Push

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE NIGHT OF THE HALLOWEEN DANCE I PULL ON A PAIR OF black jeans and a black turtleneck. I add a black military-looking vest that I found online, and finish running a brush through my hair just as the doorbell rings.

Dad’s out again. He called a few minutes ago to check on me.

“Yes, my phone’s charged, Dad. Yes, I’ll be in by midnight.” I find it odd that he didn’t ask who I’m going to the dance with or how I’m getting there. It’s like he’s going through the motions of being the concerned parent without actually participating on anything but the most superficial level.

The hope that surged inside me the day I told him about the AA meetings has faded to a dull shade of pale. Last week, when I was vacuuming his office, I found an empty clear glass bottle with blue block letters on the floor under his desk. I picked it up and stood it beside the wastepaper bin. He never said a word about it. Neither did I.

But that night, when I tried to open a conversation with an oblique reference to AA, Dad shut me down like a steel trap. He’s graduated from beer to something stronger. Or maybe he’s been drinking both all along.

The doorbell chimes a second time.

I push aside the negative thoughts.

I choose to focus on the moment, this moment, the first time a boy’s taking me to a dance. And not just any boy. Jackson.

I tear down the stairs to pull open the door. He’s leaning against the porch rail, arms crossed over his chest. He’s dressed all in black, like me, but he’s wearing a V-neck, long-sleeved pullover, and his vest’s bigger and bulkier with these round things on it. Very Gears of War.

Two black paintball masks dangle from his fingers. We were going to wear paintball guns as accessories, but that didn’t quite pan out as hoped. Ms. Smith made an endless announcement that made it clear there were to be no weapons of any kind at the dance, not even cardboard cutouts. Definitely not unloaded paintball guns.

So we’re going as weaponless warriors. Which is fine with me. I have my fill of weapons in the game.

Jackson pushes off the rail and walks past me into the house, snagging my belt loop as he passes and dragging me inside. He drops the paintball masks, pushes the door shut, and backs me against it, his arms caging me, his thighs against mine.

“Trick or treat,” he says.

“Treat.” I give him a peck on the cheek, duck under his arm, and lift the nearly empty bowl of mini chocolate bars sitting on the kitchen chair I dragged to the front door. “Happy Halloween.” I hold the bowl out to him.

“I was hoping for something sweeter. Say . . . your lips on mine . . .”

“You’ll have to settle for chocolate. Luka’s waiting. Are we picking him up?”

“He’s meeting us there. He’s picking up Sarah and Amy on his way.” Jackson pokes through the bars and chooses one. “All the peanut-butter ones are gone?”

“I don’t do peanut butter. Too many kids have allergies.”

There’s a crinkle of paper and he downs the candy in a single bite. He tosses the wrapper back in the bowl. I hold out my hand, palm up. With a faint smile, he fishes out the wrapper, deposits it in my hand, and helps himself to another bar.

“Planning to hand out any more candy?”

“I think all the little kids came through earlier.” I reach across him to turn off the outside light. “It’s pretty late for them now.”

“Then I can eat the rest.” He takes another chocolate bar.

I surreptitiously check him out while I put the bowl back on the chair. “I’m a little surprised you’re so into this whole Halloween thing.”

He turns to me and tips his glasses up, his silvery eyes preternaturally bright against his dark, spiky lashes. “You’re into it, so I’m into it.” Leaning in, he whispers against my ear, “I want it to be good for you, Miki.”

I do a fair imitation of Carly’s arched-brow thing. “Behave.”

“Not gonna happen.”

I know. And I kind of like that. And I definitely like the fact that he never pushes too far.

“So what’s with you and the love of Halloween?” he asks.

“I loved dressing up as a kid. Mom used to make a big deal out of it every year. We’d carve pumpkins together and plan my costume for weeks and she’d buy tons of candy. Give it out by the handful instead of just one or two at a time.”

I remember the Halloween after Mom died. I didn’t dress up. I didn’t even give out candy. And just a few weeks ago, I was standing by the giant oak, listening to my friends talk about the dance. I felt flat and broken, wishing I could feel as excited as they did. But I didn’t.

And now I do.

I’m not sure what that means.

Jackson tugs at one of the buckles on my vest. “You okay with this now? Our costumes?”

When he and Luka first came up with the idea of the three of us dressing like characters in a game, I balked. Jackson pointed out that it was pretty much the only way he was going to wear anything close to a costume. I still wasn’t convinced. Then Amy and Sarah joined in, and it actually started to sound like it might be fun.

“Yeah. I’m okay with it. And it’d be kind of late to back out if I wasn’t.” I nudge him with my shoulder. “You look good.” Better than good. “Where did you get those boots?” They’re black, knee high, with a bunch of buckles and snaps.

“Made ’em.” He opens the front door, bends to grab something from the porch, and holds it—them—out to me. I gasp. He has another pair of boots just like his, and they appear suspiciously close to my size.

“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.”

I believe every word he’s saying. But I know there’s something he isn’t saying. He’s doing it again. Hiding things. “There’s the Jackson I know and love. Moody, bossy, cocky—”

“Asshole,” he finishes for me.

My chin comes up. I hold his gaze and inch even closer. We’re almost nose-to-nose. Tension thrums in the air between us.

“You. Are not. The boss. Of me,” I say, holding up my index finger and making a wavy line in the air, throwing as much attitude as I can into both the words and the action.

He stares at me. Blinks. Bares his white, white teeth. Not a nice smile; not warm, not friendly. Dark. Feral.

Appealing.

“Sometimes,” he says, very soft, “I think you’re the boss of me.”

My insides melt. How did Miki, the girl who would never in a million years fall for a boy like Jackson Tate, end up falling for a boy like Jackson Tate?

Maybe because there are no other boys like him. There’s just him.

“As if,” I say back, equally soft.

The sound of a muted cough makes me turn. Luka’s on the far side of the clearing, hands shoved in his pants pockets. I don’t know how long he’s been standing there. I don’t know how much he heard. And I don’t think I want to know.

Jackson flips his glasses down, covering his eyes.

Did Luka see them when he first arrived? I try to picture exactly how we were all standing, what his sight lines were. If he did notice anything, he isn’t saying.

“Seriously?” he asks as he saunters over. He’s wearing an outfit very similar to what Jackson and I have on. His paintball visor’s pushed up on top of his head. “Are we seriously doing this tonight? When I have not one but two attractive and slightly tipsy ladies sitting in my car right now?”

“Slightly tipsy?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Seems that Sarah’s brother supplied a few bottles of beer for her and Amy.”

I study his face, worried that he’s going into the game at a disadvantage. “Are you slightly tipsy?”

All humor fades from his expression. “I don’t drink and drive.”

I nod. “Sorry.”

He bumps me with his shoulder.

“We’re due for a mission,” Jackson says. “It’s been weeks since we’ve been pulled. Might as well be tonight.”

Or any other night. Or how about no night? Ever.

“Let’s get this done,” Luka says, looking first at Jackson, then me, before pulling off his paintball visor and hooking it to his vest. “Not the ideal getup for alien hunting.”

“Deal with it,” Jackson says, and tosses me a harness.

Tyrone shows up a few seconds later.

Jackson nods at him. “Hey,” he says.

Tyrone nods at Jackson. “’Sup,” he says.

“You good?” Jackson asks.

“Good.” Tyrone juts his chin in Jackson’s direction. “You?”

“Yeah.”

And that verbose conversation somehow leaves me with the impression that they’re happy to see each other. Gotta love guys.

But I remember Tyrone before Richelle was killed. She teased him about talking too much and slowing the team down.

He’s changed.

I guess we all have.

Tyrone takes a quick look around the lobby. “Before they get here, I need to give you the heads-up,” he says to Jackson. “We’ve got one, maybe two.”

“Two what?” I ask.

“Problem players,” Tyrone says.

I think about that. “Kendra’s pretty freaked out,” I agree. “She’s definitely scared. I don’t know if I’d say she’s a problem, though. She did her share the last couple of times.”

“More than her share,” Tyrone agrees.

So why do I feel like he’s saying something really horrible about her? Like whatever it is, he’ll trust Jackson with the information but not me?

“Tyrone, do you have a problem with me?”

His expression softens. “Never, Miki. Got nothing but respect. You kept a level head through some pretty rough shit. I’m just a little concerned about them.”

“Them being Kendra and Lien?” When he doesn’t saying anything more, I turn to Luka. “What about you? Are you worried about them?”

Luka shrugs. “Not worried. I actually think Lien’s interesting. But I’m not convinced I’d trust either of them with my life.”