Wildcard (Warcross #2)(61)
“We’re a couple,” Roshan snaps, forgetting in the heat of the moment that that’s no longer true. “Didn’t you all pass a same-sex marriage law last year?”
“But you are not currently married,” the doctor counters. “Are you? Do you have papers?”
Roshan throws his hands up and storms back toward the waiting room where I stand. Behind him, Asher and Hammie exchange a quick glance. Roshan catches sight of me as he walks, then gives me a quick nod.
My heart sits in my throat as I reach them. Roshan looks pale and haggard, and his eyes are bloodshot. “Why weren’t you with him?” he snaps at me. “They said he was dropped off at the hospital alone.”
Roshan’s anger stabs me hard through the chest. I start to offer excuses—that I couldn’t reach him, that the Blackcoats had figured out Tremaine hacked their databases. But this isn’t what Roshan needs to hear. “I should have been there,” I manage to choke out. “It’s my fault this happened to him. He should never have—”
Roshan glances over his shoulder toward Tremaine’s room, then closes his eyes and lowers his head. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m glad you weren’t there.”
“Can you see him through the window?”
Roshan nods. “His bandages are bloody. The doctors say they’re waiting for the swelling to go down, but they don’t know when that’ll be. They said he’s incredibly lucky the bullet hit the way it did. A tiny bit to the left or right, and he would’ve arrived dead on the scene.”
I think of Jax’s promise that she’d shot Tremaine with a glancing blow. She’d kept her word, after all.
“What happened?” Asher asks as he wheels over to us, followed by Hammie.
Other players—the Demon Brigade, a smattering of other teams—have shown up, too, filling the waiting area with an awkward gaggle of rivals. So I keep my voice down and tell my teammates as much as I can. That Tremaine and I had gone to the institute, and that everything went completely wrong.
But I don’t tell them about Sasuke. I can’t handle the thought of bringing them any closer to real danger.
“You have to stop,” Hammie says to me as I finish. “That could be you in there too—it could be so much worse.”
I want to listen to her, but tonight I’m seeing Hideo. The closing ceremony happens in two days. We’re out of options. There’s simply no time to stop anymore. All I can do is nod weakly at her. She can see the lie in my eyes, but she doesn’t press me.
As we settle into our chairs in the waiting room, I find myself staring at the date in my view. When the closing ceremony game starts, everything will either end or become a living nightmare.
* * *
* * *
HIDEO ISN’T AT his home tonight—at least, not the one I remember. Instead, the car he sends for me takes me across the bridge spanning Tokyo Bay, where the ocean meets the city and the reflections of skyscrapers trembles against the water. Tonight, the bridge is entirely lit with the colors of the Phoenix Riders, and through my lenses, cruise ships and tourist ferries dotting the harbor have a smattering of hearts and stars hovering over them.
The scarlet Phoenix Rider lights reflected against the ocean look like blood spreading across the water, and the cityscape like millions of shards of glass. I focus down at my lap instead, where I’m pressing my hands tightly against each other.
We travel along the waterfront until we leave most of the boats behind and enter a quiet stretch of luxury high-rises. Here, a team of security guards waves the car through a gate, and when it finally stops at the end of a dock, more bodyguards in suits come to open the door for me.
I step out of the car and stand facing the water, breathing in the salty air, my lips parted at the sight.
Floating serenely before me is the largest yacht I’ve ever seen. The entire ship is matte black, blending in with the night, save for the lines of soft silver lights running along each deck and the trails of fairy bulbs strung across the top.
“Mister Tanaka has been waiting for you,” one of the bodyguards says to me. He holds a gloved hand out, gesturing for me to step onto the ramp leading up to the yacht. I nod wordlessly, suddenly queasy with anticipation and dread, then head up to the ship’s lower deck and into its interior.
The space opens up into a two-floor-high ceiling, where a chandelier dripping with crystals hangs. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls, tinted for privacy, line the chamber, and at the far end is a set of double doors already open, inviting me in. I walk to them, stopping hesitantly at the entryway to peer into the vast suite beyond.
The lighting is dim, the walls made of more tinted glass that reveals the outline of the city against the water. Thick white rugs and plush divans dot the space. Sheer, pearlescent curtains glide idly in a sea breeze from an ajar window, under which lies a low, luxurious bed.
The space is as immaculate as I remember Hideo’s main home being—at least, until I see the broken porcelain on the floor.
“Watch your step.”
Hideo’s familiar voice drifts from across the room, where he’s heading in from the balcony with a dark jacket slung over his shoulder. He tosses it unceremoniously onto a nearby chair. In the low light, all I can see of him is his tall silhouette and the silver of his hair, but I can still tell that his shirt is uncharacteristically rumpled, his sleeves rolled up haphazardly, and his collar pushed up. The shadows cover his expression entirely.