Rush (27 page)

When the bell goes, I take my time gathering my stuff, avoiding the mad rush for the door. It rained on Wednesday and Thursday, but today it’s sunny and warm, so I decide against going to the caf for lunch. Instead, I head past the gym to the rear doors of the school. There are the sounds of voices and a ball bouncing off the backboard coming from the gym. I pause and glance inside just in time to see Jackson sink a basket. He’s going one-on-one with Luka, and they’re tossing sarcastic comments back and forth as they play.

They seem to know each other’s moves, like they’ve played before. Often. I watch them for a minute, and then it hits me. That day that Jackson ran with me, I wondered why Luka had his number. Now I think I know. It isn’t because of the game. And Jackson isn’t hanging with Luka so much just because they have aliens in common. They’re
friends
. In typical guy fashion, they probably don’t even talk about the game when they’re together outside of it.

Eighteen schools. And in his free time Jackson kills aliens. I have a feeling that real friendships are few and far between for him.

Luka sees me, raises a hand in greeting, and grins.

I wave back and then turn away, not sure I want Jackson to notice me.

Though the weather has lured a ton of people outside, they’re mostly congregated at the three picnic tables by the side doors of the school or on the grassy hill that slopes down toward the road. I head out past the track to the far end, where the baseball diamond is, and climb to the top row of the bleachers. If I turn my head to the right, I can see our tree and the break in the fence that leads to the path and the street beyond. The street I ran to the day I first got pulled. The street where I’ll die if the game kills me.

I turn away and stare at the empty baseball diamond instead. I’m all alone way out here, which is fine because I want to finish the last of
Lord of the Flies
. Then I remember that I told Carly I’d see her at lunch. I don’t want her to think I ditched her, so I type a quick text to let her know where I am, just in case.

Closing my eyes, I lean back and tilt my face to the sun, trying to clear my mind and think only about how good the warmth feels.

“Not hungry?”

I gasp and my eyes fly open to find Jackson sitting next to me.

“What are you doing here?”

“You stopped at the gym door but didn’t say anything.”

“I didn’t think you noticed. And I didn’t want to disturb your game.”

He’s quiet for a long minute, and then he says, “I always notice you.”

I look away, flustered, and make a show of putting my phone away, then rummaging through my bag for the sandwich I packed this morning. I set the plastic tub on my lap and stare down at it.

“Where’s your entourage?” he asks.

“My what?”

“Your friends. The ones you’re always with. Deepti, right?”

“She prefers Dee.”

He nods. “And Kelley and . . . the blond one. She’s in English with us and my Spanish class, but I keep forgetting her name. I want to say Carrie, but that’s not right.”

“Carly.” I shake my head. “Don’t tell her you didn’t remember her name. She’d freak.”

“Why?”

Because she called dibs on you. Because she’s a little boy crazy. Because she thinks you’re hot
. My cheeks flush just thinking about it, because Carly isn’t the only one who thinks that. And how can I think it when I know what’s behind his glasses? When I know what he is, what he does? And most important, how can I still yearn for his company when he’s been blowing hot and cold all week, playing some stupid little game only he knows the rules to? I continue staring at the sandwich container in my lap. I don’t want to think about him this way.

After what seems like forever, Jackson says, “She’s not for me, Miki.”

The way he says that, the intonation he puts on my name, makes my heart speed up. I can’t pretend I don’t know what he means.

“I, um, haven’t seen you much this week.”

“I’ve been in English class every day.” That’s not what I mean, and he has to know it. He sighs, which tells me he does know. “I’m trying to stay away from you. I’m not a good guy, Miki.”

There he goes again with the mysterious warnings. “Are you saying that to convince me, or yourself?”

“I don’t need convincing. I live in my skin. I know my motivations, and trust me, they aren’t pure.”

I cut him a glance through my lashes. “So you’re warning me away, for my own good, of course. And yet you follow me out here to be alone with me. You don’t think that’s kind of a mixed message?”

He smiles a little. “I know I shouldn’t be here alone with you, yet here I am. Because I want what I want, not what’s best for you. That proves my point. Not a good guy. No mixed message there.”

“You don’t get to decide what’s best for me,” I say softly. “And why do you say you’re not a good guy? You’ve saved my life, more than once.”

He sighs again. “I have my reasons, and they’re selfish ones. Don’t imagine I’m good.” He shakes his head. “Just don’t.”

I don’t know how to answer that.

He shifts a little closer on the bench, until our shoulders touch. I could explain that away as him wanting to be close so there’s no chance of anyone—or anything—overhearing. I’d rather explain it away as him just wanting to be close to me. It feels right sitting here like this with him, which makes no sense because all my
danger
alarms are clanging full blast.

“I need you to answer some questions for me,” I say softly, still looking at the plastic tub in my lap. “Before we—” Before we what? Date? Hold hands? Kiss? What am I thinking? What is he thinking? We might not even be on the same page.
I
shouldn’t be on that page. Jackson Tate is moody and bossy, cocky and a little scary, and not the sort of boy I would ever in my life think about that way.

Except here I am, thinking about him exactly that way.

And here he is, saying things that make me believe he’s doing the same, even though for some reason, he thinks that’s not in my best interest.

“It’d be nice if you were less cryptic.”

He smiles, a quick flash of white teeth. “See, now you’re being cryptic because you’re not telling me what you think I’m being cryptic about.”

“I—” I press my lips together and shake my head. He’s being purposely confusing.

Jackson leans forward and rests his forearms on his thighs, looking straight ahead at the empty baseball diamond. “Ask. I might even answer.”

I swivel around on the bench to face him, one leg on either side, the plastic sandwich container balanced on my thigh. “Can I—”

He waits, and when I don’t continue, he says, “What?”

“Can I see you without your glasses? I want to look in your eyes while we talk.”

His mouth kicks up at the corners in that dark, sexy, dangerous smile. “You’ve seen me without my glasses. You know what’s behind them. Not scared I’m going to suck your life away?”

“If you were planning to kill me, you wouldn’t have saved my life in the game.”

The smile disappears. “Maybe I’m planning something worse.”

I roll my eyes. “Stop with the secretive, self-hating threats. Let’s just have a conversation. A normal conversation. It’s like you’re trying to scare me away.”

“I am.” He pauses. “You’re obsessed with normal. Sometimes being outside the norm is good. It makes you special.”

My mouth goes dry because I know he didn’t mean that as a generic use of the word
you
. He means me. He thinks I’m special.

“What are we doing here, Jackson?”

The smile comes back. “Having a conversation,” he says, purposely misunderstanding me. He turns his face toward me. I don’t even try to hide my frustration. “You’re gorgeous when you’re annoyed, Miki Jones. Your cheeks get all pink”—he brushes the backs of his fingers along my cheek—“and your eyes get sort of squinty.”

I laugh, but the sound comes out breathless. “I’m gorgeous when I squint?”

“You’re always gorgeous.”

I shake my head. I never really think about myself that way and, until Jackson, I never cared if anyone else did.

He swivels on the bench so he’s straddling it, facing me, mirroring my posture. Then he tips his glasses up so they rest high on his forehead and stares at me for a long moment. I stare back, taking my time, really looking at him. His eyes are Drau silver, both human and inhuman at the same time. The Drau’s pupils are long and oval, slitted like a reptile’s—which makes sense if they come from a planet that’s so bright. The slit would allow them to narrow their pupil in a way that protects them from the strength of the light.

But Jackson’s pupils are round and human. His lashes are long and spiky and darker than I expected. His eyes are widely spaced, his brows sandy brown and straight, one of them bisected by a scar. From the same Drau attack that scarred his arm? From something else? Without thinking, I reach out and run my finger along the scar. His brows rise. I drop my hand. And my eyes never leave his.

They’re exactly as I remember them, frightening and foreign and beautiful.

“Can you do what they do?” I whisper, remembering the way it felt to look in the Drau’s eyes, the pain, the sensation of drowning and losing myself, of having my life sucked away.

His expression shuts down. This topic is clearly off the table.

I redirect and come at it from a different angle. “How do they do it? What exactly are they doing?”

“I don’t have all the answers, but I’ll tell you what I know,” he says.
In generic terms. I won’t talk about me and what I can or can’t do
, he doesn’t say. “It’s like tuning in to a radio station. They catch your gaze, catch your frequency. The human body works on electrical charges. Action potentials. That’s what makes your muscles work. Your nerves. Your brain cells. Everything. The—” He looks around and lowers his voice. “The Drau grab that electricity and drain you dry, like draining a battery. That’s why it feels like they’re sucking the life out of you. Because they are. By the time they’re done, they leave a husk without any spark to fire the engine.”

I shudder, remembering exactly how that felt. “Why the eyes?”

“That’s a tough one. There’s no one I can really ask about this stuff.” He pauses. “No, that’s not totally true. There’s the Committee. I can ask them, but they don’t always answer, or if they do, it’s sometimes a bit philosophical and hard to grasp, so it’s the same as having no one to ask.”

“The Committee?” I remember his sardonic tone when he’s said stuff before about things being decided by committee. I thought he was kidding. “There’s an actual committee?”

“Yeah.”

“So, who’s on that committee?”

“Committee members.”

That’s all he offers, and rather than pressing on that topic, I jump back to the one he was willing to talk about. “So why the eyes?”

“I did some reading. From what I can figure out, it’s because the pupil is actually a hole. It’s an opening, a doorway the Drau can use to connect to the retina and from there to the optic nerve as a way to draw electrical charge from the body. The optic nerve’s a direct bridge to the brain. Makes the whole process pretty easy.”

I’m speechless for a second, and this crazy cartoon image of aliens sucking out human brains pops into my head. “And you can do that? Like them?”

His jaw tightens. Despite the way I shifted directions, he still doesn’t want to talk about this. Then he surprises me by saying, “It isn’t something I do. I tried it once.” He looks away and his expression shuts down even more. “The results weren’t good.”

“Not good for you, or for the being you tried it on?”

He shoots me a startled look. “You pick up on shit, don’t you, Miki?” I don’t answer because even though that was a question, he wasn’t looking for a reply. “It left me amped,” he says. “Like I’d sucked back a dozen Red Bulls.” I notice that he doesn’t say anything about whoever it was he pulled electrical charge from. I want to ask what happened to them, but I hold the question back. Nothing good. I can tell. Just like I can tell that Jackson doesn’t want to talk about it.

“Why aren’t your eyes blue, like mine? Why are Luka’s and Tyrone’s eyes blue in the game? Why not the rest of the time?”

“This isn’t a conversation. It’s an inquisition.” But he smiles, and that takes the sting out of his words.

For a couple of minutes, he just sits there looking at me, his gaze traveling over my features like he’s memorizing them. Then he leans closer and reaches down. I think he’s going to take my wrist and kiss it, the way he did before. My heart skips a beat.

Instead, he takes the plastic container from my lap. He pops open the lid, pulls out half the sandwich, sniffs it suspiciously, and pokes at it with his index finger. “It’s green.”

Despite our topic of conversation and everything on my mind, I laugh at the look on his face. “That’s the homemade avocado spread. The rest is twelve-grain bread, sliced grilled chicken breast, lettuce, and tomatoes.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Hey, take it or leave it. I don’t remember inviting you to eat half my lunch.”

“You want me to starve?” He doesn’t wait for my answer before taking a bite. “Good,” he says around a mouthful of sandwich. He sounds surprised.

“I’m so incredibly glad you like it.” I roll my eyes as I take the container back and lift the other half of the sandwich. By the time I’ve finished chewing the first bite, he’s already devoured his half.

“You said you’ve been to eighteen schools. . . . Why?”

“Dad’s a road warrior.” Before I can ask, he explains, “A consultant. He goes in, cleans up a company’s mess, and moves on to the next. He’s pretty specialized. He gets transferred a lot. We even lived in Tokyo for six months. That was cool.”

His explanation leaves my head spinning, but not just because he’s moved around so much.

“What?” he asks.

“The way you said
Dad
. I guess I wasn’t thinking of you in terms of having a family.”

He gives a short laugh. “You thought I was . . . what? Spawned from an egg?”

“At one point, I considered demon spawn.”

Another huff of laughter, rusty and low. The sound shivers through me. “And now?”