15. Jersey
JERSEY
“Pony,” Kenzie says, holding out her hand.
I slip the hair tie off my wrist and pass it back before plucking a beige chunk from the prepackaged fruit cup and popping it into my mouth, suppressing a shudder as its grainy flesh collapses into mush against my tongue.
I miss meat.
Actual meat– not this gray slab of meatloaf on my dinner tray that you couldn’t pay me to risk eating.
Kenzie warned me not to touch anything that doesn’t come sealed, because apparently Enforcers have been known to drug food when they want an Asset to be particularly compliant.
During her last stay, a girl had an allergic reaction to whatever they slipped her, and Kenzie overheard Miller explaining how to record the death as an undocumented medical condition so no one would have to answer for it.
“And, done,” Kenzie announces, flicking the finished braid over my shoulder.
“Thanks,” I say, twisting around on my cot to face her.
“Go admire my work, I cleared my whole schedule for you.” She winks, a glint of relief in her eyes.
I laugh softly, popping another pale piece of fruit into my mouth as I swing my legs over the edge of the cot, slide my feet into slippers, and shuffle towards the bathroom.
My reflection stares back at me from the mirror bolted above the sink, my hair neatly woven into a Dutch braid.
For a split second, my throat tightens. It’s such a small thing, but in a place designed to strip away our humanity and reduce us to inventory valued for the profit we produce or pleasure we can provide, it makes me feel almost human.
My gaze drifts past my reflection to the dead space behind me, my fingers curling around the edge of the sink as my body braces against the memory of Riggs’s broad frame towering over mine, that glacial stare slicing through defenses I've spent years building. My other hand lifts to my neck mindlessly, fingertips searching for something that isn’t there.
I can’t tell if I’m reaching for the familiarity of the locket or the pressure of his hand.
My pulse quickens, guilt festering as heat floods my cheeks. I shut it down before those dark, warped, thoughts can weave together and begin their constant loop through my mind, retreating back to the room.
Kenzie is back on her own bed, curled onto her side with her eyes closed.
Her face is still too tense for sleep, every muscle held rigid beneath the surface.
Then again, maybe even at rest, we don’t get to look peaceful anymore.
Maybe our bodies remain on guard long after our minds have surrendered, bracing for the next unknown threat to come through the door.
We haven’t seen Miller in a while, and it can’t be a coincidence that Kenzie hasn’t been dragged out for any surprise appointments since he disappeared.
There was never a legitimate reason for her to be pulled away twice as often– we’re both here for appraisals, and her records are more current than mine– especially at all hours of the night.
After what she’s told me and the way I’ve heard Miller and some of the other Enforcers talk, I know this place is a lot more fucked up than what the surface shows.
Whatever happened, she always came back with the same hollow look in her eyes and crawled beneath the covers, retreating in slumber until the next Enforcer barked her number.
Plucking the maraschino cherry from the fruit cup– the absolute best part that should always be saved for last– I pop it into my mouth and savor the sweetness.
Then I grab our dinner trays, setting them on the nightstand before pulling back the blankets and slipping beneath the covers of my bed, arms winding around the pillow as I curl up.
“Like it?” Kenzie asks, voice thin.
I tilt my head to see her glancing my way, her eyes fluttering lazily over my braid.
“Love it,” I respond.
She smiles softly, eyes drifting shut again.
I’m glad she’s getting a break from whatever bullshit the enforcers were putting her through.
I like Kenzie. She’s nice, and while the circumstances that brought us together are beyond fucked up, having someone to actually talk to has kept me sane. I haven't had that in years.
In some ways, she reminds me of Hannah. The thought picks at the edges of an old scab, peeling it back just enough for air to sting the raw flesh beneath.
As much as I hope Hannah, Zeke, and Cody escaped this fate, I also can’t help but wonder whether they missed me after I was taken. Whether anyone did.
Did their thoughts drift towards me in quiet moments like this? Were there things they wanted to tell me or show me, only to remember I wasn’t there?
How long did it take them to realize I was gone? Did they ever learn what happened?
I don’t even know what happened to my father’s body after everything was over; I left it all behind.
My entire life froze that night as I ran to his auto shop– an admittedly stupid place to hide, but I had to start somewhere– the timeline shattering and forcing me down this path while everyone else remained on the other.
What if they never learned the truth? What if they think I just disappeared? What if they don’t miss me at all, or are mad because they think I abandoned them?
Stop it, Jersey.
I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing every question I don’t have the spoons to deal with behind the same locked door in my mind. Shifting deeper into the pillow, another stray thought slips through the cracks.
Miss me, little stray?
My breath hitches.
Of all the places my mind could go, it chooses Riggs.
The mere thought of him should make my skin crawl– and it does, but not in the way I expect. Something warm and deeply flawed threads through the unease as my mind catches on the details it had no reason to commit to memory.
The way his form swallowed me whole, the rough timbre of his voice. The jagged scar over his left eye, and the way his icy gaze pierced into me, like he could actually see me and looking away wasn’t an option.
Curiosity, I tell myself. No more, no less. Just another man with plenty of audacity to spare.
That has to be it– why heat's licking up my spine at the thought of him instead of my veins turning to ice. My nervous system has spent years learning all the wrong lessons. I probably just prefer the rougher stuff because that always meant it would be over sooner with Commander Martin.
Yup, that’s it, I was just ready for it to be over.
Except if that were the case, then why did his promise of continuing feel like something to look forward to?
Nope. Sleep Jersey.
I roll toward Kenzie, looking for something tangible to ground myself with.
I watch the slow rise and fall of her back and unintentionally start to match her breathing as my eyelids grow heavier.
My tongue darts out to wet my lips, catching on the split that refuses to heal because I keep raking my teeth over it.
Enforcer? Riggs had asked as he studied my face in the mirror, the hunger in his eyes hardening into something callous as I nodded.
Come to think of it, that was the last day I saw Miller, too. Which has to be a coincidence.
…right?
A cold unease unfurls inside me as the pieces of a ridiculous conspiracy theory begin to slot together. And despite every rational part of me insisting that the thought should terrify me, it bleeds into something restless beneath my ribs.
Eventually, exhaustion wins out, but sleep offers no escape. Every fractured segment of my dreams is haunted with his lingering stare.