying, Hector sat up. His mind swam with dizziness, sharp lances of pain making him grimace
.

Dean just lay there as the Zoo Keeper unlocked his cage. Hinges squeaked as the door opened. The pink collar was strapped around Dean’s skinny neck, and Dean was jerked to the dirt-laden ground
.

“Stand up, boy.” Another jerk
.

Dean dragged himself to his feet, swayed
.

The Zoo Keeper tugged him forward—and stopped at the praying girl’s cage
.

Oh… God. Oh, no. “Dean,” Hector said, his stomach threatening to heave, even though there was nothing inside it
.

If Dean killed another boy, he’d hate himself and never get over it. But if he killed a girl …

Dean didn’t look in Hector’s direction
.

The Zoo Keeper wrapped the blue collar around the girl’s neck, but she had enough steam to get herself out and to her feet without aid. She was Dean’s height, with matted blond hair and eyes glassy with fear
.

“Boys are never pitted against girls,” Hector called, desperate to stop this. “Please, don’t make him fight her. You have to—”

“I don’t have to do shit, mutt.” The Zoo Keeper tossed him a scowl that promised he’d suffer later. “Boys and girls didn’t fight
before.
Now they do. And you’ll keep your mouth shut from now on if you know what’s good for you.”

Hector’s body began trembling as Dean was dragged away. What would happen? What would Dean do? He closed his eyes, fighting those sissy tears he’d told himself he wouldn’t shed
.

He knew the moment the fight started. The crowd erupted, people calling out instructions. Things like, “Rip his ear off!” And, “Punch her in the face!” All he could do was huddle in the corner of his cage and wait to learn the outcome
.

And when he did—

Hector’s eyelids popped open.

Barely able to catch his breath as the dream receded, he realized he was drenched in sweat, his body seemingly on fire. He did a quick scan of his bedroom. He was alone. His thick, dark curtains were drawn, and the only light source was the azure pulsing from his arms.

His arms. Shit! He jackknifed to his feet and studied
both. The skin was raw from his determined scratching, the ink faded. Again.

Scowling, he looked over his bed. Despite his flame-retardant sheets, he’d left singe marks behind.
Have to control yourself better
. His heart drummed erratically against his ribs, his blood molten in his veins.

Hector hated dreaming about his childhood, but he especially hated that particular memory.
At least you didn’t dream about what happened the next night
.