The radio remains silent for far too long. I’m starting to fear Ambrosia left the moment I uttered the dreadful news.
“I’m so sorry, Atlas,” she says through the static. “We loved him, you know.”
“I know. He loved you too,” I say.
“It won’t be the same without him, but I know you have what it takes to continue his work. He was integral to the Angelic operation and you will be, too.”
Suddenly, I’m pissed she isn’t as distraught as I’ve been these past twenty-seven fucking days. It’s immediately back to business, but that’s how she always was. That’s all the Angelics can afford. Business. Stasis equals death in this game. I take another careful inhale and breathe slowly out my mouth.
“Thank you, but that isn’t the only reason I called. Over.”
“Copy. What is it that you need? Over.”
I tap my middle and index finger repeatedly over the desk, feeling the increasing nerves slowly climb and climb.
“Copied. I have two AWOL powered individuals secured safely in the bunker. Tommy Donahue sent them. They’ll need to be extracted and taken to Proctus. Over,” I recite.
“Copy,” Ambrosia sighs before she can cut off the mic. I wait for her voice to return. “We’re stretched extremely thin as it is. It may take upwards of a week before we can reach you. Over.”
A week suddenly feels too long. What if Conin’s right and the Barclay Networkdiduse Tommy to track us down? What if they’re on their way here as we speak? Regardless, there’s nothing that can be done. We’ll have to bide our time and hope the bunker remains resilient like I promised it would.
“Copy. I’ll let them know. Over.”
“Understood. You did good, Eureka101. And again, I’m so sorry about abuelito. We’ll miss him. Over and out.”
Over and out.
Chapter 30
Conin
Pan-panic. I’m suffering from it—it’s obliterating my senses and distracting me from Ezra, but I cannot easily let it go. Because Atlas is undeniably attractive. I look at him and my body erupts all over. There’s something about the way he treats Ezra that just . . . turns me the fuck on. His constant smiles, his infectious mirth, their never-ending conversations aboutStar Wars.
And then there’s the way he treats me, like he’s intentionally flirting—like he can see right through me. Despite his best efforts, I’m hesitant to trust him completely. It’s difficult to pinpoint whether it’s the tether Ezra’s spoken of or my fear of Ezra’s safety, but I’ve yet to fully warm up to Atlas. He notices, but he’s too kind to say anything.
Damn his kindness.
I hate it. I hate his charity. I hate his stupid face. And I hate myself for thinking anything of him when my feelings for Ezra remain unresolved. I love Ezra and that won’t ever change, butI’m simultaneously feeling things for Atlas while silently denying my jealousy over the bond he and Ezra have. I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I’m not liking it. Not at all.
Atlas grew up distant from Proctus. He met Ambrosia and Matt at a relatively young age, the Angelics he keeps in contact with for emergencies like ours, to extract AWOL recidivists and bring them safely to Proctus. Matt and Ambrosia were orphaned in an attack on a recidivist safe house. From there onward, they dedicated their lives to the Angelic cause.
Atlas, Ambrosia, and Matt met in the least likely of circumstances. It was through Atlas’s abuelo they ever crossed paths in the first place. His grandfather was born and raised on the Caribbean islands where he and his wife had Atlas’s mother. His abuelita passed away before he was born and when Yailin decided to follow Scott back to Utah in the small, once-bustling mining town he grew up in, abuelito journeyed with.
Abuelito discovered the injustices committed toward powered individuals in the States and wanted to advocate for the rights of people like him. Atlas is skeptical of how his grandfather achieved what he had in the early days of the operation, but his abuelo’s heroics and efforts attracted the attention of Esther Brown. She personally located his family’s place of residence to commemorate him for his bravery. They were in talks for days, weeks, and months after their initial meeting. The operation bloomed from there.
Staring at the words, their meanings are lost—incomprehensible. I chose one of the queer selections from the MacPhersons’ book collection, one I haven’t read, in hopes that it will occupy my mind. Every thought drifts to Mara’s limp body thudding onto asphalt, flames licking a dark infinity, Ezra’smortified expression when our chances of escaping were so bleak. And above it all, my ankle fucking hurts. I’m positive I didn’t break it, but it’s definitely sprained. I forgot to mention the injury in all the commotion and getting to know Atlas. Maybe I should suck it up and say something before it worsens.
When the clock hits three in the afternoon, the familiar hiss of the bunker’s entrance sounds, and Atlas comes strolling in with coursework in hand. He huffs and sits on the floor in front of the couch where Ezra and I lounge, then splays an array of papers onto the coffee table. I sneak a glance over his shoulder, noticing the different names on each assignment. Atlas slumps against the couch, sighing until he’s completely deprived of air. The histrionics are almost enough to elicit a smile out of me. Almost.
There I go again.
Who the hell useshistrionics?
And why the hell am I feeling guilty when Ezra and I are nothing more than close friends? Atlas is a stupid crush—an infatuation that will go nowhere. Ezra’s napping, curled up at the far end of the couch while the millionth rerun ofthe same movieplays on the TV. The sight of him evokes a broad smile that hurts, which Atlas notices when he cranes his neck back.
“So,” he says and I’m not sure I like the tone of his voice—the playfulness of it. “Are you and Ezra . . . you know . . . a thing?”
“What?” I splutter. “What makes you think that?”
