Eve & Adam (Eve & Adam #1)(17)

I could call him Ad for short. Or Dam.

Or Steve, for that matter.

“What do you—”

“Ahhh!” I jump about an inch out of my wheelchair. I brace for the wave of pain that should come from such a sudden movement, but my leg does not cry out in protest.

Thank God for the pain meds.

It’s Solo, pushing some kind of cart. How long has he been standing behind me?

“Hey,” I mutter. “Don’t you knock?”

“No door,” he points out accurately.

“Well, give me some sign that you’re sneaking up on me! Clear your throat or something!”

“Ahem,” he says, clearing his throat. He pushes the cart close to me. “Eyes, huh?” he asks, looking past me at the disembodied eyeballs.

“Yes.” I want to follow up with something sarcastic, but I draw a blank because I’ve turned to look at him and I notice now, how could I not notice, that the eyes I’ve created from scratch are Solo’s eyes.

“What’s that color called?” he asks.

“Just … I … I’m changing it. I was trying for blue.”

“You like blue eyes, huh?”

“Yes. I do. I like blue eyes.”

“I thought you might want something to eat.” He takes a paper sack off the cart.

“Kind of late for lunch, isn’t it?” The clock in the corner of the display reads 03:17 P.M. “How do you know I didn’t already eat lunch?” I ask, just as my stomach growls loudly.

“Intuition,” he says with a straight face.

I save my work on Adam and log out.

“Come on, we don’t want to eat in here,” Solo says. Without waiting for my approval, he plops the bag of food on my lap and takes the grips of my wheelchair.

“What about your cart?”

He shrugs. “What about it?”

We go down a level, through a hallway, across yet another open space full of grown-up toys for the Big Brains, and out onto a vast deck overlooking the bay. It’s not the million-dollar view you might get in Tiburon, which faces the city, but it’s not bad. The fog has lifted, and we have a good view of the Richmond–San Rafael Bridge. There’s a tanker riding low, slowly cutting through the water like a migrating whale. If I could somehow look around the corner past Angel Island, I’d be able to see the city. And it bugs me that I can’t. I miss my home, my school, my city.

There’s a group of four, kind of glum, munching at a table twenty yards away, too far for us to overhear them. We spread the food out on a picnic table. Sandwiches, chips, two puddings, one chocolate, one vanilla.

“From the cafeteria?” I ask, pulling one of the sandwiches apart to find turkey and Brie.

“They’re good,” Solo says. “Say one thing for your mom: She takes care of her employees.”

“Yes, I noticed. You know what they don’t have? Double-double, animal style.”

He nods. “You’re an In-N-Out fan?”

“Mostly I want it because I can’t get it,” I admit. “I also want some Coldstone. And I’m having a weird craving for the awful Beef-a-roni they serve on alternate Thursdays at my school. Also … Never mind.”

“No, go on. I find it interesting. Knowing what you miss about normal life.”

I take a bite of sandwich and wash it down with a swig of sparkling water with lime.

“Okay. I miss Zachary’s. Best pizza in SF. I miss having to get ready for school, waiting at the bus stop—”

“You don’t have a limo?”

I make a face. “She’s offered. My mother, I mean.”

“But you don’t want to show up at school in a limo.”

“It kind of marks you as a douche.”

“Yep.”

“There are kids at my school who get dropped off in limos.”

“Private school?”

I laugh. “I tried once to get her to send me to a public school. I thought I’d like to meet some kids who don’t have maids but whose moms are maids.”

“Poor little rich girl,” Solo says.

Maybe I should take offense. But the cool breeze kind of drains the nasty from me. “I miss regular life. Or my version of it, anyway. School.”

“But you can’t leave because of your leg.”

What an interesting way he has of saying it. It’s not a question. It’s not quite a statement. It’s almost a challenge.

“How much does it hurt?” Solo asks.

“It … it doesn’t,” I say. “But that’s because of the pain meds, of course.”

He looks down at his food and chews. He has something to say, but he’s considering it. “Have you seen it without the bandages? I mean, have you seen the actual leg?”

I shake my head. “Not … no.” I frown at him, and he studies the placid water. How does he know I haven’t seen the wound? “I asked. They said it was still too bad. They didn’t want to upset me.”

A knowing smirk comes and goes. “Yeah.”

I push the sandwich aside. “Who the hell are you?” I demand.

“Solo Plissken.”

“I didn’t ask your name,” I say. “Who are you? Why are you here? You’re not old enough to be doing a full-time job at a place like Spiker.”