Page 29 of Uncontrolled

“Bluebirds and sunshine,” she says, answering with a color to my flower reference which means she’s not in serious trouble. “You’re needed.”

Beside me, Christopher gives a questioning okay sign. I waggle my hand in an uncertain gesture and mouth Talia’s name.

“Can it wait? It’s date night,” I tell her. Honestly, it’s just a walk, but the shy grin Christopher tries to hide makes me glad I went with the excuse. I lift my pointer finger so he’ll give me a minute. He nods and then wanders off in the creek’s direction to allow me privacy.

On the other end of the line, Talia makes a noise brimming with disbelief and annoyance. “Weird thing for you to be doing considering what we talked about.”

I adjust the phone and shift toward the shops. “What do you need me for?”

“Resurrection,” she says, and though she can’t see it, I instinctively shake my head. “I’ve got CJ with me,” she goes on as if that’s a name I should recognize. My steps on the cobbled pedestrian area of the square stutter to a stop.

“Okay,” I say cautiously. At least it explains why she didn’t blow up on me about Christopher still being around. There’s another person in the passenger seat listening.

“CJ’s been trying to reach you,” she says, her tone heavy with insistence. “Turns out he completed his resurrectionist training with Sarah and just needs a couple supervised jobs before he’s ready to work on his own. He’s eager to get those under his belt. A job came available tonight.”

“Damn it,” I murmur, so quietly that I can’t be sure Talia hears it, let alone the kid sitting beside her. Talia warned me my avoidance of not only taking over the cluster, but of resurrection, would draw attention. The wrong sort will drag both Christopher and me into a spotlight neither of us wants. Talia’s run interference for me longer than anyone else would have.

Technically, it is me in charge of this kid getting the final training he needs. I can’t step aside or half-ass this.

I rattle off a pair of cross streets far enough away that the pedestrians wandering about won’t be a problem and promise her I’ll be there.

“Allie?” she says as I move to end the call.

“Still here.”

“We’ll be there to pick you up in a few.”

She doesn’t need to add alone for it to come across loud and clear. I don’t want to remind her Christopher has already been on a resurrection with us. Deep inside, though, I know he has no place in what’s happening tonight.

“Didn’t even cross my mind,” I say.

“Good,” she answers before the line goes dead.

Tucking the phone into my pocket, I search the crowd for Christopher. He’s across the square, angled away from me. On the small patch of grass in front of him is a shirtless guy leaning against the black wrought-iron fence meant to keep drunk tourists from tumbling into Merciback Creek. His torn jeans are the color of dust. Two impossibly long locs hang off one side of his otherwise-shaved head as if whatever clippers he used to shear it ran dry on batteries with those to spare. An oversize pack resembling the kind Christopher uses is at his side. Clenched between his crossed legs is a bongo.

He stands and the light catches him better. Tattoos line the tops of his russet shoulders, dip into the trough above his collarbones and spill down the center of his chest to a large, scrolled piece covering his belly. A thin crown of black interconnected x’s circle his head. I hate to be judgmental, but with the tats, grime, and appearance, this guy could pass as part of an outlaw hobo gang.

I’ve absorbed bits and pieces about Christopher’s life at the Boxcar Camp. Enough to know maybe there are parts about his existence there he’d rather I not be told.

I can’t just leave though. Not without telling Christopher what’s going on. A text once I’m gone won’t cut it. I amble in their direction, hoping he’ll turn and spot me. Instead, it’s the other guy who notices me first. When he does, he bursts into a grin, revealing at least a couple of missing teeth he isn’t shy to show off.

“You the reason Ploy smells like a frat boy?” he says in a gravelly voice that has Christopher startling at my unexpected appearance behind him.

The roughness in the guy’s throat makes the question a threat, but his eyes are kind. I gather the tattoos he’s slathered in are nothing more than armor.

Returning his smile, I fake a cringe. “Nah,” I say, the word stretched. “Frat boys smell like musty socks and well liquor.” I hook a thumb to where Christopher stands as I break into the space beside him. “He smells like whatever shampoo and deodorant were on sale, same as me.”

His hands smack on the bongo to punctuate his laugh. The harsh, single pat on the drum swivels half the heads of the milling crowd in our direction. He pumps a fist at Christopher. “Knew you had an angel,” he says.

I hesitate. Color floods my cheeks. “Oh, gosh. I mean…”

“She’s not an angel,” Christopher says. His reply is even.

I’m not sure whether it should offend me. The way he’s standing at a careful distance has me wondering if I screwed up. “You don’t have to sound so confident,” I say in a way that makes it obvious I’m teasing. “I can be angelic sometimes!”

He’s watching me with a strange mix of trepidation and pride I don’t understand.

“Angel’s slang,” Christopher clarifies. “Means any female who will adopt one of us crusty bastards in the interest of reform, sobriety, and a life lived under the shackles of society’s expectations.” His definition is sarcastic, and from how the other guy laughs, they’re sharing a joke I’m not getting. The guy sets his bongo in the grass and Christopher leans forward to exchange a complicated handshake with his friend. When they finish, they’re both grinning.

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