Freaks Under Fire

by Maree Anderson

  He uttered a soft snort. “Oh, I noticed all right. I just didn’t think about how it was possible—until now, that is.”

  An ache, centering in her heart, throbbed through her. “You had forgotten what I truly am.” And now I’ve smacked you in the face with it, and forced you to confront it.

  Tyler hopped off his stool and approached her. He reached down to grasp her hand and placed it on his chest, over his heart. “Aside from that one time when I was a complete dick about learning what you are, I’ve never seen you as anything but the girl I love. When I look at you now, that’s all I see.”

  Witnessing the truth in his eyes, the love he felt for her unashamedly displayed for all to see, Jay now understood why human females described themselves melting into a little puddle of gooey girly bits.

  The hint of a smile tugged his lips. “Though I gotta say, I’m relieved as all heck you’re not jailbait.”

  “Are we good then?”

  He hugged her tight. “We’re good.”

  The tension drained from Jay’s muscles and she curled into Tyler’s embrace, laying her head on his chest, content for the moment to do nothing else but listen to the steady beat of his heart.

  Seth tapped her on the shoulder. “Sorry to interrupt the love-fest, but Bea’s just opened her eyes.”

  Jay pulled from Tyler’s arms and turned in time to observe Sam almost levitate from his stool in his rush to get to Bea’s side. Sam may not have come right out and admitted his feelings for Bea, but right now, they were obvious to anyone with a modicum of intelligence.

  “Bea.” He grasped her hand and bent over her. “It’s Sam, sweetheart. Can you see me?”

  Bea blinked so slowly that it was agonizing to witness, and even to Jay it seemed to take an age before her eyelids resumed their original position.

  “Are you ready?” Sam asked. “Or do you need more time?”

  No response. Or at least, none that a human could detect. “She moved her eyelids a fraction,” Jay told him. “She’s weak. She’s trying to answer, but the effort it takes is too great. Give her time.”

  Moisture gleamed in Bea’s right eye, welled, overflowed and slipped down her cheek.

  “And I believe there’s your answer, Sam.” Marg had moved so quietly Jay doubted anyone else had heard her approach.

  Jay gently hip-bumped Sam aside and leaned over so Bea could see her face. “I’m going to run the algorithm now. I’ll start slow so it doesn’t overwhelm your core programming. Okay?” She swiped the tear from Bea’s cheek with her thumb, and smiled when she detected another quiver of movement as her twin tried to blink.

  Directing her attention to Sam, she advised, “Better give Bea some room. She might accidentally hurt you if she can’t control her limbs. An out of control cyborg could do a lot of damage to a human.”

  When Sam didn’t move, Jay grasped his forearms and backed him up to what she deemed a safe distance. “Please make sure he stays back, Marg. It’ll only distress Bea if she injures someone she cares about.”

  Marg nodded and linked her arm in Sam’s. He didn’t seem to notice. He couldn’t tear his gaze from the motionless girl on the gurney.

  Jay had inserted a tiny device designed to act as wireless receiver beneath the skin of Bea’s hip. For now, Jay would run the algorithm that would activate the optical cuffs from a laptop, but once Bea was stronger and mobile, Jay had designed a pocket-sized portable transmitter to replace the unwieldy laptop. Bea could keep the transmitter on her person, and recharge it as required.

  “Here goes.” Jay reached out and pressed the Enter key on her laptop.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sam abruptly realized he was holding his breath—must have been for a while because little flashes of light seemed to be darting across his eyeballs. He exhaled slowly through his nose, forced himself to relax and breathe normally, uncurled his aching fingers from tight fists he also didn’t recall making.

  How long had it been since Jay had started running the algorithms? Seconds? Minutes? Why wasn’t something happening?

  And then something did happen. It wasn’t spectacular, wasn’t even all that noticeable unless you had observed Bea, fed and cared for her, sat for hours and read to her, like Sam had done. Her eyes moved—just a little to the left, as though she was searching for something. Or someone.

  He didn’t think, he moved. Or tried to, but Marg was grasping his arm, holding him back. “Dammit, Marg,” he snarled. “She’s looking for me. Let me go to her.”

  Marg didn’t budge, and her grip tightened until her fingertips dug into his arm. “Only if Jay says it’s okay. Otherwise, you stay back.”

  “Jay.” Sam knew he sounded like he was begging, knew that smart prick Seth would give him shit about it, but he didn’t give a crap.

  Jay’s gaze was fixed on Bea. “I believe you’re right: She is looking for you, Sam. Go to her but don’t touch her. Make her work for it.”

  Sam shook off Marg’s grip. It took all the control he had not to run to Bea and clasp her hand and squeeze it tight to reassure her. He walked. Slowly. Carefully. And he halted beside the gurney, sinking to his haunches and resting his forearms on the thin plastic mattress, so she couldn’t help but see him.

  Her pupils dilated. She focused on him and his heart leapt, doing a happy dance in his chest… until his brain kicked up a notch and he recalled she did that every now and then. It wasn’t something to get all worked up about. And while he was coming to terms with the unhappy fact that he wanted this so damn badly he was imagining her responses, the first miracle happened: Bea’s lips twitched.

  Sam blinked. But he wasn’t imagining it. And as he watched, barely daring to hope, her lips stretched, slowly—excruciatingly slowly—into a crooked, lopsided smile.

  He smiled back at her, elated. And then, all the emotions he’d kept bottled inside—all the secret hopes and dreams he’d harbored for this beautiful, damaged girl, all his fears that she would remain forever trapped inside her body—boiled over. And Sam lowered his head atop his arms and fought the tears.

  It wasn’t until something squeezed his hand and he’d glanced up, confused, that he realized Bea had managed something even more miraculous than that wonderful smile. Because the cool, feminine hand that now lay across his, squeezing his fingers, wasn’t Jay’s or Marg’s. It was Bea’s.

  ~*~

  Jay disconnected the call and lay back against the pillows. According to Seth, Bea was making excellent progress. She still wasn’t able to speak but she was communicating using basic signs. Her physical prognosis was good—although Jay wanted to personally check on Bea again and run more tests before any drastic decisions were made about where to proceed from hereon in.

  For now, with Bea improving in leaps and bounds, Jay could concentrate on other things—chief among them identifying the men who’d attacked Marg in the parking building—not easy when their bodies had vanished without trace—and tracking the three men who’d come looking for the cybernetic hand. Not to mention determining who had taken the hand in the first place, along with who had sent the photo of Bea. And then there was convincing Allen and McPhee she didn’t have a stalker, and fending off Chandler’s increasingly awkward questions about how she’d handled Nessa’s so-called stalker.

  Was there any wonder she felt drained? She couldn’t wait for Bea to recover enough to help with—

  Jay damped that thought before it could take root. Bea deserved more than being Jay’s lackey. She deserved happiness, companions who cared for her, a life. She’d suffered enough, and Jay would not risk her being harmed again. Sixer would have to do.

  A scrabbling at the partially opened door announced the arrival of a bored puppy, and Jay smiled as Brum squeezed through the opening and poked his head around the door.

  She swung her legs off the bed and clicked her fingers.

  Brum raced toward her, hindquarters skidding on the polished floorboards. When he reached her, as was his habit, he jumped up and pa
wed her thigh, the piteous whimpers his way of begging her to pick him up.

  “Nein,” she told him. And when the pup didn’t take the gentle hint, she commanded, “Platz!”

  Brum, recognizing her no-nonsense tone, obeyed and dropped to all fours.

  “Braver Hund.” She leaned down to fondle his ears and he licked her cheek. “Sitz!”

  The pup sat.

  “Braver Hund.”

  He panted, tongue lolling, head cocked to one side, expectant.

  Jay reached into the basket of puppy toys she kept beneath the bed, and grabbed a thick piece of rope that had been knotted at each end.

  Brum loosed a happy bark, recognizing his favorite toy. His hindquarters quivered, but he remained sitting. He, too, was making excellent progress.

  “Braver Hund!” she praised, holding out the rope and clicking her fingers, giving him permission to move and take the toy in his mouth. She played tug of war with him, amused by his growling whenever she shook the rope to try and dislodge it from his grip.

  The blare of Tyler’s cell phone from the nightstand interrupted the game. Jay conceded the tug of war and left Brum to gnaw on his toy. Tyler was showering in the ensuite so she yelled out that he had a call, and reached for the phone.

  “Can you take it for me?” he shouted. “I’m covered in shampoo.”

  Jay, recognizing Tyler’s father’s number, swiped the screen to answer the call. “Hello, Michael,” she said.

  “Can I speak to Tyler Davidson, please?”

  Surprise jolted through her. Why would another man—a stranger—be using Michael’s private cell phone to call Tyler?

  “He can’t come to the phone right now,” she told the caller. “Can I take a message?”

  The caller’s voice sounded tantalizingly familiar. She accessed her database to identify his voiceprint, but before she could find a match he blurted, “It’s Martin Russell, manager of Bellevue.”

  Another jolt, this one followed by a lazy roll of her gut. Bellevue was the name of the gated apartment complex where Jay had relocated Marissa and Michael. “Is something wrong, Mr Russell?”

  “Not sure,” Martin said, his voice heavy with strain. “I really need to speak with Tyler Davidson.”

  “What do you mean you’re not sure? What’s happened? I’m his girlfriend. Tell me!”

  Her voice was louder and sharper than she’d intended, but that worked to her advantage because Martin threw caution to the wind and spilled his guts. “Neighboring apartment owners heard the baby crying. It went on for hours and the kid sounded real worked up, so they got me to check it out. When I opened up the place, I found the baby alone, and Mr and Mrs Davidson gone. All their stuff’s still here. I found this number listed as an emergency contact on one of the cell phones. Can you get a message to Tyler Davidson? Tell him he needs to get down here quick.”

  “Give me a moment, please.” Jay grabbed her cell and called Sixer. Pick up, pick up.

  “The number you have dialed is no longer in service.”

  The room seemed to blur and close in on her. No. Please, no. She would never forgive herself if anything had happened to Tyler’s parents.

  “Hello? You there?” Martin Russell’s panicked voice squawked down the line.

  Jay picked up Tyler’s cell again and swallowed to lubricate the desert-dry cavern of her mouth. “We’ll be right there,” she promised.

  ***

  Thank you for reading Freaks Under Fire and I hope you enjoyed it! Reviews help avid readers (like me!) find books. Please consider writing a short review telling other readers what you thought of Freaks Under Fire.

  If you’d like to know when my next book is due to be released, please:

  subscribe to my newsletter

  follow me on Twitter @MareeAnderson

  follow me on Google +MareeAnderson

  like my Facebook YA author page www.facebook.com/MareeAndersonYA

  follow me on the Novel Engagement app

  You can also find me here:

  Pinterest: www.pinterest.com/mareeaanderson

  Instagram: @MareeAndersonAuthor

  Turn the page for a peek at the first book in the Liminals series!

  LIMINAL

  Excerpt

  A groan. Mine. I peeled open my eyelids and hauled myself upright. Uhhh. Bad idea. The room spun and the soggy washcloth someone had thoughtfully folded and draped over my forehead plopped into my lap, soaking through my jeans. I flopped back against the pillows, and replaced the washcloth over my face, letting the coolness of it seep into my heated skin while I waited for the room to slow down… and hopefully get around to remaining in one place real soon.

  “Don’t ever do that to me again.”

  I lifted up the corner of the cloth and cut my fuzzy gaze to the right.

  The blur resolved into LPD. He was sprawled in a recliner with one leather-clad thigh draped over the arm, nursing a beer. “Gawd. Feel like I’ve been run over by a bloody truck.”

  Ditto.

  He noticed me eyeing the bottle in his hand. “Want one?”

  Mmmm. Although I’d only tasted beer once, and hated it, my mouth watered. I could almost taste the malty bitter-sweetness on my tongue, feel the cool liquid slipping down my throat. I stared at the bottle, watching the beads of condensation dripping down the sides, watching him lift it to his mouth to take another swallow….

  A slow blink. And another. And one more before I realized I’d been mesmerized.

  I sucked in a sharp breath that sandpapered the lining of my über-dry throat and made my head spin. Calm down, Wren. Focus. He was only offering you a beer. “Don’t ever do what again?” I asked, proud that my voice didn’t shake.

  “Toss me out of a sync. Not only is it rude as hell when I’m trying to help you, the kickback is a bitch. Peeling you off the path and lugging you inside just about killed me. Not to mention the big-arse bruise I can feel forming thanks to your sharp little elbow.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” Kind of. Maybe more so if I had a clue what he was going on about.

  “You copped some bumps and scrapes,” he said, “but nothing too major. Could have a concussion, though. Should probably have a doctor check you out.”

  Hmmm. He didn’t sound particularly thrilled by the prospect of dragging me off to the nearest ER. In fact, going by the tight line of his lips and the way he dropped his gaze to his suddenly fascinating beer bottle, I’d say he was freaked by the thought of it. Interesting.

  “I don’t need a doctor,” I said. Truth. Because what I needed was information.

  “How’s your head?”

  “Fine.”

  “Liar.”

  I gave up hiding behind the washcloth and folded it into a rectangle again. With careful fingers I probed the egg-shaped lump on my temple. It was wince-worthy, sure, but lately I’d developed a high tolerance for pain. I slapped the washcloth over the lump and ignored it. “I’m not lying. This bump on the head is nothing compared to the killer migraines I get.”

  His lazy gaze sharpened. “How often do you get them?”

  I ignored the question. If anyone was going to be asking the questions it’d be me. “Where are we?”

  A pause for another swallow of beer. “My place.”

  “I mean what suburb?”

  He quirked an eyebrow. “That really what you want to ask me after everything that’s gone down?”

  Good point. “Fine. How did you get me off the school grounds without being caught? Or did you give some BS excuse that’ll come back to bite me come Monday?”

  He swigged his beer again and I tried my darnedest to ignore the fact that he was heart-thumpingly rock star hot. And I was in his bedroom, lying on his bed. And we were alone. And did I mention he was a hottie?

  “You didn’t make it easy,” he said. “First I had to use a handy dandy electronic device that emits a nasty subliminal whine.”

  “Like a dog whistle?”

  “More or less.” He gestured expansiv
ely with his beer bottle before setting it on the floor beside the chair. “It’s a nifty little thing. Designed it myself.”

  If he was waiting for me to be impressed and ask for more details he’d be doomed to disappointment.

  There was a glint in his eyes that hinted he might be clued into my attempts to play it cool despite all the questions bubbling in my brain. I hoped not. Sure didn’t want him thinking he held all the cards.

  “It encouraged everyone to avoid the locker area for a few minutes,” he said. “The plan being I rocked on up and convinced you to go somewhere for a private talk. But you screwed up aforementioned brilliant plan by phasing out when you did the dying swan act. I could hardly toss you over my manly shoulder and stroll off after you pulled that one on me.”

  Manly shoulder. Oh please. He was laying it on real thick. “How come?”

  “When you phase you’re pure energy. You haven’t got a physical body, per se. I might as well have tried to wrestle with air. Make sense?”

  I nodded. It did make sense. Kind of.

  “I had to do the old lock, link and sync.” At my blank look he elaborated. “Lock on to your energy signature, establish a link, and sync with you, so I could pig-a-back you along with me when I phased, and get you off the school grounds ASAP. Pity I couldn’t have phased us both all the way out and zipped straight back home, but I couldn’t risk it.”

  Oookay then. I figured I’d gloss over all the bizarre stuff I didn’t have the faintest clue about and settle for asking the obvious. “Why not?”

  “Didn’t want to lose you. Once we were in the clear, I went liminal and pulled you back into phase with me. Again, you didn’t make it easy. Even out for the count you put up quite a fight for such an itty bitty little thing.” His tone was admiring enough that I had to clamp down on a bizarre desire to preen. And then he ruined the moment by waggling his eyebrows and saying, “But I had my wicked way with you in the end.”