The Recoil Trilogy 3 Book Boxed Set: Including Recoil, Refuse and Rebel

by Joanne Macgregor

  “But hey, I guess I deserved it anyway, right? All that murder of innocents on my hands, not to mention the precious effing rats.” I force myself up and push past Quinn, who has his hands out, like he wants to catch me, and continue my rant. “And I guess the reason I went back to ASTA was because I just plain missed the killing. You can take the girl out of the kill zone, but you can’t take the kill zone out of the girl, right? And then there’s my grand evil scheme to lead them here, or spy on your plans and shoot you all in your sleep, or whatever the hell it is I’m supposed to be doing here. You’re right, Quinn. You’re right about everything.”

  Another box, another trip to the van.

  “I am not just a sixteen-year-old girl who misses her mom and her brother. Who misses you. Who is just confused, and scared and lonelier than I have ever been in my life.” My voice is a rough croak now. “No, what I am is bad. Through and through. I’m evil and guilty and a stone-cold killer. You’re right, I agree. I confess. But would you please just give me a break from this. Okay? Please? You win. I am whatever you say, anything you say. I won’t argue with you again or defend myself again. But I can’t take any more …”

  My last words are a choked whisper. “Please. Just. Stop.”

  Chapter 32

  The journey back

  I ride back to camp in the back of the van, telling Zonia this is so that I can hold the supplies in place. She gives me a shrewd glance and doesn’t argue. I know my face must be red and puffy — I am not a pretty crier. Quinn, who gave me a long, searching look and a slow nod after my outburst, says nothing.

  Back at the camp, Nicky immediately notices I’m upset and draws me away from the others, shooting a scowl over her shoulder at Quinn.

  “What happened?” she asks, patting my shoulder.

  “Quinn gave me another go, and I just lost it.”

  “Sorry, Jinxy. I know everyone’s been really hard on you.”

  “I understand where they’re coming from, I do. It’s just relentless, you know? I’m so tired. And I’m homesick. I miss my mother’s food. I miss my comfy bed and my computer. I just want to snuggle into a pile of warm laundry and eat fresh bread.”

  Nicky laughs. “I know what you mean.”

  “And mostly I miss my brother. Right now I miss him so bad.”

  Robin would be able to shake me out of this funk. Robin would know my motives without me trying to justify myself. Robin would pour me a huge glass of sweet tea and give me a hug. Man, but I need a hug. I wrap my arms around myself and hold on tight.

  “Tell me about him,” Nicky says.

  “Robin? He’s my twin, and we’re really close even though we’re quite different. He’s funny and really smart, and deep — he writes poems about life and death and stuff. I worry about him. He’s gotten into hacking, and he doesn’t realize how dangerous it could be for him. He’s way intelligent, but not always that smart, you know?”

  “He sounds awesome.”

  “He is, and did I mention that he’s better-looking than I am?”

  “In that case, we should definitely snatch him and bring him here. Definitely.”

  I give her a weak smile.

  “Just because he could maybe help Neil. No other reason.” She grins.

  If I had the power to bring Robin here, would I do it? I’d love to see him again, love to have someone on my side who knows and trusts me. But what would happen to Mom if she was all alone? I have a vision of her as she was after Dad’s death, quiet and blank-faced and kind of crumpled in on herself, not eating unless I made her, not smiling or coping for months and months. And Robin would not be safe here, none of us are. If I brought him here and something happened to him, it would finish me off.

  “Nah, he’s safer where he is. At least, I hope he is. You’re just going to have to fish in this pool.”

  Nicky stares unenthusiastically at the males in the camp. “Maybe there’s a bear out there I could cuddle up to.”

  “Hooking up with our animal brethren? Neil would approve.”

  Nicky chuckles and goes to light the fire as the camp readies for the night. Mark and Evyan are on cooking duty, and Kate and Ross are up the mountain on night surveillance, even though Hawke has left the retreat. Kirsty is guarding the camp, and I’m on duty later tonight. Zonia has drawn up a roster for guard duty but still refuses to arm the person standing guard, so unless rats and government forces are repelled by yells, I figure it’s useless — worse than useless, because it lulls the rebels into a false sense of security.

  I’m determined to ignore jerk-face Quinn, who is brooding and practicing hurling knives at trees again, and looking brutally handsome, but my eyes have a mind of their own. Twice, when my gaze strays to him, I find him staring at me, but he’s too far away for me to read his expression.

  Dinner that night includes fresh salad and sweet rosy-fleshed peaches for dessert, and afterwards everyone’s in a good mood. Candace and Bree go wash the dishes, Darius sits beside Zonia, his arm around her shoulders, and Nicky sings a song about home in a soft, sweet voice as the fire burns down to embers. I mull over what I’m hoping to accomplish here.

  When it’s my turn to stand guard duty, I pace around the camp, trying not to make a noise. I shine my flashlight into the woods, scanning high for humans and low for critters. I catch a glimpse of movement, and my heart jumps in the instant before I realize it’s Quinn walking down the path to the van. With a sigh, I resume my patrol.

  What is Robin doing right at this moment? And Bruce and Cameron? And the folk at ASTA — what are they up to right now?

  When, at four am, I finally crawl into my tent, my bed feels more comfortable than usual. I lift a corner of my sleeping bag and feel underneath. Someone has been into my tent and placed a thin rubber camping mattress under my sleeping bag.

  Breakfast the next day is remarkable — not only because there is fresh milk and yoghurt and real eggs, but because Quinn, who’s serving, gives me a smile and says, “Hi.”

  My jaw drops, and I stare back dumbly, even though it’s not his sexy smile. Quinn has several smiles — happy, charming, bittersweet, dazzling — but it’s the sexy one that normally presses fast-forward on my heart and pause on my brain. The smile he gives me over the eggs is … gentle.

  “Hi,” I say, fixed in place. As he hands me my plate, our fingers touch, and a zing of something tingly shocks up my arm.

  “Just move,” says Evyan beside me, with an elbow to my ribs. “You’re in the way and holding up the line.”

  “Give her a break,” says Quinn, and I stand dazed, not realizing that my grip has loosened on my plate. It tilts, and the eggs slide off into the dirt, splattering ochre yolk in the dirt.

  “Here, I got it.” It’s Quinn, scooping up the mess with a spatula and dumping it in the trash can.

  Confused, I walk over to my usual perch on one of the logs and tuck into what’s left of my breakfast. Five minutes later, Quinn comes over and hands me a fresh plate of eggs.

  “Um, thanks.”

  “Sure.”

  I’m taken aback by this change in attitude. There’s a pathetic part of me that just wants to cry at the kindness, a bewildered part that wants to ask him what’s going on in his head (and his heart), and a wary part that wants to order him to keep his distance from me so I don’t get hurt again.

  For the next two days, I get more of the same surprising treatment from Quinn. He sends no snide comments my way, and when someone else does (there is no shortage of people to give me a go), he tells them to cut it out. I’m grateful to have a break from the nastiness, but I am not ready to trust him yet. Strangely, now that he’s being nice to me, I have an urge to punish him, but he doesn’t react to the barbed remarks I direct at him, and merely grins when I dish up the smallest possible portions of food on his plate at mealtimes. It’s unsettling.

  When he offers to do my dishwashing duty for me one afternoon, I’m so amazed that I keep one eye trained on the forest, half-expecting t
o catch a glimpse of Sasquatch.

  “See,” says Nicky, who winks at me every time she notices one of these new thoughtful gestures, “he’s coming around.”

  And despite our history, despite the daunting odds against us, I dare to hope.

  Chapter 33

  Into the fire

  Maybe Nicky’s right, maybe I did get to Quinn. Maybe he’s coming to his senses. Evyan certainly isn’t. I think Quinn’s new attitude to me both unnerves and incenses her, and she ups the ante on sheer nastiness when he’s not around.

  When next we three have a surveillance shift up the mountain, and Evyan is behind the binocs under the hide, Quinn and I stretch out on our backs beside each other in the long grass. Our arms are almost, but not quite, touching. When I turn my head, I can see his square jaw, and straight nose, and my fingers itch to brush his mahogany hair back from his ears. I rest one arm across my chest so that my hand lies over the earring underneath and close my eyes against the sun.

  We chat casually about the foods and T.V. shows we most miss. Our words feel tentative and carefully chosen not to spark another fight and, hey, it’s no deep discussion about our hopes and fears, let alone our feelings about each other, but it’s a fun way to pass the time. And it’s such a relief to have a laugh and forget about the painful past and uncertain future — even if only for a short while.

  “What would you most like to be eating right now?” I ask.

  He mulls it over for a few moments, then says firmly, “Cookies.”

  “What kind?”

  “My mother has this ancient recipe for Christmas cookies. She makes them with almonds and orange zest and a good slug of usquebaugh.”

  “Uskwee-who?”

  “Usquebaugh. The water of life.” At my puzzled look, he explains, “That’s whisky to you.”

  “Your mother puts whiskey in your cookies?” I’m impressed.

  “Sure. And it’s delicious beyond the telling of it. When we were kids, Connor and I would stay out late playing on the street with our football or racing our go-kart, and the only way our mother could get us to come in was to bribe us with a cookie each.” He turns his face so that he’s looking at me, and there’s an intensity in his gaze when he speaks again. “But one piece was never enough, you know? It just gave you the taste of it, and you craved more of that sweet, melting softness in your mouth.”

  The words are innocent enough, but the way he says them, the way he stares at my lips as he says them, steals away my breath. Then he rolls his head back to face the sky and he’s talking normally again, and I’m left wondering if I imagined the moment.

  “So we came up with a scheme. I’d climb onto Connor’s shoulders — I was taller than him already, but he was stronger — and then we’d stagger around the kitchen like a drunk at closing time, so I could reach the cookie tin on top of the cupboard and nick a few. But Mum must have noticed, and she made a special batch for us, because next time we stole some, they tasted of salt and baking soda.”

  He laughs. I could listen to that deep, rolling laugh all day, watch how it shakes his shoulders and contracts the muscles of his stomach into ridges under the fabric of his shirt. He doesn’t laugh enough. I can feel my inner icicle of resentment at him thawing in the warmth of that laugh.

  “So we quit our thieving ways, and soon we were getting our Christmas cookies again.”

  “You mother sounds like a woman to be reckoned with.”

  “She is that.” He sighs. “Sure and I miss those cookies.”

  And he misses his family. I can see his affection for them in his smile.

  “You know what you haven’t said you miss? Colcannon crabbins,” I say, remembering how he tricked me into eating a bunch of disgusting stuff when I first arrived at ASTA, by assuring me that they were Irish delicacies.

  “Colcannon crubeens,” he corrects. “Nah, I never liked Brussels sprouts, disgusting little things.”

  “I knew it!”

  I laugh and kick him gently, and when I leave my leg lying there, just lightly leaning against his, he doesn’t pull away. His foot gives mine a little nudge, and I press back. Maybe our feet are doing what the rest of our bodies can’t. Yet.

  After a lot of talk about sweet tea and cold milk straight from the icebox, and beers in chilled longnecks and the relative merits of Coke versus Pepsi, Quinn announces, “I need to go see a man about a dog,” and strolls off into the trees.

  Evyan wastes no time in getting her claws out.

  “I can see you’ve said something to Quinn to make him think better of you, but I don’t advise you get too used to it. It won’t last,” Evyan says.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  I don’t meet her gaze. I don’t want to see the dislike there. Instead I focus on a cloud of gnats swarming above me, reflecting the sun in sparkling points of light.

  “He doesn’t really want you here. No one does. You’re just an added worry and danger to us all.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  I think that I’ve helped make this camp safer since I arrived.

  “Just by being here,” she snaps. “From what I know of the anti-dissident units in the government, and from what I hear of ASTA, they aren’t just going to take your running away lying down. They’ll be searching for you, mobilizing all their surveillance systems, checking everywhere and everyone. As long as you’re still missing, they’ll be looking. And that means we all risk being found.”

  Her expression is so spiteful that I reckon she’d turn me in herself if she could think of a way to do it without jeopardizing the others.

  “You all risk being found anyway. It goes with the rebel territory,” I say dismissively, but in reality, I’m rattled by her words.

  I was careful to lose my ASTA spook before I made contact with the rebels, but since I got here, I haven’t thought much about how they would react to my going AWOL. And Evyan’s right, they won’t take it lying down. Sarge will be mighty pissed, and Roth will be both embarrassed and furious. She won’t rest until I’m captured and made an example of. They’ll be hunting me, day and night, and of course that raises the risk of discovery for the rebels. Damn. Can I do nothing right, nothing helpful?

  But when Quinn emerges from the trees, his hesitant smile is so heart-meltingly sweet that I push aside the hard questions and the sharp fear. He walks beside me back down the slope and lends me a steadying hand when I clamber down one of the steeper drops.

  My hope rises still more the next day when, after shooting practice, Quinn walks back to camp with me, leaving Zonia, Nicky and Darius to lock away the weapons.

  My shoulder bumps his arm, and our hands brush as we walk side by side along the narrow path. Somehow, somewhere between the oaks and the pines, our fingers lace together. Loosely at first, then tighter. My heart lifts. It feels both full and weightless — a balloon filled with golden happiness, floating on air. With a squeeze of his hand, Quinn draws me off the path and behind the massive trunk of an ancient tree. Without a word, he places his hands on my shoulders and slowly, gently, he pushes me back against the rough bark, and presses the length of his body against mine.

  His lips dip downwards to mine, hesitantly, uncertainly, as if he’s expecting me to push him away and start yelling. But I want this. My hands tangle in his shirt and his hair, dragging him closer, pulling his face down. His lips are warm and firm as they part over mine. We kiss deeply, urgently, clutching each other as if we might sink into the unsteady earth if we didn’t. He tugs my bottom lip into his mouth and sucks on it gently. I’m on fire. The heat that always simmers between us flames into a blaze which draws the breath out of me. I’m burning up, searing into life.

  I know there are still things between us, things we need to talk out and understand, but right now our bodies are in harmony, and the discussions can wait until later.

  My nerves sing with a sensual awareness of Quinn — the heat of his mouth, the graze of his stubble, the boy-smell of his skin, the strength in the span of
his hands around my back, my hips, my butt. He kisses my cheeks, then his lips move down my neck to the hollow of my throat. My head goes dizzy, and my knees melt. I shiver when, with a groan from somewhere deep inside him, he moves his hands up my sides to the curves of my breasts.

  “Ah, sweet mercy mine, Jinxy, but you’re beautiful. I want you, all of you.”

  “Quinn, please …” I beg.

  My body is swelling, softening, molding into the growing hardness of him. My hands move under his shirt and run over the firm planes of his back. I mew with relief when his mouth slants across my own again. I’m mindless — empty of anything but a pulsing, aching need in the pit of my belly. I want more. I want every part of me to touch every part of him. I start sliding down the trunk. Quinn moves with me, never breaking contact. Our mouths and hands and bodies are locked together.

  I can’t breathe, but I don’t need to. I only need Quinn.

  Loud yells from somewhere behind us prize our lips apart.

  We’re both panting, too short of breath to speak. But we’re grinning widely. The universe has clicked back into place, and the two of us are going to be okay. Better than okay — we’re going to be together.

  Another yell. “They’re coming,” Quinn says.

  “Let’s run!”

  Laughing, we grab hands and hurtle through the woods, slowing down to a sedate walk a little way out of camp to straighten our clothes, smooth our hair and catch our breath. I’m sitting innocently beside Quinn on a fireside log, still smiling and dying to give Nicky a wink when she, Darius and Zonia walk into camp.

  My smile flat-lines, and my eyes widen. Something is terribly wrong.

  Chapter 34

  Ratter

  Zonia and Darius have their arms around Nicky and are helping her limp along. Her face is as pale as ash, and pinched with pain and fear. The left leg of her jeans is rolled up to her calf, and there’s blood running down from a small wound above her ankle.