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The sun is hot and his hand is hotter.
I let my thighs fall open so my leg rests on the back of his hand. Each jolt of the car sparks our skin together, rock against flint.
The Mustang flies down the open road, Rafe steering easily with one hand on top of the wheel. His other palm rests on Nix’s leg, his thumb softly kneading her thigh.
They don’t have to hide anything. Not anymore.
Why should Adrik and I hide? Who are we trying to fool?
I look at his profile: the sharp Roman nose, the stern jaw, the narrow, slanting eyes with that look of wildness lurking in them. No matter how disciplined Adrik pretends to be, he can’t fool me. Like calls to like. He has a demon inside, just as wicked as mine.
Adrik feels me looking. He turns to face me, the wind swirling our hair around our faces like we’re caught in a tiny typhoon, closed off from anything around us, even our friends in the front seat.
Time seems to stretch between us, the song on the radio playing at quarter-speed, the car’s engine humming up and down my spine.
Adrik mouths, “I want you …”
I whisper back, “Then take me …”
Adrik’s parents know why he’s really here. Nix knows, too. Who am I lying to?
Only myself.
I know exactly what I want. I just can’t admit it.
It’s crazy. I know it’s crazy.
But why shouldn’t I want crazy things? Why shouldn’t I take a chance?
I’ve never caredfor security, or even happiness …
I want what I want, even if it’s all wrong for me.
12
ADRIK
The arcade is a playful cacophony of light and color—the old-school 8-bit graphics ofPac-ManandCentipedebleeping and blaring next to the thunderous surround sound of a brand-newTransformersgame.
Rafe loads up a couple of cards with credits, passing one to Sabrina and one to Nix so they can swipe at will.
Nix runs directly over toTomb Raider, swiping for all four of us.
Sabrina lifts her plastic gun, connected to the console with a long, thin cord. She racks the slide like she’s ejecting a cartridge from a Glock, peering down the sight with a practiced eye.
“Take it easy, Lara Croft,” I tease her. “The game hasn’t even started.”
“You better take it serious,” she says. “I will be judging you.”
I already know Sabrina well enough to recognize that most things that come out of her mouth sounding like jokes are nothing less than the absolute truth. She watches every move I make. There’s a tally in her head where she scores what she thinks of me.
I’m not afraid to perform under pressure.
I rack my own slide, gun pointed at the screen, counting down the seconds until the game starts.
It’s a melee from the moment we begin. Rafe, Nix, and Sabrina are fresh out of Marksmanship class, and I hit the range three times a week. We’re obliterating bad guys before they’ve halfway popped their heads up on screen, the scores tallying so rapidly that the numbers flow by like a ticker tape.
Rafe is steady and relentless, Nix aggressive and utterly locked in. Most of my attention is on Sabrina—she flicks her gun across the screen so fast I can hardly follow her, anticipating the movement patterns of the characters, focusing on headshots for the highest point value.
