“Uh, what?” I didn’t understand. This was the little old lady who asked me to catch and release house spiders. Who smiled when she was sitting on her porch—alone. I mean … wasting her time? She lived for visits from me and Anna.
“Get on your way!” she yelled. She pulled off a gardening glove and tossed it at me. I dodged, but not very well with the cast and the crutches, and it smacked me on the back. “Scat!”
That sounded like a good idea to me. I dragged myself down the street, confused and shaken up. I made a mental note to talk to my mom. Mrs. C was getting up there in age. Maybe it was time someone checked her out.
I hobbled past the Marshburns’ and the Harringtons’ down to the end of our court. I knew better than to head into the sand with my injuries, so I stopped at the trailhead. Beyond the dunes and beneath the fog, the ocean was there, big and dependable. You could always count on the ocean to be the ocean.
As I stood there, I realized I still felt no pain in my leg or my arm. My doctors had been way off on their estimates for my recovery. A year, they’d told me. No way. Six months was my new target for getting back to Benning. Why not? Physically, I was feeling way better than I expected. Mentally, I had a full tank of frustration and anger to fuel me. And my pre-Army life offered nothing I wanted. My buddies and my sister were away at college. And with the house selling, I wouldn’t even have that anymore. I had to get out of there.
Down the beach, I spotted the Harringtons’ dog loping across the shallow waves. Jackson was more grizzly bear than Labrador. He’d been my running partner before I left home. I called him, and smiled as he came bounding over.
Ten feet shy of me, he dug his paws into the sand and stood tall, ears on high alert like he didn’t recognize me.
“Easy, boy. It’s me.” I’d known him since he was only a couple of weeks old.
His lips curled and he bared his teeth, letting out a low, rumbling growl.
“Jackson, it’s me.”
He charged before I got the words out, his hackles lifting, his mouth snapping.
I swung my crutch forward. “Jackson, back!”
But he kept snarling and lunging at me no matter what I yelled, pushing me back toward sand where I knew I’d lose my footing. I thought ahead. If I fell, I’d use my arm with the cast to shield me from his bites.
I’d just stepped off the asphalt when Jackson stopped. His ears pricked up. Then he took off, responding to the voice I could now hear calling him up the street.
I watched him disappear around the side of the Harringtons’ house, my heart banging against my chest.
What was that?
I’d had enough fresh air for the day. I hustled home, relieved that Mrs. C had gone inside, too. Shooting through my front door, I came face-to-face with my mom.
“Whoa! Mom! I was—”
I was what? Freaked out by a little old lady and a dog? But the sight of my mom put that all out of my mind, and it was good. Just real good to see her without being in the haze of painkillers.
I hadn’t had an actual conversation with her in weeks, since before I started RASP, and there were a dozen questions I wanted to ask her. If she was doing okay with the house thing. If she was lonely without Anna and me around. If she’d considered dating again—just a yes or no answer would do on that one. I knew she’d move on eventually. She was tough, my mom. And she was young. She’d had Anna and me when she was only twenty and she took care of herself and all that. A lot of times people thought she was Anna’s older sister, since they looked so much alike. Way more than Anna and me.
A second or two passed before I realized we were still standing there. Mom hadn’t said a word and neither had I. For all that I’d wanted to ask her, I couldn’t execute an emotional pivot. I still had this pissed-off furnace cranking inside me. When I finally spoke, what came out of my mouth was, “Were you ever planning to tell me about the house?”
She started in surprise. “We are not talking about the house right now, Gideon. We are talking about you. Were you trying to scare the life out of me? I leave for half an hour and you disappear? You’re not even supposed to be out of bed!”
A grocery bag tipped over on the kitchen counter, and an apple rolled into the sink. “I’m fine, Mom. I just needed some air.”
But it was like she didn’t even hear me. “I called Anna,” she continued. “I was about to call Cory. Don’t you think I’ve been through enough this week? I don’t think you realize what this has been like for me. Do you know how close you came to dying?”
“I’m okay, Mom. I had to get out of the house for a second. Calm down, okay?”
She didn’t. She kept yelling at me, saying she couldn’t believe my lack of judgment. Didn’t I understand how serious my injuries were? Was I purposely trying to hurt her by hurting myself? She’d seldom laid into me that way before, with so much relish. When she finally slowed down, I told her I was going to go back to bed.
“That is a very good idea,” she said, but her tone was more like get out of my face.
I hightailed it back to my room. Nothing felt normal and I needed to think.
I dropped onto my bed and stared at the ceiling, going through every step I’d taken from the minute I’d left the house. I’d gotten to Jackson’s rabies episode when it hit me. After I saw Jackson, I’d run home. Awkwardly with the casts and the crutch. But not the limp of a guy with broken bones. That wasn’t all. I’d stood on both feet while Mom had yelled at me. Then I’d walked right into my room and lain down. No hobbling. No drag step. No pain.
I looked down at my leg and wiggled my toes. Then I flexed my muscles inside the cast and did the math. So … I was two hours overdue on pain meds, I just ran up a hill with a pulverized arm and leg, and I felt fine?
“Gideon?” My mom knocked on the door. “I’m sorry I yelled, honey. I don’t know what came over me. I guess the stress got to me. And I didn’t expect to see you moving around so soon and it scared me. I don’t want you to get hurt again, but it wasn’t right to take it out on you.”
Now, that sounded like my mom. Hearing the softness in her voice relaxed me a little. “It’s okay.”
“Can I get you anything?”
She wanted an excuse to come into my room but I had too much going on in my head for that. “No thanks. I’m going to rest now.”
“All right. I’m right here if you need me.”
As soon as her footsteps faded away, I sat up and stared at my leg cast, having a little argument with myself over whether I wanted to look or not.
I had an okay stomach for seeing blood. Food and drugs, not so much. But blood and injuries I could handle pretty well. Only this was my leg. Did I really want to see it bloated and bruised? Crisscrossed with staples?
Yes, I decided. Yes, I did. I had to figure out what was happening.
I undid the Velcro straps and pulled apart the plastic frames of the air cast.
My leg looked like my leg, with the addition of a few pale scars that were so faint I almost couldn’t see them. I had no bruises. No swelling.
Right. Okay, so … Was I dreaming? Seeing things?
Panic built inside me as I unstrapped the cast on my arm next, pulling that off.
Surprise again. My arm had healed, just like my leg. Insane. Completely insane, but there was something else. Something on me.
A thick metal band circled my wrist. Two inches wide, and the metal itself was nothing I recognized. It looked like mercury, but it gave off a red glow. The light that bounced off it was deep red. Crimson.
My first thought was medical bracelet. It had to be one of those magnetic healing bands. But I couldn’t find a clasp or a buckle. The metal ran around my wrist without a single scratch, button, or hook. And it was tight. Glued-on tight. I had no idea how it’d been put on me.
More important, I didn’t see how it would ever come off.
CHAPTER 6
“You can stop there, Gideon.”
I clear my throat, caught off guard b
y Cordero’s interruption. It takes me a couple more seconds to come back completely. Leaving the past is a slow process. Thick. Sticky. Like bellying out of a swamp.
Are these drugs even legal? Have I asked that?
“If what you’re saying is true, you healed from the accident in five days?” Cordero asks.
“What I’m saying is true. So, yes. Five days.”
“And no one thought this was unusual? Your mother didn’t comment? The doctors?”
“I haven’t been seen by a doctor since I left Walter Reed, and my mom…” I shrug. “She was definitely suspicious that day, but I haven’t talked to her since, so I don’t really know what she thought.”
Cordero’s eyes drop to my wrist, which is covered by my long-sleeved shirt and strapped to the chair with plastic flex ties. “Do you still have the cuff?”
I nod. “Like I said, it doesn’t come off.”
She lifts two fingers in the air, motioning to the guys behind her.
Texas steps forward and kneels at my side. “Don’t do anythin’ stupid,” he says in a thick drawl. By the door, Beretta draws the Beretta and takes aim at my forehead.
Texas tries to pull my sleeve up, but the plastic tie is covering it too tightly. He looks to Cordero, who nods her permission. He takes a badass bowie knife from a hip sheath, cuts the tie, and pushes my sleeve up. His blue eyes meet mine for a second—a silent repeat of the warning he just gave me—and then he takes my wrist and turns it.
“It’s here. No seams.” He turns his shoulders so Cordero can see.
Her chair creaks as she leans forward. She studies the cuff the same way I did that day in my bedroom, kind of in awe and confusion. That look pretty much sums up the past month of my life.
“It’s clearly an alloy of some sort, but it refracts light like a gemstone.… Like a ruby.”
I wish I’d described it that way. That sounded better than bouncing crimson light.
“The texture?” she asks.
Texas faces me again. He keeps his bowie knife in his right hand. With his left, he runs two fingers over the cuff. “Smooth. More like glass than metal. Body temp.” Genuine curiosity flares in his gaze. “Is it heavy?”
“No. I don’t feel any weight at all. Same with the sword and armor.”
Bam.
It’s like a silent grenade goes off. Nobody moves. Everyone looks from my eyes to the cuff on my wrist, ping-ponging back and forth a few times.
I probably let that one slip earlier than I should have. Thanks, truth serum. But I’ve never been the best storyteller. That’s Sebastian’s territory. I bet Bastian’s Cordero has already sent out for popcorn and Milk Duds.
I’m the one who breaks the silence. “Should I keep going?”
Cordero leans back in her chair and absently scratches her knuckles. She looks a little less blank than she has up until now. Like maybe I’m entertaining her.
“Tie him back down,” she says to Texas. “And yes, Gideon. You should.”
CHAPTER 7
The next morning, I woke to the sound of my mom talking on the phone.
Actually it was more like yelling, which was what woke me.
I’d slept on my stomach without wearing my casts, and hadn’t taken any painkillers since yesterday. I should’ve been howling in pain, but I wasn’t.
I’d heard my mom raise her voice before. She was half Irish and didn’t take crap from anyone. But the way she was yelling had an edge that was extra sharp. And then there was the way she’d sounded off on me the day before. What had always been pretty rare was suddenly happening a lot.
She hung up and I heard footsteps marching toward my room. The door swung open and she stood there, her mouth pressed in a grim line that reminded me of the summer I broke our front window three times in three weeks perfecting my baseball swing.
“Something came up at work,” she said. “I have to go in for the next few days, but I talked to your sister. She’s coming up to watch you.”
This was an arrangement they’d already made. While I was recovering, my mom was going to look after me on weekdays and work Friday through Monday. Anna, who was a freshman at Cal Poly and only had classes midweek, would take weekends.
It was a Tuesday, though. Mom’s call had thrown a curveball into the schedule.
“Anna has school,” I said.
“Well, she’s going to have to just catch up. You’re more important.”
“Mom, I’m—”
“Don’t argue with me, Gideon. She’ll be here by dinnertime. I’ll have Mrs. C come over and keep an eye on you until—”
“No—that’s okay. I’ll be fine until Anna gets here.”
Mom dropped a kiss on my forehead, reminded me to take my meds, and left.
As soon as I heard the front door shut, I threw on running shoes, shoved some clothes into my Army rucksack, and grabbed my keys. I locked up the house and jumped into my Jeep—a beat-up ’85 CJ my dad and I were going to fix up but never got around to for obvious reasons.
I did all of that—dressing, packing, and locking up—with working limbs. Perfectly healthy limbs. As I took the steering wheel, the shiny piece of red metal on my left wrist caught my eye. Things were happening that made no sense, and the feeling was too close to how I’d felt after my dad died. My gut was telling me to move, because moving—running, hiking, driving, any kind of movement—always helped to chill me out. It gave me perspective, and I needed that badly. I backed out of the driveway, took the freeway south, and then just … drove.
When I pulled up to my sister’s college apartment complex three hours later, nothing made any more sense. I didn’t have a new perspective.
And I had not chilled out.
* * *
My sister’s college dorm was on the second floor of a new housing unit on the edge of the Cal Poly campus, with green hills and trails all around, a heated swimming pool, and a sand volleyball court in the center quad. A luxury resort, pretty much.
No one answered when I buzzed her on the intercom system and I’d left my phone at home like an idiot so I went around back, thinking I’d climb her balcony. With any luck, the glass slider would be unlocked.
A girl with blue-streaked hair was painting her toenails on the patio of the apartment beneath my sister’s. She set the red polish on a stack of textbooks by her feet and looked up at me.
This time I was ready. Mrs. C, Jackson, and my mom’s reactions had one thing in common—me. I’d been riled with that burning anger around them, so maybe I was affecting them? It was insane, but it was also the only guess I had.
I raised my hands, showing her I meant no harm. “Hey, how’s it going?” Inside, I was begging her to stay calm, grasping for inner peace with everything I had, visualizing tranquility, finding my happy place, all that, and bingo.
She smiled.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I’m Anna Blake’s brother. Gideon.”
“Her twin, the Army guy?”
“Her twin, the Army guy.”
She checked me out, which was the only genuinely good thing that had happened to me in a solid week, and introduced herself as Joy.
“You don’t look very much like her.”
I shrugged. “Yeah, she’s prettier than I am. I try not to get jealous.”
Joy’s smile went wider. “You’re like Luke and Leia, kind of.”
“We get that sometimes. Mind if I use your railing? Anna’s not there yet.”
“Go ahead. Use whatever you need.”
“Thanks.” I tossed my ruck up to the second-floor balcony. Then I jumped, grabbing the bars above me, and swung myself up. Not bad for a guy with a broken arm and leg.
“Gideon?” Joy peered up from below. “We’re having some people over later. You should come by.”
I thanked her again. A party sounded like just what I needed to get my mind off things.
The sliding door to my sister’s place was unlocked and slid right open, which was both good and ba
d. Anna really should’ve known better. I slipped inside and froze when I heard the snuffling sounds of someone crying.
Dropping my duffel, I rushed to Anna’s room and found her rolled in a ball on her bed, her eyes pressed shut like she was trying to keep in the tears, her phone gripped in her hand.
“Anna?” Sitting on the bed, I put my hand on her shoulder. “What’s going on?”
She shot away with a yelp. “Gideon?” Her eyes moved over me, like she couldn’t believe I was real, then she threw her arms around my neck. “I’ve been so worried. Mom said you’d broken your arm and your leg. She said you almost died.”
“I know,” I said, hugging her back. “I’m fine, Banana. I’m all right.” I was all right—everywhere except in the head.
She drew back and studied me. Like I’ve said, Cordero, we don’t look much alike. Not just our coloring. Anna’s pretty skinny. Not very athletic. She’d kill me if she heard me tell you that. And I’m … Well. You’re looking at me. I look like my dad. Like my dad did. His height and build.
The only thing Anna and I have in common is our dad’s eyes. Light blue. Same shape too, with the downward tilt at the sides. People call them soulful eyes or smiling eyes. Or Paul Newman eyes—old people always say that. But to me they’re the eyes of someone who listens with everything they’ve got when you’re talking, which is exactly my sister and it was my dad, too. So seeing Anna now, it felt good but it also made me miss my dad even more than when I’d been at home, which sucked. I’d shared a womb with my sister and almost every day of my life since. I didn’t love how hard it was just to look at her.
Anna shook her head, her expression pleading for answers I didn’t have. “Was the accident not as bad as they thought?”
“The initial reports might’ve made it sound worse. And I’m still kind of sore,” I said, though I wasn’t.
“Worse by a lot. I didn’t think you’d get hurt training.”
“Me, either. But you can’t pick when accidents happen, right?”
That word, accident, felt like knocking into a bruise that wouldn’t heal. It was the same for Anna, too. Grief passed over her face like a shadow. I had to look away. On her desk I saw a framed picture from Christmas a year and a half ago, all of us wearing Santa hats and grinning like loons. We were still four Blakes then. A four-pack.
Riders Page 3
