Riders (Riders, #1)(9)

Are these drugs even legal? Have I asked that?

“If what you’re saying is true, you healed from the accident in five days?” Cordero asks.

“What I’m saying is true. So, yes. Five days.”

“And no one thought this was unusual? Your mother didn’t comment? The doctors?”

“I haven’t been seen by a doctor since I left Walter Reed, and my mom…” I shrug. “She was definitely suspicious that day, but I haven’t talked to her since, so I don’t really know what she thought.”

Cordero’s eyes drop to my wrist, which is covered by my long-sleeved shirt and strapped to the chair with plastic flex ties. “Do you still have the cuff?”

I nod. “Like I said, it doesn’t come off.”

She lifts two fingers in the air, motioning to the guys behind her.

Texas steps forward and kneels at my side. “Don’t do anythin’ stupid,” he says in a thick drawl. By the door, Beretta draws the Beretta and takes aim at my forehead.

Texas tries to pull my sleeve up, but the plastic tie is covering it too tightly. He looks to Cordero, who nods her permission. He takes a badass bowie knife from a hip sheath, cuts the tie, and pushes my sleeve up. His blue eyes meet mine for a second—a silent repeat of the warning he just gave me—and then he takes my wrist and turns it.

“It’s here. No seams.” He turns his shoulders so Cordero can see.

Her chair creaks as she leans forward. She studies the cuff the same way I did that day in my bedroom, kind of in awe and confusion. That look pretty much sums up the past month of my life.

“It’s clearly an alloy of some sort, but it refracts light like a gemstone.… Like a ruby.”

I wish I’d described it that way. That sounded better than bouncing crimson light.

“The texture?” she asks.

Texas faces me again. He keeps his bowie knife in his right hand. With his left, he runs two fingers over the cuff. “Smooth. More like glass than metal. Body temp.” Genuine curiosity flares in his gaze. “Is it heavy?”

“No. I don’t feel any weight at all. Same with the sword and armor.”

Bam.

It’s like a silent grenade goes off. Nobody moves. Everyone looks from my eyes to the cuff on my wrist, ping-ponging back and forth a few times.

I probably let that one slip earlier than I should have. Thanks, truth serum. But I’ve never been the best storyteller. That’s Sebastian’s territory. I bet Bastian’s Cordero has already sent out for popcorn and Milk Duds.

I’m the one who breaks the silence. “Should I keep going?”

Cordero leans back in her chair and absently scratches her knuckles. She looks a little less blank than she has up until now. Like maybe I’m entertaining her.

“Tie him back down,” she says to Texas. “And yes, Gideon. You should.”





CHAPTER 7

The next morning, I woke to the sound of my mom talking on the phone.

Actually it was more like yelling, which was what woke me.

I’d slept on my stomach without wearing my casts, and hadn’t taken any painkillers since yesterday. I should’ve been howling in pain, but I wasn’t.

I’d heard my mom raise her voice before. She was half Irish and didn’t take crap from anyone. But the way she was yelling had an edge that was extra sharp. And then there was the way she’d sounded off on me the day before. What had always been pretty rare was suddenly happening a lot.

She hung up and I heard footsteps marching toward my room. The door swung open and she stood there, her mouth pressed in a grim line that reminded me of the summer I broke our front window three times in three weeks perfecting my baseball swing.

“Something came up at work,” she said. “I have to go in for the next few days, but I talked to your sister. She’s coming up to watch you.”

This was an arrangement they’d already made. While I was recovering, my mom was going to look after me on weekdays and work Friday through Monday. Anna, who was a freshman at Cal Poly and only had classes midweek, would take weekends.

It was a Tuesday, though. Mom’s call had thrown a curveball into the schedule.

“Anna has school,” I said.

“Well, she’s going to have to just catch up. You’re more important.”

“Mom, I’m—”

“Don’t argue with me, Gideon. She’ll be here by dinnertime. I’ll have Mrs. C come over and keep an eye on you until—”

“No—that’s okay. I’ll be fine until Anna gets here.”

Mom dropped a kiss on my forehead, reminded me to take my meds, and left.

As soon as I heard the front door shut, I threw on running shoes, shoved some clothes into my Army rucksack, and grabbed my keys. I locked up the house and jumped into my Jeep—a beat-up ’85 CJ my dad and I were going to fix up but never got around to for obvious reasons.

I did all of that—dressing, packing, and locking up—with working limbs. Perfectly healthy limbs. As I took the steering wheel, the shiny piece of red metal on my left wrist caught my eye. Things were happening that made no sense, and the feeling was too close to how I’d felt after my dad died. My gut was telling me to move, because moving—running, hiking, driving, any kind of movement—always helped to chill me out. It gave me perspective, and I needed that badly. I backed out of the driveway, took the freeway south, and then just … drove.