Shadows of Ourselves (2016 Original Edition)

TWENTY-THREE: Battle Plan

I woke up in Jackson's office, pounding head, stinging eyes, aching body. I felt like I'd been fed through a meat processor and then glued back together, piece by mangled piece.

My head throbbed in several places, brain like a pile of frayed nerves and bruises.

The cold hanging in the room made it easier to breathe, and I focused on the smooth cushions of the couch beneath me, the dim lights illuminating all of his books and toys and binders, scraps of ripped and folded paper hanging out at odd angles. Details to fixate on so I wasn't reduced to my pain and my fear. Disoriented, I blinked a few times, and groaned as I started to stir.

"Rise and shine, sleeping beauty." Jackson was sitting in the chair behind his desk, sandy hair mussed up, with a bottle on the desk in front of him. He looked tired of being tired, black bags forming, red rims around his eyes.

This guy could give Melissa a run for her money.

"Is that vodka?" I croaked out.

Maybe my priorities weren't in order. My migraine didn't particularly leave me room to care.

"Come here," he said, reaching over to grab two shot glasses off the liquor cart. "You've been out for two and a half hours."

"Riley?"

"Upstairs," he waved away my concern. "She's too tough to stay down for long. Last time I checked she was figuring out how to leech our wifi."

Safe. Alive. Glued to her phone.

The wave of relief that crashed over me was impossible to squash back down. Jackson looked surprised at the small smile on my face, but said nothing.

I resisted the urge to cry.

"I may want a swig of that."

Dragging myself off the couch felt like falling off the cliff in my dream. I stood still for a minute, knees shaking, as the world titled around me. By the time I recovered Jackson had slid a full shot glass across the desk.

It was enough motivation to make me walk over and drop into the chair, dead weight.

I had no idea what to make of Jackson. I'd seen him at first as a cunning businessman, all exposure and sensory overload, flashing lights and vivid colours—a beautiful disguise hiding something darker. His betrayal earlier today—had it only been this morning?—only cemented that image. And yet, he'd let Hunter and I get away, and then rescued us from Crayton's men again at the bar. So now I had to wonder if he was our ally—he didn't seem the type to do anything that didn't further his own goals. Selfish. But I understood that. I knew he wanted to keep up that aura of mystery, could see that he loved walking around like a living question mark in the way he smirked at me as I studied him now. He wanted me to take the bait—I just couldn't figure out why.

I don't like being left in the dark. I pondered my vodka. Counted to three. Swallowed it without letting myself think about it and relished the burn of acid in my throat.

Nice wake up call. Liquid fire was spreading through me. My joints burned from the fight, but that was a bad burn. This was a good one. A small nod to vice before I forced my feet back to the ground and focused on the situation at hand.

"Why did you save us?"

"You don't waste words, do you?"

I squinted. I wanted my head to stop spinning, the air to stop feeling so thin. "Not at times like these," I said. "I don't know if I can trust you not to try and kill me again, and if that's the case, I'd rather get the whole kicking your ass part over with so I can deal with my hangover and figure out what the hell I'm gonna do with my life."