Chapter 4 #2
“Knives,” I say, and Hux cocks an eyebrow.
“Knives it is,” he says. I spin on my heel, and he takes several steps back, keeping me in his sight until finally turning
to make his way to the rack of weapons that sit just off the edge of the mat.
I grab two small blades, testing their weight in my hands. They’ll do.
“Are the contestants ready?” Alba asks, and I make my way back to the center to face Hux.
I answer for us both: “They are.”
Hux only stares down at me. In the full light of the gym, I can really see the bruise on his face. It spreads up past his
hairline, where a small scab is still healing. Whatever happened, it had to hurt.
But not as much as this will.
“Begin,” Alba says.
I spin my blade in my palm and swipe it wide, just missing Hux’s chest as he jumps backward, letting out a small laugh at the close call.
My blood boils. He’s always laughing at me.
I advance, ducking to try and knock him off his feet with a kick, but he jumps back. With a scowl, he throws the knife down
into the thick mat and finally lunges at me. I roll, swiping again at his boot but missing as he flips me, landing hard chest
to chest, pinning my hands—and the knives they hold—at my side. He’s heavy against me, but I know he’s still holding himself
up at least a little, because I’m not suffocating.
He’s going easy on me.
“Did bad sleep have anything to do with being out past curfew?” he whispers, breath hot in my ear. When he pulls back to look
me in the eye, with that same superior smirk, I feel the anger surge through my chest.
I take a breath, letting him think I’m preparing to answer him before bucking my hips up as hard as I can, knocking him off-balance.
My motion rolls both of us to the side and I scrabble for the advantage, throwing myself atop him. My knees hit the mat as
I straddle him, pressing the points of my hips to hold him down.
When his eyes widen, something in me crows. I reach forward, sinking my blade into the mat right next to his ear. The crowd
watching us yells, the guys trying to coach Hux and the girls cheering me on. Normally, it’s distracting. Now, it’s good.
No one can hear what we’re really saying.
I post forward, my lips coming close to his jaw as I pretend to push the blade farther into the mat. “The last time I tried to be nice to you, you bit my head off,” I snap. “So where the hell do you get off asking me questions?”
This time, he’s the one to surge his hips forward, sending me flying over his head. I direct the momentum into a forward roll,
yanking my blade out of the mat as I go. I take my feet, only to find Hux towering over me, leveling that same smirk down
at me.
“You want to know where I get off?” he teases, beckoning me forward with a crook of his finger. I straighten, not taking the
bait as the crowd gets louder. I cock my hip and cross my arms, irritation flooding my senses.
“You were a dick, Huxley Finn. You think I’m weak? Pathetic? I guess you were right.”
“You’re admitting I was right?” Hux asks, that same teasing in his voice.
“We aren’t friends.”
And dammit, I know why. All his jabs, his hard shell, his crushing defeats of me in the classroom and beyond. I’m too soft.
Even now, as I stare at him across the mat, the blades sweaty in my palms, tears prick my eyes. I’m embarrassed to admit how
excited I was when I saw him standing there last night. How often do I look out my window to see if his is open, wondering
if he’s just as lonely as I am? Hoping he’s looking back?
Hux gives me a weird look, spinning his blades as though to remind me where we are—in front of the whole class, Alba’s cameras trained on our movements.
I clear my throat and lunge. He tries to lower his center of gravity but fails, and I knock the blades from his hand and trip him so he lands hard on the mat, his breath rushing out of him.
I don’t think—my body moves. I surge over him, pressing my forearm against his throat until the veins pop out on his forehead.
As our hipbones interlace, I bear him down into the mat, expecting him to buck me off again.
But instead he taps the ground. The girls cheer as he gives up.
For a moment, we’re caught there, our chests going with heavy breaths. And then I roll off. Without so much as a glance and
certainly not a hand to help him up, I stalk off toward the locker room for our break.
I freeze in my tracks. The door to my locker hangs just ajar. An unease settles over my shoulders as I slowly step toward
it, reaching to nudge open the metal door while trying to keep an eye on my periphery.
My gym bag sits inside, seemingly untouched.
Then I remember, I’d told Ms. Astor where I was keeping Fahrenheit 451. What if someone heard? Everyone rushed off to weapons practice . . . everyone except Hux.
With shaky hands, I quickly rifle through my bag, reaching for the false bottom. I lift it, breathing hard as I check for
the book.
I see another book there instead. It’s bigger this time, with a soft blue cover. Pride and Prejudice, it says. Relief gusts out of me as I open the cover just a little to see a note tucked inside:
Being without a book is a special kind of torture.
I took the other one back to reshelve.
While I’m tempted to start reading, the sound of my other classmates coming toward the locker rooms spurs me on, and I quickly
shut the bag and throw it over my shoulder.
Only two more hours before we’re done for the day, and for the first time in a long, long time, I’m excited to go home.
I get to read.
For the second half of weapons practice, I don’t get called again. I sit with my bag at my feet, watching the matches and
trying to act normal. Nef is paired with Adia, and I cheer as she pins her in under two minutes. Hux tries to catch my eye,
but I don’t meet his. He doesn’t want to be friends? Fine.
The last match is called, and we all filter out into the hallway, ready to head back to the refining classroom for one more
hour before the end of the day. Nef keeps putting her hair up and taking it down, talking about the latest episode on her
DopaMine, and I’m pretending to listen as my hand grips my bag like my life depends on it.
Suddenly, the sound of plastic and glass hitting the floor rips out of the classroom nearest to us. More noise follows: Yelling. Shouting. Boots.
Three Hammers lead Ms. Astor out into the hallway, her hands pulled painfully behind her back.
I freeze, and Nef grabs my hand. All around me, students watch, mouths agape as our proctor is arrested.
Our supervisor, Mr. Kaits, stands in the doorway, his mouth pressed into a line as another Hammer peppers him with questions.
“No, I don’t know how it got here, I’m just glad I found it when I did,” he says smugly, and my heart drops as one of the
masked guards slips Fahrenheit 451 into a plastic evidence bag.
A wave of nausea sweeps over me. She was caught because I brought a book to school.
A book.
My whole body goes cold as I realize I have another book in the bag that is currently resting at my side.
“We need to make sure there aren’t any more on the premises,” the Hammer says, and I can hear my heartbeat in my ears.
“I have to pee,” I mumble at Nef, who isn’t listening. She is, like everyone else, watching raptly as the Hammers toss the
training room. Computers are unplugged and set on a desk under the window; tables are tipped. Ms. Astor’s desk is torn apart.
I walk backward until I’m behind the crowd.
And then I turn and run as fast as I can.
I make it to the server room without anyone seeing me and open the door as quietly as possible.
It’s hot and dark inside—the monitors are going but the sound is down low. I know I need to move, but something on the screen
catches my attention.
Two small redheaded children smile toothily up at a camera.
I can’t hear the audio, but captions pop up on screen:
The boat belonged to the CEO and founder of ULTRAPure, the lifesaving dialysis machine that has become increasingly expensive
in recent years . . .
I blink, coming back to myself. An accident? The live stream pans over the wreckage of a megayacht, the sort that would be
larger than the entire school. The Last War has never made it to American soil.
I shiver.
I have to move. I can look this up later.
I yank a chair over to the wall, clambering on top to tuck the book into the ceiling tile. I’m fumbling with the white, pocked
surface when the door opens again. I fumble against the edge of the chair, swearing under my breath.
Hux slips inside, too rushed to notice me perched here.
I watch him disappear behind a desk, folding down to his knees briefly.
That’s when he sees me and freezes.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, all traces of the previous playfulness gone.
I hop off the chair. The book is hidden, but if he wanted to, he could probably find it. Of course, the same could be said
for me and whatever he just tucked away.
Mutually assured destruction, I guess.
“Same thing you are, I think,” I say, my voice low.
“This is not the time to play around, Hart,” he barks. It should be an empty threat, but he closes the space between us in
three powerful strides.