Chapter Seven #2
I roll my eyes and give him a flat look. “You’re sick.”
He tracks her as she moves to restock a shelf. It’s a glimpse of the Leo who existed before everything went to hell.
“Go on.” I nudge his shoulder, hard enough to send him stumbling half a step. “Get her number. Be a normal guy for five minutes.”
He ducks his head, his shoulders hunching back into that familiar, guarded posture. “It’s too dangerous.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, are you picking up on more emotions now?”
I sigh as the humor dies. “At random. I can’t control it.”
“You’ll learn to tune it out.”
It’s the same tone Mom used on mornings Joaquin wasn’t there. She kept her chin lifted and her smile set, the routine locked into place as if she could make us forget what waited for us later.
“You remind me of her,” I say as we drift toward the checkout.
“Of who?”
“Mom.” I gesture vaguely at him. “The optimism. The way you look at this mess and still see a way through.”
He unloads the cart. “She rubbed off on me. Whenever I had a bad day, or a dark thought, she always had something good to say.”
Leo learned how to keep the light on.
I’m still fumbling for the switch.
He finishes the transaction, thanks the cashier, and slides the receipt into his pocket.
“Hey,” Leo says as the automatic doors slide shut behind us.
“Yeah?”
He looks at the bags in my hands. “I know you’re disappointed about your pills, but remember how close you were to not needing them. You can do this without them. Use your breathing exercises.”
He’s right. I survived years before the panic became debilitating.
Before I relied on the pills.
Before Mom died, I almost stopped taking them completely. I can’t let a little white tablet be the only thing keeping me upright.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Next time your anxiety spikes during training, talk to me. Maybe we can talk to Kylo. If he knew about your triggers, he could tweak the drills—”
“No.”
I’m not opening that door. I won’t give Kylo the satisfaction of knowing exactly where to twist the knife.
“Why not?” he persists, stepping into my line of sight. “You shouldn’t be on the edge of a panic attack every session.”
The pharmacy bag crinkles in my grip. “It’s none of his business. I show up. I take the hits. Isn’t that what he wants?”
“I’m saying your life might be a hell of a lot easier if he didn’t accidentally tear the scabs off your psyche every morning.”
I look past him at the parking lot. “I’m fine. It was one slip-up.”
I’d rather swallow glass than let Kylo see the dark crevasses of my being.
An aggressive honk cuts through the lot, drawing every eye nearby.
Zayne idles in the space with the window rolled down, his fingers drumming against the top of the steering wheel. “Let’s go! You spent more time in that drugstore than the clothing racks. Move it!”
I don’t look his way. I’m not here to play nice or win over the compound’s favorite guard dog. I’m here for Leo.
Moving on is a nice thought, a postcard from a life we’re not allowed to live.
I’m doing what’s necessary so we can finally, hopefully, have a future that doesn’t end in blood.
But the voice in my head knows better.
Hope is a temporary thing.
“Glad you could join us, Marco,” Carter says. “It’s about damn time we had a team dinner.”
Marco grunts in response, shoving a forkful of food into his mouth. I’ve seen him in passing, but this is the first time we’ve sat together.
“I can’t remember the last time I had a steak this good,” Leo says, cutting into another piece.
“Carter knows his way around a grill,” Zayne adds. He glides a golden-brown fry through a puddle of ketchup.
Carter shrugs, leaning back in his chair. “I made them on that rusted-out grill in the back. Hardly prime cuisine. If you want the real stuff, let Zayne whip up some of his recipes.”
“Learned from the best,” Zayne says, a small, private smile tugging at his mouth.
I lean in, resting my chin on my palm. “From who?”
“My mother is from the Philippines. She made sure I knew my way around a kitchen.”
“That sounds incredible.” Leo takes a sip of water. “We were more of a fend-for-yourself kind of household.”
“Great. Another boo-hoo story from the orphans.”
The voice is gravelly, with an ugly burr. My fork stops halfway to my mouth, a piece of steak dangling from the prongs. I snap my head toward the source. “What did you just say?”
Across the table, Marco slowly swallows a mouthful of soda. He doesn’t look like he spoke. He’s too busy letting out a long, theatrical aah and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Did you read my mind?” Marco’s eyebrow quirks. “Interesting. Why did no one bother to tell me that this child is a telepath?”
He leans forward, broad shoulders filling the space between us, the seams of his white tank pulled tight across his chest. The fluorescent lights catch on his bare scalp, highlighting the sheen of sweat there.
“Child?” I ask.
“You heard him?” Leo asks. “Has this happened before?”
“Yes and no. I don’t know why it happens—it’s random. I didn’t hear the pharmacist’s thoughts, but I felt her emotions. Now I’m hearing Marco’s thoughts.”
“It’s not like I knew she could read minds,” Marco says. “I would’ve had my guard up.”