Crash (4 page)

“Would you?”

A flicker of hurt crosses his features. “Yeah, I would. But I get why you think I wouldn't. My track record isn't exactly stellar.” He approaches me slowly, like I'm a feral cat that might lash out at any second. Maybe he isn't far from right. “I'm here. Lean on me.” He holds up his hands, palms forward. “Or take a swing at me. Whatever you need. Just let me help you.”

“How? How can you help me?” How can he take away the pain? The fear? The guilt? That's the thing. The guilt is chewing away at me. If only I'd hugged Carly one last time. If only I'd asked Dad to wait a minute while I found his cell phone. If only I'd made Carly sleep over, then they wouldn't have been in that intersection at exactly that moment.

If only.

I wish I could tell Jackson all that. Explain. Say it out loud. But the words choke me, refusing to come, even as I wonder why I'm holding back.

Finally, I say, “There's nothing you can do.”

He looks like I just stabbed him through the heart, and I get it. As much as I need to be in control, so does Jackson. And part of his thing is being the caretaker, the strong one, the protector, even when he claims he isn't.

“I'm sorry. I'm scared.” My voice catches. “I'm scared that we're back here even though we weren't finished there. That us being here means something terrible. Like in that movie,
Saving Private Ryan
. You know, the one where they wanted to bring the guy home from war to tell him all his brothers were dead. What if the Committee brought us back because Daddy . . . or Carly . . . What if they're . . .”

“They aren't. And what you just said about the Committee bringing us back because something's happened to your dad or Carly? They wouldn't bring us back because someone died. They don't care about two human lives in the grand scheme of things.”

An ugly laugh escapes me. No, they don't. They care about one thing. Beating the Drau. And I guess I can stretch that and say they care about saving mankind by beating the Drau. But two individual human lives . . . Dad's and Carly's . . .

“You're right. They wouldn't care about that.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

JACKSON REACHES FOR ME AND GATHERS ME CLOSE. I SLUMP against him. He holds me up, my torso resting against his, his arms solid and real. I wish I could stay here forever, grounded by the steady beat of his heart. But I can't.

I can't just stand here doing nothing, letting things unfold as they unfold. I need to do something, take action, make a choice. I start for the door. “I'm going to find a nurse, someone who can tell me something. It's been hours . . .”

“It hasn't,” he says. “We respawned at the exact second we left here, so nothing terrible could have happened to your dad or Carly while we were gone. It's only been a few minutes.”

I rest my palms on either side of the doorframe,
shoulders slumped, head bowed. “I wish I could run. Right now. Just my feet against the pavement. No thinking. Just moving. Hit the wall and crash through.”

He rests his palm on the back of my neck. “There's nowhere to run.”

A brutal truth.

I stiffen and push against him, then finally realize I'm fighting Jackson because I want to fight everything else. With a sigh, I turn and loop my arms around his waist and rest my forehead on his chest. But I can't stay still for long. If I stay still, if I don't do
something
with my hands—busy work—I'll implode. Jackson must sense that because he steps away, and as I bend over the low table and straighten the scattered magazines, I feel him watching me.

My jacket's on the chair where I left it before we got pulled. I snag it by the sleeve, fold it shoulder to shoulder, then in half. The sleeves slide free. I shake the jacket out then fold it again, careful to keep everything neat. But the seams don't line up. The folds aren't symmetrical. I shake it out and try again, finally getting it right on the fifth round.

Jackson walks over and takes the jacket from my hands. He sets it carefully on the chair, keeping all the seams lined up.

“So why do you think we're back here?” I ask. “What went wrong?”

“How do you know anything went wrong? Don't borrow trouble. We took out the threat on the catwalk. Maybe
that was all we were supposed to do there.”

He doesn't sound convinced. I don't feel convinced.

“What about Luka and the others? Do you think they're still there? Do you think we were the only ones who got pulled out?”

He fishes out his phone and types. He waits a few minutes and texts again, then waits. No response.

Phones don't work in the game.

That's why Luka isn't responding. Because he's still there.

I can't even consider any other explanation because the one that comes to mind is that Luka isn't answering because he
can't
, because he won't be answering his phone ever again. I swallow and pretend those thoughts aren't floating just beneath the surface.

Minutes drag past. I flop on a chair and watch the news station on the flat screen in the corner. Then I grab the stack of magazines, arrange them in alphabetical order, and then put the stack back down and tap the edges until everything's perfectly aligned. When I look up, Jackson's watching me, worry etched in his expression. Seeing that only amps my anxiety.

Except, it isn't just anxiety. My skin prickles and the hairs at my nape rise.

“What?” Jackson asks, suddenly alert.

“Creepy feeling.” One I recognize. “Like that day at school when I thought I was being watched.”

Jackson's on his feet before I've even finished my
sentence, crossing to the door, checking the hallway. I'm a step behind him.

There's no one there watching us. Just a nurse walking along the corridor. She turns and waves at someone and I catch a glimpse of the sleeve of a green jacket as whoever it is rounds the corner.

“Excuse me . . . ,” I say as the nurse turns back toward me.

“Yes?”

I study her face, thinking there's something familiar about her. But I can't place where I know her from and it really doesn't matter right now.

“My dad . . .” Jackson steps up behind me and rests his hand on my shoulder. I take a breath and continue. “He was in a car accident. He's in surgery. His last name is Jones . . . I was wondering if there's any news . . .”

Her expression is kind, sympathetic, but her answer holds no comfort. “I'll check for you, hon, and if there is, I'll let you know. But I don't think so. Not yet. The doctor'll come see you just as soon as he can.”

Jackson and I stand in the doorway and watch her head down the hall. She doesn't come back, but a few minutes later, another nurse does. My anxious questions yield noncommittal answers. She really doesn't have anything to tell me yet. She asks me questions about Dad's general health. If he smokes. If he drinks. I answer as honestly as I can.

When she leaves, we retreat back into the waiting
room. I pace to the far end, flop forward and touch my toes, then straighten. The creepy feeling isn't quite gone. I turn and stare at the TV. What if the Drau are watching us right now? What if that's why the hairs on my forearms are standing on end and my skin feels tight, my scalp prickly? What if the Drau are piggybacking human satellites to watch us while we watch the news? I stalk over and turn off the TV. My gaze slides away, to the clock on the wall. It's three a.m.

“Do you need to go home?” I ask Jackson, hoping he doesn't, hoping he'll stay. “Your parents will be worried.”

“I called them. Do you think I'd leave you?”

Everyone leaves.
That's been my motto for a while. The seeds were planted when Gram and Sofu died, and certainty cemented two years ago when I held Mom's hand while she took her last breath. They all left me. And now Dad and Carly might leave me tonight.

No.
No.
I can't think that way.

“I won't,” he says. I stare at him. He comes to me and hooks his index finger under my chin and lifts my face to his. “I won't leave you. I've spent my whole life traveling, never staying in one place more than a few months, and I liked it. Liked going from place to place, never being anchored. No tethers.” He strokes the backs of his fingers along my cheek. “You aren't a tether, Miki. You're my lifeline. You're the best kind of anchor, keeping me from crashing on the rocks when a storm hits. And that's a two-way thing. I'm
your anchor. I won't leave you.”

I want to believe that so badly I feel it as a craving in my soul. “You can't promise that. You don't know what will happen. You could get—” My voice catches. I look away, stare at my feet, and keep talking. “You could get hit by a drunk driver. You could get cancer. You could get killed in the game.”

“You're right. I could.” I gasp. “I won't pretend otherwise,” he continues. “But believe that I'll fight anyone and anything to be there when you need me. To keep you safe. And if I can't find a way to put myself between you and harm, I'll be there to help you bear it. You get that, right?”

I think of him standing out in the open at the factory, Drau fire raining down on him as he covered me so I could get to safety. He's done that since the beginning. On the very first mission, he jumped in front of me and took the full measure of a Drau hit.

I bump his shoulder with mine. “And you get how risky that is, right? You take too many chances, Jackson. I know that you want me safe, but does it occur to you that I need you safe, too?”

His lips curl in a dark smile. “You keep me safe, Miki. Who took out the Drau on the catwalk by bringing down the roof?”

We stare at each other. My heart hammers.

Then his mouth is on mine, hard, desperate. He kisses me with his lips, his heart, his soul, holding me so tight I can't tell where Jackson ends and I begin. I cling to him as
he draws his lips from mine, our breath mingling in the inches that separate us.

I study his face. Purple crescents carve hollows under his eyes. There's a shadow of golden stubble on his jaw and tension hardens his features.

“You look like hell,” I whisper.

He tips his glasses back down. “So do you,” he whispers with a little smile and somehow, I manage to smile back.

“I brought you something to drink.”

Startled, I spin toward the door, one palm pressed to my chest, sorry we've been interrupted, sorry to be pulled back to a darker reality.

Mrs. Conner stands a few feet away with a couple of bottles of water and some packaged snack cakes in her hands.

She looks at Jackson. “It's good of you to be here.”

“There's nowhere else I'd be.” He edges a little closer so our shoulders touch, so I can feel his warmth and strength.

Mrs. Conner nods.

“Any news?” I ask.

“No. Nothing. Carly's still having tests. A CT of her brain and c-spine.” She offers the items she brought. I take them, then stare at the bottles and packages, not really sure what to do with them. Jackson takes them and sets them on the table.

“What's a c-spine?” I ask.

“It's . . . Carly's neck.”

I take a sharp breath. “Why? Is it . . . It's not . . .” I can't
say the word
broken.
Carly's neck can't be broken.

“They said that evaluating the neck is routine.” She doesn't sound convinced.

I sink into a chair. “Did she wake up yet?”

Carly's mom shakes her head, her eyes sad. Desperate. She looks away. “Your dad's still in surgery.”

“I know. I asked a nurse. She said she'd come back if she heard anything . . .” I sigh. “Did the nurses tell you anything else?”

She scrubs her palm over her face. “Since I'm not family they won't tell me everything.”

But I
am
family, and they've told me nothing.

Jackson's fingers thread through mine. I close my hand on his tight enough that it smarts, the pain grounding me. He doesn't complain.

“What about the driver?” I ask. “Of the car that hit them?”

She doesn't answer for so long that I figure she isn't going to answer. Then she whispers, “Not a scratch on him.”

Jackson's breath hisses from between his teeth. I slam the side of my fist against my thigh, not even realizing that I've done it until the pain blossoms.

Mrs. Conner lays one hand on Jackson's forearm and one on mine. “He's been charged.”

Does that make me feel better? Should it?

“And if he gets a good lawyer?” My head jerks up. Carly's dad stands in the doorway of the waiting room, his
hand deep in his pocket, the sound of jingling change filling the silence. “A good lawyer and he'll walk while our baby's lying—” His voice cracks.