The Treatment (The Program #2)(13)

“She’s not suicidal,” I snap.

“Sure,” Dallas says. “Either way, Cas is staying behind. And we have a club to get to, so if you two wouldn’t mind moving your asses . . .”

I look up at James, but he’s lost, turning over the situation in his head, analyzing our options. After a second his light-blue gaze falls on me. “What do you want to do?” he asks.

“I need you, James,” Dallas cuts in, more sober than I had guessed. “Lacey will be here in the morning and the three of you can play psychologist. But right now the rebels need you.

We’re not exactly deep in muscle around here.” She glances at Cas. “No offense.”

“None taken.” He buries his hands in his pockets, but he doesn’t seem disappointed to miss out on the Suicide Club. In fact, I think he’s itching to get out of his black clothes and wash off the eyeliner.

Dallas grows impatient with James’s silence, and her hardened layers begin to unravel. “Please come with us tonight,” she says. “I need backup, whether for incoming rebels or handlers.

I can’t do this alone. And Cas gets his nose broken too often.

There’s something about you, about both of you,” she allows,

“that’s inspiring people. We’re dying off here. We need more members and I don’t know when the next Suicide Club will happen.”

Her plea must hit James in the right way because, without consulting me first, he nods. James isn’t a fighter, not really. But he has a good heart and even pretending to be a dick half the time can’t mask that. I love that about him. And now, with a mix of anxiety and outright fear, I let him pull me away to leave for the Suicide Club.

The building is unmarked. Its gray stone front is menacing with iron bars over the windows, dead bougainvillea crawling up the side. The defaced sign above the door used to belong to a tattoo shop, and a sketchy one at that. Dallas directs James to the back, and we park near the other cars at the entrance. It’s so strange to be out, a group of teenagers without any sort of supervision from a handler. The taste of freedom is overwhelming, like I’m spinning out of control, drunk on life.

There’s a bouncer at the entrance of the Suicide Club, a scary-looking guy with a studded bracelet and an affection for overly tight tank tops. He studies each of us, flashing a penlight in our eyes. They say when the sickness—the depression—takes hold, our eyes actually change. And that if you know what to look for, you can see the deadness there. It’s been only a short time since I met Liam outside of the Wellness Center. He’d gotten sick, spewing horrible words at me. I saw him in the thrall of the epidemic, the way his eyes weren’t quite right.

I guess that’s what the bouncer is checking us for now, making sure we don’t spread our thoughts of suicide to the others.

When James is cleared ahead of me, I actually let out a relieved breath. And when I’m in after him, I finally stop shaking.

Chapter Five

THE INSIDE OF THE SUICIDE CLUB IS HAZY WITH

cigarette smoke. There are large rooms with stucco walls painted a deep purple, and black lights mingling with the neon, creating a shadowy kind of depth. The people float by, their chatter muted by the music—the beats are transfixing, heavy, and soul-scratching. I’m swayed by it, by something I forgot was there—something dark. A part of me that used to be sad and maybe still is.

James’s hand touches the small of my back as he motions to an empty bartop table. I sit down, and he stands next to me, surveying the room. “This isn’t really my idea of fun,” he says.

He doesn’t seem to feel it the way I do—the sadness. He’s not drawn to it, and I think again about our missing past, and what this moment says about it. Maybe James was never sad. Maybe I always was. For a fleeting moment, it’s like I’m slipping away, and I reach for his shirtsleeve to tug him closer, bringing me back to reality.

I must hide my insecurity well, because James kisses the top of my head, brushing his fingers along the black netting on my knee before whispering he’ll be right back. I don’t want him to leave, but I say nothing as he walks away. This place makes me feel vulnerable, exposed. Across from me a couple is in a booth, pressed against each other as they kiss, seemingly oblivious to the people around them. I avert my eyes, but then I notice the lost looks in the crowd. I’ve read The Program pamphlets, the ones my mother used to leave by the phone. The Program says those who are infected exhibit all sorts of uncharacter-istic behaviors, including promiscuity, anger, and depression.

Maybe it never occurred to the good doctors that sometimes a couple might just be hot for each other or angry or sad. It’s not always sickness.

Just as I think this, I notice a guy leaning against the stucco wall, a ring through his lip and another through his eyebrow.

His black hair is half in his eyes as he searches the room. I’m not sure if it’s his posture, or just the setting, but his desperation is palpable.

I’m reminded of where I am, the music suddenly too loud, the air too smoky. I lean my elbows on the table and put my face in my palms. I’m barely able to shake off my newly height-ened anxiety before I feel someone next to me.

“You’re kind of a downer, Sloane,” Dallas says. She’s holding a clear plastic cup filled with bright-red liquid. The club probably doesn’t trust its patrons with glass. Dallas takes a slow sip of her drink, running her gaze over me and pausing at the red scar slashed into my wrist. Her pupils are pinholes and I wonder what she’s on—if it’s just alcohol or drugs. “How many times have you tried to kill yourself?” she asks.