UnWholly (Unwind Dystology #2)(34)

But Risa will not be carried. Under any circumstances. Ever. And he wonders if maybe this is not entirely his fault. Maybe she’s partially to blame for this invisible rift between them.

With no other way to prove his feelings, he reaches forward with his own hand, pushes the hair back from her face, then leans in, giving her a powerful kiss. He puts the whole weight of their relationship and all their built-up frustration into that single superheroic kiss. It should be enough to say everything he can’t . . . but when he pulls away, he feels her tears on his cheek, and she says:

“If you wanted me with you, you would have built a ramp.”

? ? ?

Back inside, Connor lies on his bed in the dark, the moonlight painting cold bars of light across his bed. He’s angry. Not at Risa, because she’s right. It would have been nothing to build a ramp to his jet. He could have done it in half a day.

But what if he had?

What if Risa really could be with him in every possible way—and what if the shark on his arm truly did have a mind of its own? Roland attacked her—he tried to force himself on her, and she must have been looking at that damned shark when he did it. She said it didn’t bother her, but it bothers Connor enough to keep him awake night after night. Because what if when they were alone together, in the heat of that passionate moment they both wanted—what if he lost control? What if that hand held her too tight, tugged her too hard—what if it hit her, and hit her again, and again, and wouldn’t stop? And how could he ever truly be there with her if all he could think about were all the things that arm had done, and all the things it still might do?

Better not to let it happen.

Better to make sure she’s never that close.

So you don’t build a ramp. You don’t visit her in her jet, and when you do have physical contact, it’s out in the open where it’s safe. And when she rolls away from you in tears, you let her go, thinking whatever she wants to think, because that’s better than admitting to her that you’re too weak to feel safe with your own arm. Then, alone in the dark of a private jet, you smash your fist furiously against a wall until your knuckles are raw and bloody, but you don’t care, because even though you can feel the pain, you know they’re not your knuckles at all.





10 ? Starkey

Starkey spends his days working his particular brand of magic—and he knows that the best magic tricks take practice, patience, and very careful misdirection. Undetectable sleight of hand. For more than a month he has not betrayed his ambitions. To have done so would have made Connor suspicious. Instead he networked among the Whollies, studying the alliances, the friendships, and the power structure—and at last, through careful planning, Starkey has inserted himself in the right place at the right time to gain Connor’s favor without him ever knowing that it was all part of Starkey’s long-term plan.

Now he’s in the highest echelon of the Graveyard, and although it’s only food service, it keeps him in direct contact with all seven hundred kids. He has more power, more access, and he begins to do things that previously might be thought of as suspicious, but now come with the territory of being one of the Holy of Whollies.

One afternoon Starkey wanders innocently into the Com-Bom, the Graveyard’s computer and communications center, which Hayden runs. Its radio equipment was initially designed to pull in and decode enemy frequencies—which it still does, although now the enemy is the National Juvenile Authority. At any given time it’s manned by half a dozen Whollies, who have been handpicked by Hayden for their computer skills.

“I’m not the tech geek everyone makes me out to be,” Hayden tells him. “I’m just very good at taking credit for other people’s work. I think I get it from my father—he was uniquely skilled at stomping on fingers as he climbed the corporate ladder.” Hayden studies Starkey for a moment, and Starkey just smiles back.

“Something wrong?”

“No,” Hayden says. “I was just wondering if you’re thinking of stealing my position. Not that I care. I wouldn’t mind working food service for a while, but it would help me to know what your intentions are.”

“I just want to know how stuff works around here, that’s all.”

“Oh,” says Hayden, “you’re one of those.” Starkey doesn’t know what kind of “those” he’s talking about, but he doesn’t care as long as Hayden tells him what he wants to know.

“I have an ethnically diverse team here,” Hayden tells him proudly, going around the room. “Tad is Japanese, Hailey is umber, Jeevan is Indian—and Esme is half-Hispanic. I think her other half must be extraterrestrial, because she’s too damn smart to be all human.” Esme preens proudly for a moment, then gets back to work cracking coded communications. “We have Nasim, who’s Muslim, working side by side with Lizbeth, who’s Jewish, and guess what? They’re in love.”

“Bite me,” says Nasim, then Lizbeth punches him just hard enough to make it clear that it’s true.

Hayden points out the various monitoring consoles. “There’s a communications monitoring program running on this one. It can pull keywords out of anything from e-mails to phone conversations. It can warn us if the Juvey-cops are up to something major. Kind of an early warning system originally developed to fight terrorism, but isn’t it nice to know we can now use it for civilian purposes?”