The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(15)

Deacon chuckles and starts to sway me again. “Aw, come on,” he says, leaning down to brush his lips over my temple. “You afraid of what the counselors will find in the steel-trap brain of yours? You keeping secrets, Quinlan?”

The levity eases the heaviness I’ve been carrying since last night. “A few,” I tell him. “But only the really sordid ones.”

“That so?” he asks in a low voice. I close my eyes as his fingers skim over my hip. “Then maybe we should talk about them,” he murmurs. “I’m an excellent listener.”

The music from the other room cuts abruptly, and Aaron announces, “I think Deacon’s in the bathroom, Shelly.”

I open my eyes. Aaron’s voice is a cold splash of water on my desire, sobering me up to reality. Deacon laughs at Aaron’s obvious attempt to warn us that Deacon’s date is looking for him. Not that we needed his cover; we weren’t doing anything wrong. Not really.

I untangle myself from Deacon’s arms, and he hums out his protest, holding on a second longer than necessary. When we’re finally apart, he reaches past me to grab a bottle from the counter. Our proximity is still too close. Too connected. I move farther down the granite slab and change the subject.

“So Shelly seems nice,” I tell him. “Been seeing her long?”

Deacon holds up the bottle to offer me a drink, but I shake my head no.

“Just met her tonight.” He studies me for a moment, trying to guess my feelings on the subject. “She’s awful handsy, isn’t she?” he asks. “I feel so objectified.”

I snort a laugh but secretly agree that she did seem to be all over him. In the hallway the echo of his date’s approaching heels is ominous, and Deacon lifts his eyebrow like he’s asking if we should make a run for it instead. I won’t let him off that easy.

“He’s in here, Shelly,” I call, staring straight at him. He’s made his bed. If Deacon doesn’t like his date, that’s his issue. I’m not going to be the excuse for him to get out of it.

“Cold,” he mutters, and sips from his drink.

I pick up my Sprite and turn to leave. The girl appears in the doorway, her huge saucer eyes lighting up the minute she finds Deacon standing at the counter. I take that as my cue to exit the scene. Poor thing. This girl probably has no idea that she’s hooking up with a closer. I doubt she’d be here if she did.

She smiles at me as I pass, unsure but polite out of habit. She’s a bit more aggressive than his usual dates, but they’re all fairly sweet. Deacon honest-to-God likes nice girls—it’s one of his better qualities. Of course, once they learn what he does (or did) for a living, they’re freaked out. The job isn’t glamorous, and most people think we’re terrifying—like we’re somehow to blame for the deaths of the people we play. We make them confront their own mortality, and for the most part people don’t enjoy being around someone who’s great at impersonating the recently deceased.

When I reenter the living room, Aaron grins like he figures I owe him for warning us that Deacon’s girl was looking for him. Just so he’ll drop it, I mutter a “thanks” and take a seat on the couch closest to him and Myra.

Myra’s sitting on the hardwood floor, her shoulders in between Aaron’s knees while he twists tiny braids into her hair. She holds the comb, and with every new row Aaron brushes the teeth along her scalp to smooth down her curls. She flashes her heavily lined eyes in my direction.

“How are you?” she asks with little warmth.

I lower my head, not wanting to betray any emotion. “Fine.”

“Don’t look fine,” she says. The room fills with a heavy silence, and I have to remind myself that I shouldn’t feel this much disappointment. I can’t be so selfish.

“That’s because Quinn’s got another assignment,” Deacon announces, walking into the room. Shelly trails behind, pausing awkwardly when Deacon sits next to me. “Counselors are sending her in tomorrow,” he tells Aaron and Myra.

“What?” Shelly asks from the doorway, looking around the room at all of us. The color drains from her cheeks, and she folds her thin arms over her chest. “You’re closers?” But she spits the word like it’s filthy. Myra groans because she knows what comes next, and Aaron and I exchange expectant looks.

“I’m not a closer,” Deacon says earnestly, pointing to himself. “But she is.” He hikes his thumb in my direction. I quickly slap it away. Deacon continues with his helpful explanation. “He’s a total closer,” he tells Shelly, motioning toward Aaron. He frowns at Myra. “But not her.”

Shelly’s shoulders relax slightly, eased by Deacon’s tongue-in-cheek introductions. But then Deacon winces like he forgot to mention something. “Actually,” he says apologetically, “I used to be a closer too. A really good one. Now I’m just the guy who hangs out with them. I have no other actual life skills.”

Aaron positively busts up, covering his mouth and laying his head on the arm of his chair while his body shakes with laughter. Shelly is wide-eyed, trying to determine if Deacon is serious or not. When her gaze falls on me, my smile fades. All at once her judgment hits me square in the chest, a heavy weight on my already thin conscience.

“You take advantage of people’s suffering,” she says, staring me down like I’m dirt. “You take their money and lie to them, rewrite their lives. You’re disgusting.”