Strike (10 page)

I can't help it. I have to giggle. “It's a horrible word. Like a hank of hair? Look, I'll make you a deal. You don't ever call me ‘baby' again, and I'll try to call you ‘Hank' when it matters.” I pull him to me with the scarf I knitted for him and lean close, my lips to his ear. “But I'll be thinking about Wyatt.”

His breath catches, and he gives a gratifying little shiver. “As long as you're thinking of me, I think I'll be okay.” His eyes meet mine, and his head tilts just so, and I lick my lips and wait for him to kiss me for the first time since I asked him to kill me. But he doesn't. “Don't move.” He puts Matty's food bowl on the opposite side of the tent, and when she follows it, wagging, he zips up the partition. And then he's beside me again, so close, his fingertips brushing a lock of hair behind my ear.

It's soft at first, a brush of his lips against mine, a hand gently cupping my jaw, a thumb smoothing over my cheek. I start to melt and soften, the stress draining out and replaced with a floaty warmth and a flip in my stomach. I wanted so much for this to be what we were, to know that what we said and felt while on the run wasn't just pheromones and fear talking. I've wanted so badly to know that he could look at me as the Patsy I was last Monday and not this Zooey
thing who can kill and walk away, who cries at night when everyone else is asleep, who only voices her confidence and never the regrets eating her alive. I need to know that when he sees me, he doesn't see the girl who murdered his dad but the girl who risked everything to save his brother. We both know my mother's life is forfeit now. I hope that makes us even. But we don't ever speak of it. And I don't want to feel it right now, so I don't.

With a soft sigh, I turn my head and let him open my lips with his tongue. Let his hand trace gently down my neck and shoulder to my waist, to a place that used to tickle but now makes me want to press into him, to pull him down with me, to let him pin me to the ground. And then I do, because I'm no longer able to bank on future pleasures. I'm no longer willing to be the girl who waits.

For a big guy, Wyatt is careful not to hurt me, taking his weight on his knees and elbows as he settles over my body with tender ferocity. My hands roam over his chest with new bravery, running through his shaggy blond hair and down his back and gently scratching up under his shirt. He groans and plants kisses down my neck, and I start kicking off my shoes, and that's when Matty starts barking and someone says, “Knock-knock, lovebirds!” so close that I have no choice but to remember that we're in a tent with fabric walls.

Wyatt pulls away and resettles his clothes, and I sit cross-legged and try to rake my filthy hair into some semblance of decency.

“Come in, asshole,” he grumbles.

The zipper reveals Chance, because of course it's Chance. I want to punch his amused grin, but then Gabriela pops up beside him looking worried.

“War council?” Chance says.

Wyatt holds up a welcoming arm. “Fine. War council.”

Chance's nose wrinkles up. “It stinks of pre-sex in here.”

Wyatt punches his arm for me.

They step in and settle down on Wyatt's sleeping bag, and Matty scratches at the partition until Chance unzips it so she can flop down for belly rubs. With great ceremony, Gabriela puts an iPod on the ground and turns on some pop music. Her face is stern as she points to the diminishing battery icon. Whatever we're going to talk about here is so important that she's willing to spend her last minutes of music hiding our voices from the other denizens of the tent city. All four of us lean in, so close that our hair touches.

“So we all agree that we've basically gone from the frying pan into the fire, right?” Chance starts, and everyone nods. “But we also agree that there's nothing else for us to do right now?” More nods. “But we don't trust Leon, Heather, or any of these inbred jagoffs?” Another nod. “So what, then, is our play?”

“We have to get to Kevin. Clark. Whatever. I don't trust them,” Gabriela says.

Wyatt's head jerks up. “You think they're hurting him?”

“No. But I don't think they're being totally honest with us, and I'm not going to relax until I know he's okay. Until I've seen him without any Crane goons around.”

“Relax. That's funny.” I shake my head. “How can we relax when we can't trust anybody?”

“I trust you guys,” Chance says, and the cool-guy mask drops for a moment. “I don't want to sound like a dick, but if you go through what we went through . . .” He points to me. “Or if you stick with us and help us . . .” He points to Wyatt and Gabriela. “Then I think the best you can hope for is to stay together and pick up other people you can trust, one by one if need be. Build a new family.”

“You watch too much
Walking Dead
, dude.” Wyatt shakes his head.

“Yeah, I did. And that means I understand that when something seems too good to be true, it probably is. They gave us two thousand dollars tonight without a second thought.” He meets my eyes, and it's like looking into an abyss. “They're going to want us to pay them back somehow.”

When Gabriela's iPod finally dies, they go to bed. Wyatt politely turns his back to me while I clean up with wipes as best I can. I haven't showered since killing Ken Belcher at Château Tuscano, and if I don't find a place to pee soon, I'm going to explode. Life in Valor
Country isn't comfortable, and I start frantically counting days in my head when I remember that being a girl gets extra messy once a month. I read once that when Sally Ride was getting ready to go into space for a week, they asked her if one hundred tampons would be enough, and I tell myself that if she can deal with a stupid government and the betrayal of her own menstrual cycle, then I can, too. I should be safe for two weeks, and if not, that's why I bought maxi pads. And if I shoot anyone else who doesn't deserve it, the pads will probably be good for soaking up blood.

“Uh, I don't know if you need to go do anything, but I didn't know if there would be bathrooms, so I bought you these,” Wyatt says, looking horribly embarrassed in the lantern light as he holds up a can of bleach wipes and a packet of baby wipes.

“Gross, and thank you so much, and God, yes.”

He leads me to the line of porta-potties and stands guard, and it's as horrible as you can imagine.

It takes me a long time to go to sleep. Not because Matty grumbles and sleep wags, her tail thumping against my leg. Not because Wyatt snores, although he does. And not because I feel exposed as hell in this field, well aware that a Valor helicopter or Hummer full of suits could drive up at any moment and shoot us like fish in a nylon barrel.

It's because I keep seeing everyone I've killed every time I close my eyes. Like my brain is giving me a highlight reel of the last
week, of each person's face flashing in surprise as I pull the trigger. Bob, Eloise, some burglar, Ashley, Sherry, two rapist thugs, Dr. Ken Belcher, Amber. I remember Jeremy's bloody sputters as I held him in the frost-covered field, the sick reek of my best friend's insides oozing out. Their faces won't stop staring at me, their wet eyes going flat and damning. I'm the little spoon to Wyatt's big spoon inside the sleeping bag, and I'm tucked in like a shrimp, my hands numb and shaking, my finger curled permanently around a trigger that I never wanted to pull. Again and I again, I flash through their faces like a book that never closes.

“Shh. It's okay.” Wyatt resettles around me, awake now, his arm hugging more protectively around my hollow middle and his chin settling over my messy, dirty hair. “Bad dream?”

“This whole thing is a bad dream,” I say. “I never wanted any of this. I don't want to do this, be this thing, this monster. What if Leon just uses me to kill? When do I stop being a person and become someone else's weapon? I can't do it. I don't want this.”

“No one did. It's not your fault. It's over.” He plants gentle kisses on my head, my ear, the top of my cheek.

I shake him off, but sweetly.

“That's the thing. I don't think it is. Over.” I shudder and wipe my tears off on the slick sleeping bag. “I'm afraid it's only going to get worse.”

I'm awakened the next morning by an actual, literal rooster. It seriously won't shut up. And it's not nearly as adorable and homey as it seems in the movies. Roosters are dicks.

“Shut up!” Chance yells, and laughter blossoms here and there among the tents.

Wyatt uncurls around me, and the air goes freezing cold, even in my pajamas. Despite our attempted make-out session, we slept plastered together in a distinctly unsexual way, huddling together from the cold and, for me, to escape the nightmares. Those faces haunted me in my dreams, and my eyes hurt from crying. Is this PTSD? I wonder if Chance feels it, too, if he can't stop the visions and memories, if he feels hollow and twisted inside. I wonder if
there are other kids here like us, kids tapped by Valor who actually managed to live through it.

That's the thought that gets me up and hunting through my backpack—people. The new ones around us, the ones in the house, and the chance to see Kevin and make sure he's okay. This is not a place where I want to be caught in my pajamas, vulnerable and still wearing tear tracks.

Wyatt gestures to the other side of the tent. “The tent divider is also a privacy screen. So you can . . . get dressed or whatever.” The way the sun shines through the red tent already made his face look flushed, but now he's extra awkward. He grabs his backpack and heads to the other side, zipping it fully closed until he's just a vague shadow.

I turn my back to the divider and go through my routine, wishing I'd had the good sense to buy some dry shampoo or something. My hair is greasy as hell, and the deodorant I bought smells totally gross. The clothes aren't a perfect fit, and there's no mirror, and I feel utterly wretched, not anywhere close to ready for a briefing with Heather or Leon. Matty watches me, her thumping tail and bright eyes seeming to say that I'm beautiful no matter what.

“Thanks, girl. Even if you're a liar.”

She thumps harder.

“You decent?” Wyatt's voice is a little breathless, whether because he knows I was naked over here for a few scant seconds or because it's cold as balls in the November morning.

“As decent as I'm going to get without running water and soap.”

He unzips the divider and manages to look adorably rumpled in a band shirt, grandpa cardigan, and beanie. I'm kind of amazed that the tent is so tall he doesn't have to duck his head.

“Yeah, it's rough living. But you look beautiful.”

I squint at him. “You're just trying to butter me up so I'll shoot that rooster.”

His grin is like a sunbeam through clouds. “Yeah, maybe. You ready?”

I take a deep breath and reach for my gun. It's become second nature, like keys or a wallet used to be, in the days before Valor showed up at my door. I tuck it into the back of my pants, wishing to hell I'd had the good sense to buy a—

“I got this for you too. Hope that's not weird.” Wyatt hands me a black holster. “It can clip inside or outside your pants. It was Chance's idea.”

“This is possibly the most thoughtful gift I've ever received. No more sweaty gun butt. You're the best boyfriend ever.”

I realize what I've said the moment the words leave my mouth, and we both kind of ignore it. I have to mess with the new holster for a few minutes, figure out where it'll be most convenient to draw. I settle for my right hip. Wyatt has his on the left. The gun fits perfectly, although it makes a weird bunch under my shirt. I practically throw myself into Wyatt's arms with so much enthusiasm that
Matty starts barking like crazy. He's just tipping my head back to kiss me when we hear a gunshot outside. My heart drops into my throat as we break apart and stare at each other. Our eyes meet, and we draw our guns and drop to hands and knees. Wyatt slowly unzips the tent and peeks out. It just goes to show what we've been through in the past week that Matty is totally unaffected by gunshots and we're ready to fight for our lives.