The Treatment (The Program #2)(9)

“I’ll help you take down The Program,” I say seriously. “I won’t go back there, and I’ll destroy them to make sure of it.” Dallas’s story has resonated, awakening the desperation I left Oregon with. We’re fighting for our lives here. The Program will never stop.

Dallas seems surprised by my response. “There might just be more to you than I realized, Sloane,” she says. Weirdly, her approval validates me somehow. Then after sharing her secrets, Dallas gets up and walks out, leaving her half-drank coffee on the table.

My stomach is still twisted from thoughts of Roger, and I dump Dallas’s coffee down the sink and rinse out the cup before setting it in the strainer. When I was in The Program, Roger propositioned me. He asked me for a kiss in exchange for a pill that would save one memory. His touch, his taste—I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. I cried the entire time his hands were on me, his mouth on mine. Just thinking of it now, I feel a shiver of helplessness and I wrap my arms around myself. The things he would have done given the chance. But I had Realm.

He kept me safe from Roger, breaking his arm and getting him fired. No one saved Dallas.

The bleakness of our situation—on the run with nowhere else to go—is not lost on me. But at least we’re free. There are no handlers tying us down. There are no doctors interfering with our memories. In a way we’re lucky. As I look around at the small room, our dire straits, I try to remind myself of that.

We’re lucky to be alive.

* * *

“Why do I smell soap?” James murmurs from the bed when I enter the room. He turns and looks over at me, blinking heavily with the drowsiness of sleep. “And coffee?” he asks. “Dear God, Sloane. Do you have coffee?”

I grin. “Are you going to be sweet to me?”

“Are you kidding? I’ll kiss you right now if you have coffee. And, baby, if you have a cheeseburger, I’ll get down on one knee.”

I laugh and hold out a cup to him. James climbs out of bed, yawning loudly. He reaches to take a strand of my still-damp hair. “It’s curly,” he says, raveling it around his finger. “And clean. How’d you manage that?”

“I showered,” I say like it’s a huge achievement.

“Fancy.”

“Next time I might try to get my hands on some styling products.” Without a blowdryer and straightener, my hair has been getting curlier by the day. Makes sense considering there are old photos of me with ringlets hanging on my parents’ living room wall.

“Okay, cover girl.” James sips and then makes a face before setting his cup on the dresser. “Horrible coffee.”

“Yeah, and I couldn’t find any creamer.”

James stretches as he takes in the room. “So we’re really here. Find out anything interesting while you were out getting pretty and ruining coffee?”

“I had a long talk with Dallas,” I say, feeling like I’m betray-36

ing her for even mentioning it. James crosses the room and starts sorting through the bag of clothes.

“Any hair-pulling?”

“Not yet,” I say. “I think I’m starting to understand her.

I also think she may have a tiny crush on you.” James shrugs apologetically, and I go to wrap my arms around him from behind, resting my chin on his shoulder. “No idea what she sees in you,” I whisper.

“Me either.” James spins me, and then I’m pinned against the concrete wall. “I thought you were the only one delusional enough to be with me.”

“Oh, I am,” I say, licking my lips. “So I wouldn’t bother with those other girls. Out of your league.”

“Mm . . . hmm.” James kisses me, and my pulse climbs as his hand glides up my back toward my bra clasp.

There’s a soft knock at the door, and I groan. “Don’t answer it,” James says, kissing my jaw then over to a spot near my ear. I smile, letting him get in a few more kisses before I finally push him back.

“It’s not like they don’t know we’re in here.”

“We’re busy,” he calls out, and then tries to kiss me again.

“I need to talk to you guys,” Lacey calls from the other side of the door.

James stops, concern crossing his features when he glances at the entrance. Then to cover it, he looks me up and down, false confidence filling in his worry. “We’re not done with this, Barstow,” he says, and then heads for the door. I pick up his coffee and take a sip, scrunching my nose at James as he lets Lacey in, and the minute I see her, my stomach drops.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. She doesn’t answer right way. She goes to sit on the bed, resting her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. Her red hair is slicked back and wet, and as I watch her, I can see from here how she trembles. James must notice too because he closes the door and then comes to stand next to me, crossing his arms over his chest.

Lacey looks up suddenly. “Something’s wrong with me,” she whispers. “Can you see it?”

Her question catches me off guard, and I immediately try to normalize it. “Is it a migraine?” I ask. “Maybe we can—”

“My mother would get migraines,” she interrupts, her voice taking on a distant quality. “One time—during a really bad episode—she sat me down and told me she was going to ask my dad for a divorce. She cried until she choked on her own tears, and I kept telling her to stop before she made my father mad.