Warcross (Warcross #1)(58)

“Tanaka-san.”

One of Hideo’s bodyguards approaches us, bowing his head respectfully. “A call for you,” he says.

Hideo’s eyes linger on me for a final moment. Then he moves away, and his presence is replaced with cool air. I nearly slump in my chair from disappointment. Hideo turns away from me and glances up. When he sees the bodyguard’s expression, he nods. “Excuse me,” he says to me, then stands and walks back inside the restaurant.

I sigh. A cold breeze blows by, making me shiver, and I turn my eyes back to the sky, where the sheet of stars still hangs in my view. I imagine him creating this, his face turned skyward, too, longing to see the stars.

Maybe we both need the cold air to clear our heads.

I work for him. He’s my client. This is a bounty hunt, just like every other hunt I’ve ever done. When I finish—when I win—I’ll be on my way back to New York and never have to take on another hunt again. And yet, here I am, sharing something about my mother that I haven’t thought about in years. I think back to the look in his eyes. Who had he lost from his life?

I’m starting to think I won’t see Hideo again tonight when something warm is draped around my shoulders. It’s Hideo’s gray peacoat. I look up to see him pass me by. “You looked cold,” he says as he sits down again.

I slide his coat down over my shoulders. “Thank you,” I reply.

He gives me an apologetic shake of his head. I hope he says something to acknowledge the spark that had danced between us, but instead, he says, “I’m afraid I have to leave soon. My guards will escort you out of a hidden exit, for your privacy.”

“Oh, of course,” I reply, trying to hide my disappointment behind something that I hope sounds upbeat.

“When can I see you again?”

I look sharply at him. A swarm of butterflies stirs in my stomach, and my heart starts hammering again. “Well,” I start to say, “aside from what we already discussed, I’m not sure I’ll have much more to report until after—”

Hideo shakes his head once. “No reports. Just your company.”

Just my company. His gaze is calm, but I notice the way he’s turned toward me, the light in his eyes. “After the first game,” I hear the words stumble out of me.

Hideo smiles, and this time, it is a secret smile. “I look forward to it.”





19



The morning of our first official game begins with Asher ramming his wheelchair repeatedly against my door. I startle awake, squinting and muttering, barely able to process his words.

“Level’s in!” he’s shouting as he moves on to ram Hammie’s door. “Get up! Up!”

Level’s in. My eyes fly open, and I bolt upright in bed. Today is the first day.

I fumble around in my blankets until I find my phone, then do a quick scan of my messages. There’s only one new message, and it’s from Hideo.

Best of luck today. You’ll hardly need it.

I can’t tell if the flurry in my stomach is from the anxiety of my first game or from his words. In the last couple of weeks since our dinner, I’ve talked to Hideo almost every day. Most of our exchanges are innocent, strictly business, but sometimes—when our chats happen late at night—I feel the tug that reminds me of the moment during our dinner when he’d leaned close.

See you in the dome. And thanks—believe me, I could use the luck.



I don’t think I believe you at all, Miss Chen.

Now you’re making fun of me, Mr. Tanaka.



Ah. Is that what you’re calling this?

What should I call it instead?



Moral support, perhaps?

I smile.

Your moral support is going to distract me in the arena.



Then I apologize in advance.

I shake my head.

You’re such a flatterer.



I’m no such thing.

See you in the dome, Emika.

That’s all he says. I wait for another message, but when none comes, I shake off my thoughts and swing my legs over the side of my bed. I hurriedly throw some clothes on, run a toothbrush along my teeth, bundle my rainbow hair up into a messy bun, and put in my NeuroLink lenses. For a moment, I stare at my reflection. My pulse beats loud in my ears. I imagine Keira back in New York City, watching me in the game as she’s curled up on the couch. I picture Mr. Alsole doing the same, his eyes squinting with disbelief.

Time to go. I let out a shaky breath, turn away from the mirror, and rush out.

Everyone else is already in the atrium, clustered around Asher as he brings up the morning transmission for us. Hammie nods at me as I join them. Nearby, Wikki hurries from one of us to the next, serving each person their favorite breakfast. Hammie’s is a waffle piled high with syrup, fruit, and whipped cream, while mine is a breakfast taco with an enormous dollop of guacamole. Ren, in typical fashion, is fussing over a platter of egg whites and boiled spinach, while Roshan just nurses a cup of spiced chai and grimaces at the plate that Wikki offers him.

“Not today,” he complains.

Wikki blinks at him with the most sorrowful look a drone can muster. “Would you like to reconsider? Scrambled eggs with goat cheese is your fav—”

The mention makes Roshan turn green. “Not today,” he repeats, patting Wikki once on the head. “Nothing personal.”