Rush The Game

a persona he wears easily.
    “You think I have an ulterior motive in asking if you’re okay?”
    I stare at his back. Broad shoulders. Lean hips. Honey-gold hair falling in ragged layers almost to his shoulders. Even in the weird, greenish light, he really is beautiful from any angle. “Actually, I think you have an ulterior motive for pretty much everything you do.”
    “You don’t think much of me, do you?” He sounds amused rather than offended.
    “I figure you think highly enough of yourself.” But the truth is, I sort of admire the complicated layers of his personality. The way he’s always thinking and planning. The way he’s in control.
    He gives a short laugh. I feel it inside my chest, a soft flutter.
    “And since you asked, I’m fine,” I say as I sidestep a deep dip in the stone floor, my fingers tightening on the harness. Other than the fatigue, I am fine. I now have my own light. I know what our goal is, thanks to Jackson’s earlier explanation. I feel a measure of control. Well, as much control as is possible when I’m who-knows-how-many miles underground, getting towed along like a stalled car, on my way to face the next attack by a deadly enemy.
    “Can I ask you something, Jackson?”
    “Ask away. I might even answer.”
    Funny guy. “What did you mean earlier when you told me to hang on and enjoy the ride?”
    “How do you feel?”
    I frown, annoyed that as usual he’s evading my question. Doubly annoyed that he’s asking me that again. He must be sensing how tired I am, and he’s going to make me admit it. Well, I’m an old hand at avoidance, so good luck to him. “I told you already, I’m fine.”
    I let go of the harness and push myself to keep up, just to prove the point.
    He reaches over, catches my wrist, and settles my fingers back on the harness. “No, I mean how do you feel when you’re here, underground, walking into the unknown? How did you feel in Vegas? How did you feel a little while ago facing down the Drau? How do you feel when you get pulled?”
    I open my mouth, then close it. How do I feel? “Scared. Out of control. Freaked out.”
    “And?” That one word pushes me, challenges me. It’s like he wants to climb inside my mind. But he’s already there. From the second he started talking inside my head, calling my name, Jackson Tate’s been front and center in my thoughts.
    “How do you feel?” he asks again, forceful, insistent.
    For some reason, I think of Tyrone and the way he seemed better down here, more focused, more— “Alive,” I whisper. It hits me then. When I’m on a mission, I don’t feel the gray fog weighing down every thought, every action. “I feel alive and it’s a rush.”
    “ That’s what I mean. You have no choice about whether to be part of this or not. You’ll be pulled no matter what. But you can choose to make the best of it.”
    I recoil, appalled. “The best of it? We kill things and run the risk that they’ll kill us. Whoever I replaced is dead. Richelle is dead. We had no choice about that, no say. How do you make the best of that?”
    “By grabbing hold with both hands and steering the nightmare instead of just huddling in the corner and watching it unfold.” The words are low and intense. He knows what he’s talking about. He knows what I’m feeling.
    Does he know that just being with him is a rush, too? Does he know what he does to me?
    “You call what happened on our last mission steering the nightmare?” I ask.
    “What I could control, I controlled.”
    I have a flash of memory: Jackson kicking the weapon out of the Drau’s hand. Richelle’s scream. Is that what he means about controlling what he could? Did he choose between us because he couldn’t save both? A terrible possibility.
    “Your definition of control was watching my back, keeping me alive.”
    “Yes.”
    “How long have you been steering your nightmares, Jackson?”
    There’s a long pause. I hear the faint scuff of our footsteps as we keep moving, and I think he isn’t going to answer. Then he says, “Too long. Forever.”
    “Then why don’t you get your score to a thousand and get out?”
    Another long pause. “There’s only one way out for me, Miki.” Every syllable is nuanced and laced with meaning, but what that meaning might be, I can’t say. I almost ask, but at the last second, I hold back. If he wanted to tell me, he would have. Instead, I ask, “Do you ever think of giving up? Just saying ‘No more’ and giving