Long May She Reign (90 page)

Vicky was obviously caught off-guard by that, but then, she smiled. “That sounds like a very good idea,” she said.

When she returned to the dorm, she studied for a while, but then went down to Susan's room, where—as ever, the door was open, and the Doctor was In.

“Hi,” Susan said. “Your friend head back to the city?”

Meg nodded.

“Did you guys have a good time?” Susan asked.

Well, that wasn't
exactly
how she would describe it, but she nodded. “Yeah, it was great to see her. But, um, my agents still haven't bothered you, right?”

“No,” Susan said. “I mean, Garth wishes I'd called him first, but—no. Other than that, it's all fine.”

So, if they'd had a tussle, it had been a minor one. Which was good. Meg nodded.

Susan looked at her curiously. “Is there something else you want to ask me?”

Well—yeah. “It's not important,” Meg said. In fact, it was
stupid
. “But, um—could I hold your tennis racket?”

“Sure,” Susan said, and bent over to pull it out from underneath her bed.

She hadn't touched a racket—any racket—since the day before she was kidnapped. When she'd spent several hours serving, and practicing, and beating a guy from Reuters in two straight sets. At her express request, all of her skiing and tennis equipment had been packed away before she was released from the hospital, so that she wouldn't have to look at any of it.
Ever
.

She leaned her cane against the wall, tested her balance to make sure her leg would hold up well enough, and then took the racket. It was a much lesser model than she would have selected—adequate playability, at best, but the handle fit easily, comfortably, into her hand. In fact, she had a sense of utter familiarity and calm, followed, of course, by despair. The grip was a little small—she liked to tape hers up, for the perfect fit—but, it still felt good. A couple of the strings needed adjusting and she automatically brought her right hand over, and then looked, stupidly, at her splint and worthless fingers. Anyway, it was Susan's racket, and maybe she liked having her strings a little off-kilter, for whatever reason, so it wasn't her place to rearrange them to her own standards.

“Long time?” Susan asked.

Meg nodded, switching from a forehand to a backhand to her favorite service grip, before returning to the forehand. She checked to make sure that she wasn't going to knock over the bedside lamp or whack the computer or anything, and then swung it slowly. Topspin forehand, down the line. Lots of touch and precision, restrained power.

And if she swung again, she was probably going to start crying.

She started to give it back, but Susan shook her head. So, she gripped it, tightly. “You, uh, you should always keep a cover on it.” A proper tennis bag would be better, of course. “Protect the strings and the head and all.”

“I don't really worry about it,” Susan said. “I mostly just hack around.”

Meg nodded, thinking about what it felt like to whip a two-handed backhand cross-court, flick a little drop shot barely over the net, smash an ace past a demoralized and befuddled—preferably male—opponent. Jesus, the muscles in her back and shoulders were
crying out
to serve, and swing, and serve some more. “So, um—” the very notion was anathema— “you don't play seriously?”

Susan shook her head. “I'm not that big on competing with anyone. I used to do some gymnastics in high school, but only for the hell of it.”

It was hard to fathom not being obsessed by sports. By
winning
. And it was weird that ordinary little life details like that were the sort of thing she and Susan rarely discussed.

The things friends discussed.

“How good were you?” Susan asked.

One of the Big Questions, to which she was never going to know the answer. Meg shrugged, her hand clenching on the racket. “Jocks who get hurt
always
assume that they were a lot better than they actually were. It's part of the ethos.” Albeit, of limited consolation.

“How good were you?” Susan asked, again.

Very good. Excellent, even. And she'd had fantasies of developing into being world-class. “I could play a little,” Meg said.

Susan grinned, apparently hearing the unspoken braggadocio.

But that was all long gone now, so there was no point in standing here feeling sorry for herself about it. “Well,” Meg said, and dropped the racket on the bed. “Thanks.”

“Sure,” Susan said. “Anytime.”

No, reliving her not-so-glorious glory days, repeatedly, would lack dignity. She started to leave, but then realized that there had been a tiny discord in part of their conversation. Something that didn't quite fit. “Wait a minute,” she said. “You called Martin directly the other night?”

Susan shrugged. “Yeah. I wasn't about to wait around for the end of the shift.”

In the middle of the night? It would have made far more sense for her to approach Garth, first thing in the morning, or—Meg frowned. “So, you have Martin's number?”

“Of course,” Susan said. “I mean, sometimes—” She stopped. “Well, there are procedural things, and—” She thought about that, and then nodded— “yeah, procedural matters, to discuss, and so, uh, I have to call him, and—yeah.” She nodded too hard. “That's all.”

Christ, she had
Martin's number
. His private number. And didn't hesitate to use it, even thought it was very late. And Martin came racing over, at her request. Hmmm.

“It's purely routine, of course. I would never—that is,
he
would never—” Susan sighed. “Oh, hell. I'm not selling this at all, am I?”

Not even remotely.

Susan had a tendency to blush, anyway, but this one went straight up into her hairline. “We just—talk, sometimes. And, well, that's the whole story.”

Okey-doke. Meg grinned.

“Obviously, he's a complete professional,” Susan said, blushing away, “and nothing untoward would ever—” She stopped. “Oh, shit. Never mind.”

Holy Christ, how had she missed all of this, anyway? Had it been going on for weeks? Did everyone else know? And now, something else clicked into place. “You
run
with him,” Meg said.

“Yes, well, weren't you the one who was telling me it was dangerous to run by myself when it was getting dark?” Susan asked stiffly.

So, she had only started going around with him after that? Yeah. Sure. Meg grinned.

Susan blushed some more. “You could maybe leave now, okay?”

Good advice, since she was going to laugh pretty hard if she didn't. Meg picked up her cane. “Did he get shot in the leg? When he was in the Marines?”

“No, it was shrapnel,” Susan said, and indicated her right thigh. “The scar's about a foot—” She broke off abruptly. “Well, I have no idea. Just, you know, what shows when he has running shorts on.”

Except that she had gestured right up past her hip there, for a second.

Meaning that she had seen him
naked
.

Wow.

“Please go away now, and never mention this again,” Susan said, her blush practically
purple
this time.

Right.

She went upstairs in a much-improved mood. In fact, she was tempted to call Beth right away, to share the gossip—but Juliana's door was open, and Meg saw her sitting at her desk, studying, although she was also singing along to the very loud music which was playing, drinking Red Bull, and eating microwave popcorn. To be polite, she knocked.

“Susan and
Martin
?” Meg asked, after making sure that no one else could hear her.

“Hell, yeah,” Juliana said. “Where've you been?”

Out to lunch, it would seem. As usual. “How long?” she asked.

“I'm not sure,” Juliana said. “But she was wearing this big old Clemson shirt about a month ago, and she was all embarrassed when I asked her about it.”

And she hadn't mentioned that guy Keith, who she supposedly liked, for
weeks
now. “Are they—I mean, do you think—” She didn't want to be crass. “Well, you know.”

Juliana frowned. “Hard to say. But I saw them down near the Log one time, when they were coming back from running, and they looked—well, you could tell they were
really
into each other. I mean, they looked all happy and stuff.”

She had possibly never seen Martin
or
Susan without worried expressions on their faces—or looking anything close to being off-duty. So, it was nice to imagine that there might be something going on which made them both happy. “Does anyone else know?” she asked.

Juliana crunched some more popcorn. “Not much gets past Mary Elizabeth. And, you have to figure Dirk would catch on. But, other than that, no, I don't think so.”

She had no idea what the protocol was, about agents dating, but Susan was almost twenty-one, and Martin really wasn't that much older, and she wasn't a protectee—so it didn't seem as though there would be anything wrong with it. “And
we're
never going to tell anyone.”

“Hell, no,” Juliana said.

*   *   *

A LITTLE WHILE
later, a bunch of people from her entry headed down to the dining hall for supper, and she tagged along with them. She
still
wasn't hungry, but at least Beth wouldn't be able to say that she wasn't trying. To her relief, she didn't see Jack there, although she ran into Mona near the coffee machine, and his Frisbee buddy Corey by the salad bar. In both cases, though, she just said hello, and left it at that.

But she couldn't spend the rest of the semester arranging her life around trying to avoid him, so after dinner, she packed up some books and notebooks, and went over to the library, where she finished off
Coriolanus
, and did some final, minor bits of research for her political science revision.

She stuck it out until past ten-thirty, then headed outside into the dark with her security shadows. It was going to be nice to lie down. To be alone. To
sleep
. She was so tired that she had to lean on her cane more than usual, and for some reason, her hand seemed to be having its own idiosyncratic little convulsion. Kind of unnerving.

There was a guy lying on his back on one of the picnic tables in the quad, his hands folded behind his head, and she probably would have limped by without even looking over, except that she caught Nellie glancing at her.

Jack.

Nifty.

She was
still
considering going inside without a pause, but he was sitting up now.

“Hey,” he said.

Hard to accomplish anything incognito when surrounded by agents. She nodded once, instead of answering.

“How you doing?” he asked.

“Just super,” she said. “Hope you are, too.”

“Yeah,” he said. It was dark, so she couldn't see his expression, but he didn't sound happy. “Very super.”

Neither of them spoke. She could hear voices coming out of dorm windows, and from people walking nearby, as well as music, cars out on Main Street, and even a few crickets.

“Well, I, uh—” she moved towards the dorm— “kind of need to go get some more studying done. Good to see you, though.”

He sighed. “Come on, Meg. Sit down for a minute, okay?”

The thought of which made her feel so exhausted that, for a second, she thought she might burst into tears.

“I really can't,” she said, keeping her voice as blasé as she could, so tense that her hand was cramping around the cane. “I'm very—it was a long day.”

“Just for a minute,” he said.

What was the worst thing that could happen if she walked away without another word? He'd think she was a cold, arrogant jerk? That might be preferable to being seen as a
thin
, deeply-disturbed person who screamed and cried a lot.

“What do you have to lose?” he asked.

The tiny, remaining fragments of her dignity? As well as the result that he might get the bright idea to share all of this with the media at some point. In graphic detail. But, at least if she went through the motions of officially breaking up with him—such as it had been—she wouldn't have to worry about him bothering her anymore. So, she sat down at the picnic table, facing out, with her back to him.

“You one of those people who looks at stars?” he asked.

She was not now; nor had she ever been. More emphatically so, though, after the dark terror of the nights in the forest, when she'd been too scared to do anything other than try to concentrate on clutching whatever rock or stick she had grabbed to use as a potential weapon, in case anything, or any
one
, came unexpectedly lunging out at her.

And if they were going to sit here talking about nature, she might just possibly have a nervous breakdown.

“A lot of fucking help I would have been,” he said.

Okay, she was lost.

“I froze,” he said. “You were scared out of your mind, and I stood there like—well, like some kind of felon. And, in the meantime, your tiny little friend shows up, ready to take on the world.”

Susan was, indeed, small. Meg sighed, and rubbed her sleeve across her eyes to keep them from closing. And maybe—just maybe—to make sure they were going to stay dry.

“Might have been nice if I'd told you it was okay, instead of taking off,” he said.

Yeah. Extremely nice.

“Is that how scared you are?” he asked. “Just, you know, on a regular day?”

She had no interest in answering either question, so she shrugged.

It was quiet again. Crickets, voices, laughter here and there, music. A few more cars.

“
Fuck
,” he said.

He sounded angry enough for her to look quickly at Nellie, who took a step closer.