He sounds so morose that I don’t ask what kind of errands he meant. “So…which room is ours?”
Quinn dusts himself off and holds out the key-card. “5E.”
I take it from him and head for our new home. The hallway is carpeted in the same ugly stuff as the elevator, but it’s less worn, and I discover it was once beige, not brown. I repress a shudder. Not sure if I should brace for rodents or not, I swipe the key and open the door to 5E. Nothing scuttles under the furniture, thank Skies.
The front room sports a battered couch in a floral print, a saggy armchair, a two-person dining table with straight-backed chairs and a smudged window. A tiny kitchen with outdated appliances fills the other side of the room. On the back wall, a door stands slightly ajar.
“Guess that’s the bedroom,” I say, more to myself than Quinn.
“It’s all yours,” he says. “Couch is fine with me.”
My face grows warm again. I hadn’t even thought about spending the night here, alone with Quinn, with only one bedroom. Shouldn’t my mind have gone there already?
I’m more sheltered than I thought.
“Um, thanks.” I drop my bag on the little table and go to the window. The vacant lot below isn’t much of a view, but it does make me feel shielded from the real world. I flop down on the couch, feeling exhaustion creeping up on me. “Aside from a very long nap, now what?”
“I vote sleep first.” Quinn flops down next to me, sitting a little closer than I’d like. “Then I want to hear what you’ve been up to for the last seven years, since you disappeared.”
I shift over to regain a few inches of personal space. “I don’t even know where I disappeared from.”
Quinn’s look is sympathetic. “From Maren’s. The last time I saw you, I was twelve and a half, which would’ve made you ten.”
I put my head in my hands, trying to absorb what he’s saying. It’s hard—I’m weary to my bones.
“Lexa,” Quinn says gently, like he’s afraid I’m about to crack. “We don’t have to talk about this now, okay? It’s enough that we found each other. Why don’t you go get some sleep?”
His words roll over me. I have no idea who I am anymore. I have my name, and that’s all. I don’t even know who gave it to me or why they gave me thick, black hair that hangs straight no matter what I do to it. Why’d they give me an athletic build, olive skin and dark brown eyes? I look like a mix of several races…but why? It would’ve been just as easy to make me Asian like Maren or Caucasian like Turpin and Jole. Why do I look like I do?
Who am I? Does it even matter?
“Enough thinking.” Quinn grabs my hands and pulls me up. “You need to sleep. No arguing.”
“I’m too tired to argue,” I say, my voice coming from far away. Some part of me still functions—barely—and I respond to the command, knowing I’ve done it before. That Quinn watched over me a long time ago. That, more than once, he helped me sleep when I was a scared little girl…Bolt. A scared little Bolt.
A sob hiccups in my throat and I’m in his arms again. “Shhh. It’ll all be better when you’re rested, okay?”
“Okay,” I whisper, swallowing down all my fear. It will still be there when I wake up. For now, I’ll sleep.
I wobble to the bedroom, Quinn watching each step. When I wave goodnight, he nods. Before I shut the door, I glance back at him. He’s sitting on the couch, staring at the wall. His face has gone closed, like he’s lost in a memory that hurts his very soul.
In a way, it scares me. Not because he scares me, but because I don’t recognize his expression. Quinn’s changed, but I don’t understand how, or why. I just know that he’s harder now. Wary, even a little secretive.
He’s less…mine.
I draw in a sharp breath. Skies, wherever that thought came from, I’m hoping it has something to do with me being tired.
The alternative is something that scares me more than my new identity.
Chapter Thirteen
Close Quarters
I wake to the smell of eggs cooking and my stomach growls angrily. Unable to remember the last time I ate, I roll from bed, not bothering to get dressed in my hurry to find food. Quinn’s staring at the toaster when I come in. Black smoke wafts from the toaster’s basket.
“I think it’s done now,” I say, wrinkling my nose.
He hits the release button and two charred squares of bread pop up. “Looks like it.”
Quinn tosses the toast in the sink before glancing my way. I catch him staring at my chest. I’d forgotten to pack pajamas in my hurry to leave Turpin’s and had slept in a tank and shorts. Without a bra.
I squirm uncomfortably. This was never an issue with Jole. Surely they didn’t program Quinn to react to girls like this…did they?
Crossing my arms across my chest, I ask, “What’s on the stove?”
“Um, yeah…eggs,” he says, his eyes darting back up to my face. “I bet you’re hungry.”
The sun has crossed to the other side of the sky since I went to bed. “How long did I sleep?”
“Ten hours.”
“A new personal best,” I say. “I promise not to sleep that long all the time.”
“You were tired. Feeling better?”
“I think so.”
Quinn dishes up two plates of fluffy scrambled eggs and brings them to the table. They look so tasty, I decide not to hold the toast against him. I shovel in my first bite so fast I burn my mouth. I slow down after that, taking time to savor the buttery, salty flavor of the eggs.
“Thought you said you didn’t cook. These are good.” I hold up a forkful in salute before popping it into my mouth.
“I don’t cook much,” he says. “Eggs, sandwiches, stuff like that is easy enough.”
We eat in silence until our plates are empty. I’m still hungry. “Any eggs left?”
“No, but I could try to make toast again. I bought some raspberry jam.”
I hop up. “Let me do it. I can’t cook, but toast is a specialty of mine.”
Making the toast is an excuse to keep my back to him for my next question. “Who was I before I disappeared?”
“My best friend. Always.”
His tone is so warm, so personal, my body tightens in on itself. I can’t keep my voice from cracking when I say, “But that’s what I call Jole.”
“Jole?” Quinn asks, a faint hint of disbelief in his tone.
I turn around. He looks surprised, hurt and…jealous. How can he possibly be jealous? I haven’t seen Quinn for seven years, and I hardly remember him at that. Why wouldn’t I have a new best friend? “He’s Turpin’s hacker. And he’s my…I mean, he was my real best friend.”
Was…but not anymore.
Quinn’s face twists, then he shoves his plate away. “You know, I think I’ll skip the toast. I need a shower more than food.”
After he stalks to the bedroom, the toast pops up. I stare at the four perfectly crisped slices of bread. It’s not my fault I disappeared and don’t remember our past, so why do I feel like I betrayed Quinn? I bang my head against the kitchen cabinet door. Why can’t I just remember?
I polish off the toast with gobs of jam. I may be feeling guilty, but I’m really hungry, too. After that, I do the dishes and fold the blanket Quinn snagged from the back of the couch when he slept. The shower is still running, so I risk a trip into the bedroom to collect my clothes. I’ve dug a bra, T-shirt, and a pair of jeans out of my bag when the shower stops. I try to make my way around the bed before he comes out, but it’s a tight squeeze and I’m not quick enough.
A cloud of steam drifts into the room. Then there’s Quinn, staring at me.
No, wait, I’m staring at him. All he has on is a towel around his waist, and I’m getting an eyeful. This unusual, jittery feeling spreads through my chest…oh, Stars, I should leave.
Flustered, I stumble over the bedspread. “S-sorry. I thought you’d be a while longer. I’ll just…”
Somehow I escape the bedspread, only
to trip over a loose spot in the carpet that sends me flailing through the door. I hit the living room floor with a thump.
“Ow.” Some master thief…I can’t even walk when there’s a half-naked guy nearby. Why did my agility have to desert me now of all times?
Quinn appears at my side, still wearing the stupid towel. “You okay?”
I shake him off. “I’m fine. Don’t you have any clothes?”
He chuckles. “Yes, but they’re filthy. I literally left Maren’s with the shirt on my back and my currency. I’m going to need some new stuff.”
“Oh.” Why do I sound so stupid? It’s like my brain can’t process simple language with him standing close to me. This is really annoying.
Quinn pulls me to my feet and we stand toe-to-toe. Enthralled, I watch a drop of water slide down his neck to his chest to his abs, my eyes following it all the way down until it’s absorbed by the towel. Part of me is dying to know where the drop went from there …
He gives my hand a little squeeze, bringing me back from outer space. “Seriously, is something wrong?”
“Uh, no.” I take a fast step back and wiggle my arms. “Skinned my elbow, that’s it. I’ll go get dressed now.”
The words come out loud and defensive. Quinn tries to hide a smile by turning his head, but I catch him anyway. The amusement stomps on my last thread of patience, so I take a very long, very clinical look at him. While he’s the same height as Jole, Quinn has broader shoulders, a hard, flat stomach and carved arms. That strange feeling fills my chest again, but I don’t stop my examination, even when my cheeks burn. I do like the longish hair curling damp against his forehead and neck, and his eyes really are something. A woman must’ve been on the design team that made him, that’s the only explanation.
Under my scrutiny, Quinn slowly hunches his shoulders in and crosses his arms over his chest. Now he knows how I felt when he stared at me earlier. I smirk in triumph. “Does this bother you?”
“Um, yeah,” he murmurs. “It’s…yeah, it bothers me.”
“Why?” I ask, feeling defiant.
“Last time I saw you, we were kids. Now...”
“Yes?” I ask.
His expression is unreadable. “And now…we’re not.”
Something electric fills the air and my hands shake a little. I’m breathing hard, too, like I’ve been running across a rooftop. What the Stars is wrong with me? “No, we’re not.”
“Definitely not.” He takes a step closer and I back up until I’m against the wall, but he doesn’t stop coming. When he’s just an inch away, he whispers, “Then again, maybe it isn’t such a problem for me after all.”
His eyes have fallen half-closed and I can’t stop staring at his lips. He has a mouth made for kissing. Definitely a woman’s hand in the design there. But that’s not what holds me in thrall, swaying on the spot with my breath mingling with his. No, it’s that he smells like the apartment’s pine-scented soap, mixed with something uniquely male.
Uniquely him.
I gasp and take a sidestep out of his immediate range. Why is his scent familiar? And why is it making me flush all over? I barely know him. I don’t remember him.
Do I?
Quinn’s expression twists into a wry, somewhat hurt, smile. He tightens the towel around his waist. “Why don’t you go get dressed?”
I give him a meek nod. Once I’m in the bedroom with the door closed, I press my hands to my cheeks, utterly confused. Biologically speaking, I shouldn’t be reacting this way. My longtime disinterest in being kissed is more normal given my circumstances, right? I never noticed men in the city or swooned over characters on shows on the feed. So why does the sight of Quinn in a towel rob me of rational thought?
I dress in a hurry, almost afraid to show any skin even with the bedroom door closed. From now on, I’ll stay focused on the point of this arrangement. Just business. First, though, I need to get some air. I don’t care if there’s a bounty on my head—this apartment has gotten way too small.
Armed with a stack of currency chips, I stalk through the living room with my nose in the air. “I’m going shopping. What size do you wear?”
“Medium shirts, and thirty-two-long for pants,” he says to my back since I’m already opening the door. “There’s a little department store two corners over.”
Not bothering to wave good-bye, I say, “I’ll be back soon. Try to stay out of trouble.”
Quinn’s nervous chuckle follows me out the door.
Chapter Fourteen
My Past Comes Back to Bite Me
The department store is dreadful, full of cheap clothes and household goods, but shopping for Quinn proves therapeutic. I rarely shopped when I lived at Turpin’s and the novelty of picking out a boy’s clothes settles my nerves. I choose two relatively bland outfits—jeans and solid-colored shirts—and one really ugly T-shirt with a grinning clown on the front as a joke. Picking out his socks and underclothes for him feels too personal, but I do it anyway. While I’m at it, I pick up a few things for myself, including a pair of pale blue flannel pajamas that will cover my body from shoulders to ankles.
The clerk barely gives me a glance as he scans my purchases. He’s glued to the feed, watching one of those silly game shows that comes on right before prime-time programming. A special bulletin cuts in as he’s counting out my change.
A news anchor stands to one side of a podium, announcing a press conference. “The chief of police and the senior security officer for Precipice Industries will be providing details about the attack on Precipice Incorporated’s CEO, Maren DeGaul. We expect them to make their statements in fifteen minutes….”
The woman continues her spiel, but I can’t hang around to find out what she says. With a terse nod to the clerk, who’s no longer paying a bit of attention to me, I grab the bag of clothes and leave in a hurry. I hit the hotel lobby three minutes before the feed is supposed to air.
Pantsuit Lady is wearing electric blue today. She doesn’t make eye contact when I rush by the front desk. Quinn’s bribe is looking like a bargain now. Thankful, I push the button for the elevator over and over again, willing it to hurry. It wheezes its way to the lobby and I fling myself into it.
I don’t bother with the key—my hands are full of shopping bags—kicking the apartment door until Quinn opens up. I push past him and dump the bags onto the living room floor. “Clothes.”
Quinn raises an eyebrow. “Hello to you too, sunshine.”
I ignore him until I’ve collected my data pad from the bedroom. “Look at this.”
The same woman is introducing the two men who stand at the podium behind her. One’s in a police uniform. The other’s dressed in a suit that costs more than my hover bike. He’s handsome, but scary with a pinched look about him, like he enjoys hurting small children and animals.
If I had to guess, that would be Maren’s head of security.
Turns out I don’t have to guess, though. Quinn peers at the picture. “Shast, that’s Piers.”
“You know him?” I ask.
“Yeah, unfortunately. He’s human in DNA, but he hasn’t got a heart, far as I know. Or a soul.”
“That bad?”
Quinn shakes his head. “Worse. He’s head of security, sure, but his real job is taking care of Maren’s dirty business. You asked me how I knew Sector T….”
“Yeah?”
He stares at the floor. “I came down here with Piers a couple of times. One of my special features is that I can recognize any artificial even when they’re near-human in functionality. I have enhanced vision and artificials leave a signature, almost like a halo, that only I can see. Anyway, a couple of K600s ran away a few months ago. Somehow they disabled their security protocols and fell off Maren’s grid. They blended in way too well with the humans for her regular patrols to catch them, so Maren sent me with Piers to search.”
The shame in his voice makes me regret asking him, but I can tell he wants to absolve himself. That means confession. “
Did you find them?”
“Yes. Not here, but in Sector Q. There are some humans friendly to artificials there.” He takes a deep breath, and the next thing he says comes out in a rush. “When we caught them, Piers had them decommissioned.”
“You mean he killed them.”
Quinn nods, misery plain on his face. “He made me watch while he electrocuted them with a stunner. Guess he didn’t want me getting any ideas.”
“Stars, Quinn,” I whisper.
“And you wonder why I hate them so much,” he says, going cold all of a sudden. “Well, now you know who we’re up against. Ever since then, I’ve been trying to find ways to help others escape. No one deserves to be hunted down like an animal. I never had a chance to break free, especially after you escaped. After that, I was constantly watched. So I did what I could instead. ”
I reach for his hand. “I’m sorry.’
He stands abruptly. “They’re still preening for the press. I’m going to change clothes.”
I frown at the bedroom door after he slams it shut. His anger boils so close to the surface, but he locks it down. What’s going to happen if he blows? Shaking my head, I return my attention to the feed.
Piers stands with the police chief, looking blasé about being on camera. He probably does this a lot. I’d give anything to wipe the smarmy expression off his face and I wonder what he’d look like with a broken nose and a few missing teeth. If anyone deserves a thrashing by an artificial, it’s this man.
Quinn comes back, wearing his new jeans and the awful clown shirt. “I didn’t mean for you to actually wear that,” I say.
He smooths the T-shirt with great dignity. “I kind of like it.”
“You have a sick fashion sense.”
We hunch over my data pad. The reporter steps out of the picture, putting the focus on the police chief. He shuffles his notes, then begins.
“There’s been some speculation about an attack on Maren DeGaul’s home last night. Many reports have been made by the media regarding those activities.”
Quinn and I exchange tense looks. The clown shirt leers at me, like it knows we’re about to pay for our crimes.
Unstrung Page 9
