Imitation

by Heather Hildenbrand

  “What are you talking about?” he asks. The expression he wore that first day is back. Now I understand it: distrust. He already knows something. I have no idea how much, but I try to smooth it over.

  “I mean life … in the spotlight, the death threats. They scare me.”

  “Huh,” he grunts and I know he doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t press it.

  We go back to staring out over the rooftops. We don’t speak again until his watch beeps some sort of alarm.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “We need to head back. Gus will be expecting us.”

  “They’re at home?” I ask, surprised to be left so alone.

  “They tried transporting the prisoner. The second guy. Titus wanted to talk to him.”

  “What do you mean tried?”

  “He died before they could get him there.” There is no emotion in his words when he says it, and I wonder how hard it is for him to turn it off. I can’t imagine what it would feel like to kill something—or someone—but it can’t be easy or without consequences. And Linc is not unfeeling. I saw it when he spoke of his brother.

  “What will they do with them? The men who attacked me?”

  He shrugs. “Background check them. Fingerprints, the whole nine yards. Titus has a lot of connections so he doesn’t have to go through the proper channels. He’ll turn their bodies over to the police once his private forensics team has learned all they can.”

  “He doesn’t think it ends with them?”

  “No, they were hired thugs. There’s got to be a master planner pulling the strings. That’s who Titus wants.”

  I nod, knowing he is right. Titus wants the master planner so badly, he would risk leaving me here alone on this rooftop with Linc so that he can focus on the dead men being transported to him for investigation. I wonder what sort of reception I’ll receive when Titus has time to care about me again.

  “Do they—did you tell them I tried to leave?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  He turns to me and scoffs. “How far do you think you would’ve gotten, anyway? No money, no car, nothing. Your dad has everyone in this city in his pocket. No way you could’ve disappeared. I get that you’re scared but running off alone is not the answer.”

  He’s right, of course, but I don’t say it. I’m too busy remembering the one thing that should’ve stopped me from the insanity of escape in the first place. Money, cars, connections—none of it would’ve mattered. I am a product. Equipped with GPS tracking and a kill switch embedded directly into my body. The minute I left this rooftop, Titus would’ve either retrieved me or terminated me. How could I have forgotten?

  I decide then and there not to drink vodka ever again. I go back to staring out at the rooftops. It’s not nearly as relaxing anymore, not with thoughts of dead men and GPS trackers and Titus crowding in. I know Linc is waiting on me to start for home, but I am desperate for just one more moment.

  “They know I didn’t die,” I say finally.

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  I can tell by his expression he is trying to make a joke. It falls flat. I don’t smile. “Depends on who you ask.”

  His forehead creases in confusion but before he can ask, the communicator on his watch beeps again. “Damn,” he mutters.

  He shuts it off and then looks at me for so long my pulse accelerates. “Are you okay now?” he asks, and I can tell he means it because it feels like he’s looking so much deeper than at my outsides.

  “I am,” I answer because in this moment, it is true.

  He smiles. It’s small and lopsided, like his mouth is unsure if that’s really what it’s being told to do, and I love the way it looks on him. Something inside me cracks and reseals.

  “Good. Let’s get out of here.” He turns toward the exit and offers me his hand. When I take it, it’s warm, comforting. It reminds me that he is the only person on my side, the only one actually trying to prevent my death.

  I shiver, comfort and fear an equal mix.

  “You cold?” he asks.

  His voice is rough and close. Our chests are only inches apart. He is looking down at me with quiet concern and I shiver again—this time for an entirely different reason.

  “No,” I whisper.

  The silence hangs like a sharp edge between us. I feel as if at any moment, we’ll turn a corner and rush headlong into … something. I don’t know what. So I stand there, not breathing, waiting. Finally, he blinks and the sharpness rounds out into nothing. I feel relieved and crushed all at once.

  “We better go,” he says, dropping my hand.

  He leads me to the access door and down the stairs without another word. We catch the elevator on the tenth floor, avoiding whatever is left of the party. I’m glad for that. Despite my assurances, my head is pounding now that I’m moving.

  When we make it outside, he turns to me, apologetically. “The others took the car. All I have to get you home is my motorcycle. Is that okay?”

  I falter in my step. “It’s fine.”

  His head tilts. “Have you ever ridden one?”

  I am tempted to say that I’ve only barely ridden in cars, much less a motorcycle, but I don’t. “No,” I say simply.

  He stops in front of a black motorcycle that’s all hard angles and quiet muscle and hands me a helmet he unstraps from the handlebars. “Put this on.”

  I fumble with it for a moment before he takes over, moving my fingers aside and nimbly working the snaps into place. He takes off his jacket and holds it out for me to slip into.

  “I can’t. It’s yours,” I say. “Besides, I have mine.”

  He shakes his head. “That’s not going to be enough to keep you warm once we get moving. Trust me.” We both look down at my mostly bare legs. “Just press close to me.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  I slip one arm, then another, into sleeves that are too long, and zip it up. It feels heavy and bulky around my shoulders, but I assume the padding is for safety and I don’t complain. My belly is jumping from anticipation and fear as I eye the machine next to us. There’s something sensuous about it—like whispered danger.

  “The main thing to know is how to turn. You have to lean into it and let the bike do the rest. If you’re not sure, press against me and move when I move. Got it?”

  I don’t really, but I nod anyway.

  “Just do what I do,” he adds.

  He helps me into his gloves, also too big, and then we’re ready. He swings a leg over and knocks the kickstand back in a practiced move.

  I stand there, eyeing all of the parts, and trying to figure out the best way to get on behind him without falling over—or revealing any more of me in this too-short dress. He turns the key and the bike revs to life underneath him. He looks over and though I can’t see his expression behind his helmet, it feels serious. There is a quiet energy between us.

  “Get on,” he says, voice muffled. He holds his hand out and I take it tentatively, trying to figure out where to step and where to grab as I slide in behind him. He waits a beat while I orient myself and then the engine revs. I wrap my arms softly around his midsection, unsure, feeling overly forward if I grab on too tightly.

  “You’re going to want to hang on,” he says as if reading my thoughts. The inside of my helmet heats as my cheeks burn. I’m glad he can’t see my face. “Ready?”

  I tighten my grip. “I think so.” My wavering voice makes me sound like a liar. “Is this thing safe?” I can’t help but add. He shakes with laughter and we ease forward.

  The bike is a life of its own underneath me, humming and vibrating, and then he punches the gas and it’s smooth and sleek—and fast. The pavement is rushing by and the wind is flapping the edges of my dress and I no longer care how tightly I should be holding on. I curl my shoulders forward so that my chest is curved to his back.

  The speed is exhilarating. The fear and excite
ment are almost too big to feel at the same time. Adrenaline pumps into me, making room for both. Behind the anonymity of my helmet, I am grinning. I cannot stop. I have the urge to throw my hands out and lean my head back and let the wind roll over me in a moment of perfect ecstasy. Then we hit a bend in the road and I feel him leaning and think better of letting go. I lean with him, matching my shoulder dip to his. The motorcycle tips effortlessly and then rights itself again as the road straightens. It’s pure magic.

  The speedometer tips eighty and I’m not sure I wouldn’t blow away if I let go. It’s a thrill; death is rushing by me six inches from my toes with nothing separating me from it except my grip on Linc’s midsection. I tighten my arms and grin wider.

  The turns are scariest, the way we lean and the speeds with which we take them. Each time, we come closer to getting parallel with the pavement. It’s thrilling and terrifying all at once. I squeeze Linc’s ribs, giving away the delicious anxiety that grips me so hard I’m gasping in my helmet. I don’t think he can hear my intake of breath or little cries of panic, but I’m not certain. He pats my hand as the curve straightens out and I know we’re grinning together now.

  All too soon, the road gives way to warehouses, then businesses, closed and boarded and littered with dirty sidewalks, trash, sleeping bodies. I caught glimpses in the car the other day, but this view is different. I can see it all, no tinted windows to paint it less horrifying.

  We pass a stumbling man and have to swerve to keep from running him over. He doesn’t even jump back. I wonder if he’s aware we are there at all. Children play with some red-eyed animal that hovers behind an overturned dumpster. Their clothes are ragged and dirty, even in the darkness. Through the filter of my helmet, the air is stale and sullied.

  I want him to drive faster and get me gone from this place. It reeks of filth and of wanting and makes the inside of my skin ache for these people who have so little when I suddenly have so much.

  In a few moments, the warehouses with shattered windows and boarded doorways give way to moderate apartments and then slowly, it all fades into the glitter of uptown.

  Linc lets me off in front of the revolving doors of Rogen Tower. I slide off, mindful of where the fabric of my dress has ridden up. My legs are tingling from cold and the leftover rush. After my fumbling fingers release the snap, I slide the helmet over my head and hand it back to him. He flips the visor up on his helmet, revealing the top half of his face. He looks sorry, though for what, I’m not sure.

  “Thanks for the ride.”

  “I hope you don’t mind I took the long way home.”

  “Not at all. That was amazing.”

  He grins. “I’m glad you liked it. I’ll see you later.”

  “You’re not coming up?”

  He shakes his head. “I’ll be back in the morning. You better get going. Gus is waiting in the lobby.”

  At his nod, I twist around and catch sight of Gus watching us from the other side of the glass. I am not sure but I feel like I’m in trouble, though surviving is my only crime.

  When I turn back, it’s to the sound of the bike’s engine revving. “Bye,” I say, but I doubt Linc hears me. He’s already pulling into the flow of traffic and speeding off.

  Gus is unsmiling but silent as he escorts me upstairs. By the time the elevator dings for the penthouse, I think maybe I’ve avoided the inevitable. But the first thing I see when the doors open is Titus. His demeanor shifts at the sight of me and I think the brick wall I hit earlier wasn’t nearly as impenetrable.

  “Raven,” he says.

  Gus nudges me from behind, driving me forward, and Titus steps in front of me, blocking my path.

  “Care to explain what happened?” he asks.

  “Someone came after me. Linc stopped him,” I say, doing my best to hold his stare. I can feel my chin jut forward, a trait I learned from Lonnie, and I hope it makes me look fearless.

  He takes a step toward me and my shoulders go rigid. “Do not think for one second that I don’t know what sort of nonsense had you up on that roof tonight,” he says.

  “I don’t know what you—”

  Without warning, his hand flies across my cheek and I am driven back. My shoulders hit the wall first and then the back of my head. I wince as my headache from earlier pounds anew.

  “You are a foolish girl!” he hisses. “Foolish for thinking you’d survive without me and foolish for thinking I‘d give you the chance to try.”

  He is in my face now. I can feel his hot breath, taste the staleness that mingles with the scent of alcohol. My eyes are squeezed shut because I know that if I open them, moisture will escape, and I refuse to cry for him.

  “You are lucky Linc was there. If he wasn’t, you’d only be getting what you deserve for betraying me. Betraying your purpose.” I can feel his shoulders pressing close, his lips inches from my nose. I press my lips together keep from making a sound, knowing any response will be interpreted as weakness.

  “Know this,” he whispers. “If you try again, I will terminate you myself.”

  His footsteps echo as he retreats. I do not open my eyes until the sound dies away. I expect Gus to be waiting for me from where he stood by and watched the whole exchange with a bored expression, but he is gone too. A hand at my elbow startles me. I jerk away with a short cry and find Maria, the maid, staring at me.

  “Would you like some help getting ready for bed?” she asks timidly, and I know she heard everything.

  “Yes, thank you.” My voice is deceivingly steady, even to my own ears. I should be proud that I’ve kept my cool but I’m ashamed. And angry. My hands shake with the emotion. It is heady and almost too big for my body. If human rage is anything like this, it explains the root of the evil I’ve seen tonight.

  Chapter Six

  Taylor comes for lunch the next day, accosting me as I enter the parlor, her brows are raised with practiced concern and morbid curiosity. The bruise on my cheek doesn’t help matters, though the staff has already been informed it was part of my rooftop attack. Only Maria knows the truth—and Gus, but he never gives anything away.

  “Are you all right?” Taylor asks, managing to hug me while barely touching me. “Gawd, I heard about your close call last night and I just cannot believe the skuzzies out there who get their rocks off trying to hurt women. I mean, you could have been killed—or worse.” She stops, newly horrified as she realizes what her words imply. “I mean, they didn’t actually … touch you, did they?”

  “No, they didn’t,” I say, thinking of Linc and the way he commanded the situation so effortlessly, so fearlessly. I remember his comment on the rooftop, how he is not afraid to die, and I know it is the truth.

  I wonder what it would be like to have nothing left to live for—or what it is I think I have.

  “… Bet Daniel will be livid when he finds out. Just beside himself with worry, I mean, the lowlifes thinking they can come into our part of town is downright degrading, even if they didn’t actually touch you.” She stops, cocks her head at me. “You did call him, right?”

  “Who?”

  “Daniel. Are you even listening to me?”

  “I …”

  “Just because you guys aren’t officially an item to the rest of the world, he would still want to know. I mean, three public appearances … that’s like practically engaged, which isn’t a big deal since that’s the plan. But at least tell him so he can stay ahead of the press.”

  Engaged? It’s a surprise but after hearing this, Daniel being groomed to take over Rogen Corp makes sense. “You’re right, I should call him,” I say when I recover.

  “Speaking of which, what’s up with your cell? I call and call and it goes straight to voice mail.”

  I falter, unsure what to say. I hadn’t thought of it until now, but whatever phone Raven Rogen owned has not been given to me. I wonder who Titus thinks I would call. “My phone is … broken. I dropped it when I was attacked.”

  “Ugh,” she says, as if that i
s the most annoying part of what happened to me.

  “I’ll get a new one soon,” I say, trying to emulate her annoyance.

  She nods once, and just like that, moves on. For the rest of the meal, she does not speak of my attack again. Even when I reach across the table for the salt shaker, revealing the purpling bruise on the inside of my forearm, a perfect match for a handprint, she doesn’t comment.

  She speaks of parties and couples and scandals and affairs. Who’s dating whom. Who’s cheating, who’s broke, who’s running for office.

  The politics in this world scare me. In Twig City, there are two classes: Imitations and Authentics. The latter rule the former. That will never change. Here, the rise and fall of power is based on fortunes and blackmail and scandals exposed. It is good that I will not be a part of it for long. I could never fit in here. I don’t want to.

  Taylor leaves an hour later with promises that we will see each other soon at some benefit gala or another. A senator is getting re-elected. The fact that Taylor knows this without a doubt three days before the election is not lost on me. Everything is a game here.

  I don’t feel like I play very well.

  ***

  After lunch, I am confined to my room with a subtle click of the lock, but I don’t mind. Not this time. I am more comfortable alone than I am with a single Authentic I’ve met here. And part of me is terrified over seeing Titus if I’m allowed to wander. The makeup job covering the bruise he left on my cheek has worn off, so I touch it up with unsteady fingers as I stare at my reflection.

  I am paler than usual, my skin tone almost matching my translucent hair. When I’ve covered the bruise as best I can, I attempt the same with the darkened circles under my lids. I’ve never had a problem sleeping before coming here, but I rarely sleep more than two hours at a time anymore. It’s too quiet. I miss the humming pipes, the melody of a room full of rhythmic breathing. Ida and Lonnie.

  My chest aches when I think of them. I wonder if Lonnie is comforting Ida or if she’s taken her usual “stiff upper lip” stance and expected Ida to do the same. Fragile Ida. She is not cut out for this, despite what they tell us about our “chemical makeup” and our being “created to serve.” I am glad that it is me and not her who has been called up.