“I think they put something in my drink,” I murmur as James steps back. I try to straighten my clothes, but James has to catch me by the arm when I nearly trip on my high-heeled boots. James, still flushed, takes a second to realize what I’ve said.
“You sure?” he asks. Confused, he glances around at where we are, at me, and then curses under his breath. “Yeah, they did,” he agrees. I let him walk me to where the bouncer is holding the door open. When we pass him, he shakes his head, looking more annoyed than angry.
“Keep it in the club or take it home,” the bouncer calls after us. James chuckles and tells him he’ll try his best.
When we escape into the smoky room, James pauses to look around. Low voices and loud beats surround us, and they sway me once again. I’m in a hyper-reality where nothing is wrong, nothing hurts. I like this.
“Do you feel okay?” James asks, his eyebrows pulling together in concern. I want to touch him, and I reach to put my hand on his cheek. I think about how much I love him, and before I can tell him, I get on my tiptoes and kiss him again.
“I want you,” I murmur against his lips. I’m suddenly convinced I need him, need that closeness in a way I never have before. The intensity of our touch, his mouth against mine—
“Sloane,” James says, taking my hands from his body. He leans down so his eyes are level with mine, smiling. “Although I’d like nothing more than to tear off those ridiculous clothes, I’d prefer to do it in private.” He nods his chin to the scene around us, and I’m reminded we’re still in public. I touch my forehead, trying to make sense of my feelings. I blink quickly and look back at James.
“Ecstasy?” I ask.
“I’m guessing. But I’m not sure why they’d put it in the drinks. Either way, we should get out of here. Let’s find Dallas.”
I curl my lip at the mention of her name, but we begin searching the club for her anyway. Faces are a blur, and the harder I try to concentrate on them, the more difficult it becomes. Features upon features, voices all around—inside my head. I’m slowing us down, so James plants me against the wall.
“Wait here,” he says. “I’ll be right back.” I watch him disappear into the crowd, and then I lean the back of my head on the wall and close my eyes. The sweetness of the red drink has faded into a metallic, chemical taste.
“Gross,” I say, wishing for a bottle of water.
“It’s phenylethylamine,” someone next to me says. “Among other things.” I’m not entirely surprised to see the pierced boy from earlier. He turns to face me, and his eyes are even darker up close, but not nearly as dead. It’s like he’s wearing contacts. “The drugs are meant to give euphoria, mask the depression,” he says. “But really they just fuck us up.”
“I’ve noticed,” I say, fascinated by his face. I want to touch one of the rings, but then I clench my hand into a fist to bury the thought. “Is it legal for them to drug us?” I ask him.
“It isn’t legal for us to even be here, so it’s not like we can turn them in.”
“Good point.” Although I know I’m not myself, I still like this feeling—this careless freedom. The sadness I came in with is gone. Now it’s like I’ll never be sad again. I feel invincible. I wonder if it’s done the same thing to this guy. “What’s your name?” I ask him.
“Just call me Adam.”
“You make it sound like that’s not your real name.”
He bites his lip to hide his smile. “It’s not. You know, you’re pretty clever for someone who drank an entire Bloodshot.”
“Or maybe you just hang around a lot of stupid people.”
He laughs, moving closer to me as he does. When he sighs, it occurs to me his lips aren’t red—don’t have that slight red tint Dallas’s (and probably mine) have from the drink. Did he have a Bloodshot?
“We should get out of here,” Adam says, gesturing toward the door. “I have a car, a pretty nice place. Where are you staying?”
He doesn’t say it creepily, even if he is asking me to leave with him. And maybe I would have waved it off, mentioned how James would probably kick his ass, but I’m bothered by the fact he’s not giving me his real name. I am about to ask him when my boyfriend suddenly appears, walking from the crowd with Dallas trailing behind—holding hands with a guy with purple hair and way-too-skinny jeans.
James casts a suspicious glance from me and Adam. “And this conversation’s over,” he mutters, and pulls me away from the wall. I hadn’t noticed how much it was holding me up. “You really shouldn’t talk to strangers,” James adds quietly, shooting another look in Adam’s direction.
Dallas finally catches up and steps in front of us, letting go of her companion. “I’m not leaving yet,” she states. I’m about to protest, but she grins widely and holds up the keys, dangling them from her finger. “But you two go on,” she says, looking positively wasted. “I’ll get another ride back.” She nods to the guy next to her.
That seems completely reckless, but at this point, I’m not going to argue. This place is overwhelming, vexing . . . alluring. James takes the keys from her hand and then starts toward the door. As we leave, I hear Adam’s voice.
“Have a good night, Sloane,” he calls after me. I turn and wave because he wasn’t a total jerk or anything.
“Yeah, you too.”
I follow James out, occasionally taking his arm as we pass through the bottlenecked crowd waiting to get in. It isn’t until we’re in the cool night air that I stop to look back at the building, a chill running over my skin. Because I realize . . . I never told Adam my name.
CHAPTER SIX
THE WAREHOUSE IS QUIET WHEN we enter. Every movement I make sounds too loud—every step. Every breath. Lacey’s door is shut, and the lights buzz as we make our way down the hall. We’re barely inside the bedroom door when James’s hand grazes my hip, moving me aside, but I grab him by the shirt and pull him to me.
As if we’re starving for each other, his mouth is on mine and he backs me against the door, closing it. We’ve slept together only once—that I can remember—and I’m feverish for him now. My hands slip under his shirt before yanking it over his head, and I hear my T-shirt rip more as he pulls away the fabric in his fist. When it doesn’t come off entirely, he growls, and then we’re moving toward the bed. I push him down and then climb on top of him, forgetting everything outside of us. Our layers of clothes begin to evaporate, and his skin is hot against mine. I whisper his name, and then he rolls me over, his weight heavy but perfect. He’s reaching for his pants that lie in a heap next to the bed, when I feel something under my back. I shift, thinking it’s a tag from the sheets, but when I reach to pull it from behind me; I see it’s a folded piece of paper.
James takes a condom from his wallet and then notices I’m holding something. He pauses. “What’s that?” he asks, his voice hoarse.
“I don’t know,” I say. Panic begins to bubble up as James moves off me to get a better look at the paper. I start to unfold it, seeing through the sheet that there’s something written in ink—it’s a note. In Lacey’s perfect print, there is a single word that means nothing to me, and yet I hitch in a ragged breath.
Miller
“Sloane?” James’s voice is a million miles away as I drop the paper, my chest heavy with a grief I can’t understand. James grabs the note from my lap and reads it. He tosses it aside before taking my shoulders. “Who’s this from?” he asks.
My panicked eyes find his as I begin to shake all over. “Lacey.” In my head I can think only Miller. My Miller. But I don’t know what it means.
“Goddamn it,” James says, jumping to grab his pants from the floor and pulling them on. He tosses his shirt in my direction and then he’s out the door, running barefoot down the hallway. I slip on his shirt and chase after him.
Why would Lacey write that note? Why would she put it on my bed? Oh, God. I start running faster. Where’s Lacey?
I catch up with James just as he stops in front of Lacey’s door, no
t knocking before bursting through. The room is dark, and as I look in, he’s in the middle, swiping his hand through the air looking for the chain for the light.
“What’s happening?”
I turn and see Cas stalking toward us, pulling out his switchblade. His face is swollen with sleep, his clothes wrinkled, but he’s as alert as if he’d been waiting for handlers all night. Just then light floods the room, and my heart leaps with hope. The room is stark and the bed is empty. Lacey is gone.
Cas pushes past me into the room, pulling back the covers as if Lacey is somehow hiding. He spins to face James. “Where is she?” he demands accusingly.
James looks devastated, shocked. “I don’t know.”
Cas yanks open the dresser drawers, cursing when he finds them empty. I’m still in the doorway and any trace of the drink at the Suicide Club is gone, replaced instead with disbelief and panic. Cas pulls his phone out of his pocket and begins to pace as he dials. James still stands under the swinging, naked bulb, his head lowered, his chest heaving.
“James?” I say weakly. He looks over, and I’m struck with an image so familiar, I’m not sure how to process it. James’s eyes are red, his skin blotchy, like he’s about to cry. I think Lacey is gone, and then mingling with that is the thought that “Miller” is gone too. James’s expression fits the thought somehow, like he’s replaying a memory from my head.
James coughs out the start of a cry but then crosses the room and gathers me into a hug. His lips press a hard kiss against my forehead, his muscles rigid as I grip his arm.
“Dallas,” Cas says into the phone. “You need to come back.” James and I both look at Cas as he continues to pace. “I don’t give a shit,” he snaps into the receiver. “Lacey’s gone. We’re compromised.” James and I exchange a glance, fear spiking within me. “I’m on my way,” Cas tells Dallas, and then hangs up.
“What’s going on?” James asks.
“Get your things,” Cas says, storming past us. “We’re leaving.” He pauses in the doorway and turns to look back at me. “I’m sorry about your friend,” he says. “I really am. But a returner is always a threat, and Lacey is gone. It’ll be only a matter of time before The Program comes for the rest of us.”
“Do you think they have Lacey?” I ask, frantic.
“Yes,” Cas says in a quiet voice. “I think Lacey is with The Program. Now get your things and meet me at the van.”
Cas leaves, and I turn to James, waiting for him to tell me Cas is wrong. But James just stares after him. “I tried,” he whispers, mostly to himself. Then he lowers his eyes to meet mine. “I tried to help Lacey, but it wasn’t enough.”
“We have to get her back,” I say, nodding to get James to understand. “We have to find her and get her back.”
James can only mumble his agreement, but he’s not here with me. His eyes look unfocused and he starts out of the room. I follow, the floor cold on my feet, while I search my mind for other places Lacey could be. Maybe she decided to go to the Suicide Club after all. Maybe . . . anything. This can’t be the end.
Guilt attacks my conscience when I think about how Lacey acted just before we left for the Suicide Club. I should have done more, but I thought I’d see her tomorrow. I thought there was more time. I was so stupid. She recalled a memory she wasn’t supposed to—and I just left her.
James is already in the room when I walk in, stuffing clothes into the duffel bag. I grab a pair of jeans and pull them on before crossing to the dresser. I take out the pill, and at that moment James looks over. “If we find Lacey,” I say, my body trembling, “we could give her the pill. Maybe it could help. Maybe it could cure her.”
James lowers his eyes. “It was her memories that hurt her, Sloane. I’m not sure giving her more of them is a good idea.”
I look down at the pill, ready to debate the point, but Cas is yelling from the other room for us to hurry. I shove the pill into my pocket and finish packing up our stuff. Before I worry about what to do with the pill, we have to find Lacey.
Once packed, we head toward the door. James staggers to a stop and picks up the note from the floor to examine it one last time. “What does this mean?” he asks. “Who’s Miller?”
“I don’t know,” I say, moving beside him to read the word again. “But it hurts.”
“I know,” James says, crushing the paper in his fist. “It’s like grief, a pain right here”—he taps his heart—“for someone I don’t know.”
But I can tell what he’s thinking—we must have known Miller.
* * *
It’s twenty minutes later when James is driving the Escalade we’d left Oregon with, Cas following in the white van. We’re picking up Dallas and the others at the Suicide Club, but as we drive, I watch the streets, hoping to catch sight of Lacey wandering or lost. I don’t want to believe she’s gone.
Lacey—snow-blond hair she dyes red just because. Lacey who ate cupcakes for lunch and questioned everything. I could have done more to help her. I could have stayed behind tonight. But she ran away, took her stuff—where would she go? What did she remember that was so awful? I touch my chest as the hurt starts again, the name Miller haunting my thoughts.
As we pull up to the Suicide Club, the bouncer straightens, looking alarmed. He immediately takes out his phone and presses it to his ear. Cas parks and jogs over to him as James and I wait in the SUV. We’re silent. Anxiety and worry twist in my gut, and I don’t know what to do. I almost want another Bloodshot from the club.
“I’m sick of losing,” James says in a low voice. “And I’m sick of running.” He turns to me, and the fire is back in his eyes, the sadness replaced with anger. “We’re going to take down The Program, Sloane. And we’ll get Lacey back.”
“Promise?” I ask, wanting to believe his words even though I know James doesn’t have the power to make them come true. But I’ll believe them if he tells me. I have no other choice.
“Yeah,” he says, looking past me toward the club. “I promise.”
I blink back the tears that are starting and then follow his gaze to the Suicide Club. Dallas and Cas rush out, with the others, including the guy with the purple hair, close behind them. The bouncer nods as they leave, but I’m surprised to see another person, lingering near the door as he smokes a cigarette. It’s Adam—watching with careful regard. It strikes me then that he’s not like the other people from the club. And as Dallas climbs into the van, telling us to “Go, go!” I watch as Adam turns toward me.
He smiles, and it’s not sinister, it’s not threatening. It’s almost apologetic. He lifts his hand in a wave as James peels out of the parking lot, and I know The Program can’t be far behind.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“HAVE YOU SEEN HER?” DALLAS asks into the phone. Her words are slightly slurred, but she seems otherwise pulled together. In fact, she’s taking charge in a way that makes me trust her. “Is that so?” she asks, hardening her tone. “Where?”
James tightens his grip on the steering wheel, turning his knuckles white. The minute we’d pulled away from the Suicide Club, Dallas had started making calls, while Cas took the others in the van. Dallas said she had contacts within The Program and that they could tell us if Lacey had been picked up. I turn to look back just as Dallas lowers the phone. When her eyes meet mine, they’re stunned.
“She’s gone,” Dallas says.
“What do you mean?” I ask, my voice cracking over the words.
“She’s alive,” Dallas says, as if that’s the bad news. “But she’s back in The Program. They’re saying she had a brain-function meltdown, and she’s hospitalized within their facility. They found her at a bus station, set to head back to Oregon.” She shakes her head, absorbing her words. “She must have cracked. It happens sometimes. I’m sorry, Sloane. But . . . she’s never going to be the same. Even if they can put her pieces together again, The Program isn’t going to just let her walk out of there. They’re going to take whatever’s left of her. They probably already
have our location and are raiding the warehouse now.” Dallas reaches to rub her eyes with the heels of her hands, smudging her makeup.
“What are you saying?” I ask.
“I’m saying Lacey no longer exists. And there’s no way to bring her back.”
There’s a flurry of motion next to me and the SUV swerves. James pounds his fist against the steering wheel. Then again. Again.
“James, stop,” I say, reaching over to grab his arm, but he yanks it away and squeals the tires as he slams on the brakes. We all pitch forward, and behind us we hear the van skid to a stop.
James opens the driver’s door and jumps out to begin walking. I scramble behind him, confused by his behavior and horrified by the news we’ve just received. “Wait!” I yell, chasing after James. Before I reach him, he spins and startles me. He pulls at his blond hair, knotting his fingers as his face contorts with anger and misery.
“We can’t trust them,” he says, motioning toward the cars. “We can’t trust one fucking person, Sloane. Do you understand that?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Contacts in The Program,” he says, as if the idea is ridiculous. “Are you kidding?” He reaches to take my upper arms and pull me closer. “Listen to me,” he says. “We trust only each other from here on out. I don’t give a shit what they tell us; it’s me and you. No one else. For all we know, they could have sent Lacey to The Program.”
The thought hadn’t occurred to me, and I instinctively turn to look back at the Escalade. The doors are wide open, flooding the dark street with light. Dallas is leaning between the front seats, waving for us to get back inside the SUV. James puts his hand on my cheek and turns me toward him; his touch is gentle, so serious. When I meet his eyes, my body relaxes slightly. James draws me into a hug, resting his chin on the top of my head, his arms tight around me.
“It’s just us,” I whisper into the fabric of his shirt. “Forever, just us.”
The Treatment Page 5
