Page 30 of Privilege

12

VALE

I’m donewith this trip. The guys in the back smell terrible. The thought of that girl, Amity, back in the PS is the worst kind of itch. Allowing myself to think about her makes me want to think about her more. It shouldn’t work that way.

But my mind keeps scanning for danger and snagging on her face, worried and brightly intelligent, her eyes following our abrupt departure from the PS courthouse. I start thinking about completely unrelated things, like her slightly minty, sweet smell, or the freckles still sprinkled on her nose and cheeks.

The kids used to call her Pepper, not as a mean thing, I think she was okay with it. It slipped out when we were talking, but it was a mistake to acknowledge that I recognized her. Her mom is a big-time Soldier in the PS now. That means Amity is nothing but trouble and I need to stop thinking about her.

I also need to get out of this van. I’m the one driving aswe roll up to the gates of the Forge compound. They’re all asleep, which makes it easier.

I roll my window down to confer with the guy in the security booth, then head over to intake. These men will have to prove themselves, and frankly it won’t be easy. If they don’t make the cut they can try their luck with the Brotherhood or up in Fairbanks. There’s a lot of work up there.

The Forge has high standards for our members. It’s not only about physical strength and fighting ability. It’s something else too, a dedication to retake the democratic world that was stolen from us. Do whatever is necessary.

I turn on the van’s overhead light.

“Okay, everyone. Out.”

They rub their eyes, even Mark. He shakes the sleep off first and starts opening up the doors.

Some of the men have backpacks or other bags with them, some have nothing. They’ll be provided for while they’re here.

The excitement of getting out of the PS and Canada is gone now. They look worried, unsure.

“You’ll sleep it off first,” I tell them, to sighs of relief. “Take a shower, for God’s sake,” I add, rolling my window down. It was a long drive. It took close to four days, even switching off at night.

Once they drag their tired bodies out and Mark ushers them through the door to the gym in this former high school complex, I slam the doors shut and hop back in. I drive down under the school where we added parking and storage for our larger machinery.

I’m tired but also wired and I think I’ll train a little, hit pads if anyone’s around, or punch the bag.

I park in the garage and hop on the elevator, sincerely wishing to see no one, just go straight to my room.

My wish comes true. I get up to the fourth floor and head down the hall. My rooms are in a series of offices, an old administration suite. I have a small room and a bathroom to call my own, which is more than most men have here.

It’s because of my father, sure, but I’ve also earned it. I’m only eighteen, but I take the most dangerous missions. I come early and stay late. I try to live up to his expectations of me. Even when I fall short it’s still after pushing myself to the limit, sometimes physically, sometimes mentally.

Like the training I had to undergo to pass undercover as a guard in the PS, or blend in with loggers in New Hampshire.

If my father has a job he needs done, I can figure out how to do it for him.

My room is dark, but warm. I strip down in the bathroom and rinse the smell of the van off me, even if I’m on my way to go get sweaty again.

Water warms my back and I tip my head, letting it run over my face, down my neck and chest. Hot, scalding water. The restlessness returns and I decide to stick to my plan of heading down to train.

I dry off and hang my towel carefully, straightening it on the bar. I brush my teeth thoroughly and comb my hair.

I move to the drawers that hold my clothes. The gym clothes are the third drawer down, rows of baggy shortsfolded tightly next to rolled-up sweats. On the other side, a neat array of folded T-shirts.

I take one T-shirt and one pair of shorts carefully, doing my best not to disturb the rest. I pull the clothes on and open a cupboard to find the few pairs of shoes I own besides my boots.

I grab my boxing shoes and lace them up slowly, trying to sink into the mindset. I remember I left the PS guard uniform back in the van and scribble a note to myself, putting it on my list of things to take care of tomorrow.

For tonight, I bring my gloves and hand wraps, phone and earpods, slipping my mouthguard into my pocket, and head downstairs.

The workout room is an old fitness center. There are ancient bikes and bars and plates in the back. A ring off to one side that doesn’t get used much except for official fights. And there are the bags.

The floor squishes beneath my feet—mats cover most of the room. I was hoping there’d be someone down here to hit pads with, but it’s empty this late so I set myself up next to the bag, slipping earpods into my ears, jumping rope to warm up.

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