Service (Central Cities #2)

Chapter 1

The outpost is fifty miles outside the Arsenal. It’s used primarily for mustering troops and as a landing station for regular patrols in the region south of the Capitol.

If we ever want to take the Arsenal, we need to take this outpost first.

It’s almost midnight on a sticky summer night, and I’m wearing a dress for the first time in years. A pink, fluttery one. A bunch of the guys hooted when I came out of my tent earlier, and I laughed it off in good spirits because what else could I do?

But the dress feels weird. It belongs to someone other than me.

I also brushed out my hair loose, so it’s hanging in thick, blond waves almost to my waist. It’s in the way, but I need to look the part.

Small. Traditionally feminine. Helpless. Like the fairy princess they used to call me.

In other words, not me anymore.

The outfit works for our purposes, and even Ben gives me a nod after staring at me for long enough to make me self-conscious. He’s dressed in his normal jeans with the kind of simple crewneck shirt that’s ubiquitous for men in the Central Cities for the past few years.

Ben also shaved and trimmed his hair, so he’s a lot more clean-cut than usual. Unsettlingly handsome.

Ben has been with me for seven years now. Bodyguard and chief adviser and all-purpose enforcer of the rebel group I lead. I’ve always liked the looks of him, but I’m used to seeing him rough and unkempt.

Not like this.

I ignore the disturbing impression the way I ignore every other stray thought that gets in the way of our goals.

We need to take that outpost, and we need to do it tonight.

We’ve gathered thirty-one of us for the mission.

All my regulars, plus a handful of extra volunteers from the villages and homesteads nearby.

My group has been operating throughout the Central Cities for years now, and we’ve found a lot of people we trust for support who aren’t willing to invest their entire lives in this endeavor the way we have.

Thirty-one isn’t a large group, but it needs to be enough.

I’ve circulated to each subgroup, reviewing the details of their roles and making sure they’re all ready, so I return to where Ben is leaning against the driver’s door of a standard-issue worker’s motor—stolen this afternoon from one of the government farms so it can’t be traced back to anyone here.

He straightens up as I approach.

I don’t know why, but I pause when I reach him, standing directly in front of him, having to tilt my head to meet his gaze because he’s a foot taller than me.

He doesn’t say anything. If anything is true about Ben, it’s that he’s not a talker. He’s big with light brown hair, blue-gray eyes, and a square chin with a slight cleft. He’ll be thirty-seven next month.

“You good?” I ask after several seconds.

“Always.”

I nod, still not able to make myself move.

No one else can get going until I do.

“You’re comfortable with what we have to do?”

“Yes, ma’am. Wouldn’t’ve agreed if I weren’t.” He always speaks in a low, pleasant, wilderness drawl, but sometimes it’s stronger than others. He pauses before he adds, “What about you?”

“I’m fine. I’m ready. Let’s do it.” Spurred on more by the ultimatum in my words than any momentum of will, I nod one more time and head around the motor to the passenger seat.

I wave toward the others gathered nearby before I get in. “You all know what we have to do, and you all know why. Nothing else can be won until we do this. Tonight is the first step toward the end, so let’s not stumble.”

A murmur of agreement follows this blunt gesture toward a rallying speech. Ben is watching me as I get into the motor.

My heartbeat has accelerated, but I’m excited more than scared. I always feel this way—every time I get the chance to make a real move against the enemy.

“All right,” I tell him. “It’s time. Let’s move.”

His expression is sober, but his eyes glint with an excitement that matches my own as he starts driving. “Yes, ma’am.”

He calls women he likes “darlin’” conversationally, a habit that has set far too many hearts aflutter.

But he’s never called me that. I used to chide him for always referring to me as “ma’am.

” I’d ask him to call me by name, Annabelle, or nothing at all.

But I gave up on the resistance a long time ago.

When we first met, he was hired as a bodyguard by my then husband, and the deference was required by his role.

But even now, so many years later, it hasn’t changed.

He’s made it clear that his role is to support me as a leader, and one of the ways he does so is to model the kind of respect for me that he demands in others.

So “ma’am” I am to him and always will be.

We drive as close to the outpost as we can get without being spotted by the perimeter guards. Then we park on the side of the road, get out of the car without a word, and retrieve a blanket and a bottle of homemade beer with two glasses from the storage compartment in the back.

After Ben has scoped out the vicinity, we walk quickly to our designated position in the shelter of a few trees on a hill tall enough to offer a pleasant view of the nearest settlement.

I spread out the blanket while he fills the glasses partway with the beer. We sit down on the blanket with our backs against the largest tree.

I check the time. Seven minutes.

The waiting is always the worst part.

Ben feels relaxed beside me, but I know he’s not. He’s as alert and primed for action as I am. The only sign of this is the way he occasionally twirls the ring on his right hand.

He’s worn it for as long as I’ve known him. It’s an antique signet ring—the kind rarely found anymore—with a tree with spreading branches and roots carved into a bloodstone.

He’s a no-nonsense, low-maintenance man, so the ring originally surprised me. When I asked him about it, all he said was that it was a gift.

A gift.

Probably from a woman. He’s a mature man, so of course he has a history.

He likely has a love of his life somewhere in his past, but he’s never shared any details with me.

He used to have sex recreationally. Not a lot.

He was never a player, and I’ve never seen him make a move on a woman.

Any woman. But a lot of women make moves on him, and he used to regularly accept their offers.

It’s not like I was making any special note of it, but it was impossible not to see the women entering his tent and staying there until morning, when they’d finally emerge looking very pleased with the world.

Something changed about a year ago though. I have no idea what it was. But since then, any woman who enters his tent comes out almost immediately.

If I were a different person, I’d ask. He’s always willingly answered my questions—even personal ones.

But some things should be off-limits between people who work together the way we do, and sex is one of those things.

I’ve never asked, and he’s never offered the information on his lost love who gave him that ring or on his shift in sexual habits.

“What’s up?” he asks now out of the blue, giving me a sharp look.

“What do you mean?”

“You got stiff and uncomfortable. What’s goin’ on?”

Damn it. He’s sometimes exasperating that way. Picking up vibes he has no business noticing. “Nothing is going on,” I tell him coolly. “I’m focused on our job here.”

He shakes his head, disbelieving. “If you say so… ma’am.” The last bit is tacked on as a dry addendum.

I roll my eyes at him but bite back my instinctive retort. I feel snippy at the moment, but it’s not a rational or helpful response.

“You told me you were fine with this setup,” he says after a minute of silence.

“I am fine with it.”

“Then why’d you get all uptight about it?”

“I didn’t get uptight about it.” It takes real effort not to snap at him. “You’re misreading my mood. It has nothing to do with you.”

“Annabelle.”

“No. We don’t have time for an argument. Drop it. Right now.”

I use that cold, authoritative tone fairly often. It’s one of the strategies that has worked to hold on command when I’m small and blond and young-looking in a role where none of those characteristics are advantages.

But I almost never use that tone with Ben.

He eyes me sharply but without any resentment. He’s not angry or offended. He’s still trying to figure out what’s going on in my mind. But he doesn’t say anything else, which is a relief.

We have only three minutes until the guard passes this way on his patrol.

We wait for two minutes in unmoving silence. There’s no reason to rush into things. One thing that can be counted on with Central Cities guards is that they’re as prompt and regular as clockwork.

The guard is not going to be early. Or late. Or anything other than exactly on schedule.

When my watch shows only one minute, I shift my position, turning toward Ben’s big body. He wraps one arm around me and eases me closer to him. I bend my legs to make the shift in position feel more natural.

“All right,” he murmurs. “Here goes.” He leans down and kisses me.

I’ve never kissed Ben before. That needs to be clarified first. We’ve been partners and companions for years. Not really friends and definitely not anything sexual or romantic.

Kissing him now is… strange.

Not unpleasant. At all. He smells clean and natural, and his lips are relaxed and dry. He’s keeping his tongue in his mouth—intentionally, I’m sure—and even as one of his big hands slides down my back toward my ass, it’s not demanding or entitled.

But I haven’t kissed anyone in years, and being so physically close to someone is unnerving.

What’s even stranger is the disconnect between our bodies and our spirits.

I’m far too distracted and on edge for my body to respond as it might have in a different situation, and Ben is clearly holding himself back.

He’s not in this kiss all the way any more than I am.

Not the way he’s been in every other time he’s been by my side on a mission.

He’s withdrawn his big, gruff heart from what he’s doing right now, and it bothers me even more than the feel of his fingers at the crease where my butt connects to the back of my thigh.

My unexpected response to kissing him is irrelevant. It doesn’t matter.

What does matter is that the guard on patrol at the outpost is marching through his scheduled route, and he’s now seen us making out against the tree.

“Hold!” he bursts out. “Hands up!”

Ben and I jerk apart with a show of fear and shock. Ben lifts both hands as he turns toward the guard, and I make a whimpering sound as I hug my arms to my chest. “Oh no! Please don’t hurt us!”

I never—never—whimper in that way. My instinct when scared has always been to not make a sound.

I’m not scared now, however. I’m playing a part. And this guard needs to believe I’m scared, confused, and vulnerable. Helpless.

“Hands up,” the man says, gesturing toward me with his pointed gun.

I put my hands up immediately, whimpering again. “Billy, please. What’s happening?”

“I dunno. We must’ve gotten too close to some kinda military place.”

I’m genuinely impressed by how dull and clueless Ben sounds and looks as he blinks in the light from the flashlight attached to the guard’s weapon.

“Up! Up, both of you. You’re trespassing, and you need to come with me.”

“Oh no, please!” I’m standing up with my hands still raised above my head as I plead. “We didn’t know! We were just trying to get some alone time. We’ll leave and never come back. Please don’t arrest us!”

The guard doesn’t appear entirely heartless. His mouth twists briefly before he composes his expression. “I can’t let you go. Got to follow regulations. I don’t think you’ll get into big trouble since it was an innocent mistake, but I have to take you back to my supervisor.”

I pretend to cry, hiding my face in Ben’s shirt to really sell the act.

“I got no choice. Just do what you’re told and apologize, and he’ll probably let you go. He’s not a hard-ass about this kind of thing.”

I straighten up and step away from Ben, sniffing and pretending to compose myself. “Okay. We’ll be real good. Promise. Just please don’t get us in trouble. My uncle got arrested for poaching, and we never saw him again.”

That’s a true story. Not my uncle, but any number of other people’s uncles and aunts have been rounded up for minor crimes and fallen off the map completely.

The Central Cities pretends to be the heart of culture, order, and comfort in the world that remained after the asteroid hit forty-six years ago, but that semblance has been built on the back of tyrannical, oppressive leadership.

A government system only a few of us are willing to question.

“Come on,” the guard says, gesturing again with his weapon, a sloppy habit I would have had immediate words with him about had I been his supervisor. “You’ll need to walk in front of me for the rest of my patrol. Walk fast, single file. No talking or stopping.”

“Okay,” I say, acting hesitant as I move in front of him and look over my shoulder at him. “Just don’t hurt us. Like this?”

“Yeah.” His eyes move up and down my body appreciatively before I turn toward the front.

I assume he’s still leering as I follow Ben around the perimeter, but I’m looking ahead so I don’t see it.