Reborn

by Jennifer Rush

  Inside, the music was ratcheted up to toxic levels so that everyone had to shout to be heard. Colored lights circled the space, and a floor-to-ceiling projection screen behind the DJ flipped through random images.

  The place was packed, which gave me the distinct impression this was the only club in Trademarr, therefore the only thing to do. The number of sweaty bodies packed into this place must have been half the town’s population.

  I went straight for the bar. The bartender, a thirty-something guy with a buzzed head, checked for the neon-green bracelet on my wrist that said I was old enough to get plastered. When I passed the test, he asked for my order.

  “Tequila,” I said. “The best you got.”

  When the shot glass was thrust in front of me, I slammed it back, and a female voice hollered behind me.

  I turned as the girl slid onto the stool next to me. “Get straight to the nasty stuff, I see,” she said.

  I flicked a finger at the bartender for another round. “You don’t like tequila?” I asked the girl.

  She had a green bracelet on her wrist, too, so at least twenty-one, though she didn’t look it. All her features were soft and rounded off, like she hadn’t matured into herself yet. Her eyes were big and bright, and though her smoky voice had the upswing of a flirty vibe, her gaze said otherwise.

  I knew a predator when I saw one. Which made me wonder—in what twisted world did I look like prey?

  “I like tequila just fine,” she said, and folded her hands on the bar top. “It’s what comes after the tequila I don’t like.”

  “You mean the blackouts? Or the hangover?”

  She smiled. “Both. Obviously.”

  The tempo of the music picked up, and I could feel the thrumming of the electronic beat in my chest.

  “You want a shot?” I asked her, and she quickly nodded. I amended the order for one more.

  When I went straight for the booze, the mystery girl stopped me with a hand on my forearm. I looked down at her fingers spread over my skin and tamped down the urge to yank my arm away.

  “What?” I said, as lazily as I could manage.

  “You drink tequila, you drink it right.” She handed me a shaker of salt, and I rolled my eyes.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” I said.

  “I never kid.”

  She licked her hand between her thumb and index finger, her eyes trained on me as she did. I held up the shaker with an arch of my brow, and she gave me her hand. I shook out some salt. I pulled back to do the same, but she snatched my hand in hers and licked it for me.

  I grinned at her. She grinned back.

  “Ready?” she said.

  “I was ready five minutes ago.”

  She laughed. We raised the shot glasses, and I swigged the tequila back after the salt, finishing it off with a bite of the lime wedge. The booze was smooth, and burned all the way down my throat, setting fire to my gut.

  The girl smiled. “Another round?”

  “Always,” I said.

  A half hour later, the club started to teeter around me, and everything was so fucking funny, I couldn’t stop laughing.

  “Dance with me,” the girl said.

  I set down the shot glass hard. “I don’t dance.”

  “Yes, you do.” She grabbed my wrist and tugged me toward the floor.

  The electronic music had been replaced with hip-hop three shots ago, and the heavy bass thumps rocketed up my legs. I got in close to the girl, our bodies pressed together so tightly, you’d need a knife to separate us.

  When the song’s hook slowed the beat, the girl moved against me in equally slow, sinuous movements. The heat of the tequila in my gut sank lower, until I couldn’t think of anything else but the girl and me.

  The blow of trumpets punctuated the air—what kind of hip-hop song was this?—and the girl ran her hands beneath my shirt. When she looked up at me, her head tilted back to make up the ten inches of height difference between us, I recognized that look in her eye, and who was I to ignore it?

  I hunched forward and kissed her, my hands running up her body.

  Hers found their way to my stomach—girls always went for the stomach.

  When I pulled back, she was breathing heavily, her eyes half-lidded.

  “Want to get out of here?” I asked.

  She nodded, so I pulled her hand out of my shirt and tugged her toward the door.

  On our way back to my hotel room, my cell rang, and I fished it out of my pocket. When I answered, I tried my hardest not to sound blasted out of my mind.

  “Hello?” I said.

  The mystery girl—I still didn’t know her name—grabbed my hand and asked who it was.

  “Where are you?” Sam asked.

  He’d ignored the code we’d agreed on. “Where do you think I am?”

  “Are you drunk?”

  I snorted. “No.”

  “Nicholas!” he growled.

  “’S fine,” I said.

  We stopped for traffic at a street corner, and the girl danced circles around me.

  “What do you want?” I asked Sam.

  “I want you to not be drunk.”

  I laughed. “Too late, boss.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Nick.” Sam pulled in a settling breath, as if he were three seconds away from reaching through the phone and throttling me.

  “I’m on my way back to my room,” I said. “I’ll stay there till morning. Promise.”

  “Like that’ll stop anyone from busting through the door?”

  “I’ll lock it,” I said, and chuckled as the girl pulled me through the intersection, the streetlights casting glowing halos around her head.

  Sam made a choked sound. “I knew this was a mistake. I’m coming down there.”

  “No, you’re not. I’mmm fine. Stop being so damn overbearing.”

  He growled again. “Sober up, Nick, and stop being so goddamn sloppy or I’ll come down there and drag you back here myself.” The line went dead. I shoved the phone back in my pocket.

  “Who was it?” the girl asked.

  “My older brother. He’s a dick.”

  We made it back to the room after getting turned around twice. Doubt started to settle in. Sam was definitely right. But no way was I going to tell him that. If I couldn’t find my way back to my own hotel room, there was no way I’d be able to fight off a Branch agent.

  Inside the room, I busted out the whiskey, and the girl and I drank straight from the bottle.

  “So I just realized I don’t even know your name,” I said to her.

  She took a swig of booze. “I don’t know yours, either.”

  “Is that irresponsible of us?” I challenged with a grin.

  She waggled her eyebrows. “Definitely.”

  “So you first,” I said.

  “Belinda.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I am.”

  I liked this girl.

  “What’s yours?” she asked.

  No way was I giving her my real name. Not even an alias I’d used before. I said the first thing that came to mind. “Elijah.”

  “You don’t look like an Elijah.”

  “You don’t look like a Belinda.”

  “It’s Sarah.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  She smiled and came closer, the bottle of whiskey still in her hand. She offered it to me, and I took a long pull on it. After, she reached up on her toes to kiss me. I set the bottle down and wrapped my arms around her, guiding her to the bed. But when she brought her hand up to my face, fingers trailing along my jawline, a pulse started in the base of my skull, and I tensed.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  I staggered away, giving her my back.

  I heard the voices first, the low tenor of whispered orders followed by the click of guns.

  “Elijah?” she said.

  I collapsed in the chair near the window and propped my head in my hands as the flashback flickered to life. I was in a gray room. No, a
gray hallway, but every sound echoed through the space, as if the ceiling was three dozen feet away.

  “Kill her on sight,” a voice ordered through an earpiece in my ear.

  I was wearing black tactical gear, a gun in my hand, a gun strapped to my leg.

  “She was last sighted near the holding cells,” the voice said.

  I moved through the maze like a black ghost. When I came to the wall of cells in the back, I saw a girl crouched on the floor inside the last cell on the right. A mass of dark hair covered her face.

  I brought my gun up.

  Kill her on sight.

  My finger pressed at the trigger.

  “Elijah!”

  I lurched upright, grabbed the wrist of the hand on my shoulder, and swept the person’s legs out from beneath them.

  The girl—Sarah—gasped, and I snapped out of it, catching her before she thudded to the floor.

  She hung there, one foot from the dingy carpet, bright eyes staring up at me.

  “I’m sorry,” I muttered. “I didn’t—”

  “I should go,” she said.

  “You should,” I echoed.

  I righted her, and she straightened her T-shirt.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. I wasn’t sure how to explain the flashbacks, so I didn’t even try.

  “It’s okay.” She headed for the door. I walked her down the hall and outside to the sidewalk.

  “You want me to walk you back to the club? Or call you a cab or something?”

  She waved me off. “I’ll be fine. It was nice meeting you, Elijah.” She said Elijah like she knew it was a fake.

  “You, too.”

  She came over and kissed my cheek, a smirk on her lips. And as she walked off, disappearing in the darkness, I realized something I should have realized back in the hotel room. Something I would have noticed immediately if I wasn’t drunk off my ass.

  It was the look on her face after I’d nearly dropped her to the floor. Not fear. Not panic. Not shock. Not any of the things she should have been feeling.

  Her expression had been blank.

  She hadn’t been scared at all.

  12

  ELIZABETH

  WHEN I WALKED INTO MERV’S THE NEXT day, two days after my meltdown, I had the prickly sensation that everyone was staring at me but also trying not to make eye contact.

  Heat spread across my cheeks and down my neck, and I considered quitting on the spot. Merv had a stack of applications in his office. He could find someone to replace me.

  But then I considered what it would feel like to spend the rest of the summer in my bedroom, worrying about what people thought of me, and decided that was a far worse fate than facing everyone.

  When Chloe spotted me, she followed me to the break room. “I’m so glad you’re back.” She dropped into one of the metal folding chairs and massaged her temple. “I couldn’t stand another day without you.”

  “You don’t look that good,” I said.

  She waved me off. “It’s just a headache. It’s this place, I swear it.”

  “So.” I turned to face her. “Is everyone talking about what happened the other night?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes.”

  The chair squawked when she pushed it back and stood up to face me. “No, it doesn’t. Just keep your chin up and remember that you are better than half of the losers who work here. Including me.”

  I laughed and instantly felt a million times better. “Thanks.”

  She patted my shoulder and pulled away. “I think you’ll also be happy to hear we had a guy ask for one of your tables, specifically. And when I told him you weren’t here yet, he said he’d wait.” She waggled her eyebrows. “Might be a big tip for you!”

  She bounced off, her chandelier earrings swinging.

  After dropping my bag in my locker and tying on my apron, I went out front to see who’d asked for my section. I saw a dark-haired guy sitting in booth fourteen, his back to me.

  My stomach sank.

  I knew exactly who that was.

  I went over to the table, order pad in hand. “Hello, Dr. Sedwick.”

  “Elizabeth!” He turned slightly in the booth to face me, his hands folded on the table. He wasn’t in his usual therapist clothes. Instead he wore athletic shorts and a blue T-shirt. He was young for a therapist, I thought, but Aggie had recommended him, and I’d trusted her opinion. She’d been right. Dr. Sedwick didn’t have that monotone voice the therapists I’d seen in the past had. He didn’t nod and scribble, nod and scribble. Our sessions were more of a conversation, and I’d come to think of him as a friend over the past few months.

  That didn’t mean I was happy to see him. Especially not today, two days after a meltdown.

  “Aggie called you, didn’t she?” I asked.

  Dr. Sedwick kept his expression easy, casual, as he unfolded his hands. “Can’t a guy get lunch without there being a reason behind it other than hunger?”

  I frowned, not buying it.

  “Okay.” He held up his hand, admitting defeat. “Yes, she called me. But I’m not here on official business. I’m just a concerned friend checking in. Also, I do happen to be craving a burger.”

  “Well,” I started, smiling despite myself, “I recommend the bacon-wrapped burger. It’s quite good.”

  He raised a brow. “Oh? Well, then I’ll have that. With a Heineken, please.”

  “Beer before noon? My therapist would not approve of that.”

  He chuckled. “Tell your therapist I promise only to have one and no more.”

  I hurried off to the bar to place the drink order. My heart thudded against my ribs when I saw Evan behind the bar. He wasn’t supposed to be working today. He’d had the next two days off, which was one of the reasons I’d decided to come back today.

  I stood there, frozen in the middle of the restaurant for far too long, until Evan caught sight of me and his eyes softened. Come here, he mouthed, before sliding a drink down the bar top to a forty-something woman who whistled appreciatively in return.

  I came to the corner of the bar and stopped. My stomach tossed and turned. Sweat welled on my fingertips.

  “Hey,” Evan said, and came closer. “How are you?”

  Discomfort and embarrassment had me looking at the floor, at my white Converse, dirt smudged across the fronts. I wouldn’t blame Evan for running away. I wanted to run away.

  “Lissy?” he said.

  “I’m okay,” I answered quickly and cleared my throat, trying to dislodge the overwhelming lump rising higher and higher. “I’m good.”

  He cocked his head and frowned. “You sure? Was… what happened… was it something I did? I keep thinking about that night, and what I could have done to make you… I don’t know. I shouldn’t have left you alone in the middle of the woods in the first place. I’m sorry.”

  I looked up. The expression on Evan’s face was one of genuine concern. There was no hint of mockery.

  “It really had nothing to do with you,” I answered. “I promise.”

  I’m the one screwed up.

  “Still.” He reached over and set a hand on my shoulder, squeezing lightly. “If you need to talk or whatever, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

  I sucked in a breath. That hadn’t been how I’d imagined this conversation going. Actually, I hadn’t really expected us to have a conversation at all.

  The tension in my back dissipated, and my shoulders slumped. “Thanks, Evan. Really. It means a lot.”

  The corner of his mouth quirked. “Nah. We’re friends. That’s what friends are supposed to do.”

  Are we, or will we ever be, more than friends? I wanted to ask so badly I could practically taste the words on the tip of my tongue, sweet but with a bite of salt, possibly the best words ever spoken, possibly the worst words ever spoken.

  I clamped my mouth shut before the question escaped on its own.

  Things were good with Evan. I didn’t want to muddy the waters.
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  “I better get back to work,” I said, and hurried away, wondering if this would be the beginning of a new life. A better life than my screwed-up one.

  13

  NICK

  I WOKE THE NEXT DAY TO THE SOUND OF my cell going off. I rolled over, eyes still glued shut, and groped around for the phone.

  “Hello?” I answered, my voice raw and groggy.

  The person on the other end sighed, relieved. “You’re alive,” Sam said.

  “I think that’s debatable.”

  With a groan, I sat up and scrubbed at my face. Daylight spilled through the cracked curtains. The clock on the nightstand said it was nearly three in the afternoon.

  “I’ve been calling you all morning,” Sam said.

  “Sorry. I was sleeping off the booze. Those were your instructions, weren’t they?”

  Sam sighed again. “If you do something that reckless again, I swear to God, Nick, I’m going to—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re going to come down here and drag me back.”

  “No, I’ll shoot you in the kneecap.”

  I blew out a breath. “You’re brutal this morning.”

  “This afternoon,” he corrected. “And I’m fucking serious.”

  I stumbled to the bathroom. “Yeah, I get it. Hold on, I have to piss.” I set the phone down and did my business. I grabbed the phone again on my way out of the bathroom and dropped into one of the chairs by the front window. “So now that we got the petty shit out of the way, I have to tell you something.”

  “What?”

  “I had another flashback last night.”

  “And?”

  “And, I think someone was trying to escape the Branch, but I don’t know if it was Elizabeth.”

  “Who’s Elizabeth?”

  I poured myself a shot of whiskey and slung it back. “The girl. The whole reason I came here?”

  “You got a name. Good. Anna can cross-reference it with what we have in the files. Have you found this girl yet? She still alive?”