Remember Me (25 page)

“Look how much blood you've lost. You could be cooking up an infection.” I stagger a little as I reposition him against me. “You sound freaking delirious.”

“No hospitals,” Milo repeats. “They'll ask questions about him.”

He pulls his face close to mine, and for a moment, I'm not staring at Milo the computer builder. I'm staring at Milo the little boy and, somehow, I recognize this Milo even more than the first.

It's the fear. Both of us understand what it's like to hide our wounds.

“Just . . . get me through to my room,” Milo grates. “It's no big deal. Perfectly normal. I've got first aid stuff there.”

I roll my eyes.
It's perfectly normal to keep first aid kits in your bedroom? Whatever.

Milo sidesteps to avoid an overstuffed arm chair and his legs buckle. “Shit,” he whispers, arms tightening around me.

“Milo, you're too heavy. Milo—”

He slumps toward his bed, dragging me with him, and I roll, pushing him backward. It turns me onto my hands and knees. On top of him. I start to scramble off and Milo grabs my sides, pinning my hips to his.

“I think you're good for me, Wicked.”

“Don't call me that.”

A shadow falls behind his eyes. Regret? I can't tell and I don't think I want to know.

“I think you're good for me,
Wick
.”

“Why's that?”

“Because I'm broken.”

I almost laugh. “Then I'm no good to you at all. I don't do broken. I'm not the healing type.”

“That's why you're perfect.”

I go still.

“I can't ruin you because you're already ruined.” Milo eases one hand behind my neck, cradling the base of my skull like I'm fragile. “I can't corrupt you because you're already corrupted. It makes you incorruptible.”

He laughs like the word is hilarious . . . or amazing.

And then he kisses me.

37

Milo's hands are hot against my skin. He holds me carefully, easing me closer like he's afraid. The kiss is soft . . . sweet. It might even be kind of perfect. If my lips didn't still expect Griff. If my skin didn't still burn for him.

He isn't there, but my body hunts for him like he's everywhere.

Milo kisses my upper lip, the corner of my mouth, the tip of my nose. I'm completely still. He probably thinks it's because I want him—maybe part of me does. Most of me though is trying not to cry, and when I open my eyes, he's studying me.

“I would do anything to make you want me,” Milo whispers.

I shake my head hard like I'm sure he couldn't . . . then again maybe he could. Maybe if things were different and I didn't want a guy who doesn't want me.

Milo curves me against him, fitting his mouth to mine. His hands are everywhere, telling stories on my skin.

About how we could be together.

About how all things can be fixed.

Forgiven.

I break away and Milo cradles my cheek with his palm, his thumb rubbing my lower lip. “He doesn't understand you. He doesn't understand what you could be.”

I try to laugh and it comes out strangled. “But somehow you get it?”

“Yeah, I do.”

Now is the time to really laugh . . . and realize I can't. Because he does get me. Milo's the first person who hasn't made me feel ashamed for what I am.

I have no idea if that's a good thing.

“Why did you ask Griff for the security video?”

A shadow slides behind Milo's eyes. “I wanted to give you something no one else could.”

And be my hero? Of all people, I would have thought Milo would realize we're the bad guys. “I saw it. Thanks.”

“Bastard gave it to you? Should have known he'd cockblock me.”

“It's not—” I pull back and Milo sags into the pillows, wincing. “Jesus, you look bad. Where's the first aid kit?”

He nudges his chin toward the bedside table and I spend a minute rummaging under computer part magazines before finding a white box filled with bandages and antiseptic.

“I'm going to warn you now,” I say, dousing a gauze pad with rubbing alcohol. “I paid absolutely no attention in health class.”

“Lucky me.” Teeth gritted, Milo tugs off his T-shirt, revealing a hardened chest marred with blood. He leans one tattooed forearm against his eyes. “Just do it.”

I press the pad to his side, hold tight even though Milo flinches. “I'm sorry.”

He doesn't respond so I work faster, cleaning the wound until I can cover it with another thick gauze pad and tape it in place. There's a light sheen of sweat across his skin now, but he doesn't complain—just takes swallow after swallow of Jameson.

“There. You should be good now.” I tug the bottle out of his hand and set it on the nightstand—just out of reach.

Milo smiles bitterly. “See, Wick? You're good for me.”

“You're drunk. Go to sleep.” I push up, ditching him on the bed. Once Griff thought I was good for him too. I'm tired of being good for other people.

I want to be good for me.

I head for the door, stepping around mounds of discarded laundry and making it only a few feet before I turn around. Should I leave him like this? I chew my thumbnail. Unconscious, Milo looks younger and smaller than he usually does. What if he wakes and needs something? What if he wakes and his dad's returned?

Oh, screw it. It's not like I'm going to go back to school. I push a balled-up sweatshirt off a nearby armchair and curl my legs under me, watching him. I don't feel myself fall asleep. I must have though, because when I open my eyes, Milo is watching me.

“Do you always sleep like that?” His voice is frayed like he's barely holding himself together.

“Like what?”

“All tucked up into yourself, like you're an animal used to sleeping underground.”

I roll to my other hip, draw my legs tight underneath me. Too many nights of no sleep and too much stress and too much, well,
everything
have gotten to me. My entire body feels weighed down by rocks. “Go to sleep, Milo, or I'll call 911.”

His laugh is low and dark. It's the last thing I remember before I slip under.

 

I wake up
again two hours later and Milo is still sleeping hard. I spend a couple minutes staring at him, trying to decide how I feel about him getting Griff to give me the security feed, and because I
can't
decide, I concentrate instead on whether Milo's dying.

And whether I
should
call 911.

But his coloring is almost dark cinnamon again, which is closer to normal for him, he seems to be comfortable, and, honestly, I have zero way of explaining any of this to the EMTs, so I leave him alone.

I pad across the room, heading for my sweatshirt, and something soft catches my foot. I look down, roll my eyes. That's a bra. Who would leave her bra behind?

A girl who wanted an excuse to come back.

I pull on my sweatshirt and check the time on my phone. Huh, right now I would be in Spanish class, which means I have almost four hours before I need to be home. So what am I going to do with myself?

In response, my stomach pinches. I need to eat. Considering this is Milo's place, though, I have an equal chance of finding food or blowing myself sky-high. I study the door to his pantry, weighing my options. What if he's booby-trapped it?

I take a deep breath, tell myself I'm being an idiot, and yank the door open. No explosion. Not really any food either. Most of the pantry is devoted to spare computer parts. What does Milo do for meals around here? Ethernet cables and soldering equipment?

Eventually, I find club crackers and ginger ale sitting on a crate of motherboards and I take a sleeve of crackers and a soda for me, leaving the rest on Milo's bedside table.

Four hours to kill is a seriously nice windfall. What should I do with it?

My computer's at home, but I don't really have much to work on anyway since I already turned in my limited findings to Carson.

That leaves my mom. I could drive around Five Points, see if I could find Sam again. Stupid idea . . . that lingers.

What if I told her I saw the video? I could say I know my mom jumped. She wasn't pushed.

I don't know why I need to make that distinction.

Maybe because I'm hoping she'll remember something else. Maybe because I'm pissed.

Either way, I take the keys off Milo's worktable, lock the door in case his dad returns before I do, and head for Five Points. Milo's contact had said Sam sticks to the same general area, so I head for the alley we found her in and waste fifteen minutes looking for her. There's no sign of Sam anywhere, but as I pass by the same pile of trash again, I recognize the bottle I stole from Bren's wine fridge.

It's empty, of course. And what I assumed was trash isn't actually trash. I think it's Sam's stuff. I toe through mismatched tennis shoes, a box of lighters, a one-eared stuffed bunny. Impossible to tell if any of it's hers. I think it might be though.

Which means she'll be back soon, right?

Behind me, a bottle tips over and rolls past my feet. I turn, hope screwing tight around my chest.

But it isn't Sam.

It's Jason Baines.

38

“Heard you were looking for me,” he says.

“Somehow I doubt that.” I ease to my feet, eyes already hunting for the exit. No good though. Only way out is the way I came in and Jason's grinning like he knows he's blocking it.

“Let me clarify.” Jason runs one hand through his short, dark hair, and the oh-so-casual move reveals the nine millimeter tucked in the waistband of his jeans. “Sam told me you were looking for some security footage.”

I start to say I've already seen it and something keeps me quiet. Someone told Sam “all about” the footage and if that someone is Jason . . . I bump up my chin. “And? Sam's the one who told me about it.”

“I think you should leave this alone.”

I swallow hard. “That's . . . not going to happen.”

Jason nods slowly before looking behind us, up the alley where no one's around. “You know, Wick, Joe Bender taught me everything I know about this business.”

“I remember.”

“You see that tape . . . you goin' to tell your dad what you see on it?”

Chills skitter across my skin. “Why would I tell him anything?”

“Maybe because it would be beneficial to both of us.”

“Go on.”

Jason's tongue touches his lower lip. “We knew your mom was snitching on us. Joe found out first and told me. He said we had to do something.”

The dealer smiles. “That something ended up being the two of us taking your mom up to that building at three in the morning. Joe told her all about how he knew. She denied it . . . for a while.”

The truth is supposed to be bright and I feel like I'm buried. “Did he hurt her?”

Jason stares at me, saying nothing.

“Do you have to think about it? It's a yes-or-no question.”

“I'm just surprised you have to ask.” Jason takes a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and lights one. “Of course he hurt her.”

I nod. Of course he hurt her. Of course. The whole thing makes more sense than I want it to. I believe Joe would hurt her—I do—but it doesn't match with the body language from the tape. She wasn't running away. The movements were so deliberate.

I force my chin up and hope my voice won't break. “What happened? Why did she jump?”

“Joe said he would kill you and Lily if she didn't.”

What?
Briefly, I'm spinning far above my head; then, just as suddenly, I'm concreted to the ground.

Jason's searching my face now, interested in what he sees, and because I'm afraid of what that might be, I turn it around, go on the attack. “And you did
nothing
?”

He flicks ash from his cigarette. “You wanted the truth. I gave it to you—free of charge. Here's another truth: You ain't as safe as you think you are.”

“Yeah, good luck with that.” I roll my eyes. “My foster mom gets one look at you lurking around and she'll call the cops. They actually listen to people like her. It's kinda amazing.”

“Not what I meant. Thanks for the tip though. I'll keep it in mind.” Jason takes another drag on his cigarette. “What I'm more interested in is why that detective's always talking to you.”

“Yeah, I got your present. Appreciate the thought. You're way off though. He's trying to press more charges against my dad. He thinks I'm an inroad.”

“He thinks? Or he
knows
?” Another drag. This time, Jason takes a few seconds before blowing out the smoke. “I don't remember what happened at that party, but I'm pretty sure something did and you were behind it.”

“I heard you couldn't hold your booze.”

“That's the rumor. Since you were so kind to give me a tip, I'll give you one too: Nothing folks around here hate more than snitches. Maybe if you did me a favor, no one would have to know.”

We stare at each other, the silence between us stretching thin as a string of taffy.

“Tell your dad.” Jason's eyes go light. “Tell him what Joe did—just remember to leave me out of it.”

I need space to unpack this information and I'm already turning away when—wait.
Wait
. “Why does my dad need to know now? What's changed?”

Jason stares at me like I'm a moron. “You think I want to be a secondhand man forever? I need Joe dead. I already have his people, his contacts, his position. They answer to me now. I want to keep it that way.”

“That so?”

“Yeah, that's so. How'd you think I found you? I have eyes everywhere now. I'm just a phone call away. I still need him gone though. Clean break, you know?”