Stung (18 page)

More than anything, I’d like to get clean. I stare at Bowen, and my heart grows too big for my chest. A sudden assault of tears blurs my eyes.

Bowen, seeing the tears, turns to leave but pauses in the doorway, not looking at my face. “There’s stuff in those suitcases that should fit you, too.” He shuts the door.

I peel off my grimy things, unwind the tattered binding from my breasts, and climb into the tepid water. When I sit, it only reaches halfway up my thighs. Even so, the water is heaven.

On the side of the tub are a little soap packet, a tiny bottle of shampoo, and a tiny bottle of conditioner. I lie back and scrub my scalp with the entire bottle of shampoo, then work the conditioner into my hair. By the time I’ve soaped every square inch of my body, the water is brown and I am too disgusted to sit in it any longer. I drain the tub and climb out.

Hot summer air whisks the moisture from my skin. Facing the mirror, I brush my teeth, then run the comb through my short, ugly hair, parting my long bangs to the side so my entire face shows.

The face in the mirror is odd, nearly a stranger’s. Only my brown eyes are the same, set above unfamiliar, angled cheekbones and a mouth full of white teeth.

I rummage through the suitcases and find purple cotton underwear, a white camisole tank top, and a pink sundress. I pull the clothes over my clean body and twirl in front of the mirror. I feel like a girl again—almost like the old me. With a goofy smile plastered to my grown-up face, I leave the bathroom.

When I come out, Bowen stands looking out the window at the evening sky, his dark brows drawn together, completely lost in thought.

“All clean,” I say, blushing.

He turns from the window, the beginning of a smile on his lips, and his face goes blank. And then he frowns. His eyes move all the way down to my bare feet and back up, lingering on my obviously female chest before returning to my eyes.

“No,” he says. “You cannot wear that.”

I look down at the sundress. “What’s wrong with it?”

He drags a hand over his weary face. “You look like a …
woman
. It’s not safe.”

I think of the raiders and look back down at the dress. “When we leave, I’ll change,” I say. “But for now, it’s comfortable. I feel like the old me.”

Bowen presses his hands to his temples and looks back out the window. “Fo, you’re not safe from me.”

I stare at his back for a long moment, at the gun slung over his shoulder, the Taser on his belt. “You’re going to shoot me for wearing a sundress?”

He turns his head and looks at me with danger-filled eyes. In three steps he’s in front of me, his hands on my bare shoulders, fingers digging into my skin. “Fo, I’m a man, and you’re a beautiful woman. But you’re also a Level Ten, and when I look at you, especially when you’re dressed like this, I can’t think straight, because even though my brain tells me you’re the most dangerous thing I’ve ever encountered, my heart … my
body
—” His mouth snaps shut and he stares deep into my eyes.

I get it, what his heart and body are doing, because mine are doing it, too. I ache for Dreyden Bowen, for everything about him. His smell, his touch, the sound of his voice, his presence. I tilt my head to the side and trail my fingers over his freshly shaved jaw line. He shuts his eyes and leans into my touch.

“I’m sorry, Dreyden. I’ll change into something else,” I whisper, letting my hand drop. His eyes open.

“
I’m
sorry. It’s just, if I let my guard drop, even for a second …” His cheeks flush bright pink and he takes a deep breath. “I won’t be able to keep my hands off of you.”

I walk to the bathroom and find a pair of baggy jeans, an oversize T-shirt that hangs halfway down my thighs, and the strap of fabric that binds my breasts flat against my chest. When I come out Bowen is lying on the bed beside his gun, hands behind his head, ankles crossed, staring up at the ceiling.

“I need to sleep,” he says. Without taking his eyes from the ceiling, he slides the gun across the mattress toward me. “Will you keep watch?”

I take the gun and nod, but he doesn’t see. “Yes,” I say.

“Don’t use the flashlight. The raiders will see it through the window,” he says, and his eyes slip shut. On bare feet, I walk to the short hallway beside the door and sit with my back to the wall, gun balanced between my bent knees.

Bowen sleeps, a restless sleep that makes him thrash and flinch. And when he thrashes about on the sleeping bag, it is my name he cries out. Sometimes he screams it and I cling to the gun, listening for the sound of anyone else in the hotel. Because if anyone’s around, they know we’re here now.

The sun sets and darkness creeps into the room. A crescent moon and stars illuminate the shadows, shining in through the window and casting a perfect ice-blue square over Bowen’s sleeping body. With the darkness, Bowen’s thrashing intensifies, my name spoken more often, accompanied by pleading whimpers or violent growls.

That he fears me so badly brings tears to my eyes. I hang my head, let my forehead rest on my knees, and try not to cry.

After he’s been asleep for several hours and the moonglow has moved to the far side of the room, Bowen suddenly lurches,
spine taut, and screams, “Fiona! No! Stop!” He keeps screaming and thrashing, mumbling words I can’t understand.

Sick to my stomach, I set the gun on the floor and pad over to the bed. The sleeping bag is in a wadded ball beneath him, his shirt twisted around his torso.

“Bowen,” I whisper. He whimpers and gasps my name, rolling onto his side, his body curled into a protective ball. “Bowen, wake up.” I touch his damp forehead, and he flinches away from my fingers, curling even tighter into a fetal ball. I place both my hands on his cheeks. “Dreyden,” I say. His eyes flutter open and focus on my face. He grabs me, pulling me against him hard, and I wonder if he’s gong to thrust a knife into my ribs or strangle me with his bare hands.

“Fiona,” he whispers, tightening his arms around my shoulders. I freeze, my head on his chest, my body beside his, his arms anchoring me there. After a minute his heart slows beneath my ear and begins to beat at a normal rate, and his arms loosen the slightest bit. Convinced I’m not about to die, I relax into him.

“Was it bad?” I whisper, imagining myself tearing him limb from limb in his nightmare.

“Yeah. Worst nightmare I’ve ever had. Even worse than after my mom died.” His arms tighten. I spread my hand over his chest and, through his sweat-damp shirt, feel his pulse beneath my fingers.

“Did I tear your beating heart from your body?” I ask, struggling not to cry.

He lifts his head to look down at me. “What?”

“In your dream. Did I kill you and eat your heart?”

His head falls back onto the mattress and his ribs rise and fall with a deep sigh. “You tearing out my heart would have been a pleasant alternative to my nightmare.”

I cringe and bury my face against his chest. His hand moves up to my hair and he trails his fingers through it. “Fiona. Look at me.”

There’s something in his voice—I know what he’s about to say is monumental. I brace myself for bad news and look up.

“I’m not taking you to the lab.” His arms fall away, and he rolls out from under me, climbing off the bed.

“You’re not?” I ask, sitting, wondering if I heard him right.

“No. We’re going to run, you and I together. But you have to promise me one thing.”

My heart starts hammering in my chest. “What?”

“You
always
have my gun with you. And you
always
keep one bullet in the magazine. If you get caught, you use it. On yourself. Can you agree to that?”

I stare at his black silhouette. “Yes,” I whisper.

“I’m going to get some supplies and another gun.” He moves about the dark room gathering things, unzipping and zipping the backpacks. And then he is beside the bed. His hand finds mine, and something comes around my wrist. A tiny light glows, showing that it is 2:08 a.m. I am wearing his watch.

“Put your shoes on and leave them on, even if you sleep. If you have to run, you won’t have time to waste putting them on. And make sure your backpack is always ready to go. If I’m not back by seven a.m. tomorrow—roughly twenty-nine hours from
now—go to the north gate and turn yourself in. They’ll get you to the lab.”

His words jolt me. “Wait. If you’re
not back
? You mean, if something happens to you and you die?”

“Yeah, something like that.” He stands in the small patch of moonlight shining in through the window and pulls off his shirt. Taking the Kevlar vest from the floor, he zips it around his chest, and then puts his shirt back on. Next, he places something on the bed beside me. I reach out and feel dense, heavy metal. I sit up, afraid.

“You’re not taking your rifle? But what if—”

His fingers cover my lips. “Fo. Keep yourself safe. I have my Taser. I’ll be fine,” he whispers.

I back away from his hand. “But what if you’re not?” I cry.

He turns and walks away, and I can practically see the dark shadow of death marching on his heels. Before he can open the hotel room door, I scramble from the bed and run to him, throwing myself between him and the exit, wrapping my arms around his neck. Tears fill my eyes, so I press my face against his shoulder. His arms encircle me and squeeze.

“Fo, I’ll come back,” he says. I sniffle and press my face harder against him. He tries to pull away, but I won’t let go. His hand finds my chin and forces it up, his thumb sweeping over my wet cheek. “Tears? For me?” he whispers.

I can’t speak—just stare at his shadowed face.

“Fiona, I …” His fingers slide to the nape of my neck. Our noses bump and then his lips touch mine, finishing his sentence
better than any words could have. His hands pull me closer and his lips press harder, start moving on top of mine. My mouth moves with his, my breath flows with his, my heart hammers against his. My salty tears make their way onto our tongues and are forgotten.

I push my hands under his backpack and run them over his back, over the unyielding Kevlar vest, up to his shoulders, and slip them beneath his sleeves against his warm skin. He groans, and his hands pull against the small of my back. Beneath his sleeves, I trace his muscles, find the teeth-mark scar and freshly scabbed bullet wound, and Bowen pulls his mouth from mine and gasps. He rests his forehead on mine and frames my face with his hands. They smell like metal and soap and shaving cream.

“Fiona, I …” The words disappear, their ending unspoken. I find his lips with mine, as if I’ve known how to kiss my entire life, and his hands tangle in my butchered hair. I taste Bowen and fresh tears, yet I’m no longer crying. I take my hands from his shoulders and press them to his face. Tears are streaming over his cheeks, down to our mouths.

I pull my mouth from his, and he buries his face against my neck, holding me tight. His body shudders against mine, and his tears come faster, soaking my skin. I cradle his head, my hand moving over his hair.

“It’s okay, Dreyden,” I whisper. “It’s going to be okay.” My words make his body shake.

He pulls away and peers down at me, his face nothing more than a silhouette in the darkness. “No, it’s not okay,” he says, voice ragged. “In my dream tonight, you were captured by raiders.
And no matter what I did, I couldn’t save you. And I couldn’t bring myself to kill you. They …” He takes a deep breath and pulls me against him. “You might as well have eaten my heart straight from my living body. I would rather die a thousand times at your hands than see you captured. Even if you eat my heart. Because you already own it.”

He holds me for a long time, neither of us speaking. A long time later, he whispers, “Remember what I said about seven a.m.” He touches my face with one hand and opens the door with the other. Darkness swallows him as he steps into the hall.

“Bowen, wait,” I whisper. He stops and looks at me. “I love you.” I’m glad for the dark that hides my flaming cheeks.

Bowen stands perfectly still for a drawn-out minute and then he steps up to me, cradles the back of my head in his hand, and presses his mouth to mine. Without a word, he releases me and strides into the hall’s darkness.

I sleep until the sun rises, heating the hotel room like an oven. With the gun in my lap, I sit on the bed, eager to run away with Bowen, watching the seconds tick away on his watch. I bring it to my nose and inhale. The band holds his scent.

When the watch shows twelve o’clock, I’m too restless to continue sitting. I go into the bathroom and sort through the old suitcases, putting things we might find useful—fingernail clippers, mouthwash, concealer, panties, and oversize T-shirts—into one pile, and the things we won’t need—other makeup, lingerie, dresses, and high heels—in another. At the bottom of the suitcase I find a news magazine dated the year I turned thirteen—four years ago. I take it and the pile of useful supplies into the bedroom and drop them on the mattress, then lean
against the headboard and open the magazine. The headlines make my head spin.

“New Bee-Antivenin Vaccine Discovered to Trigger Violent Behavior in Recipients.”

“The Price of Life May Be Death.”

“Cities Urged to Take Individual Government Control—White House Can No Longer Offer National Protection.”

“Roving Gangs Taking to Streets, Preying on Women.”

“Pediatrician-Induced Coma in Nine-Year-Old After Parental Consent. ‘Anything to Stop Our Daughter from Attacking Us.’”

Reading the headlines, a fog seems to lift from my brain. I can remember hearing things like this, remember screaming at my mom that the vaccine wasn’t making me violent.
I
wasn’t going to start attacking people.

Lis sat behind me, humming, her back against my headboard, and ran the hairbrush through my long hair. Since I wasn’t feeling well she’d skipped her nursing classes and had been sitting with me all afternoon while Mom took Jonah to the doctor’s again
.

“Do you want me to braid it?” Lis asked, gathering my hair at the nape of my neck. Before I could answer, Mom walked into my room, arms crossed over her chest, sting-proof netting still pinned in her hair like a bridal veil. At least she’d remembered to take it off her face when she came inside this time
.