by Tarah Benner
“I think this calls for a drink,” he says, sliding a glass toward Harper.
She sniffs it experimentally. “What is it?”
“Old whisky. Pre–Death Storm.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’ve been saving it for a . . . special occasion.”
“Or an awkward one,” I add under my breath.
Owen meets my eyes, and I see his laugh bubbling up before it shows on his face. It comes out as a harsh, grating cough — as though he’s forgotten how to do it.
But when he lets it out, he looks like my big brother again. He laughs with his whole head, and his open-mouthed smile is infectious.
“Drink up, brother.”
I tip the glass back and let the bitter liquid burn its way down my throat. It fills me with the warmth of synthetic beer, but it tastes different from compound-produced alcohol. It’s raw and flavorful.
Owen kills half the glass in one gulp, and Harper sips hers with a pained expression.
“What? They don’t have whisky in there?”
I shake my head, marveling at the sensation it causes in my body. After twenty minutes, I realize he was right. I’m feeling a little less on edge, and Owen is starting to seem like Owen again.
“So what do you actually do?” Harper asks.
“Whatever Jackson needs. Right now, that’s sending scouts in closer to the compound to gather intel, shutting down compound reservoirs, and picking off you guys.”
“You messed with our water supply?”
Owen throws a shifty glance at me — a look I know means he’s guilty.
“Son of a bitch!” I yell, too surprised to be truly angry. It definitely has Owen’s mark: a subtle “fuck you” to the compound. It’s what I would have done if I were a drifter.
Harper keeps talking, asking Owen a lot of questions that seem to catch him off guard. She gets him to tell us about the structure of the gang and how he worked his way up to be Jackson’s right-hand man.
The more I listen, the more I realize that up until the Desperados and their leader Malcolm took over, Nuclear Nation played a role very similar to Recon’s. They protected settlements of survivors, killing rival gang members, mapping the radiation hot zones, and scouting for supplies.
“So how many survivors are there?” she asks.
“In this region? Thousands. The coastline populations were pretty much destroyed, but there are big pockets in rural areas.
“It isn’t easy. The smaller the settlement, the harder it is to survive. Most of their people have to be dedicated to farming and hunting, so they get hit hard when the Desperados come through.”
“And now you’re one of them,” says Harper, eyes narrowing. “Why did you stay when they took over?”
“I didn’t really have a choice.”
“Because of Jackson.”
Owen shrugs. “Yeah. I mean, I owe him my life. But even so, there’s nowhere else for me to run. The Desperados are everywhere. I’d never be able to survive on my own, as long as Malcolm and his crew are around.”
Harper looks down at her barely touched stew. She and I both understand what it’s like to be trapped, and apparently not even the drifters are exempt from being ordered around.
Harper picks up her glass and tips back her head to empty the contents. When she sets it down, Owen refills our glasses and reclines back in his chair.
The more I drink, the sleepier and more relaxed I get. As we talk, it starts to sink in: Owen is right here in front of me. It seems too good to be true.
He doesn’t laugh as easily as he did when we were kids, but when he does, it’s as though nothing has changed.
Then he finally asks about the compound again, and the darkness creeps back into his eyes.
That’s when I remember that we’re on different sides.
“Our commander wants to take out the Desperados,” I say. “Your men getting into the cleared zone has everybody nervous. Civilians don’t know you’re all still alive out here, and the leadership wants to keep it that way.”
“I suppose that must make it easier to control your people,” says Owen bitterly.
“Yeah,” says Harper. “Except now we know too much, and they want Eli and me dead. That’s why we have to leave.”
“Leave?”
“Relocate,” I say. “Move to another compound down south — Arizona.”
“One-nineteen?” Owen asks sharply.
I glance at Harper, who’s nibbling on a stale cracker. “That’s the one.”
“You shouldn’t relocate,” says Owen. “Not now.”
“Why?” Harper puts down her cracker and gives him a suspicious look.
His thick dark eyebrows knit together, and that mannerism reminds me so much of the way our dad used to look when he was stressed. “I can’t say. Just . . . trust me. You’re better off staying put.”
“I’m not going to stay here and help you destroy the compounds, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I say, sudden irritation clawing its way up my chest.
“I never asked you to!” he snaps. “Do whatever you want.”
“Whatever.”
“Besides, it seems to me that you’re the one who’s fishing for information.”
I try to shrug off the thick tension that’s settled around us, but Owen’s always known how to push my buttons. I open my mouth to unleash some of my pent-up frustration, but we’re interrupted by a loud banging on the door.
Harper jumps about a foot in the air and has her gun trained on the door before I’ve even gotten mine out of its holster. Clearly Owen had her more on edge than she let on.
“Parker!” yells a voice. “Open the fucking door!”
Owen is already on his feet, motioning toward the living room.
The stranger bangs again — more insistent this time. I follow Owen with my gun still pointed at the door.
“Who is that?” I hiss, keeping an eye on Harper.
“Not someone you want to meet,” he growls, grabbing our rucksacks and striding into the small bedroom. He tosses our stuff into the closet and jerks his head. “Get in and be quiet. Don’t come out until I give you the all-clear signal.”
Even though my heart is racing, I still find it in me to feel annoyed that Owen is bossing me around again. But I hear another angry “Parker!” from outside and open the accordion doors wide enough to yank Harper inside.
She has the good sense not to shoot me in the foot as I shove her between the folds of clothes to the very back of the closet. I pull the doors shut and squirm in beside her, putting my body between her and the door.
With my back flush against her chest, I can feel her heart beating wildly against her ribcage. I can barely hear what’s going on in the kitchen between the pounding of blood in my ears and the sound of Harper’s ragged breathing.
There’s the low rumble of male voices — at least three — and I can hear Owen’s relaxed timbre above the rest. He always had a way of putting people at ease when he wanted to — even if he wasn’t feeling calm.
In the neighborhood, whenever I got into a fight with guys twice my size, Owen could usually talk them down with a few jokes and that easy grin. If that didn’t work, he resolved the problem with his fists. Mom would be pissed, but I think Dad was always a little proud of him.
Suddenly the conversation is halted by the shatter of glass.
“Who the fuck was here?” yells a man.
I cringe and keep pushing Harper back, as though I can make her disappear. She’s pressed up against the very back corner, and she squeezes my arm to make me stop.
The visitors found three glasses, three bowls, and three spoons. That’s going to be tough to explain.
There’s a violent scrape of furniture and a loud thud, as though somebody shoved Owen into the table and slammed the side of his head against the wood.
“Where are they?” the voice demands. “Who were you talking to?”
“No one!” he growls.
“
Bullshit. Somebody killed Santiago and the others. Who came for you? Huh?”
Every muscle in my body is tense, preparing for a fight. Part of me wants to launch myself out of the closet and attack the men, but the other part is waiting for Owen to speak. Even though he’s my brother, there’s still a tiny, horrible part of me that thinks he’s going to sell us out.
“There’s no one here!” he yells. His voice is so muffled that it’s tough to make out the words, and I would bet money he has the barrel of a gun in his mouth.
I can’t take it anymore. I reach back until my hand finds the soft flesh of Harper’s side, and I squeeze her once. “Stay here,” I hiss.
“Eli —”
But I turn and clamp a hand over her mouth.
“Stay!” I whisper. I push her back again, but she grabs my arm.
“Eli, no! Wait!”
Before she can say anything else, I slip out of the closet and pull the doors closed behind me. I pass Owen’s bed and move silently into the living room.
When I settle against the wall jutting up to the kitchen, I hear a nasty crack. Owen lets out a muffled groan, and I know they’re twisting his wrist to get him to talk.
“Who was here?” the man yells.
As long as I live, I’ll never forget the sound of anguish that escapes Owen’s mouth as the man tries to break his wrist.
I whip around the corner in one motion and raise my gun. I barely have time to register the men’s dirty faces before I shoot the one closest to the door in the head. He staggers back, bumping into the cabinets, and collapses like a puppet on the ground.
The man holding Owen against the table removes his gun from Owen’s mouth to point it at me, but he’s too slow.
I fire, blowing him back into the wall and knocking the cat clock off its hook.
By now, the third man has his gun on me, but Owen throws his elbow back in a blur, connecting with the man’s face. The guy fires, but his aim is off, and the bullet just cracks the doorframe.
“Jesus,” Owen breathes, wiping his forehead and looking at me in shock. “That was fast.”
“I’ve had a little practice,” I pant. The ringing in my ears is so strong I can barely hear my own voice.
“You couldn’t just stay put like I told you?”
I give him a look to remind him that he’d had the barrel of a gun between his teeth just a few seconds ago.
“I had it under control.”
“Yeah, it sure looked like it.”
“Well, I sure as hell don’t know what to do now!” He looks down at the three dead men spilling blood all over his kitchen floor.
“We’ll just drag the bodies out for the buzzards to eat.”
“You don’t understand,” he growls, somehow irritated that I killed the men who were threatening him. “The men we killed in that basement were just low-level guys doing Malcolm’s dirty work. These were enforcers. People will be looking for them, and now they’ll be looking for me.”
My stomach sinks. I never thought about what trouble Owen would be in now that we had killed Malcolm’s men. He wasn’t fighting the Desperados because they’re dangerous, and seven dead bodies will definitely make Malcolm question Owen’s loyalty.
“I’m sorry,” I say, still a little annoyed that I’ve saved my brother twice and he hasn’t even thanked me. “We’ll get going. I don’t want to put you in any more danger.”
“You can’t go now,” Owen says, his eyes flashing with what I can only read as panic. “It’s not safe. I’m taking a huge risk keeping you here, but that’s only because this town is going to be swarming with Malcolm’s men tonight after the showdown at the grill.”
“And you think it’s a good idea to stay here?” I ask incredulously. “If Malcolm has men here like you say, someone will have heard those shots.”
Owen opens his mouth, but we’re both distracted by a flash of movement from the living room. Harper has emerged from the bedroom, and she’s staring at the three dead bodies as though she might be sick.
“Come on,” I say, reaching for her instinctively. “We need to get out of here.”
“I think he’s right,” she says in a clear voice.
“What?”
“It’ll be safer here. We shouldn’t just be wandering around out there if people are looking for us. We’re blind right now. I think we’ll be safer going in the morning.”
Owen shoots me a smug look, and I let out a heavy breath. Harper’s made up her mind, and honestly, it makes sense. The fighter in me doesn’t like the idea of staying here — I’d much rather take my chances on the move — but I can tell this is one battle I’m not going to win.
After I help Owen move the bodies and mop up the blood, he brings us some blankets.
I lie down on the floor, and Harper takes the couch. I can tell she feels a little uneasy in Owen’s house, but she curls into the worn cushions and falls asleep quickly.
I drift in and out. Around oh-one hundred, I’m awoken to the faint whoosh of a vehicle on the road.
My eyes snap open automatically, and my spine goes rigid. I can’t tell which direction it’s moving in, but the harsh sound of tires on asphalt send me into panic mode.
The car doesn’t stop.
They’re not coming for us, I tell myself. No one knows we’re here.
I wait for several minutes, trying to make my pounding heart behave.
I don’t remember being this sensitive to the sound of cars as a child, but out on the Fringe where there are so few humans, any approaching vehicle is cause for alarm.
“Eli?” Harper whispers.
“Yeah?”
“You don’t think . . .”
“No. It’s all right. They passed.” I try to sound reassuring, but my voice is just as scared as hers.
She shifts around on the couch. “It’s just . . .”
She never finishes the sentence, and I realize too late it was more of a question.
Nearly a minute passes in silence. Then she says, “I can’t sleep.”
This time, I get it.
I sit up, looking for her in the dark. Her shadow shifts, but I can’t make out her expression.
I move slowly, as though I’m approaching a wild animal, and she turns slightly when I sink down onto the cushions.
There’s very little room on the narrow couch, but I stretch out and drape an arm around her waist, steeling myself for rejection as I pull her flush against my body.
Harper drags in a ragged breath, but she doesn’t pull away. If anything, she seems to melt into my embrace.
My body has the exact opposite reaction. It’s on high alert again as I drown in sensory overload.
Her sweet-smelling hair is draped over the cushions and has somehow managed to wrap itself around my arm. She’s giving off a pleasant heat that warms me from the inside out, and every part of her is softer than I expected.
When she lets out a content little sigh, I nearly lose my shit. I tighten my grip without quite meaning to and bury my head in her hair, savoring her little moment of weakness.
For a second, I forget that we’re out on the Fringe with an entire gang hunting us or that my brother — the brother I thought was dead — is asleep in the next room.
In that instant, I realize I’d do anything Harper needed me to do. I’d yell at her in training to make her stronger, spend all my free time kissing her, take on a brutal fight so she didn’t have to, and hold her when she asked.
I’m in deep trouble.
“’Night, Harper,” I whisper.
“Goodnight, Eli.”
My body slowly relaxes as her reassuring voice fades into the darkness, and I slip into the most content sleep I’ve had in a long time.
twenty
Eli
I wake up the next morning instantly aware that I’m spooning Harper.
My whole body is awake, but unlike last time, I don’t feel as though I shouldn’t be here. My arm is locked possessively around her rib cage — my hand a
little higher than it should be — and her arm is draped lazily over mine.
And her leg. Holy shit. One of her legs is locked between mine and wrapped around it, making it so I couldn’t move even if I wanted to.
I grin against her hair but hastily school my expression. I don’t know why I get the sudden urge to act professional when my hands are all over her, but I do.
Reluctantly, I slide my palm down to her stomach and carefully extricate my leg from our tangle of limbs.
“Hey, Harper,” I murmur.
“Hmm . . .”
I bend my head lower on the pretense of whispering something else, but I just nuzzle my face into her hair a little before giving her a gentle shake.
“Eli . . .” She lets out a small laugh and then stiffens as she wakes up and remembers where we are.
She sits up, and I almost slide off the couch trying to put an appropriate amount of space between us.
“This is interesting,” says a voice from the kitchen.
I jump and peer over the couch to see my brother leaning against the door jamb, arms crossed in front of his chest like the smug bastard he is.
I clear my throat and reach for my boots, trying to act casual. “Did you hear the car pass last night?”
“Yeah. I told you. They’re looking for one of your people. They know you killed Santiago and his guys.”
“We need to head back,” I say to Harper. “Tell Jayden what we know.”
She nods quickly, and I get the uncomfortable feeling that Owen has his eyes on us.
I lace up my boots, grab my rucksack, and head into the kitchen to put some distance between us. Owen follows me.
“You’re leaving right now?”
“Soon.”
He clears his throat gruffly, but I can tell he thinks he’s never going to see me again. There’s a good possibility he’s right.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I’m fine.”
His voice is brusque, and his eyes look like Dad’s did when he was trying not to show how much he was hurting: tired and bloodshot. Neither one of us wants this to be the last we see of each other.
“What’s going to happen when you see Malcolm’s crew again?”
