Walker and I drilled the lift all weekend, but I’m not confident in it.
It’s not the physicality of it. It’s the blending in part that worries me. I’ve never wanted to stick out, but I always have. Whether I’m too quiet, too serious, too intense, something about me always seems to draw censure.
So having to get close enough to Clara to make the hand-off without tipping off her guard has me sweaty and shaking. I can’t stand seeing her hurt any more than she already has been. And she needs this damn shot. Every day without it, especially as it looks like they were probably caught faking, is a risk she doesn’t want to take.
I remember one lazy afternoon, both of us naked and sweaty in the bed, her fingers tracing across my skin like she was following lines of a map, she’d rested her head on my chest and cleared her throat. “Do you think I’m crazy to do this? To take this risk?”
I’d pulled her closer, knowing exactly what she was talking about. She’d promised to come to me before she revealed more of her plans, to let me be her sounding board. She’d kept that promise as best she could. I’d tilted her chin back, pressing my lips to hers, not quite ready to get back to worrying about the future. Even as I’d been up late tracking down more pedophiles for her to ship off to the cops.
We might enjoy a lazy afternoon or two, but we both understood it was temporary. “What would you do if it came to that? If you got pregnant?”
She’d rubbed her cheek against my chest, her fingers flat across my abs. “It depends on if we can get out of the net. I couldn’t leave my kid with Trips’ father. If there’s no way out, I don’t know. I know I should plan for it, but still. I don’t knowhow I’d feel about having a kid, so I’m not sure I can plan for that.”
I’d tugged her closer, needing to feel her skin against mine, the words necessary. “You wouldn’t do it alone. We’d all support you. No matter what you chose.”
She’d rolled across me, straddling my lap, her fingers tracing the lines of my collarbone. “I know. That’s how I know you’re all keepers.” She’d leaned forward, pressing her lips to mine, slowly coaxing my body back to ready, the slide inside her slick from what we’d just finished. The warmth in her gaze, bisected by the late afternoon light, had lulled me into not following the line of questioning. And when she came, quietly, to not attract the attention of our attack cat or to rile the chickens just outside the window, well, the muted tone of it makes it seem more dream than memory. Some broken, timeless moment that I want back.
When pregnancy came up in the planning stages, she said she’d bribe a doctor to have a grab-and-go birth control shot, and that we’d have to get it to her if she wasn’t allowed to pack a bag. And that was that. Nobody asked what would happen if we got it to her too late. Nobody voiced what we all wondered—would we be parents when we finally broke free of Trips’ father’s restraints?
The idea of her pregnant, forced into motherhood before she decided that’s something she wants, drags the rage that’s been spiking for the last month to the surface, and a few underclassmen dodge around me as I wait at the end of the hall.
Forcing my face into what I’ve been promised is a neutral, unmemorable position, I keep waiting, watching, hoping to at least see her, even if it will be torture to just look and not sweep her to safety.
Forty minutes later, she enters from the other end of the hall. She looks like the stuck-up version of the girl I love, and she’s moving with small, careful steps.
She’s hurt. Not as bad as what Walker described, and what Jansen could eventually put into words, but still. Whatever beating she took, it’s bad enough that a week later, she still can’t move with her usual confident stride. My hands clench, the small pouch I’m holding reminding me I can’t make the move I want to.
Instead, I sigh, forcing myself into the role Walker drilled me on, shuffling down the hallway, hat hopefully obscuring my face enough that with my different hair, beard, and pretty-boy clothes, I won’t be recognized.
I feel her eyes on me for a moment when we’re still about twenty feet apart, and it’s all I can do to keep from meeting her gaze. But I force myself to pull out my cellphone, staring at it like it’s more important than the girl I’m almost beside, hopeful she can make the hand-off. I don’t see any purse or pockets.
Shit.
I offer the bag, and instead of taking it, her fingers brush against the back of my hand, her touch lightning over my skin, my vision blurry from the force of emotion overwhelming me.
Then she’s past me, her guard whispering something in her ear. I go a little farther down, then lean against the wall, my heart pounding as I watch from the corner of my eye. As they go into the classroom, she shoots me a smile. But the guard yanks her hard, and as I drag my gaze away from her, his face registers as the man I’d fought so many months ago, the man she thought she’d killed.
Fuck.
I stare at the small pouch in my hand.
No birth control. Beaten. Guarded by a man who likely wants her blood.
The hallway grows quiet as class begins, and still I stand there, wishing I could suddenly develop telekinesis or something to get her what she needs. Instead, I pull up Trips’ schedule.
Maybe I’ll have better luck with him. At least men’s clothes always have pockets.
Chapter 69
Trips
Tuesday morning, Falk shoves me into Clara’s room, and once again I’m uncertain if this is a reward or a punishment.
The asshole progenitor was called out of town on business, and as he doesn’t trust anyone with the creation of his grandson besides himself, Clara and I haven’t had to perform.
Something clenches low in my gut at the thought, and as she rolls to face me from the giant bed, I can’t even begin to parse the meaning of it. But then she lifts the edge, inviting me under the blankets with her, and I can’t pretend that I’m that dense. Not anymore.
I want her. I’ve wanted her for so long it aches like a permanently broken bone. But I don’t want to fuck her with an audience.
