Untouched (Denazen #1.5)(21)

Except there’s something off with Kale. He wears her shoes in the shower, is overly fascinated with things like DVDs and vases, and acts like she’ll turn to dust if he touches her. It’s not until Dez’s father shows up, wielding a gun and knowing more about Kale than he should, that Dez realizes there’s more to this boy—and her father’s “law firm”—than she realized.

Kale has been a prisoner of Denazen Corporation—an organization devoted to collecting “special” kids known as Sixes and using them as weapons—his entire life. And, oh yeah, his touch? It kills. The two team up with a group of rogue Sixes hellbent on taking down Denazen before they’re caught and her father discovers the biggest secret of all. A secret Dez has spent her life keeping safe.

A secret Kale will kill to protect.





1


I couldn’t see them, but I knew they were there, waiting at the bottom. Bloodthirsty little shits—they were probably praying for this to go badly. “What do you think—about a fifteen-foot drop?”

“Easily,” Brandt said. He grabbed my arm as a blast of wind whipped around us. Once I was steady on my skateboard, he tipped back his beer and downed what was left.

Together, we peered over the edge of the barn roof. The party was in full swing below us. Fifteen of our closest—and craziest—friends.

Brandt sighed. “Can you really do this?”

I handed him my own empty bottle. “They don’t call me Queen of Crazy Shit for nothing.” Gilman was poised on his skateboard to my left. Even in the dark, I could see the moonlight glisten off the sweat beading his brow. Pansy. “You ready?”

He swallowed and nodded.

Brandt laughed and tossed the bottles toward the woods. There were several seconds of silence, then a muted crash, followed by hoots and hysterical laughter from our friends below. Only drunk people would find shattering bottles an epic source of amusement.



“I dunno about this, Dez,” he said. “You can’t see anything down there. How do you know where you’re gonna land?”

“It’ll be fine. I’ve done this, like, a million times.”

Brandt’s words were clipped. “Into a pool. From a ten-foot-high garage roof. This is at least fifteen feet. Last thing I want to do is drag your ass all the way home.”

I ignored him—the usual response to my cousin’s chiding—and bent my knees. Turning back to Gilman, I smiled. “Ready, Mr. Badass?”

Someone below turned up one of the car stereos. A thumping techno beat drifted up. Hands on the sill behind me, drunken shouts of encouragement rising from below, I let go.

Hair lashed like a thousand tiny whips all along my face. The rough and rumbling texture of the barn roof beneath my board. Then nothing.

Flying. It was like flying.

For a few blissful moments, I was weightless. A feather suspended in midair right before it fluttered gracefully to the ground. Adrenalin surged through my system, driving my buzz higher.

The crappy thing about adrenalin highs, though? They never last long enough.

Mine lasted what felt like five seconds—the time it took to go from the barn roof to the not-so-cushy pile of hay below.

I landed with a jar—nothing serious—a bruised tailbone and some black and blues, maybe. Hardly the worst I’d ever walked away with. Stretching out the kink in my back, I brushed the hay from my jeans. A quick inspection revealed a smudge above my right knee and a few splotches of mud up the left side. All things the washing machine could fix.

Somewhere behind me, a loud wail filled the air. Gilman.



Never mix tequila and peach schnapps with warm Bud Light. It makes you do stupid things. Things like staying too long at a party you were told not to go to or making out in the bushes with someone like Mark Geller.

Things like skateboarding off the roof of a rickety barn…

Well, that’s not entirely true. I tended to do these things without the buzz. Except kissing Mark Geller. That was all alcohol.

“You okay?” Brandt called from the rooftop.

I gave him a thumbs-up and went to check on Gilman. He was surrounded by a gaggle of girls, which made me wonder if he wasn’t faking it—at least a little. A scrawny guy like Gilman didn’t warrant much in the way of female attention, so I’d bet all ten toes he’d run his mouth tonight to attract some.

“You are one crazy ass, Chica,” he mumbled, climbing to his feet.

I pointed to the pile of hay I’d landed in—several yards farther than where he’d crashed. “I’m crazy? At least I aimed for the hay.”

“Wooooo!” came Brandt’s distinctive cry. A moment later, he was running around the side of the barn, fist pumping. He stopped at my side and stuck his tongue out at Gilman, who smiled and flipped him off. He punched me in the arm. “That’s my girl!”

“A girl who needs to bail. Ten minutes of kissy face in the bushes and Mark Geller thinks we’re soul mates. So don’t need a stalker.”

Brandt frowned. “But the party’s just getting started. You don’t want to miss the Jell-O shots!”

Jell-O shots? Those were my favorite. Maybe it was worth…no. “I’m willing to risk it.”

“Fine, then I’ll walk with ya.”