Imitation (8 page)

I wait for him to look at me. When he
does, I hold steady even though I want to look away. “I don’t want
to die,” I say with conviction.

He regards me for a long moment and
then gives a slow nod. “All right. Then stop lying and making
stupid decisions. You’re lucky I found you in time. Next time, I
might not.”

I nod to show I agree to his
terms.

“
You have to let me do my
job. Stay where I can see you, where I can reach you if something
happens. At all times.”

I hesitate. Agreeing to this means I
will not attempt escape again. At least not on his watch. He has no
idea what I’m giving up when I say, “Deal.”

We fall into silence again but this
time it is comfortable, almost friendly. I’m not sure how we came
to be alone but I don’t ask just yet. I’m sure Gus and his men will
arrive soon enough.

I tip my head back against the bricks
and close my eyes against the pounding that has receded to a dull
thud against my temples. A breeze blows strands of hair across my
face and all at once I am struck by a need to be upright, to fully
soak in the wild freedom of standing in such an open
space.

I struggle to my feet slowly, ignoring
Linc’s offered hand because I don’t want to feel the sting of him
letting go again, and stare out at the twinkling lights of the
city.

The man who attacked me is nowhere in
sight. I am tempted to ask what Linc has done with him, or how long
I was unconscious, but I don’t want to break the spell of the view
that makes me feel closer to freedom than I have in my entire
existence.

The air on the rooftop is cold and
crisp as it blows across my cheeks. It is the best cure for my
swirling thoughts. I love the wildness of being surrounded by so
much sky. I breathe it in and pretend there is only this. No vodka
in coat closets, no dinner parties, no murder attempts. Only open
air and night sky forever.

“
You okay?” Linc
asks.

Instead of breaking the spell, Linc’s
voice only amplifies it. I force my eyes open and look over at him.
“I am now,” I assure him. I don’t add that it’s just as much for
standing here as it is for him saving me.

The lines along his forehead diminish.
“That one was a little close,” he says. His tone is off-hand but I
can hear the tension underneath. I cannot help the image that
replays itself in my mind. It is clearer now—Linc fighting, killing
that man. The deadened expression he wore while doing
it.

“
Why did they choose you
to protect me?” I ask.

He grimaces and stares straight ahead.
“Because I’m the best.”

“
You say that like it’s a
bad thing.”

He is quiet for a long time before he
says, “It’s not about good or bad. It means I’m not afraid to
die.”

“
Then I’m all wrong for
this.” The words are out before I can stop them. As if to stem the
flow, I clap my hand over my mouth and stare at him.

“
What are you talking
about?” he asks. The expression he wore that first day is back. Now
I understand it: distrust. He already knows something. I have no
idea how much, but I try to smooth it over.

“
I mean life … in the
spotlight, the death threats. They scare me.”

“
Huh,” he grunts and I
know he doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t press it.

We go back to staring out over the
rooftops. We don’t speak again until his watch beeps some sort of
alarm.

“
What is it?” I
ask.

“
We need to head back. Gus
will be expecting us.”

“
They’re at home?” I ask,
surprised to be left so alone.

“
They tried transporting
the prisoner. The second guy. Titus wanted to talk to
him.”

“
What do you mean
tried?”

“
He died before they could
get him there.” There is no emotion in his words when he says it,
and I wonder how hard it is for him to turn it off. I can’t imagine
what it would feel like to kill something—or someone—but it can’t
be easy or without consequences. And Linc is not unfeeling. I saw
it when he spoke of his brother.

“
What will they do with
them? The men who attacked me?”

He shrugs. “Background check them.
Fingerprints, the whole nine yards. Titus has a lot of connections
so he doesn’t have to go through the proper channels. He’ll turn
their bodies over to the police once his private forensics team has
learned all they can.”

“
He doesn’t think it ends
with them?”

“
No, they were hired
thugs. There’s got to be a master planner pulling the strings.
That’s who Titus wants.”

I nod, knowing he is right. Titus
wants the master planner so badly, he would risk leaving me here
alone on this rooftop with Linc so that he can focus on the dead
men being transported to him for investigation. I wonder what sort
of reception I’ll receive when Titus has time to care about me
again.

“
Do they—did you tell them
I tried to leave?” I ask.

“
No.”

“
Why not?”

He turns to me and scoffs. “How far do
you think you would’ve gotten, anyway? No money, no car, nothing.
Your dad has everyone in this city in his pocket. No way you
could’ve disappeared. I get that you’re scared but running off
alone is not the answer.”

He’s right, of course, but I don’t say
it. I’m too busy remembering the one thing that should’ve stopped
me from the insanity of escape in the first place. Money, cars,
connections—none of it would’ve mattered. I am a product. Equipped
with GPS tracking and a kill switch embedded directly into my body.
The minute I left this rooftop, Titus would’ve either retrieved me
or terminated me. How could I have forgotten?

I decide then and there not to drink
vodka ever again. I go back to staring out at the rooftops. It’s
not nearly as relaxing anymore, not with thoughts of dead men and
GPS trackers and Titus crowding in. I know Linc is waiting on me to
start for home, but I am desperate for just one more
moment.

“
They know I didn’t die,”
I say finally.

“
You say that like it’s a
bad thing.”

I can tell by his expression he is
trying to make a joke. It falls flat. I don’t smile. “Depends on
who you ask.”

His forehead creases in confusion but
before he can ask, the communicator on his watch beeps again.
“Damn,” he mutters.

He shuts it off and then looks at me
for so long my pulse accelerates. “Are you okay now?” he asks, and
I can tell he means it because it feels like he’s looking so much
deeper than at my outsides.

“
I am,” I answer because
in this moment, it is true.

He smiles. It’s small and lopsided,
like his mouth is unsure if that’s really what it’s being told to
do, and I love the way it looks on him. Something inside me cracks
and reseals.

“
Good. Let’s get out of
here.” He turns toward the exit and offers me his hand. When I take
it, it’s warm, comforting. It reminds me that he is the only person
on my side, the only one actually trying to prevent my
death.

I shiver, comfort and fear an equal
mix.

“
You cold?” he
asks.

His voice is rough and close. Our
chests are only inches apart. He is looking down at me with quiet
concern and I shiver again—this time for an entirely different
reason.

“
No,” I
whisper.

The silence hangs like a sharp edge
between us. I feel as if at any moment, we’ll turn a corner and
rush headlong into … something. I don’t know what. So I stand
there, not breathing, waiting. Finally, he blinks and the sharpness
rounds out into nothing. I feel relieved and crushed all at
once.

“
We better go,” he says,
dropping my hand.

He leads me to the access door and
down the stairs without another word. We catch the elevator on the
tenth floor, avoiding whatever is left of the party. I’m glad for
that. Despite my assurances, my head is pounding now that I’m
moving.

When we make it outside, he turns to
me, apologetically. “The others took the car. All I have to get you
home is my motorcycle. Is that okay?”

I falter in my step. “It’s
fine.”

His head tilts. “Have you ever ridden
one?”

I am tempted to say that I’ve only
barely ridden in cars, much less a motorcycle, but I don’t. “No,” I
say simply.

He stops in front of a black
motorcycle that’s all hard angles and quiet muscle and hands me a
helmet he unstraps from the handlebars. “Put this on.”

I fumble with it for a moment before
he takes over, moving my fingers aside and nimbly working the snaps
into place. He takes off his jacket and holds it out for me to slip
into.

“
I can’t. It’s yours,” I
say. “Besides, I have mine.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not going
to be enough to keep you warm once we get moving. Trust me.” We
both look down at my mostly bare legs. “Just press close to
me.”

“
What about
you?”

“
I’ll be fine.”

I slip one arm, then another, into
sleeves that are too long, and zip it up. It feels heavy and bulky
around my shoulders, but I assume the padding is for safety and I
don’t complain. My belly is jumping from anticipation and fear as I
eye the machine next to us. There’s something sensuous about
it—like whispered danger.

“
The main thing to know is
how to turn. You have to lean into it and let the bike do the rest.
If you’re not sure, press against me and move when I move. Got
it?”

I don’t really, but I nod
anyway.

“
Just do what I do,” he
adds.

He helps me into his gloves, also too
big, and then we’re ready. He swings a leg over and knocks the
kickstand back in a practiced move.

I stand there, eyeing all of the
parts, and trying to figure out the best way to get on behind him
without falling over—or revealing any more of me in this too-short
dress. He turns the key and the bike revs to life underneath him.
He looks over and though I can’t see his expression behind his
helmet, it feels serious. There is a quiet energy between
us.

“
Get on,” he says, voice
muffled. He holds his hand out and I take it tentatively, trying to
figure out where to step and where to grab as I slide in behind
him. He waits a beat while I orient myself and then the engine
revs. I wrap my arms softly around his midsection, unsure, feeling
overly forward if I grab on too tightly.

“
You’re going to want to
hang on,” he says as if reading my thoughts. The inside of my
helmet heats as my cheeks burn. I’m glad he can’t see my face.
“Ready?”

I tighten my grip. “I think so.” My
wavering voice makes me sound like a liar. “Is this thing safe?” I
can’t help but add. He shakes with laughter and we ease
forward.

The bike is a life of its own
underneath me, humming and vibrating, and then he punches the gas
and it’s smooth and sleek—and fast. The pavement is rushing by and
the wind is flapping the edges of my dress and I no longer care how
tightly I should be holding on. I curl my shoulders forward so that
my chest is curved to his back.

The speed is exhilarating. The fear
and excitement are almost too big to feel at the same time.
Adrenaline pumps into me, making room for both. Behind the
anonymity of my helmet, I am grinning. I cannot stop. I have the
urge to throw my hands out and lean my head back and let the wind
roll over me in a moment of perfect ecstasy. Then we hit a bend in
the road and I feel him leaning and think better of letting go. I
lean with him, matching my shoulder dip to his. The motorcycle tips
effortlessly and then rights itself again as the road straightens.
It’s pure magic.

The speedometer tips eighty and I’m
not sure I wouldn’t blow away if I let go. It’s a thrill; death is
rushing by me six inches from my toes with nothing separating me
from it except my grip on Linc’s midsection. I tighten my arms and
grin wider.

The turns are scariest, the way we
lean and the speeds with which we take them. Each time, we come
closer to getting parallel with the pavement. It’s thrilling and
terrifying all at once. I squeeze Linc’s ribs, giving away the
delicious anxiety that grips me so hard I’m gasping in my helmet. I
don’t think he can hear my intake of breath or little cries of
panic, but I’m not certain. He pats my hand as the curve
straightens out and I know we’re grinning together now.

All too soon, the road gives way to
warehouses, then businesses, closed and boarded and littered with
dirty sidewalks, trash, sleeping bodies. I caught glimpses in the
car the other day, but this view is different. I can see it all, no
tinted windows to paint it less horrifying.

We pass a stumbling man and have to
swerve to keep from running him over. He doesn’t even jump back. I
wonder if he’s aware we are there at all. Children play with some
red-eyed animal that hovers behind an overturned dumpster. Their
clothes are ragged and dirty, even in the darkness. Through the
filter of my helmet, the air is stale and sullied.