Chapter 22 #2
She swallows. Slowly, her thumb slips under the hem of her top, fiddling with the seam as she responds.
“The first time was when I assaulted my boss, Ruby Engleberry. It was my first week working there, and she told me I had to spread manure using my bare hands.” Her head turns towards me, a playful glint in her eye.
“Needless to say, there was horse shit on my hands when I rubbed them in her face.”
I huff out a laugh.
“I got eight hours for that. She’s a State official… but she isn’t exactly high up.”
“Didn’t know you had it in you,” I mutter.
She scoffs, eyes returning to the ceiling.
“Yes, you did.” She pauses. “The second time, I was picking strawberries in the fields, and I ate one; four hours in The Cell that time. Third was when I stole extra food from the cafeteria. My roommate, Heidi… she had a migraine, and couldn’t bring herself to come downstairs.
They didn’t believe me when I said it was for her.
I was hauled in front of the House Mother herself and given a strong talking to about the precious equilibrium of the State, and how greed has no place here. Six hours.”
“I fucking hate them,” I breathe out.
She smiles. “Me too.” Reaching for her bottle, she sits upright. “Nothing we can do about it though.”
I’m trying.
I’m fucking trying. I just don’t know whether we’ll ever be able to do enough.
Her teeth toy with her bottom lip as she stares past me, at the boarded-up window, darkness clouding her eyes. They’re not twinkling anymore.
She hates them.
She hates the State as much as I do.
But where I’m shadow and hatred and death, she’s sunshine and fire and life.
I can’t tell her what we’re trying to do behind the scenes, or the battle we’re starting. I can’t drag her into the chaos, into the fight that could crush everything she is that’s different to me.
“I guess not,” I say instead. “Come on.” I nod at the mat, putting my bottle on the floor and striding towards her. “I want to show you a couple more things.”
It’s starting to spit with rain when Emilia and I arrive back at the Married Sector.
She grumbles under her breath, wrapping her arms around her tight, pale pink top. “If we’d have come straight home after the meeting, we wouldn’t be caught in this.”
“I don’t have to help you, you know,” I retort. “I could train someone else. An Enforcer, maybe?”
“Do it,” she dares, those blues twinkling once more. She takes a step closer, narrowing her eyes.
“It’s your life on the line, not mine,” I reply, smirking.
She scoffs. “Oh, what? Because you’re fucking Superman? No one can take you down?”
Despite myself, I laugh. She looks startled, blinking at me, wide eyed.
“I always preferred Batman,” I say quietly.
She wrinkles her nose at my words. “Really?” We round the corner and she collides with someone’s chest. I only see the flash of dark green. My arms reach out, yanking her back and pushing her behind me. My stance widens, a snarl on my lips before I realise it’s just a dark green T-Shirt.
Not a uniform.
Emilia’s hand curls around my bicep before she steps out from behind me, eyes darting to the couple in front of us.
It’s Preppy Boy, who’s smiling like he’s been given a sticker at the damn dentist. “Careful there.”
Emilia smiles back at him. “Sorry,” she says.
“It’s okay.”
“Milly!” The sudden whiny voice from beside him has me grimacing. Emilia seems to have the same reaction. It’s the petite bitch—the one who caused drama at that fucking party. Fuck this, I’m heading back to the Safe House.
“I’m so glad we ran into you, Milly and…” she trails off, sticking her chin out and staring at me expectantly. I don’t answer. Nor does Emilia.
“Zachary,” Preppy Boy whispers.
“Zachary.” Nina smiles. “We wanted to invite you both to a party we’re hosting tonight.”
“No, thanks,” I snap back, hand rising to Emilia’s back, ready to guide her around them.
Nina shifts, stepping directly in front of me. “It’s going to be pretty wild. Some of our friends who are single are going to sneak over here.” She giggles.
I fight the urge to cringe, but instead, end up scowling. “We’re busy—”
“Oh! Of course!” Nina titters, whirling around and smacking a hand onto her husband’s chest. “I’m not surprised. I told Rayden you wouldn’t want to come.” She looks at Emilia, a smirk on her lips. “Not when you still have feelings for him.”
Holy fucking American TV drama, what the actual fuck is this shit?
Emilia shifts beside me, her jaw tight.
“I understand it’s going to be hard to see us together, and hiding your face is probably the best thing anyway. Especially after last time—”
“What time?”
Nina stops mid-smirk to blink at me. “What?”
“What. Time. Is your fucking party?”
Emilia’s mouth practically hangs open as she looks up at me. Nina blinks, her own lips parting, then closing, then parting again.
“I… uh… it… the…”
“Seven,” Preppy Boy fills in, looking ever so slightly amused.
“We’ll be there,” I say gruffly, before my hand presses against Emilia’s back, leading her past the couple and towards our house. The award-winning liability of a girl doesn’t try to stop me this time.
“Zac,” Emilia whispers.
“Don’t,” I mutter, shaking my head. “What the fuck did I just agree to?”
“I was thinking the same thing,” she replies, clearly amused as I jab the key into our door. “Thought you hated drama?”
“I do,” I grind out. “But she was saying such shit. I mean… fucking hell, what was she trying to achieve?”
Emilia hums, stepping inside the house as I shove the door open. “I believe she wanted to make me jealous.” She rips off her boots. “Show me that I can’t have Rayden.”
“Personally, I don’t see the fucking appeal.” She rolls her eyes before spinning on her heel and falling back, over the arm of the sofa and onto its soft cushions.
“Does it help if I tell you Rayden has a hefty possession of whiskey?” she asks.
“No.”
She pushes up on her elbows, brows cocked. “He’ll probably let you have some.”
“I don’t like whiskey.”
“You…” Her eyes trail to the stain on the floor. “So that was for no reason?” I don’t reply, instead kicking my own boots off. “Why drink whiskey if you don’t like it?”
My teeth clench. “Are you hungry?”
“What?”
“Apparently, I need to line your stomach before you drink a litre of whiskey and do something that gets us both sent to The Cell.”
“Very funny.”
I walk to the kitchen but hesitate in the doorway, hand lifting to rest against the frame.
“I hate whiskey,” I admit softly. “The taste, the smell, the burn…” I pause, tapping my fingers against the wood. “But sometimes I drink it, just to remind myself how fucking shit reality is.”
And then I step into the kitchen, leaving her staring after me from the sofa.