The Hunt

by Stacey Kade

  I didn’t know how to go back. I didn’t know how not to feel these things for him, now that I’d opened the door. And worse, admitted it to him. My face burned at the memory. Not with regret, exactly, but more with the realization of how vulnerable I’d made myself.

  I dared a glance at him. His hands were tight on the wheel, his knuckles turning white, the only outward sign of his inner turmoil. He was afraid for me. My whole life I’d longed for someone who would care about me, just for being me. Not because of what I could do for him or because I reminded him of someone he’d lost.

  But I hadn’t considered the repercussions. That once you were no longer isolated, alone, but involved in a larger unit, a relationship or a family, there were additional considerations, obligations. Ties.

  Part of me wanted to rage at Zane. How dare he muddle this up with his feelings. His worries. If I was willing to take the risk, wasn’t that all that mattered?

  Zane hated Ford’s approach, but she’d done exactly what I would have done, if she or one of the others had come to me when I was living in Wingate.

  She was being careful and putting safety first. After all, it wasn’t just her life at risk. She was in charge of Nixon and Carter as well, which only made sense. Nixon seemed too distant to be involved, though I had no idea what was going on in his head, obviously. And Carter, with his shy smile, desire to stay in school, and eagerness to talk, might not have the edge needed to make the hard decisions. Looking at them collectively, I was pretty sure I was seeing Dr. Laughlin’s version of a variety pack. Different genes switched on, resulting in a range of human/alien combinations.

  Ford, apparently, had the right mix that made her a natural leader. So she was skeptical of me, expecting a trap. In her position, I would have felt the same.

  But someone, somewhere, had to trust. Had to make the first move. They had extended that trust to me by not (a) immediately killing us or (b) signaling their guards to contact Laughlin.

  If Ford’s intention had been to turn us in to Laughlin, she wouldn’t have taken the risk of letting us leave or allowing us to set the time and date of our return, if we returned at all.

  That was only logical.

  I watched Zane from the corner of my eye. He was concentrating on the road, his mouth tight. He truly thought that they’d manipulated the situation to take advantage of me.

  But in reality, Ford had only accepted the situation as it presented itself. Offering to aid me in developing a plan was pointless. If it was so simple to escape, they would have done so already. And the decision to take the chance had to be mine, not based on their limited ability to help.

  It made sense to me. She had not spelled it out, but I understood how she thought, even if I couldn’t hear her thinking. I parsed information in a similar way. To me, she’d done nothing objectionable or even truly surprising during the entire encounter.

  Zane saw it differently. He couldn’t help that. He filtered information through his own background and experiences, which were not at all similar to mine.

  Fine. We’d encountered that difficulty before and found common ground.

  The trouble was, this time, whether he realized it or not, he’d made it very clear that I’d have to choose—not just whether to help Ford and the others but which “side” I was going to take. Human or other? I would ally myself one way or the other and lose something. Or someone. There was no way around that.

  Zane slowed to make the turn onto his mother’s street and inhaled sharply. “Shit.”

  His adrenaline washed over me, bringing the world into sharp focus.

  I sat up, putting my feet on the floor. “What’s wrong?”

  “My dad’s here.” He nodded toward the end of the street.

  Sure enough, a familiar-looking dark blue SUV, emblazoned with WINGATE CHIEF OF POLICE, sat in front of Mara’s half of the duplex. And, surprisingly, Mara’s little silver Mazda was in the driveway, parked at a dramatic angle, as if she’d pulled in without any care or in a big hurry.

  I frowned. She shouldn’t have been back from work for hours yet, assuming she put in a regular eight-hour shift.

  The ubiquitous dark SUV, Laughlin’s spy or spies, was here again as well, though parked at a more discreet distance, closer to the intersection where we were than to Mara’s house.

  “Something’s wrong,” I said, as I tried to isolate the anxious vibe that radiated from the area, a weird itchy/tickling sensation at the edge of my brain that wouldn’t let up.

  Zane tensed. “Is he…is my mom okay?”

  Did he hurt her? That was the question in his head, the one he wasn’t asking.

  I bit my lip. Zane had never specifically said that his dad had hurt any of them. But when Zane had been worried that my father was abusing me, he’d had a certain grim familiarity when checking my arms for bruises. He’d known what he was looking for. And regardless of whether that was based on personal experience or simply supposition, the possibility that his dad might hurt his mom existed in his mind, and that was enough. Chief Bradshaw had been beyond furious when my father had him ejected from GTX. And he’d blamed Zane’s willingness to defend me—instead of turning me over to Dr. Jacobs—on the influence of Zane’s mother. All of that added to a potential volatile situation in Mara’s tiny duplex.

  I struggled to tune out the surrounding noise—Zane’s thoughts and feelings, those of the random people in the neighborhood—and focus on the occupants of the building at the end of the block. “I’m not picking up any physical pain.” Pain shouted the loudest of anything, and it was unmistakable, always accompanied by some blend of fear and shock. (Even when people are expecting the hurt, the actual physical sensation is always more intense than anticipated and still comes as a surprise.)

  Zane gripped the steering wheel tighter. “If we go in, we might make things worse.”

  Assuming that his dad had come to see his mom to shout at her for her role—as the chief imagined it, anyway—in our escape, then yeah. I had to agree. We’d be proving his theory correct, that we’d run to her for help. And if he was here because he hoped to track us down and turn me in to Dr. Jacobs, then going in would make our status plummet from “iffy” to “certain doom.”

  “It’s probably best to wait and see what happens,” I said. Actually, there was no “probably” about it. When all else fails, gather more intel and wait for an opportunity—no question. But those were his parents in there, and I wasn’t sure he’d feel I was qualified to dictate in this instance. If it had been my father in potential danger…well, that was complicated, assuming I’d ever even see him again.

  “If there’s obvious…distress, we’ll intercede,” I added, taking care with my word choice. Zane had been very careful in what he had not said. I would do the same.

  Without waiting for direction from me, Zane accelerated through the intersection and made the necessary turns to take us back to our house.

  I caught myself and shook my head. Not our house. The house. The abandoned home for sale where we’d spent the night last night. Somehow in the last twenty-four hours, I’d begun attaching possessive pronouns to it.

  A sudden memory of Zane and me standing shoulder to shoulder (well, with my height aided by the step stool of the toilet), peering out the window. That coziness, familiarity, that comfort of having him near when everything else was uncertain and frighteningly unstable.

  I wanted that. Wanted him. Needed him.

  A dull ache started in my chest. A crappy abandoned house, dirty carpeting, no furniture, in a shady neighborhood. It was a twisted and shadowy version of my Dream-Life vision of suburban perfection. But it was real, actually located in this world. If that was as close as I’d get to my dream, I’d take it.

  But what would I have to give up? If Zane forced me to choose between him and what I thought was right…I shook my head.

  “Don’t fall in love” had been one of my father’s Rules. And I’d broken it before I fully understood why he’d included it. B
ut it was too late; I couldn’t—wouldn’t—take back the past. The only question now was how it would affect the future, if I let it.

  Zane led the way up the sidewalk to the door with more confidence this time, stepping aside only for me to unlock and open the door. Apparently, breaking and entering was growing on him.

  Once inside, I closed the door after us. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed since our last visit.

  I opened my mouth to say as much to Zane, but he was already bounding up the stairs.

  Trying to avoid me? Worried about his mother? Both?

  I sighed and followed him. I found him in the bathroom again, staring at his mother’s house as if by intense scrutiny he could divine anything that was going on inside.

  “Do you hear anything?” he asked without looking at me.

  I closed my eyes and concentrated on the gossamer threads of words and feelings emanating from that location. But I couldn’t hear anything other than a distant and furious buzz with the occasional out of context phrase.

  …your fault.

  If you hadn’t been so concerned with…

  …can’t blame me for your inadequacies…

  “They’re arguing,” I said. “But other than that…there’s too much emotion,” I said. I could feel waves of fear—lots of it—mixed with anger and suspicion, like water lapping at a distant shore. If we went in closer, I might have a better shot at isolating thoughts or even identifying who was thinking what, but from here, no.

  Zane exhaled loudly, leaning against the window frame, tapping his fingers anxiously against the top of it.

  I slipped my arm around his back tentatively, attempting in my own less-than-smooth way to offer comfort.

  He tensed, surprised enough to glance down at me, but he didn’t pull away, which felt like a victory.

  I fumbled, alternating between awkwardly patting and just maintaining the contact. It felt unnatural, as if I were trying out some new skill. And to be fair, it wasn’t like I’d had a lot of practice. For most of my life, I’d done my very best to avoid being touched, which included touching other people. Zane was pretty much the only exception to that rule, the only person from whom I more than just tolerated physical affection. And that had taken time, patience (his), and a situation that hadn’t given me much choice but to challenge the barriers I’d erected for myself. Pretending to be in a relationship, though, hadn’t given me much practical experience in actually being in one.

  Keeping an eye on what little I could see outside—the windowsill was just below eye level for me—I moved my hand aimlessly over Zane’s back, trying for a soothing motion. Rubbing at the knots below his shoulder blades, tracing the hollow at the small of his back and the rise of muscle on either side of his spine through the slightly damp and scratchy fabric of his shirt. I hadn’t realized the material was this unpleasant; no wonder he’d been so miserable in this outfit.

  Eventually, I realized he wasn’t watching out the window anymore, but staring down at me.

  I glanced up and caught my breath. His gray-blue gaze was dark with emotion.

  “You know I’m just worried about you, right? I would never try to keep you from them for any other reason.” The urgency and pleading in his voice was hypnotizing, pulling at me.

  Biting my lip, I nodded.

  He lifted my hair away from my cheek—any taming I’d done earlier was long gone—tucked it behind my ear, and brushed his thumb over my lower lip until I released it.

  I’d heard the phrase “time stood still” but never understood it until that second, when every thud of my heart seemed to expand, taking hours to complete the contraction and move on. All my attention was focused on the feeling of the connection between us, like a live wire completing a circuit—his thumb grazing the lower edge of mouth, my hand clutching at his back. Round and round we went, a circle of sensation that called to me to forget everything except for this feeling.

  I inched closer to him, drawn by the almost magnetic urge to fit myself against him. Then, following a bold impulse I barely recognized as my own, I tugged at his shirt with shaking fingers until it came free, giving me access to his warm skin.

  My bravery only went so far, though, and my palm just grazed his bare side before I pulled back.

  His breath caught in his throat audibly, a funny little sound between a sigh and a groan. Then he leaned down—so fast I barely had time to register the movement—and his mouth closed over mine.

  His tongue tangled with mine, and I wrapped my fists in his shirt, trying to pull myself closer still and out of the awkward angle caused by our height difference.

  Then he bent down and lifted me up, one arm around my back and the other behind my knees.

  I gasped at the feeling as much as the sudden movement. The back of my knee was not a particularly secretive or private place as far as I knew; I mean, it had been exposed all day long while I was in this skirt. And yet his fingers tight against that vulnerable skin sent fire zipping through my veins.

  Now, this…this is why humans did such stupid things for love. To feel this heady sense of belonging and connection, this temporary abatement of perpetual loneliness.

  The new level of intensity probably should have frightened me, but instead it had a strange grounding effect, as if this were what was keeping me here instead of floating away. As if, despite how fuzzy and out-of-focus these feelings made me, they also certified my reality.

  Without breaking the kiss, Zane turned to set me on the edge of the bathroom counter. The van keys, which had been balanced on the edge, fell into the sink behind me with a loud clatter. Then he moved to stand between my knees, a sensation that stole my breath.

  I slipped my hands beneath his shirt, my courage returning in a hot rush of feeling. It felt so good to touch and be touched. He was the one who’d taught me that. And it seemed like the more I had, the more I craved.

  His hands were gentle on my face, at the back of my head under my hair, and then tracing a line from my jaw down my neck, under the collar of my shirt and the T-shirt beneath it.

  His fingertips skidded to a stop on the first button of my shirt, and I shivered in anticipation.

  “Okay?” he whispered.

  “Yes,” I whispered back, trying not to sound as breathless and desperate as I felt.

  He released the button slowly and then moved to the next, again so slowly. Giving me time to think, to object.

  But I didn’t want that. Didn’t need it.

  I pushed his hands out of the way and he froze, an apology written across his face. I got my remaining buttons open in seconds, and I was struggling with my sleeves before he caught on enough to help me pull the cuffs free over my wrists.

  I still had a thin T-shirt on—and he’d certainly seen me in less when he’d bandaged my arm—but the heat in his expression told me this was different. More, somehow.

  I pulled at the front of his shirt and he needed no further encouragement, releasing the buttons as efficiently as I’d dispensed with my own.

  Beneath, he was all lines and muscle where I had curves. (Okay, not many curves, but enough, evidently.) His skin was darker than mine, but not so much that I couldn’t see the faint blue of veins in his chest. The rapid moving of his ribs as he breathed at an increased rate fascinated me almost as much the precise alignment of the muscles beneath.

  I knew I was staring, but I couldn’t help myself.

  Then he touched the hem of my T-shirt, just at my waist, which set off a barrage of conflicting messages to my brain about where I wanted him to touch next.

  “Okay?” he asked again, sounding hoarse.

  This time, I reached up and pulled his head toward mine, kissing him fiercely as my answer, wrapping my arms around his neck as his hand slid under my T-shirt and up.

  His thumb brushed over the front of my breast, and I wanted to curl into the caress like a cat, but my position on the edge of the counter, with the sink directly behind me, was already precarious.

>   He leaned in farther, bringing us almost chest to chest, and my head sang with the near-skin contact. Without thinking, I pulled him closer. He braced one hand behind me to keep his balance…and accidentally turned on the faucet.

  I squeaked involuntarily in surprise at the sound of sputtering water and scooted forward directly into him. Which was a whole new sensation.

  “Crap. Sorry!” he said, pulling his hand from under my shirt and fumbling for the knob behind me. Once the water was off, he let out a slow breath and rested his head on my shoulder. Then he gave a muffled but chagrined laugh against my neck. I shivered at the vibration of his voice against my skin.

  “Can we try that ag—” he began.

  The distant sounds of shouting outside caught our attention then. Zane’s head swiveled toward the window.

  “It’s my dad,” he said after a second.

  Zane stepped away to the window and shoved it open. Part of me wanted to kick my feet against the cabinet in frustration. But he was right. Whatever was happening with Mara—and by association, his father—had to take priority.

  With a sigh, I tugged my shirt into place and slipped off the counter to follow Zane.

  Ascending onto the toilet once more, I could see Mara’s yard fairly clearly, where it wasn’t blocked by the house in between us. Chief Bradshaw, out of uniform and looking a little disheveled, was in the middle of the grass, shouting up at his former wife in the doorway.

  “You’re destroying his life, Mara. I hope you can live with that,” he spat at her. “You might as well pull the trigger yourself.”

  Mara flinched but remained silent, looking a pale and hunched imitation of herself. She was ridiculously shrunken for someone of her height.

  “He’s really upset,” I said, disconcerted to see that level of emotion from the chief, especially in regard to Zane. Chief Bradshaw had made it very clear to Zane on countless occasions that he considered his second son exactly that: secondary. Or worse. At GTX, when Zane had stepped in front of me to protect me from his father, there’d been a moment when I wasn’t sure whether his father would consider his presence sufficient enough reason not to shoot me. And yet, right now, the waves of desperation radiating off him had to be obvious even to those who weren’t telepathic.