Rush The Game

all this?”
    “I’ve had a while to read up on it. Some of this stuff I don’t know for certain. I’m winging it, but it seems to make sense.” He shrugs. “Not like I can go to my doctor and ask her to see if there’s anything weird about my blood.”
    I finish the last bite of my sandwich while he speaks. “Good point.”
    He taps his index finger on the empty plastic container in my lap. “You got anything else to eat?”
    I put the tub back in my knapsack and pull out an apple. “I only have one.”
    “We’ll share.” He takes the apple from my hand and holds it to my lips. “Bite,” he orders softly.
    I close my hands around his wrist, holding his hand steady, and I take a bite. He turns the apple and takes a bite from the same spot, his eyes never leaving mine. I look away, flustered.
    “You’re awfully chatty, Jackson. What happened to the rules?”
    He holds the apple out to me. I steady his wrist again and take another bite. His skin is warm under my fingers, and I can feel the tendons of his muscles.
    “The rules are in place to keep the soldiers safe. To keep them from being overheard by other people in the real world and sent for a psych eval. To keep them from being overheard by the Drau and killed for a single slipup.”
    “Yeah. I get that. So why are you breaking them?”
    He holds the apple out to me again, but I shake my head. He keeps eating until there’s only the core left. And still he doesn’t answer. I pull out the plastic tub, open it, and hold it out so he can drop the core inside. I figure he isn’t going to answer, so I’m surprised when he says, “They’re not written in stone, even though we want the soldiers to think they are.”
    “You keep saying soldiers like we’re in a war.”
    “We are.”
    I wet my suddenly dry lips. “And you keep saying we like you’re part of a group separate from the soldiers. . . .”
    “I am. And so are you. You’re not a soldier, Miki.”
    There’s something in his tone, something dark and frightening.
    “What do you mean? Why do you say it like that?”
    “Like what?”
    “Like I should be afraid?”
    “You should be. I keep telling you that.”
    “Of what? You? Why?”
    His mouth tightens in an expression I’m coming to know. It’s his stubborn look. He won’t answer.
    “What else do you have in that bag of tricks?” he asks, looking at my backpack hopefully.
    I want to push and poke and drag the answers out of him. Instead, I ask, “Why didn’t you get lunch in the caf? I feel kind of bad that you ditched Luka.”
    “I didn’t. He ditched me. He had plans to work on chem with your friend.”
    “My—” I shake my head. “Carly?” And she never said a word about it to me. I guess she figures it’s payback for me failing to share with her.
    Jackson reaches for my bag. I let him take it and watch, half amused, half offended, as he unzips the pouch, rummages through, and pulls out a small container. He lifts it to eye level and shakes it.
    “Almonds and dried cranberries,” I say.
    Jackson dips his head and angles a glance at me through his lashes, sending my heart tripping. “I like this,” he murmurs.
    “What do you like?” I’m breathless, just from the way he’s looking at me. “My lunch?”
    “ Our lunch,” he corrects with a grin, and I can breathe again. I can even smile. He’s so relaxed. So . . . normal. He shakes some cranberries and nuts into his hand, tips his head back, and tosses them in his mouth. Then he holds the container out toward me and asks, “You want some?”
    “Sure. Thanks for offering me some of the lunch I packed.” My sarcasm seems to go right over his head.
    “Miki,” he says after a couple of minutes, his expression suddenly serious, his voice very soft. “There are things I put in motion, things I did before—”
    I wait, but he just stops and doesn’t pick up his train of thought. “Before what?”
    Deliberately, he lowers his glasses. “I remember the first time I saw you,” he says.
    “Lying flat on my back in the lobby, out cold?” But even as I say it, I remember his voice in my head all that afternoon. So he must have seen me before that . . . here at school?
    I stare at him, the sun touching his hair, painting it bright and fair, the dark glasses hiding his eyes, his shadow stretching down the rows of seats, and suddenly I can smell the ocean, hear the waves. . . .
    “You remember,” he says softly.
    “No, I—” But I do. I