Rush The Game

supposed to do that without making contact or offering any explanations?”
    “Pretty much.”
    “That’s the most asinine thing I’ve ever heard.”
    “I doubt it’s the most asinine.”
    I don’t want to play word games or argue about semantics. “Are you in charge of the game, Jackson?”
    He scrubs his fingers along his jaw. “When we’re on assignment, there are things I know that others don’t. In charge of the game?” He gives a dark laugh. “No.”
    “You’re in charge on assignment? So isn’t it your responsibility to keep your team alive?”
    I don’t even see him move, but he’s suddenly right in front of me. His hands fist around the chains of the swing as he bends close, his face inches from mine. He smells faintly of citrus shaving cream, and I have a crazy urge to lean a little closer and breathe him in.
    “No team,” he whispers. “Every man for himself, remember?”
    I do. And I ought to hate him for throwing it in my face again. But there’s . . . something . . . his tone, or maybe the hard line of his mouth . . . Something makes me think he doesn’t like saying it, that he doesn’t believe his own words. That Richelle’s loss is his torment and his responsibility.
    “Tell me what happened to her.” I hold up my hand, palm forward. “Don’t tell me she died.” There’s a knot in my throat that makes it hard to speak. “What I need to know is how and when.”
    “First tell me how you figured it out. You didn’t realize it before we got pulled back. I saw it in your face. And Luka wouldn’t have told you.”
    I almost refuse. After all, he’s not exactly being forthcoming. A little tit-for-tat might be a worthwhile lesson for him to learn. But I just don’t have it in me. Not right now. So I tell him about the memorial page. Then I tell him how I cleared my cache and erased any possible trail.
    “Did you now?” he asks, and smiles, white teeth and that dimple carving deep in his cheek. Jackson Tate’s full smile is something to behold.
    I swallow and look away. “Your turn,” I say. “Explain the missing seven months.”
    “She went back to the place where she originally exited.”
    I digest that for a second. “Richelle went back to the moment she was first pulled.” A moment that in some alternate reality ended in her death rather than her inclusion in the game. Even in my thoughts, I stumble over that word. It isn’t a game. We’re not playing there. Some of us are dying there. “As if she had never been pulled at all, never . . .” I hesitate, wondering if I’m breaking all the rules now, if he’ll stop me. He doesn’t, so I keep going. “As if I had never met her, never almost had the chance to be her friend. But I did meet her. I remember the time I spent with her. What about all her family and friends? From the comments I read, they don’t remember her as alive for the past seven months.”
    “No.”
    “My outcome would be the truck,” I say.
    I would save Janice’s sister. I’d get hit by the truck. It would kill me.
    No aliens. No battles.
    No coffee with Carly. No pancake breakfast with my dad.
    No moment here in the park with Jackson.
    “And everything after that would just . . . disappear? Like it had never been? People wouldn’t remember anything about me after that?”
    “Pretty much. Except for those of us who met you elsewhere.”
    By elsewhere , he means in the game that isn’t a game at all. “How is that possible?” I force the words out through tight lips. “What is it? Some sort of time paradox?”
    Tangled, impossible threads of time that merge and diverge.
    Thinking about it makes my brain hurt.
    Jackson takes his time answering, and when he does, there’s definitely a thread of humor in his tone. “Time dilation. Time passes more slowly the closer you are to the speed of light.”
    The words sound familiar, and suddenly I’m certain he’s amused. He’s playing me. “Laughing at my expense, Jackson? I saw the same show last Thursday night. That theoretical physicist was interviewed, right? I watched it with my dad. But according to the expert, time dilation only accounts for movement forward in time, not back. Nice try. Don’t bullshit a bullshitter.” I play sleight of hand every day of my life, pretending to be like everyone else. I can recognize when I’m being played.
    His lips curl in that barely there smile, dark and sardonic and sexy. Why does it make me want to reach over and touch him?