Eve Silver - Push

“You made these for me?”

“Better than chocolate or roses, right?”

“Hey, I gave you chocolate.”

“That doesn’t count. I had to scavenge the remnants. And I’m giving you boots.”

I laugh, then throw my arms around him and hug him because, yeah, thinking of the hours he must have put into creating these, they are way better than chocolate or roses.

“How did you know what size . . . ?” I take the boots from him and take a closer look. My jaw drops as I notice the color of the lining and the logo stamped inside. “These are my red rain boots.”

“They’re black now.”

“How?”

“Automotive spray paint. Made the buckles from belts I found at the secondhand store.”

I shake my head, not sure whether I’m supposed to feel awed or annoyed.

“Did you have to use my rain boots?”

“How else would I be sure they’d fit?” He has a point.

“Did you make some for Luka?”

“He made his own. Mine are better.”

Of course they are.

I slip my feet into the boots and Jackson hands me one of the paintball visors. I pull it on and glance at myself in the hallway mirror, Jackson’s reflected image a little behind and to my left. He looks good in black. I can’t see his eyes, but I know he’s studying me in the mirror, and the faint curve of his lips tells me he likes what he sees.

“You look badass,” he says. “Let’s go.”

We climb into the Jeep. I’m snapping my seat belt in place when color explodes, hurting my eyes, the candles in the jack-o’-lanterns next door too bright, the streetlamps singeing my retinas. The cool air on my skin feels like a thousand needles.

The whole world tips and tilts around me, under me, the seat falling away.

No, no, no. Not now.

“Jackson!” My cry’s distorted and slow, like I’m caught in a slo-mo movie. I reach for him, the movement taking forever. My hand passes right through where he used to be. He’s gone. He made the jump.

My fingers fumble at my seat belt, numb and clumsy.

The thrum of my pulse beats in my ears. My head pounds.

The world drops out from under me, leaving me spinning end over end.

I respawn flat on my ass.

Trees.

Grass.

The two familiar boulders.

The lobby. I can see other teams gearing up.

“Jackson?”

“Right here.” My heart does a little flip when I hear his voice. I didn’t know if the Committee would put us back on the same team. I thought they might, given my inexperience. At the same time, I thought they might not, since putting two leaders on one team doesn’t immediately appear to be the best plan of action.

I hear the crunch of boots on grass; then he holds out a hand to me. I grab it and he pulls me to my feet. He’s wearing his sunglasses, and his paintball visor is clipped to his vest. Only then do I realize I’m still wearing mine. I pull it off.

“Should we take these off? The vests? Leave them here?” I’m not sure how we’re going to wear our harnesses over them, or if the vests will be a risk in the game.

Jackson shakes his head. “Can’t leave anything here. They go in with us.”

I almost reach out and touch him, then hesitate at the last second. He’s not the Jackson who backed me up against my front door to steal a kiss. This Jackson is alert and focused, watching every corner, every shadow.

This is game Jackson. Untouchable. Unchallengeable.

That’s okay. It’s this Jackson who knows how to keep us alive.

“Incoming,” he says.

It takes me a second to catch on. He heard them—the Committee—and I didn’t.

“You’re team leader again.”

“Disappointed?”

“Relieved. Glad I’m not going into yet another mission with my team’s lives on my shoulders.” I shake my head. “I don’t know how you ever get used to being responsible for someone else’s life.”

“ You don’t.” His expression is savage, his tone controlled. The combination makes me shiver. “Every man for himself.”

“I’m not a man.”

“No, you’re not. You’re a girl, my kick-ass warrior girl. I want you to watch your own back and no one else’s. Tonight’s going to be—”

I tense. What? What does he know? What doesn’t he want to tell me?

His mouth turns down at the corners. “Like I told you the first time you got pulled, you make it through this, Miki Jones.”

The first time I got pulled he had to make a horrible choice: me or Richelle. He couldn’t save us both. And while he’s telling me not to care about anyone else, he’s the one who’ll watch out for everyone on the team.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “Sorry that you have to be responsible. Sorry that—”

“Don’t apologize. I’ve been doing this a long time, Miki.”

Long enough that he was desperate to find a way out. I was that way out, his exit strategy, and now thanks to me, he’s stuck here for good.

“It’s just . . . Richelle . . . you couldn’t save us both. What happens if it’s Luka this time?” He stiffens. “Or Tyrone?” Or Lien or Kendra? I feel sick even thinking about it.

With a snarl, he pushes his glasses up and steps close enough that I can see every individual lash, see his pupils, dark and dilated, surrounded by a thin rim of mercury gray.

“I know what you’re thinking. It’s all over your face,” he says, low and hard. “Don’t you think it. Don’t you start second-guessing your choices or mine.” He pulls me to him and gives me a short, hard kiss. “You know the drill. Stay close enough that I can hear you breathe.”

“Conversation over? Just like that?”

“Conversation over.”

Except, it’s not. “Jackson, it isn’t just that. It’s the Committee. They tricked you. Tricked me. I just don’t—” I throw my hands up, frustrated, not even sure what I want to say, never mind how to say it. I think of that crazy nightmare, the one where Lizzie warned me, Don’t trust them. They’re poison. She was talking about the Drau—at least, I assume she was. But what if she meant the Committee? I know it’s really out-there to think like that, but for a second, it seems possible.

“What if they aren’t the good guys?” I whisper.

“No ‘what if’ about it. They aren’t. Not the way you mean.” He brushes the pad of his thumb along my cheek. “Miki, they might not be all kittens and ponies,” Jackson says, “but they’re on the right side of the line. It’s the Drau we need to worry about.”

“I know. It’s just . . . the last time I saw them, they were threatening to kill you. Or me.” I sigh and lay my hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, Jackson. Sorry your way out ended up”—I make a vague gesture at the lobby—“like this.”

An odd expression flits across his features. Regret? Maybe.

“What?” I ask. “What has you frowning like that? What are you not telling me?” As soon as I ask the question, an eerie chill crawls over me. “Tell me.”

He scrubs his palm over the faint stubble that shades his jaw. “I knew exactly what I was doing when I told the Committee I’d stay,” he says. “You want the truth, Miki? I’ll give it to you, plain as porridge, so there’s no more question in your mind. I knew what I was reupping for. And there’s a part of me that wants it. Bad.” His fingers tangle in my hair and he says, very low, “There’s a part of me that likes this.”

The way he says it makes me shiver. Because he’s telling me the truth. I feel it in my gut. He likes the fight, the adrenaline rush. Maybe even loves it. But there’s another truth, one he’s keeping hidden, and I don’t know what or why. So I push a little harder for answers. “And?”

He lets me go, steps back. “And just for clarity, I’ll spell out a few points. One: I signed on, eyes wide open. Two: if I’m in the game, I will lead, not follow.” The silver in his eyes swirls and deepens to stormy gray. “Three, and the most important point: if you’re in the game, Miki, then that’s where I’ll be, watching your back. End of discussion. We don’t talk about this again.”