Debra Driza - Mila 2.0 - Renegade

I allowed the unnecessary air to exit my nonhuman lungs in a huge exhalation. I peeked up at him, afraid of what I might find in his faded-denim eyes, but they were soft. Warm. Inviting.

Like he was just waiting for me to open up and let him in.

“Thank you.”

He lifted my hand and traced my knuckles with his thumb. Then he shrugged, a loose-limbed movement of his shoulders, and I was transported back to homeroom, where I’d seen him perform that motion for the first time.

Homeroom. I’d been in homeroom less than two weeks ago. Now, classrooms and blackboards and high school cafeterias seemed impossibly out of reach. Funny how torture and death could do that to you.

We rounded the final corner, to where the Sea Breeze Motel sat about half a block down. The lobby was tiny. Shabby, too, with faded green upholstered chairs and scarred wood floors. Rooms at the Sea Breeze came cheap for a reason—nothing looked to have been upgraded in decades. But at least it was clean.

The pulse of anxiety in my ears throbbed louder and louder the closer we came to the motel. Once we got to our room, I was supposed to magically conjure up a way to tell Hunter the truth. Right.

Why wasn’t there an android program to facilitate the important stuff?

The motel room mirror was still fogged with steam from my shower. I rubbed a small, blurry opening in the cloudy white and my face stared back at me. I lifted my hand, turned it this way and that, then traced my knuckles with my thumb. The way Hunter had earlier. I rubbed a bigger circle, my skin glistening under the harsh light. I looked up and down my figure, trying to see myself through Hunter’s eyes. I looked real enough—skin, muscle, curves—but would I feel real to him?

That thought made my face grow hot. My gaze floated upward and I was surprised to see a hint of pink blooming in my cheeks. We’d never even kissed. Why was I thinking of him touching me?

As I shoved the mortifying thoughts from my head and lifted the brush to my short, platinum blond hair—which I’d dyed from black just after Hunter arrived—my hand trembled. Another motel room, another mirror. My long, brown hair floating to the floor, while Mom stood behind me, her blue eyes worried.

I turned away and finished drying off with the skimpy motel towel. I slipped into a pair of navy sweatpants with a big “I Virginia Beach” on the butt—classy—and a plain white tank. Even less couture than my cozy flannel jammies from home, but hey, what could you expect for $8 on the clearance rack? I couldn’t afford to squander the money Lucas had given me on fancy clothes.

Lucas. I winced, like I did every time my thoughts turned to the guy who’d been injured helping me escape from General Holland’s secret SMART Ops compound. Lucas, the nerdy proctor of my insane tests—the budding scientist with a heart of gold. Thanks to him, I not only had my life, such as it is, but I also didn’t have to strut around in an outfit I’d bought off a homeless woman in D.C. That shirt had been covered in stains that refused to yield—at least not to the tiny packets of detergent provided by the coin dispenser downstairs.

I caught another glimpse of myself in the mirror and grimaced. Procrastination, thy name is Mila. After sticking out my tongue at my bedraggled reflection, I reached for the door and opened it with what I hoped was a confident smile. Time to face Hunter and his questions. Time to face the truth. I had this.

Or not. I barreled forward, only to feel my resolve fizzle when I caught sight of his lanky form, sprawled across the bed by the window.

“Ahem.”

He bolted upright; as if the state of Virginia had just broadcasted that motel-room reclining was illegal. He snagged the remote from between folds of the crumpled comforter and turned down the volume, then scooted to the edge of the bed. Very proper, with his feet on the ground and hands in his lap.

O-kay. I sat opposite him, combing my fingers through my wet hair to give myself something to do. The quiet thickened, so I distracted myself by counting red circles on the curtains—fifty-two.

He looked at me before quickly averting his eyes. “I forgot to tell you, I like your new haircut,” he finally blurted to the remote in his hands.

“Thanks.” No need to tell him I was on version two already since the last time we’d met.

At least not yet.

The bed creaked like an old floorboard when he shifted his weight. His gaze skimmed me again, taking in my bare shoulders, dampened from where my hair dripped down, and then his eyes dropped to his lap again. He cleared his throat and that tiny “ahem” crackled between us.

I crossed my arms, his unease making me all too aware of the fact that I was in a motel room with a boy, not a chaperone or parent in sight, and oh by the way, we were going to spend the night together.

For the second time in under two minutes, heat crawled up my cheeks. Not spend the night , spend the night. But still. When I’d called Hunter and begged him to come help me, the potential for extreme awkwardness hadn’t really been front and center in my mind. I’d been consumed with grief and panic. Thoughts of Hunter had gotten me through some of the darkest moments—before my mother died in my arms. Then thoughts weren’t enough. I needed someone I could trust. Even though we’d only known each other for a few weeks, the way Hunter looked at me as though I were important, as though I mattered … it made me feel safe. There was no one else I could call.

Hunter started tapping a drumbeat on his thigh—a nervous habit I’d noticed when I’d first met him—and even though his nearness made my artificial nerve endings fire and my synthetic heartbeat quicken, I felt the tension between us like a concrete wall.

Oh, wow. This was going so well.

“Is it just me, or is this cohabitating thing kind of weird?”

“Not just you,” I replied in a rush. So fast that his lips lifted into that familiar, quirky smile. Something sizzled down my spine, once more making me want things that could never be mine. Things I could have if I were more than a bundle of circuits and transmitters. Things like a normal life.

Things I could maybe have if I chose not to follow through on Mom’s dying words.

We faced each other across the short gap between the beds, our knees close to touching.

“How about we make a pledge?” he asked. “I’ll start. I, Hunter Lowe, solemnly swear to stay in my own bed, except in case of emergencies. Or if you’re snoring really loud—then I can come over and elbow you. Or, you know, if you invite me over—just to watch TV or something,” he tacked on hastily, when my eyes widened. “Wow, I never realized that you had a gutter mind. Tsk.” He shook his head.

“Whatever.” I grinned back, then remembered my exact thoughts in the bathroom and tried not to cringe in embarrassment. “And I pledge to stay in my own bed, unless you make more terrible jokes like that. In which case I’m going to clobber you with your own pillow.”

“You drive a hard bargain, but deal. And now that the horribly awkward moment is over, are you ready to tell me what’s going on?”

His smile didn’t waver, but that was because he was totally clueless. The truth was sure to slap that smile right off his face. I’d had a difficult time believing it. I still hadn’t accepted it. How could I expect him to?

I bunched my hands into the comforter, rough from multiple washings, and squeezed. I could do this. I could do this. I could—

The words congealed in my throat. I swallowed hard.

“I promise not to judge,” he said.