Outcasts (30 page)

“I already said. You missed two meetings, and I wanted to make sure you were okay. I want you to stop being a flaker and help us get out of here.”

If it were only that easy. “I
am
a flaker, Levi. And even if I could stop vaping and stop chasing femmes, even if I started dressing like you and talking like you and following you around like some kind of soldier, my skin would still flake because I’m infected.”

Levi shrugged off Omar’s words. “Mason is looking for a cure.”

Not with Levi’s agenda. No one had time to do anything when Levi was doling out duties all the time. “He’s not going to find one. You think Mason knows more than the medics in this place?” Mason was smart, but not that smart.

“Yeah, well, you and Zane aren’t likely going to figure out liberation, either.”

That was true. So far Omar and Zane had found nothing. Omar lay back down in the bed on his side and pulled the covers up to his neck. “Whatever.”

“I talked to Mason about this. He thinks you’re addicted to the juices.”

Omar huffed a dry laugh. “A sound diagnosis from Medic Mason. But I could’ve told you that myself, brother.”

“Mason also says most people don’t stop juicing until they get locked up in rehab, where they can’t get it.”

“You going to send me to rehab?” Empty threats. Blah blah. Why wouldn’t he just leave, already?

“I was thinking of making my own rehab.”

“Oh, I see.” Omar rolled onto his back where he could get a better look at his brother. “So you’re going to lock me in some basement where I won’t embarrass you anymore, is that it?”

Months ago, Levi’s glare would have made Omar’s legs weak. Today, it did nothing. “Stop being difficult, Omar. Look, I think what Mason said about being addicted is a load of dung. Just stop sucking on the vapo stick, and it’s done. It’s about willpower. You’re the one who wanted to be Omar Strong. So prove it. Buck up. But if you keep blowing me off, if you keep missing meetings like you can’t be bothered to help us get out of this place, I just might have to stick you in some basement.”

Omar sighed, weary of Levi’s company. “Is that a promise?”

“You bet.”

“Well, gee. Thanks for the talk, brother. It’s always nice to know someone cares.”

“Good.” Oblivious to Omar’s sarcasm, Levi nodded like he was finally making progress with his deadbeat little brother. How could anyone be so full of his own self-importance? “I have something else to say.”

Omar closed his eyes and dreamed of taking a breath from his PV. “I can’t wait.”

“You kissed Kendall Collin? She text-tapped Jemma about it.”

Great. At least Omar knew for certain which girls couldn’t shut their mouth. He really hoped news of his latest blunder didn’t get back
to Shay. He still owed her a groveling apology for having accused her of lying about the Owl thing. “Kendall started it.”

“You’re going to be a father, Omar. Act like one.”

Omar pushed himself to one elbow and scowled at Levi. “Jemma tell you to say that?”

Levi delivered one last scathing “I think you’re a complete failure and waste of space on this planet” glare and walked to the bedroom door.

“Look, I’m infected. Shay’s not!” Omar yelled after Levi, who’d left the room. “I can’t be with Shay. She’s too good for me.”

Levi’s voice carried back. “You’ll hear no argument from me on that, brother.”

“Mad good,” Omar mumbled. “We finally agree on something. Let’s celebrate.”

Levi stepped back into the open doorway. “Why don’t you come out to the cabin and eat dinner with everyone tonight?”

Omar had been joking about the celebrating part. He fell back to the bed and stared at the ceiling. “I don’t know.”

“Come on. It will be good for you. Make up with Shaylinn, get Jemma off my back.”

So, basically, make all Levi’s problems go away. “Yeah, I’ll think about it.” Thinking … and … done. Not going.

“Don’t think, just come. I’ll see you later.” And Levi left.

Omar waited until he heard his front door open and close before he took a long drag from his PV. Then he got up, showered, and ate some stale doughnuts. He pulled a chair from his kitchen table over to his easel. He didn’t paint, though. He just sat there, elbows propped on his knees, head in his hands, thinking.

Only one face haunted him at the moment. Shay. Standing outside the cabin. Hurt.

Maybe if he painted her, it would get her out of his head. He set to work, starting with her hair. Black and more black. Then some cinnamon. Add some white to make gray. More white for the glimmers of the tinsel weave. Cobalt to give it midnight highlights. Once he’d
gotten the hair right, he painted her eyes. Burnt umber, dark and deep, filled with longing and pain. Eyes that haunted him in so many ways.

His doorbell rang, scaring him out of his obsession. He set down his palette and went and opened the door.

General Otley stood outside with three other enforcers. He handed Omar a sheet of paper and barged past, knocking Omar’s shoulder against the doorjamb. “Mind if we come in, little rat?”

Omar should have used the peephole. “Yes, actually.” He looked at the paper and saw it was Red’s art sale flyer. Nice. That woman continued to get her payback, even when she wasn’t trying.

The enforcers followed Otley inside. Omar considered making a run for it, but for some reason he didn’t. He kicked the door shut, crumpled the flyer, and tossed it in the trash.

Otley stopped midway between the door and the easel, keeping his back to Omar. “Where have you been, Mr. Strong?”

“Here.”

Three heavy pivoting steps and Otley had turned to face Omar. “According to the grid, your SimTag has been here for the past month. It’s never once left your apartment. But you have. I’ve got eyes everywhere, little rat. I think your SimTag is malfunctioning. I don’t even see the number on your face.” Otley jerked his head, and three enforcers rushed Omar. Two pushed him onto the chair by his easels, the third pulled a SimScanner from its holster and ran it over Omar’s body and all around his right hand. His gloves were on the kitchen counter, so he was SimTag free, as Otley had likely been hoping.

“No reading, sir.” The enforcer clicked his scanner back on his belt and grabbed Omar’s hand. He examined it. “He’s cut it out.”

Otley stepped in front of Omar’s chair, his massive body blocking the ceiling light. “How did you know to cut out your SimTag, little rat?”

“I task at a SimArt shop. I figured it out.”

Otley sneered, which lifted one side of his top lip and caused the number eight on his cheek to curl out. “No. I think you’ve made some dangerous friends. And I think they did this to you.”

“Careful not to hurt yourself with all that thinking.” That earned him a slap from one of the enforcers.

Otley growled low in his throat. “I want to know what you’ve been doing.”

“Maybe I’ve been pairing up with Belbeline,” Omar said, knowing he’d taken his snark too far that time.

Otley punched Omar, knocking him off the chair. His face exploded with hot fire, and he crashed against the legs of his easel. The painting of Shay fell on top of him. He caught it on the palms of his hands and tried to be gentle, but someone pushed down from the other side, smearing the wet paint all over him. When he managed to sit up and slide the painting off him, it was a blob of charcoal gray paint. Ruined.

Omar clambered to his feet and ran at Otley. He was two steps from the overgrown boar when one of the enforcers’ stunners hit him. The cartridge bit into his back, overwhelming his nerves. He hit the tile floor hard. More pain. In his right elbow, left hand, and both knees. A second enforcer stepped over him and shot him with a sedation gun.

Omar lay on the floor, smarting and swelling and staring at Otley’s shiny black shoes until he passed out.

He awoke to the sound of rattling metal and squeaking hinges. He was in the RC, lying on his face on the cold cement floor. Two enforcers were standing by the open door of his cell.

“Come on out,” one of them said. “General Otley wants a word.”

“Can’t wait,” Omar said, his voice a raspy croak. He needed water. And his PV.

It wasn’t easy to get up, but he eventually managed and followed the guards out of the RC. He was still wearing his clothes from yesterday. His feet were bare and cold on the cement floor. An itch drew his attention to the 9XX glowing faintly on the back of his hand. They’d
given him a new SimTag. And another X. It was about time, really. He felt rather proud of it and walked a little taller.

The enforcers didn’t take him to a holding cell, though, but to the lobby. General Otley stood at the reception desk, talking to the femme who tasked there. He caught sight of Omar and walked toward him.

“We Xed you for cutting out your SimTag. Don’t do it again. Kept you overnight because I had reason to believe you were that ratty Owl causing all the trouble around here. But the Owl came on the ColorCast last night as always with a whole new list of threats. Thought it might be footage of you, but he was seen on Sopris and Ninth last night attacking an enforcer, so I have no reason to hold you.”

The Owl attacked an enforcer? Zane must have donned the costume.

Otley’s yellow-eyed stare really freaked Omar out, but he did his best to look indifferent as Otley threw out more warnings. “I’m watching you, little rat. And I can see better than any owl. Now get lost.”

It was the first time he recognized that Levi and Otley had a few things in common. But Omar didn’t have to be told twice where Otley was concerned. He walked from the RC, even though he wanted to sprint. The sidewalk was wet under his feet. It had been raining. He waved a cab, and before he made his destination request, he asked the driver to check the balance on his SimTag.

“You’ve got thirteen credits,” the driver said, glancing over his shoulder at Omar. “Good thing credit day is coming, huh?”

“Yeah. Look, I’m sorry to have bothered you. Looks like General Otley drained my account. I don’t have enough to get me to the Midlands. I’ll have to walk.”

“Stimming enforcers anyway,” the driver said. “Sorry about that, peer. Hey, maybe you’ll get lucky. Maybe the Owl will leave you a gift in the night.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Omar said, getting out and wondering if Zane had taken his place as the Safe Lands’ hero.

M
ason’s two weeks of tasking at Pharmco ended, and the Friday before they were supposed to free the kids, Mason returned to the SC. The moment he arrived, Rimola sent him to Ciddah’s office.

“What does she want?” Mason asked, noticing that Rimola’s skin was gold today. He must have missed the change in trends.

“She didn’t say, valentine, but be nice to her. She’s in a good mood today, and I don’t want you ruining things with your opinions.”

Mason knocked on Ciddah’s office door and let himself in. “You wanted to see me?”

Ciddah hopped up from her desk and ran across the room. She wrapped her arms around his neck and greeted him with a lingering kiss that stunned his thoughts and made the Safe Lands seem like a paradise.

“What was that for?” he asked when she finally pulled back.

“For being so perfect. I’m sorry I made you work in the pharmacy. I missed you here.”

He stroked her hair. “I missed being here.”

Again her lips found his, and the thought crossed his mind that he was getting better at kissing. He no longer felt awkward. Things just
sort of … worked now. And it hadn’t even taken very long to learn. He wondered if this were true of all couples or if he and Ciddah simply had more —

The door opened behind them, and they broke apart. Rimola stood in the doorway, one hand on her hip, slouched with enough attitude to host a fight club. “Gee, raven. I told you to be nice to her, but you didn’t have to take me so literally. Now, if you sugar sweets are done trading paint, all the exam rooms are full.”

Ciddah tossed her hair over her shoulder. “You could have used the intercom.”

“And miss breaking this up?” Rimola grinned and left the office.

Ciddah exhaled a long breath. Their gazes met, and she bridged the gap between them and kissed him once more, then mumbled with their lips still touching, “Come tell me when you’ve set up the patients.”

His eyes were still closed when he answered, “Okay,” and he felt her lips smile beneath his.

“You’re going to go now, right?” Her lips trailed along his jaw and nuzzled his neck.

“Yes.” But she was the task director, and if she was going to keep doing that, he may as well wait for her to finish.

The intercom beeped, and Rimola’s voice came from the speaker. “Medic Rourke to the reception area. The med supply delivery is here and needs your authorization.”

“Oh.” Ciddah sighed and her hands fell away. “Got to go.” She slipped past him and out the door.

Mason remained in her office for a moment to collect himself, thinking of how good it felt to be loved by Ciddah. Not only did he get to have intellectually stimulating conversations with a brilliant and beautiful woman, but she wanted to kiss him — even seemed to like it. He crossed the hallway to the door of exam room one and lifted the CompuChart from the slot on the wall.

And his joy shattered.

Penelope Colton.

Why?

He knocked on the door. When no one answered, he cracked the door a little and peeked in.

Penelope was sitting on the exam table wearing a white gown and staring at the door. His cousin had always been the leader of Shaylinn and Nell. Personality-wise, she took after Levi more than her own mother or father. She looked older than her thirteen years. Always a tomboy before; perhaps it was the fake eyelashes that were throwing Mason off-kilter. When she recognized him, her face broke into a grin. “Mason!”

He slipped inside and closed the door behind him.

Penelope jumped off the table and hugged him, the paper-like fabric of her white gown rustling in his arms. “You have white stuff on your face, Mason. Powdered sugar?” She reached up and tapped his nose.

He wiped his finger across his nose, and it came away coated in creamy color. He turned to look in the mirror above the sink and saw that his nose and chin were dusted in white, except around his lips, which were pink.