Page 6 of Uncontrolled

Her fingers drift across my cheek. There’s a question in her eyes, like I said something wrong or she’s expecting more and I think maybe, maybe, this could be the moment.

Tell her. It’s three words and I can’t get them out. Three words caught in my throat. Three words clinging to the roof of my mouth.

Three words unspoken as Allie turns from me and leads us to the apartment while I trail behind her the same coward I’ve always been.

Allie

After the date I ruined, we pass the morning in silence. Every few minutes, I raise my phone to swipe the screen, check for missed calls, nonexistent offers for interviews that are starting to feel mythical. All it takes is one, I tell myself over and over.

When we got home from the river, Christopher asked if other resurrectionist clusters would shelter us. We talked about worst-case scenarios. He offered the Boxcar Camp as a potential temporary hideout. The instant emptiness in his voice ruled out the possibility for me. I won’t let him go back there. Never again. He mentioned making a run for it, to parts unknown. Hopping a train to anywhere. Never once did he ask me to reconsider resurrecting. Never once did he suggest I quit later, when it’s more convenient, when I’d saved enough to cover a few months of uncertainty.

Finally, as the apartment heats from uncomfortable to sweltering, Christopher strips the phone from my grip and sets it on the scarred end table beside the couch. The urgency in his fingertips on the damp skin of my shoulder calls me closer.

Christopher kisses me like he’s trespassing. Sweat trickles down my neck, rolls over my spine to seep into the material of my tank top. I think about taking the shirt off, what he would do if I did, what I would want him to do. His knee edges in between my legs, pressing into the couch cushion under us and tilting me hard to the right. His fingers hop the button of my jeans and hide against my hip in the newfound inch of space. I moan as his mouth presses a trail that skirts the edge of my collarbone.

“More,” I whisper against his throat. His mouth plunders my thoughts, stealing my breath. The oscillating fan rotates in our direction. I shiver. His muscles flex and roll under my fingertips as I arch from the cushions and against him.

“More, huh?” he says in a teasing whisper.

“I—” Licking my lips, I pause, sudden nerves flooding through me. Aside from Christopher, I can count the guys I’ve kissed on one hand and have fingers left over. I haven’t exactly had what anyone would consider a normal teenager’s experience. Being a resurrectionist didn’t leave time for much, other than training.

He’s still with me, even though I hurt him. He’s still with me, even though the hunters could be monitoring me, standing by for an opportunity. Still with me, even though it’s dangerous, even though everyone else I love is dead.

Not that I love him.

Oh my God, I think suddenly. Do I love him? My nerves tumble into surprise.

Those trespassing fingers at my hip halt, lift away unchecked as he takes in my hesitation. Suddenly, he rocks forward for one last kiss and then flops beside me on the couch. I lower my legs to the floor. Our make-out session is over. Even with the fan on full speed, the heat drives a space between us.

I sit, my stomach in knots, desperate to find something to say, explain what just happened. I’m getting my feelings mixed up, overthinking things. He and I are not a couple. I don’t know what I want…even if I want it with him. We return to watching the small screen of the television as if nothing happened.

I can’t love him.

If I love him, I’ll have to tell him I can’t be the one to save him. Two weeks until the landlord gets angry about the late rent. Three weeks at most before I’m looking at an eviction notice. This time, Christopher and I will both be without a roof over our heads and it will be my fault.

He laughs at the movie and I stare around the room, cataloguing. The TV stand (old and tilting dangerously) won’t survive a move. The couch we’re on is far too heavy. Actually, all the furniture is bulky. In the three months I’ve been here, I’ve amassed a handful of appliances: toaster, coffee maker, a dinky ten-dollar grinder for the fresh roasted beans I used to splurge on.

My throat goes tight. Sarah must have set something aside for me in case this happened. Before the house had gone up in flames, while Sarah’s body had still been in the living room, I’d sought out a hidden envelope meant for me in case I needed a quick getaway. The name on the fake ID hadn’t connected to any accounts I could find, and I’d spent the couple hundred bucks within days. Later, Talia and I sifted through the wreckage of the burned house for bank statements or paperwork and found nothing. There’d been little remaining inside the house, the ribs of the second story jutting from charred walls, everything else collapsed and sopping and blackened. After hours of poking and prodding, we scrounged a few journals in a lockbox, a saltshaker, and half a box of Christmas ornaments.

It took me days to get the smoke smell off my skin.

All you have to do is resurrect and at least your money problems are over, I think. The idea of it makes me sick. That money is from extorting vulnerability beyond description. Not to mention, the blood running through my veins seems to be a death sentence, a clock ticking down as my enemies close in on me. First Jamison, now the group he left behind. So far, I’m not doing a damn thing to stop them.

Christopher clears his throat pointedly.

“Yeah?” I say, pasting a smile onto my lips. It’s obvious he’s been trying to get my attention.

“Where were you just then?” he asks.

It’s a dangerous question. I could have been thinking about the cellar at Jamison’s or the cleaners who took him away, their van of chemicals and disposal secrets and silence.

Christopher watches me.

A blush heats my cheeks. I use it to my advantage. “You,” I say as I give my eyes an exaggerated roll. “And me.”

He breaks into a grin. “Yeah?” he says and leans to wrestle me into his arms. His touch sneaks toward my stomach and I screech a laugh as he tickles, the tension dissolving. “Swear?”

Giggles break from me, louder as he joins in and then silences them with a kiss. It’s the only reason we hear the sharp knock on the door.

---