The Breeders Part 15

Clay walks over and sits on the floor next to me. He slips the book in my hand.

"Ro ... me ... o and-What's this?" I ask, pointing to the last word.

"Romeo and Juliet. It's a love story. It's a dang tough one, too. It's written in this funky English. Been working on it for six months."

I run my fingers over the worn paper binding. The picture on the front is a man and woman enfolded in an embrace. With Clay sitting this close to me, the image brings a blush up to my own cheeks.

"Why'd you get embarra.s.sed?" I lift my eyes to his face. There are two red ovals on the bridge of his nose where the gla.s.ses were perched.

He shrugs. "My pa's got no love for book learnin'. Used to tease the h.e.l.l outta me if he found me reading. Don't know why I like it so much. It's just ..." He pauses, thinking. "It takes me somewhere else for a while, you know?"

I hand him the book. "Anywhere but here," I say quietly.

For a moment we sit in silence. I can feel his body next to me purring like an engine, thrumming, giving off heat. He leans over, picks up a can and slides it to me. "Ethan said you'd like fruit c.o.c.ktail, so we opened that one." Clay hands me a spoon. The fruit tastes deliciously sweet in my mouth. I roll the little chunks of peach or pear around on my tongue. For a while it helps take my mind off Clay's even breathing, his increasingly familiar scent. I must smell like gasoline and body odor. What I wouldn't give to smell like meadow flowers just once when he's around.

"Must be hard for you," he says quietly.

I turn to him, trying to read his expression in the dark. "What do you mean?"

He nods toward my little brother. "I know how much I care about the little b.u.g.g.e.r and he's not even mine. Must be hard to worry about him every minute of every day. Bet it wears on you." He turns and gives me that rea.s.suring smile I've come to depend on.

G.o.d, how can he be so good when I'm so awful? My eyes fall over the soft curves of his cheeks, the hard line of his jaw, the dark lashes around his comforting eyes.

He smiles at Ethan's sleeping form, the curled dark shadow in the corner. "h.e.l.l of a kid to go through what he did and still want to play cards with me."

I swallow the lump that's forming in my throat with a little of the fruit c.o.c.ktail. My eyes watch Ethan's chest rise and fall. His bottom lip twitches. "He's about the only thing worth a d.a.m.n in this world." Tears p.r.i.c.k at my eyes. Oh G.o.d, am I choking up? I swallow some water and force the tears back.

Clay leans against the wall beside me and stretches his legs out on the moldy carpet. His eyes trail up to the beam of moonlight trickling in from the window above. "You don't give yourself enough credit. You're as brave as he is, as kindhearted." He shifts and a beam of moonlight trickles over his face. Through all this grime, dirt and sweat, he's one of the most beautiful people I've ever seen. I turn my eyes to the carpet. A tear escapes and slips down the bridge of my nose.

I don't know if it's the frustration from earlier or the exhaustion from the travel or Clay's nice comment or all of them combined, but I can't stop the tears that begin sliding down my face. They trace my cheeks and drip off my chin. I pretend to itch my nose and to wipe some away. They just keep coming.

Clay looks over at me. "Hey, are you crying? Don't do that." He digs in his pocket and pulls out a weathered cloth. "Here."

I shake my head. More tears fall and now sobs threaten to shake out of my chest. I can't control myself. I put my head in my hands and hunch over, letting the tears fall between my legs and onto the floor.

I feel his arms around me. Tentative at first, then stronger, circling me in an embrace. His body is so warm next to mine. And my heart is pounding. I can smell remnants of his aftershave. I don't even think. I lean into him. Smell his musky scent. Feel his chest against my shoulder. Then I'm tilting my head, leaning toward him. My cheek brushes against the stubble of his chin. The sweet smell of his mouth intoxicates me. I lift my mouth up to meet his.

He drops the embrace and pulls away. "I don't ..." he stutters. "I didn't mean ..."

Oh heavenly Lord, what have I done?

I jump up, the fruit c.o.c.ktail clattering from my lap. I run to the door, yank it open and vault into the hallway. I race blindly down the corridor. How could I?

I skid to a stop at the front office. I scramble in and curl myself into a little ball under the desk. In the dark, maybe he won't be able to find me.

I'm the biggest idiot on the planet. I just tried to kiss Clay. Clay-who's supposed to think I'm a bender. It's not unheard of for two guys to do that sort of thing, but judging by his reaction he was definitely not into that. Not into me. How will I ever face him again? I tuck my knees under my chin and bury my face in them. Stupid. I'm so incredibly stupid. I'll just hide here for the rest of my life. Sure, there's dusty bunnies the size of, well, bunnies under here and I think I just spotted a fresh rat's nest, but anything's better than facing Clay. I don't think I can do it. Ever.

I replay that moment in my head, but all I come up with is the desperate overwhelming feeling of longing. Longing for Clay. For his body next to mine. To feel his arms around me. I've ruined it. Now any time he looks at me he'll think I'm trying to make a pa.s.s at him. I destroyed the comfortable friendship we had when I leaned in, mouth puckered.

I hear someone walking down the hall. Heavy footsteps. Not Ethan's.

"Riley?" Clay calls. "Come back."

I clutch my knees to my chest. I can't face him now.

"Riley, come on. It's not safe out here."

He's right. I have no weapon and we know for sure that someone was prowling around this morning, but I don't care. My embarra.s.sment is bigger than my fear.

"Riley, look, I'm sorry. Can you just come back so we can talk?"

His voice is close. He must be outside the office door. Then I hear him wander away, calling my name. I uncurl and peak over the desk. He's scanning the cla.s.srooms for me. He'll be at my door soon. Then I have the task of deciding to sleep with the dust bunnies or slink in there and pretend nothing happened. He wanders down the hall and calls my name one more time.

That's when I see the dark shadow emerge from the boy's bathroom.

Silent, statuesque. I wouldn't have spotted him except for the twinkle of moonlight on a metal object in his hands. A man. He's watching Clay from the darkness of the bathroom. My heart hammers dangerously in my ears.

He steps out of the bathroom and into the hallway. I see his rifle when he raises it and aims at Clay's back.

"No!" I scream.

I jump over the desk and run toward the man. The shot explodes through the hallway. The bullet misses Clay by inches and blows a huge hole in the wall near his head. Drywall rains down everywhere. Clay dives to the floor.

But my eyes aren't on Clay anymore. They're on the stranger as he swings his rifle toward me.

Just before I zag left, I take my opponent in. Skinny, sickly, his hair hangs in limp strands down his back. He's wearing a dark trench coat and holey boots. When he turns his eyes on me, their strangely vacant, the whites gone yellow, the skin below purple. He slides the bolt on the gun and aims the rifle. I throw myself to the ground.

The gun explodes and a window shatters behind me. Gla.s.s and debris pelt my head and arms. My ears ring, blotting out most of the sound. I sit up and shake my head. Then I realize he's reloading. I'm not prepared to dodge it. The silver barrel centers on my chest. I can see the sheen of sweat on the man's upper lip as he pulls the gun to his shoulder. This is the last thing I'll see before I die.

Clay flies in and tackles the stranger. They both go sprawling into the wall with a loud thud. A drooping ceiling tile dislodges and crumbles on their heads, covering them in soggy white clumps. The stranger lets out a strangled cry as Clay's arms circle around his throat. His fingers claw at Clay's arm as the stranger gags and digs his boots into the tile. Clay pulls tighter, his jaw locked, the veins in his neck bulging. The stranger jabs elbows into Clay's ribs. Clay oomphs and his grip loosens. The stranger wiggles out of Clay's arms, turns and grabs Clay by the throat. I watch as Clay's eye pop and his face purples. I've got to do something. I run over.

Clay c.o.c.ks an arm back and slams his knuckles into the stranger's nose. There's a loud crunch and a m.u.f.fled cry. Two rivers of blood gush from the stranger's nostrils. Stunned, he touches his upper lip with the pads of two fingers. His yellow eyes go wild. He finds his rifle as Clay's catching his breath, pulls it back and bashes it into Clay's forehead. The sickening crack as the gun smashes Clay's skull makes me cringe.

Clay goes limp, eyes dropping closed, mouth open. The stranger lifts a sick, b.l.o.o.d.y smile up over his rotting teeth. He claws up the wall, leaving a red handprint. Slowly he turns his grin toward me. With his long, stringy hair; popped, yellowed eyes; and blood-covered face, I have one thought: this is what crazy looks like.

He lifts his rusty rifle up to his shoulder and points it at Clay's chest.

Clay. I don't think. I move.

I jump on the stranger's back and I throw my arms around his skinny neck. He smells like death in a moldy trench coat as I try to tighten my arms around his throat. He claws at my arms, tripping over Clay in the process and we fall. My body hits the floor and pain snaps up my spine. A second later his weight lands on top of me. All the air slams out of my chest. As I gasp for air, his scent of urine, sweat and decay gag me. My arms go limp. He squirms out of my grip, his elbow digging into my chest. The stranger rolls away and staggers up.

"You came to take the castle." His hands shake as he pulls the bolt on his rifle to reload. "But I'm not going give it ye. No, no. No, siree. You brought the bugs and the blood and thought it'd do me, but no. I survived." He strikes his fist against his skull once, leaving a red smudge there like a third eye. "Now you come to drag me down to h.e.l.l." He swipes blood from his lip before he lifts his rifle. "You're going along first."

I need to run, but I can't get my breath. I scramble on my hands backwards in a strange crab crawl. The gun fits into the grove of his shoulder. He squeezes one eye shut as he aims for me.

Please don't let the end hurt.

"Riley?"

Ethan. I whirl around. He's standing in the hallway, staring in horror at the scene before him. The man swivels the rifle away from me. He points it at my baby brother.

"No!" I croak. I lurch upward. The gun goes off with a sickening crack. A ma.s.sive force punches my stomach. Any air I had is knocked away. I crash to the floor, a gun blast ringing in my ears.

Time slows. The world dulls until everything has soft edges. I want to move, but the world's far away. I close my eyes, and when I open them, the stranger leans over me. I see the sweat mixed with blood on his upper lip. Deep in my brain something tells me I should be concerned, but all I feel is a warm, tingling ache.

When I open my eyes again, the stranger's gone. I manage to slide my head over and there's Clay. He pounds his fists into the stranger, who's lying in a b.l.o.o.d.y mess on the ground. At least that. At least he can't hurt anyone else.

I'm having trouble focusing. There's a dull ache just below my ribs. I touch my stomach and lift my hand to my eyes. It's slick with blood. I've been shot. This thought dawns on me slowly like a cresting wave. But Ethan's okay. Clay's okay. The man with the gun isn't moving. Darkness creeps around the edges of my vision.

Ethan's crying behind me. I want to comfort him, but I can't move. Then Clay's above me. He reaches down and touches my stomach. It's the first time I feel pain, but it's fuzzy and far away. He's ripping off my shirt. I want to tell him to stop. My secret will be revealed, but I'm being pulled backward into the blackness. The night air on my skin tells me my chest is bare. The shocked look on Clay's face tells me my secret's out.

Then it's dark.

Chapter Sixteen.

Pain. Pain like being gutted.

I open my eyes. Clay's carrying me in his arms. I try to speak, but my throat's a dry cave. Pain sears my stomach. Hot coals burn me from the inside out. I writhe in Clay's arms. He looks down to me, his face awash in worry. "Shh," he murmurs sweetly. "We'll get you help, Riley. Just hold on."

I lean into his chest and inhale his musky, male scent. Then the pain rips through my abdomen. When I lose consciousness, it's a sweet release.

Pain. Bouncing. I blink in the darkness. I'm in a dark box. Oh G.o.d, a coffin? Then I hear a car engine. We're driving. I'm in the back of a car. We hit a b.u.mp and the pain blazes white-hot. I moan and pa.s.s out.

Light.

Then darkness.

Then light again. Light seeps through my eyelids and pokes at my brain. Ethan's probably left the curtains open again. I try to throw a hand over my eyes, but my arm doesn't want to move. I open my eyes.

Blinding white is all that registers. Then blurry black shapes form into furniture, a door, a bed. This isn't my room. A dull pain twinges at my stomach as I move. Then it all comes flooding back-the gunshot, Ethan crying, Clay clutching me tight to his chest, telling me to hold on. I should be dead. No one survives a gunshot wound to the stomach. You bleed out in a messy puddle and if you're lucky someone will bury you so the coyotes don't eat your insides. Yet when I look down, there's the outline of my legs under a thick beige blanket. My hands are curled on my lap, the nails clean and trimmed. Where am I?

I scan the room. The clean, cushy bed smells like meadow flowers. The sheets are so white they hurt my eyes. The white walls have no cracking plaster, no clumps of black mold growing in the corners. Behind me something's beeping. There's a black screen with scrolling squiggly green and red lines that appears to be a working computer. My eyes shift up to the overhead lights, blazing bright with electricity.

A quiet panic grows in my chest. I rip the sheet down and search my abdomen for the gunshot wound. Last I saw, a bright red pool was spreading through my shirt. Now I'm wearing a clean white gown. I probe my stomach with my fingers and feel the dull soreness. I hike up the gown and find a clean white bandage. I've had medical attention. Good medical attention. There's only one place I could've had medical attention like this.

With my breath hitching in my chest, I roll my palm up to reveal the skin of my forearm. Three inches from my wrist I find the brand, a cross with a head on it. The ankh. The Breeder's mark.

My head buzzes. Oh G.o.d, no.

Before the terror can grip me, the door slides open and in waddles a girl. A girl? She's got blonde curly hair done up in a pink bow at the top of her head. Her white hospital gown billows around her plump body and her red cheeks throw off a heated glow. She waddles over with a dimpled smile on her chubby cheeks. When she turns to lower herself into the chair by my bed, I see why she waddles. She's eight months pregnant.

This is all wrong.

"Well, it's about time you woke up, puddinhead. I've been waiting for days." The girl smiles at me like we're long lost friends. "They had you on some whopper drugs while they fixed you up. How did you get shot, by the way?" She c.o.c.ks her head and blinks at me in a way that reminds me of a curious pup.

I sit up, ignoring the flare of pain from my wound. "Where are we?"

"Oh dear. Got the brain wipe, eh? Too bad. Well, at least you won't know what you're missing." She leans over and snags the bread roll on the tray by my bed. "You gonna eat this?" She stuffs it in her mouth.

The electric lights. The pregnant girl. The Breeder's mark. Terror floods my brain until I'm choking on it. I yank off the sticky pads connected to wires on my chest. The monitors next to my bed go wild.

"You shouldn't do that!" the girl says. "Dr. Rayburn's not going to like that!"

I yank out the tube that's snaking into the vein in my arm. When I stand, I wobble a bit, but then I'm out of bed. The girl wraps her arm over her belly as if some wild animal has just been unleashed. I ignore her and turn for the door.

Three men rush in. Two guards in matching white uniforms spread out, arms outstretched to block my exit. A short, pudgy teen in long white coat peers at me behind the wall of guards.

"I told you," the girl says from behind me. "I told her, Dr. Rayburn."

My eyes flick to the teen in the lab coat. He's the doctor? He doesn't look older than fifteen. His pimpled cheeks and soft chin quiver as he gives me that wild-cat-out-of-its-cage look. His nasal voice warbles when he speaks. "Miss, uh, please get back in bed. You will re-injure yourself," He waves the guards toward me.

I dive under the guards as they reach for me. My hands scramble on the hard tile as I make it under the first guard, but the second grabs my legs. He pins me beneath him.

"Stop!" I scream. There's a sharp pinch as the guard jabs a needle into my b.u.t.t.

"I told her," the girl says.

It all goes dark.

Light. I slide my eyes open and see the same hospital room. I try to sit up, but straps tie my arms to the bed rails. When I tug against the bonds, the same plump girl turns her attention from the flickering TV to me.

"You'd better knock that off," she says with a yawn. "They've got cameras. If they see you trying to bust out again, they'll just slip the tranquilizers in your I.V." She scratches under her round belly and then blinks at me.

"I have to get out of here!" I turn and yell at the camera. "Let me out!" I pull back and forth on the bonds.

The girl shakes her head at me and glances towards the door. "Geez, will you cut that out? You're gonna get me in trouble."

"Get me out of here! Undo my wrists!"

The girl looks at my wrists and then shrugs. "Sorry, Charlie. Doctor's orders. You stay tied up until you stop acting like a loon."

"What does that mean?" I say through my teeth. Instead of thrashing, I work my wrists back and forth testing these straps. They're solid. It's going to take a miracle to get free.

The girl points a plump finger at me. "You, young lady, need to learn the rules. And that's what I'm here for." She smiles and c.o.c.ks her head, letting her curls bounce from side to side. "I'm your friendly neighborhood tour guide. I'll show you around. Teach you the ropes. All that jazz." She holds out her hand to me as if to shake, but then remembers mine are strapped to the bed. She drops her hand back in her lap. "I'm Elizabeth, but you can call me Betsy."