"Oh yeah? Care to share with the class?"
"No." A grunt of pain, a sigh. "Why are you inside me?"
I can't help but giggle. "That's my line."
His hand tightens. "No, no. Serious."
"Jakob, what are you asking?"
There's a chorus of snarling male voices shouting in exertion, and then the giant doors slowly grind open, inch by inch.
"Okay, break," Solomon pants. "Fuckers are rusted shut."
"And also weigh a goddamn ton," Saxon says. "That don't fuckin' help."
Hey, I'm picking up who's who.
The fading light of day reveals Jakob's eyes, fixed on me, searching. "Beautiful."
This is ridiculous. Why is my heart squeezing like this at the tender sound of his voice? No, no, no, heart. Harden. Don't let him in. Not any further. Bad, bad, bad. Warning, danger. This man is dangerous.
Not to my life, not to my body—in the murdery sense, at least. He’s dangerous to my heart. He won't let me in. There's too much scar tissue around his heart.
His hand finds mine. "Brys."
"I'm here, Jakob. You're going to be fine."
"Hurts."
"I know. I'm sorry."
His head lolls side to side. "No, no. Not that." His eyes are intense, the squeeze of his hand on mine stronger than it should be. "Needing you. It hurts."
The men have the doors open wide enough to let everyone out, and Chance scoops up Jakob again. "C'mon, Boss-man. Let's get you to a doctor."
Jakob groans again as he's lifted; he still has my hand in a death-grip, so I shoot awkwardly to my feet and follow him out the door and into daylight.
It's weird that it's still daytime, after what feels like an eternity in that foul darkness.
I blink into the dying light as we cross the field—again, carefully treading single-file along the safe paths through the minefield.
Jakob refuses to let go of my hand for anything, even as we bundle into the absurdly sleek, minimalist, monochromatic interior of the one-of-one stealth jet with the weirdly quietengines; I’m too worried, freaked out, and traumatized to enjoy the experience.
Who am I to deny a wounded man comfort?
All I can think about, after that, are his last words before the delirium turned to quasi-consciousness and incoherence.
Needing you, it hurts.
Why are you inside me?
Oh, Jakob.
I try to chalk it up to delirium, but a tiny voice in the pit of my soul whispers that sometimes that's when the deepest, rawest truths emerge.
19
TRUTH WILL OUT
