Prototype (15 page)

N
oah brakes hard, and we clear the back ends of the trucks by mere inches. He tilts us to the right, racing for a nearby exit. Cars swerve to avoid us, and horns blare.

“You are going to kill us,” I tell him through chattering teeth.

“Not today, I’m not. Just hold on.”

I wrap my good arm around his neck and lean with the angle of the bike as he maneuvers through a long line of cars heading to the low streets of San Francisco Island. The fog wraps around us and he downshifts. The bike’s fog lights blink on, but with one glance forward I know they do little good.

“This is too dangerous,” I say.

Noah reaches back and opens a small compartment. He hands me a pair of yellow sunglasses. “Put those on and keep watch.”

I do as he asks, and my visibility increases to at least a city block. Storefronts glare with neon lights to pierce the fog, and nearly all the pedestrians wear the same glasses I do. Bright, light-reflecting clothes seem to be the common fashion choice.

“What about you?” I ask. He must need the glasses more.

“If I take the mask off, Burke will see my face on camera. It’s not safe even in this fog.”

And the glasses will never stay on over his mask. “Then I will turn around and guide—”

“Emma, a little trust, please? Just watch—”

At that moment, he lets loose a string of curses and veers sharply off the road onto the sidewalk. Car horns bleat in our wake. We nearly topple over, and it is a good thing I have him around the neck or I would have fallen off. People jump out of our way as he takes us back up to speed and off the sidewalk.

“Not a word,” he says.

“I trust you,” I tell him, failing to keep a smile off my face. “Until you kill me, of course; then all bets are off.”

His eyes crinkle in the corners and I wish his smile was not hidden under the mask.

Plasma fire through the fog sobers us. Noah takes an abrupt turn up a steep hill that forces my weight into him. I use his shoulder to hold my arm steady while I aim and fire the moment two motorcycles appear. Another sharp turn and we race up a set of stairs heavy with innocent bystanders, who jump over railings to avoid us. I close my eyes and pray he does not hit anyone, while holding on to him with a death grip.

The bike soars off the top step and over a sidewalk. Noah swerves into traffic and tilts around vehicles that take the low streets at a much safer pace. We turn into alleys and take a couple of more streets before ending up on a road that becomes bumpy, jostling my aim. Giant cracks in the street break up the road, explaining the sudden lack of cars. We drive through a residential neighborhood with townhomes lining the steep street on either side of us. No car could possibly make it over the road, broken up the way it is.

After seventeen misses, one of my shots hits one pursuer and he topples over. One more to go.

“Hold on tight,” Noah yells, then looks at me. “You might want to close your eyes.”

Close my eyes?!
“What? Why?”

Our speed increases and I hug Noah to me with my good arm. The ground disappears beneath us as the bike becomes airborne. My breath catches. Below us, the remains of the road lie in broken patches in another abandoned street.

My stomach drops as we land on the other side of the crumpled overpass. The motorcycle tilts precariously from side to side, and the tires catch loose gravel and skid. A warning bleep signals from the bike’s emergency system. Noah cannot recover balance or traction and we start to go down. I tighten my hold, and one of Noah’s arms braces around my waist.

Moments before the bike touches down, the clear crash shield flies free of the left side and catches us in its egg shape. I land on my injured arm and pain overwhelms me into breathlessness. Gravel and cracked earth skate under us while we lie in a tangled heap inside the protective shell.

We spin and slide to a stop. I lie still, blinking tears from my eyes. I did not think the agony could get any worse, but it has.

Noah rolls up to an elbow over me. “You okay?”

I shake my head, unable to speak. If I do, I will cry.

The rev of a motorcycle in flight rends the still air, and I know our last pursuer is on his way. Noah scrambles up and helps me to my feet. Everything spins and I fight the urge to be sick. He swings me up into his arms and runs across the road to the ripped-up sidewalk. He sets me down safely beside an abrupt drop-off to an area too fog heavy to know where it ends. Could be another street. Could be a deep ravine. Could be the depths of hell. There is no way of knowing.

Noah turns with his gun raised as the motorcycle lands. The rider sticks the landing perfectly but does not see our abandoned bike through the thick fog. The two pieces of machinery collide. The bike flips. The rider soars free before the shell has a chance to catch him and lands with a
thud
in the cracked street. He lies very still.

“Stay here,” Noah says. “I’ll be back.”

My legs cannot hold me up and I sink to the ground the second he walks away. My body must realize we are as safe as we are going to be for a while, because exhaustion begins to take over. I am only slightly aware of what Noah is doing. He kneels beside the body and feels for a pulse. He must not find one, because he stands and tucks his gun away a moment later.

He returns with his hand outstretched. “Come on. We need to find a safe place to hole up for the night.”

 • • • 

Noah and I walk through the fog, clinging to each other and shivering. Neither of us has dried much since our time in the freezing ocean, and now there is no sun to warm us. The residential area looks abandoned, and with good reason. Most of the homes on the precipitous street have cracks bisecting their foundations, and the frames perch with one side rising higher than the other. Roofs have caved in. Porch awnings block doors. The entire row looks precarious enough to topple over like a deck of cards in one good gust of wind.

Noah stops in front of one and squints through the fog at it. “This looks okay.”

The home sits on a corner and curves around from the street we stand on to the road perpendicular. The building rises three stories and most of the windows are broken. I do not know what color the house used to be, but the outside is now a moldy shade of green and brown. Plants either sprout from behind the siding or thrive outside it. The entire lawn is as overgrown as a jungle.

“It looks haunted,” I say.

He chuckles. “With any luck, by a kindly old lady serving something hot to drink.”

I think I would give both my legs for something hot at this point and moan with pleasure over the idea. “Hot tea.”

“Hot coffee.”

“Hot chocolate.”

“Hot apple cider.”

Now he is speaking my language. “Sounds perfect.” I tug him forward while glancing up and down the street. All is quiet; the neighborhood is completely deserted.

We break in through the back door and into a musty-scented kitchen. Cabinets and counters are warped as if holding additional weight, though they are bare of everything but inches of dust. The tiled floors connect to a hall with a dark hardwood floor covered by a faded red runner.

Noah pulls off his waterlogged mask. He looks pale and his lips have a blue tinge. His hair sticks up until he runs his fingers through it. “We must be the first people in this house for years.”

“Why do you think that?”

He points to the footsteps I have made in the thick coat of dust. Mine and his are the only ones.

“Guess that hot drink is out of the question,” I say, and a cold shiver punctuates the statement.

He takes my hand. “Come on. Let’s see if we can get you warmed up.”

Inside the spacious living room, Noah turns slowly as if searching for something in particular. After what seems an eternity, his eyes widen and he points to one of the walls. “There.”

Instead of asking, I watch him activate a panel in the wall. Inside the four-by-four-foot recess sits a stainless steel box with dark brown stones on top. Noah opens another panel and smiles. He pulls out a white plastic bottle with green lettering. I catch only one word on the outside before he sets it down beside him:
OIL
.

He glances over his shoulder. “A lot of these older homes have ethanol fireplaces tucked into the walls.”

“Why hide them?”

“A way to keep the historic look of the house.” He looks around again from his kneeling position. “This place looks pretty well cleaned out, but look around and see if you can find anything useful. I’ll get the fire started.”

If “cleaned out” means stark and empty, he would be right. I doubt I will find a single thing in here.

“Watch out for weak floors,” he adds as I head for the staircase.

One look at the stairs and I decide to make the upper level my last resort. I cannot imagine the steps are safe. But it does not take long to search an empty dining room, small bathroom with cracked and broken fixtures, and what might have once been a small office to see I have no other choice.

I take the stairs at a slow pace, analyzing every step before testing my weight in minute increments. The second floor has a full bathroom in the same condition as the half bathroom downstairs, with the exception of a few personal items left under the sink: a roll of dental floss, a cylinder too rust covered for me to read the contents, and a broken black comb. In one of the two bedrooms, I find yellowed white drapes lying in a heap and attached to a black rod. The dusty material is not as good as blankets but will do. I cannot get them off the rod one-handed, so I drag the entire thing to the stairs and toss it over the side, where it clatters below.

Noah peeks over the railing, hands clamped on the wood banister. “Giving me a heart attack won’t make this situation any better.”

A smile twitches the corners of my lips. “Oh, I see. You are all good with death-defying motorcycle stunts . . . but drop some curtains and—”

“Hey. Don’t knock the curtains’ potential.”

“Oh, right. I forgot. They are the greatest threat mankind has ever faced. Just shake them out, will you? And try not to hurt yourself until I get back.”

I start to turn and he calls after me. “You aren’t done yet?”

“I still need to check the attic.”

The attic is a treasure trove by comparison to the rest of the house. Not that we need an upright piano covered in several inches of dust. Gray light breaks into pie-shaped beams through one large hexagonal window. Wood crossbars brace the roof and walls. A double mattress sags against a wall, and I find upon closer inspection that it has become a home for mice—I refuse to believe anything larger resides there. Boxes sit open in one of the corners. One holds nothing but wire hangers. Another has old, hardbound books. Beside it are crumbling sheets of music for the piano.

I kneel beside the box of books and begin pulling them out, reading names on their worn spines. Tolkien. Shakespeare. Brontë. Poe. Bradbury. Tolstoy. Austen, which is where I pause and finger the gold title across what I believe used to be a hard, red cover:
Emma
. A faded pink ribbon marks a place somewhere in the middle of the gold-edged paper.

The floor creaks behind me. One look over my shoulder reveals Noah, who is just reaching the top of the stairs. He has removed his black jacket and T-shirt. I cannot tear my eyes from the dips and curves of his muscles. Dark blond hair coats his pectoral muscles and trails down the center of defined abs. Surrounding the sculpted lines of his chest lies his life in a road map of raised scars. One might call these imperfections. I see only proof of life. A life I once shared.

I tear my gaze away to look at the novel in my lap. My mouth has gone dry, and I find it difficult to speak with any show of normalcy. “I found a box of books.”

He kneels beside me and starts lifting a few by the corner to read the spine. The scent of ocean has replaced his usual musk. “Classics. You hate classics.”

Yes. I remember Her voice in my head telling me not to request any classics from Dr. Travista, which is why I stayed away from them until Peter. “What about you?” I ask. “Do you hate classics?”

One side of his mouth lifts ever so slightly. “No. I don’t know how many times I tried getting you to pick up just
one
book that wasn’t some kind of out-of-this-world fantasy. And I mean
literally
out of this world. Spaceships. Other planets. Anything that didn’t take place on Earth.”

This does not surprise me. “A way to escape Her life, maybe?”

He meets my eyes, a line deepening between his brows. “Her?”

“What?”

“You said ‘her.’”

I cannot believe I said that any more than he can. But what he speaks of does not sound like me. I do not want to read books that take place anywhere else. My life is not perfect, but I do not want to escape it so completely.

I lift the book in my hand. “I think I will read this one while we wait.”

He takes the novel and gives me a hand up. “Come on. I have the fire going.”

D
ownstairs in front of the fire, Noah has used one of the drapes to clean away the dust from the floor. His shirt lies in a wet heap with his jacket.

Noah sets the Jane Austen book in front of the fire, then takes up the discarded curtain rod to brace across the staircase banister. He had the forethought to bring a handful of hangers from the attic and begins hanging his shirt and coat to dry. Once done, he walks with sure steps toward me, his tone casual as he says, “Let’s get your shirt off.”

I blink rapidly in surprise. He wants me to strip off my clothes? Here? Now?

Noah cocks his head. The fire beside us casts shadowed flames across his bare chest. “What’s the matter?”

You are a grown woman and have done far more racy things than strut around in front of a man in your bra.

I swallow hard and shake my head. “Nothing.”

He waits in silence, but I cannot bring myself to begin the process. Maybe he has seen more of me than I like to think about, but I have no memory of this. Intimate moments in which we held each other? Yes. But I never saw his face.

“Do you need help?”

I nod because I have only one usable arm and am in too much pain to attempt jostling myself free just because I feel shy. But the second he reaches out, I step back automatically and bite my lip. “Wait. Sorry.” My voice is tight and shaky.

His lips quirk up. “Come on, Emma. It’s not like I haven’t seen—”

“Maybe so, but I have no memory of it.”

The smile drops from his face as quickly as it appeared. “Oh.” Then he looks curious. “Really? Nothing at all?”

I close my eyes to avoid seeing his expression, my face growing warm. “Stop looking so surprised.”

“Sorry. I didn’t realize—”

My groan cuts him short. None of this matters. “Just . . . help me.” I glance up at him and take a shaky breath. “Please.”

He steps forward and fingers the hem of my tank. I think he tries to avoid touching my skin, but the wet fabric clings and it is unavoidable. His touch sends electric jolts to my system and leaves a trail of goose bumps behind his knuckles. I focus on his chest and note how his breath stills. Looking higher, I find the quickened throb in his neck. His Adam’s apple bobs heavily.

I do not know if it helps or worsens the situation to know he is as nervous as I, and I do not consider it for much longer. The time has come to work the wet cloth over the burn encompassing my arm, and the pain is too much. I grit my teeth and try to breathe, but it is difficult. By the time he has finished, tears leak from my eyes.

Noah cups my face and uses his thumbs to brush away the wetness. “Sorry. You okay?”

I nod, unable to unhinge my aching jaw. My self-consciousness has been dashed away by the agony.

Noah steps by me to pick up and shake out a drape, causing dust motes to skitter around in a frenzy. Standing behind me, he wraps the stiff material over my good shoulder and up under my bad one. I clasp it together in shivering fists.

His hands rest on my shoulders. He lets out a slow breath before saying, “Jeans next,” then comes around to face me. “I won’t look.”

My heart pounds so hard and fast against my sternum I think it will bruise. “I do not see
you
shedding your pants.”

I am stalling the inevitable, and according to the look he gives me, he knows it. Holding my gaze until the last second, he bends to unlace and kick off his boots, then removes his socks. Finally, he drops his pants.

If my jaw were not set to an aching clench, it might have hit the floor. Noah in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs sets loose a geyser of lust within me. I think he is lecturing me about hypothermia and clothes drying faster, but the words barely register. All I know is that I am awestruck and nodding without realizing what I have just given consent to until it is too late.

Noah’s hands slide through the opening of my drape and unfasten my jeans. Has he left any space between us?
His breath sweeps warm across my cheek. His knuckles brushing my belly jolt me to awareness, and my breath hitches.

“How did your meeting with Nate go?” he whispers.

I lift my gaze to meet his much steadier version. Is he trying to distract me by mentioning Colonel Updike? I am unsure distractions will work. My zipper lowering seems to take hours, and nothing else exists outside this situation.

I clear my throat. “All right, I guess.”

Noah’s thumbs slide inside the rim of my jeans against my hips. “What did you decide to do?”

I cannot believe this is happening. “Boots,” I clip out in a rush, clenching my fists to the drape before I let it fall and touch him.
“My boots are still on.”

He kneels, and I take a heavy breath. I stare at the fire that does not crackle and smells strangely like clean water. The flames erupt in a perfect line from the middle of glossy stones. I brace a hand on his cool shoulder as he removes the first boot. The shadows of flame flicker along the hardwood below him but do not fill the room. The house grows steadily darker, especially with no late-day sun shearing the fog outside.

I need to focus on something other than our positioning. What were we talking about? Colonel Updike? Noah asking what I decided . . . A sudden thought occurs to me and nearly bowls me over. “You knew why the colonel wanted to see me.” This explains why he acted so strangely this afternoon.

“He filled me in.” He looks up as he works my sodden sock off. “He mentioned how you had only today to decide. Did you?”

Tearing my gaze away from his, I nod. I still cannot comprehend what I have gotten myself into by choosing to enlist. And what will Noah think? Would he prefer I left so his life would be made simpler?

Task complete, he stands. A frown weighs down the corners of his mouth. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

Air catches in my throat. He sounds disappointed by the prospect, stirring dormant hope. “No.”

Every muscle in his face relaxes. “Good. I’m glad.”

“You are?”

“Of course I am.”

“I just thought, after last week . . .”

His hands return to my hips, where his thumbs dip under my waistband. “I don’t want to talk about last week.”

He edges the material down. I shimmy my hips to help get the jeans over them. Amber eyes meet mine for a protracted moment before he sinks to his knees.
Is he deliberately taking his time?
He cups my calf and drags the damp material past one foot. His eyes rise to meet mine and desire builds in them, breathing life into my body.

I rip my gaze away and stare at the dark shadows flickering on a far wall. Each intake of breath stumbles around my erratic heartbeat. Noah’s hand takes my other calf, and a shudder rocks up my body, both from the shock of his touch on my now sensitive skin and from my building need. My eyelids flutter shut. I understand what is happening and am powerless to stop it.

The wet jeans have long ago made the sound of being dropped into a heap, yet his hand has not left my calf. His touch caresses up behind my knee, and when his second hand doubles the sensations on my other leg, my head drops back. Heat stirs low in my belly and unfurls into my limbs.

You cannot let this continue.

The warning enters my thoughts too late. I am already lowering to my knees, relishing the feel of his palms along the outside of my thighs. Hips. Waist. The heat from the fire is uncomfortable this near to my burned arm, but I am too deeply ensconced in Noah’s gaze to care. His hands leave my skin, and one rises to slide into my hair. His amber eyes dart back and forth, searching mine before lowering his gaze to my lips.

The pace of my heart increases and I wet my mouth. I bite my bottom lip the second the invitation is out there, because that is what it is. In that one swipe of my tongue, I have practically begged him to kiss me.

Noah’s chest stills on an intake of breath, and his fingers begin to gather a handful of hair at the nape of my neck. I lean in slow, giving him time to back away. Instead, he catches my gaze and meets me halfway. Our lips lie still against the other’s for the longest moment, as if in disbelief. Then, with a sigh, he pulls my head closer while pressing his mouth harder against mine.

Heat erupts and flushes my entire body. It is more than lust coursing through my veins. More than need. What I feel is the claim he has on me. How could there ever have been any doubt in my mind that I did not belong solely to him?

Noah’s shadowed chin is abrasive against my lips and skin. His tongue slides seamlessly into my mouth and I taste a hint of seawater. My reactive groan is no more than a murmur, swallowed by the sensual probing of his tongue. I take his moan, too, reveling in the soft vibration against my skin.

His weight presses against me until I float backward. He cradles me all the way to the floor. A hand slides between the folds of the drapes, finding and gripping my waist. I release the fabric and arch against him, needing to feel his skin against mine. Needing to fit my shape to his.

Noah slows the kiss and pulls away to look into my eyes. For the first time since I arrived, his feelings are unguarded, and I know how much he still loves me. I know I have only to say the word and he will be mine again.

“I thought I was going to lose you today,” he whispers.

I touch his swollen lips, shaking my head. How has he not realized the truth yet? He never lost me; not then, and not now. Not ever. I lift my head and take his mouth back.

A hand sweeps over my collarbone and down the center of my ribs. His fingers catch on an object that I had forgotten about. He pulls back with a jerk and looks down. I follow his gaze to where my wedding ring—my safety net—rests over the tip of his finger. A bucket of ice water would have had the same effect as these diamonds.

“Oh my God,” I whisper, and close my eyes. I do not have the confidence to face him in light of this.

“You’ll always be on the run, won’t you?” he asks, and the ring hits my chest.

His weight disappears, and when I open my eyes, I find him sitting near my knees. He has one arm resting on an upturned knee, his focus glued to the wall opposite him. Each breath is deep and measured, expanding his rib cage.

I sit up and rub my swollen, hot lips. I want so badly to explain that I have no intention of leaving, but maybe he is not wrong. It is not as if I have ever taken the ring off. What-ifs play in the back of my mind every day, and I want to be prepared for anything.

“Noah—”

“Don’t.” He cannot look at me as he drags a hand through his hair. “My mistake.”

Mistake?
This single word spears my heart.

He gets to his feet and picks up our discarded pants. The next minute passes in silence as he hangs them beside our shirts. In the foyer, he is nothing more than a dark shadow, and I wish I could see his expression. Is he angry? Hurt?

My heart sinks when his shadowed shape lowers and sits against the doorframe leading into the dining room. Not only can he not look at me, but he wants to avoid me. How could I let this happen?

I pull my legs to my chest and bury every inch of skin I can under the safety of the drape save for my burned arm and head. I rest my chin on my knees and stare into the fire. It is not the same without the scent of burning, popping wood, and thanks to the tension surrounding me like a living thing, the fire does nothing to warm my cold skin.

I wish I knew what to say to Noah but cannot begin to think what it is he needs to hear. Or maybe it is me who needs to hear something. Anything. Even a single breath to tell me we will get through this.

When I cannot take it anymore, I stand and shuffle across the room with the drape trailing long behind me. I sit on the opposite side of the doorway from him. One of his legs stretches out in front while his other is tucked up with an elbow resting across the top. He watches me sit and I am grateful at least a little light reaches this far. He does not look angry. Reserved mostly, which is better than I hoped for.

“Talk to me,” I whisper.

He stares forward, then drops his chin. “Why don’t you talk to me? When this situation with Burke is over, and you’re free to go, what will you do?”

“Are you asking if I plan to leave again?”

He rolls his head around to face me. “Yeah. I need to know.”

I look away and tighten my grip on the musty smelling drape, shivering in the cool dark. “I almost left today. After Colonel Updike gave me my two options, my first instinct was to run.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Adrienne.” I pause and take a deep breath, unable to believe I am about to say this. “I have made so many mistakes, and leaving last year is the most unforgivable of them all.”

“Emma—”

“I will not leave her again,” I cut in, and look at him. “I love her, Noah. More than anything. I would like to be a mother to her, but if you would rather I kept my distance—”

“You’re her mother. I would never stop you.”

Relief floods me to the point where tears brim my eyelids. I had not realized how much I needed to hear this validation from him. I want to thank him but do not trust my voice to work. If I nod, the tears will spill over.

Noah stands and helps me up. Once I am upright in front of him, he tucks my hair behind my ears. “And I would never use the word ‘unforgivable.’”

“No?”

He shakes his head. “I forgave you the moment you came back.”

I bite my lip the second my chin trembles, but I am unable to stop tears from rolling down my cheeks this time. I rest my forehead against his chest and his arms surround me in a warm embrace. His heart beats strong and a little fast against my head. He kisses my crown, then leads me back to the fire.

Wordlessly, we sit, with him tucked close behind me. I nestle against him as he lifts the book from the attic off the floor. He leafs through the pages until he reaches Chapter 1.

“
Emma Woodhouse,
” he reads, “
handsome, clever, and rich . . .”