Page 44 of Outbreak

Just for a little while.

Sunlight warmsmy face as I stretch out on something lumpy. My eyes shoot open, and I nearly fall on my ass as I jump up when my mind catches up.Where the fuck am I?The room is dark, except for the sun streaming in from one window—onto the couch I was just lying on beneath it.

“Ghost!” My voice bounces off the concrete walls, echoing in the mostly empty space. There are windows lining the inner walls, overlooking the factory below. The door is frosted glass, with the worn etching for someone’s name, but I can’t make it out as I twist the knob and jerk on it frantically.

He left me here? What the fuck? Panic rises inside of me, crawling from the depths of my stomach, into my chest, and up my closing throat.

He fucking left me? Again!

Tears build behind my eyes as I try to control my breathing. A slip of paper on the floor by the couch catches my burning eyes. My feet drag on the floor as I shuffle over, squatting down to pick it up.

Don’t panic. I went to the truck to get some of our things. Be back soon.

–Ghost

WYCK

Tossingthe note on the couch and plopping down with a heavy sigh, I try to push the rising panic back down into my chest.Don't panic?What the fuck did he think I was going to do when I woke up locked in an unfamiliar room?

The soft rumble of an engine outside has me shooting off the couch, then climbing on top of it to see out. Ghost’s truck slows to a stop down below, and my stomach churns when I see the bloody mess of bodies we left in the alley last night.

A deep, bated breath whooshes out of me when his door opens and he climbs out.No mask.His dark hair glints in the sunlight, and my heart kicks up a few notches.

I still can’t believe it's really him,Wyck. Even more, I can’t believe I didn’t realize it was him before now. That magnetic pull—the one I can’t explain or understand—should have been my first clue. His eyes— the second. And the gummy worms and chips on my sandwich—yep. Delusion was the solution. I guess I didn’t want to risk the possibility of it being true. I’d rather believe he was a complete stranger than the boy I thought ripped my heart out and tossed me aside like trash.

Swallowing down the lump forming in my throat, I watch as he pulls our bags from the backseat and tosses them over his shoulder before he shuts the door and disappears onto the loading dock. I slide down the wall to my ass on the lumpy couch. Nervous butterflies take flight in my belly as I wait for him to come up here. The door shuts downstairs, and his boots thud in time with my heart on the metal stairs I saw leading up.

When the latch on the door clicks, I realize I’m holding my breath. I let it slowly release as it swings open, and he fills the frame with his massive body.

“Hey, you’re awake,” he says, his eyes catching mine and searing into me like a brand. It’s too much—and not enough. I break first, looking down at the note next to me, picking it up, and rolling the edges nervously.

“Uh- yeah. Thanks.” I nod to the paper and keep my eyes away from his intense gaze.

“I got your bag and some food,” he says, stepping into the room and closing the door. He drops the bags on the floor next to me and squats down. His fingers find my chin, lifting my face to meet his. “I’m not going anywhere, Rue. I promise. We’ve got a lot to talk about, but that’s something that isn’t going to change, no matter what we discuss.”

“Okay,” I whisper. I don’t tell him that it’s not just his decision anymore. I don’t need to. I think he realized it when I held his knife to his throat. Standing up, he rises too, taking astep back as I get up, grabbing the bag of food from the floor, and walking over to the desk in the corner. I dump out the contents and sort it out.

“What are you doing?” He sits down, resting his elbows on his knees and cocking his head to look at me.

“Well, I’m not about to sit on that couch and pick the scabs off my childhood trauma like you’re getting paid by the hour to listen to my shit.” I toss a bottle of water and a pop-tart at him, and sit on the top of the desk, opening the silver wrapper and taking a big bite. “You wanna talk? Talk.”

He looks at the water and food that landed on the worn cushion, then hangs his head, staring at the floor.

“Well, let’s just rip off the big one, then. I need to know… What did you mean about my dad?”

“I meant what I said, Wyck.” I unscrew the lid on the water, taking a big gulp to wash down the chocolate pastry and the swelling emotion trying to choke me.

“When?”

“Um…” I look to the ceiling, begging the tears not to fall, but they slip down my cheek anyway. “I was maybe fifteen—the first time.”

“The first—how many times?” His deep, rumbling growl is deadly.

“Uh, I don’t know. A lot?”

“I don’t understand. Why would Jimmy tell me you were… If he knew, why didn’t he?—”

A dark, humorless laugh bubbles out of me. “Jimmy!? Who the fuck do you think invited your dad to join in on his sick little games?”

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