Vicarious (19 page)

I twirl the bullet around in my fingers, thinking about what it would feel like tearing through flesh at high velocity.

“People say it feels like getting hit by a sledgehammer,” he says.

I take the clip from Jesse's hand and fumble the bullet back into it. I gesture at the gun he's still holding. “Show me how it works.”

“Winter,” he warns.

“I'm not going to go buy one on the street,” I say. “I'm just curious. I mean, this is twice now in two days someone's pointed a gun at me. It makes sense for me to know how to use one. Knowledge is power, right?”

Jesse frowns but hands the gun to me, being sure to keep the barrel pointed away from us. He shows me how to hold it, how to flip the safety on and off, how to extract the clip. I practice a few times until the gun feels less scary. I imagine myself at a gun range, like on TV, like when the detective's girlfriend hits the center circle with every shot and then smiles mysteriously before crediting her skill to video games. Gideon would never let me have a gun, but somehow just holding one makes it seem like less of a big deal.

I return the gun to Jesse and he slips it back into his waistband. For a while neither of us says anything. A sweet kind of drowsiness settles over me as I rest my head against Jesse's shoulder. I could fall asleep like this.

But then he nudges me. “So, I showed you mine. You going to show me yours?”

“My what?” At first I think he's talking about my weapon. There's not a lot of demonstration involved with a knife.

“Your tragic history, Ms. Kim. Or should I say Ms. Song?”

Talk about ruining the moment. I scoot away from him on the sofa, pulling my legs up between us as a barrier, wincing as I flex my injured knee. “What makes you think I have a—”

Jesse rolls his eyes. “Because Gideon collects shattered youth, right? It's a solid hiring strategy.”

“Not just youth,” I murmur. Adebayo is close to fifty and Baz is probably at least a few years older than Gideon.

“I'm sure the desperate and downtrodden make faithful employees,” Jesse continues. “What was it with you? Drugs? Gambling? Prostitution?” At my look he continues. “Oh, come on. Don't get offended. The way you act around men sometimes—”

“How exactly do I act around men?” My hands curl into fists.

Jesse glances down at my white knuckles. “Like you want to beat the shit out of them, even the ones who care about you … like me. Like you find us all repulsive.”

“I don't find you
that
repulsive.” I try to joke my way out of the question, but all Jesse does is tilt his head to the side and let out an exasperated sigh. I pick up my throwing knife and consider its blade. “You don't know anything about me.”

“Which is why I'm asking,” he says. “I
want
to know more. The past is the past. Why does it have to be a secret?”

I twirl the hilt of the knife between my palms. “It's a hard thing for a girl to talk about. Maybe I don't want you to think less of me.”

Jesse reaches for the knife in my hands. He sets it on the table and then twines his fingers in mine. “You don't have to tell me anything if you don't want, but nothing you say would make me think less of you. I don't give a shit about the person you used to be, except she can't have been all that bad or I probably wouldn't like you so much now.”

“What if you're wrong?”

“I'm not,” Jesse says. “Besides, look at me. I went into the army thinking I was going to kill me some bad guys, be a big shot, prove to everyone I was someone who mattered. And I came home a year later, used up, spent, with the initials of four guys who died because of me inked onto my arm. The government doesn't even think I'm good enough to be cannon fodder. Who am I to judge?”

Used up. Spent.
Words I know well.

Maybe it's because he already seems to know half the story anyway, or maybe after the day I've had, I just don't have the energy to build any more walls. Whatever it is, it gets me talking. “Rose and I grew up in an orphanage in Seoul. When I was twelve and she was fourteen, we learned we were going to be adopted by Americans.” I pause. “Adoption doesn't happen much in Korea. Bloodlines are too important and no one wants to raise someone else's child. Even being adopted by foreigners seemed odd for girls our age. Usually people want tiny babies. But the staff told us we were going to a Korean-American family who had lost their teenage daughters in a car accident. Rose had forced me to study English from the time I learned to read, insisting that we'd have more opportunities as bilinguals. I remember thinking how that moment proved her right. We were so excited about coming to the States. Only when we got here, the adoption turned out to be fake. Our adoptive parents immediately turned us over to a businessman named Kyung.”

“Kyung.” Jesse stretches the word out to two syllables—key young. “He dealt in girls?”

“Among other things. I think we were just a hobby for him, a way to keep his clients and staff happy,” I say bitterly. “We should have tried to run away. We talked about it a couple of times. But there were two other girls. They told us stories about how runaways ended up in gangs—branded, beaten, addicted to drugs. They made it sound like working for Kyung wasn't that terrible compared to the alternatives. And with no money and no papers, in a strange place, I guess we let ourselves believe it.” I stare down at my lap. “And then with each passing day, running away just felt like more of a dream, not something that could actually happen. Eventually Gideon came along and fell in love with my sister. He got us out. He saved us.”

Jesse reaches out and turns my head so I'm forced to meet his gaze. I never knew eyes could hold so much pity.

“Don't look at me like that,” I snap. “I'm fine. Rose and I got through it together. She took the brunt of it. Men always seemed to prefer her.”

“So that's why you're afraid to be touched, and she seemed to crave it? Just different ways to deal with the same shit?”

“I'm not
afraid
to be touched. I just don't like it. And Rose, I think for her it's about taking back control.” I swallow hard. “Or it was, anyway.”

Jesse nods. “Well, that's a horrible story and I wish it hadn't happened to you, but I'm glad you told me. It explains why you're kind of—” He pauses, searching for the right word.

“Cold?” I suggest.

“Guarded,” he says softly.

The primate special ends and a show about snipers replaces it. As the men don complex disguises laced with actual vegetation, I jump at the chance to change the subject. “They always say combat changes people, makes things less black and white. Did it change you?”

“Nothing has ever been black and white to me,” Jesse says. “I'm more of an ‘ends justify the means' kind of guy.”

“So right and wrong are fluid? Dependent upon the outcome?”

“Basically.”

“So you would do something terrible to get something you really wanted?”

Jesse's jaw goes tight. “I have done terrible things.”

“Like what?”

He doesn't answer for a few seconds. Then he shakes his head. “Forget it. Too much depressing conversation for one night.” He pats his leg. “You should get some sleep. I make an excellent pillow.”

I'm curious, but I don't want to force him to talk. I know what that feels like. Frowning at his muscular thigh, I ask, “But aren't you tired too?”

“We'll do it like I did in the desert. Take turns. I get first watch. I'll wake you in a couple of hours.”

“All right.” My whole body feels heavy as I arrange myself on the sofa. I opt for a throw pillow instead of Jesse's leg, but he scoots close enough to me that when I twist onto my side, his arm rests gently on my shoulder, an overlapping triangle of heat connecting us. For at least ten minutes, my brain does nothing except concentrate on the warmth, extending it outward, toying with the idea of what it would feel like to fall asleep in Jesse's arms.

And then, just as I decide I might like that someday, I think back to our conversation.

I wonder what kinds of terrible things Jesse has done.

 

CHAPTER 21

Sleep
drags me once again into a tangle of dreams. Hallways stretch out interminably long and mazelike. Rows of closed doors mock me, whispering
choose choose choose
, as if all but one lead straight into hell. My footsteps echo in my brain. My breath spikes in and out of my chest. I am not alone in the maze of hallways. I am running from someone.

Or something.

Winter.
Rose's voice in my head.

“Eonni,” I whisper. “I need you.”

I'm here.

There is grunting and snarling from around the next corner. A creature that is half man and half beast appears in the corridor. It wears the head of the one-eyed man. I stop. Turn, double back. Just when I feel like I am safe, the creature appears in front of me, only now it wears Gideon's head. I retreat again, and it wears Jesse's head. Andy's head.

My head.

There is no escape. I am a human sacrifice in the Minotaur's lair. The doors fall away, all except two.

Choose.

“But how do I know which one?” Both doors look exactly the same.

Fingers to fingers and thumb to thumb.

“I don't understand.”

There's no time to figure out what Rose means. I plunge through the nearest door. There is nothing but black space on the other side. I fall faster and faster. Air whistles by, soft, then sharper. From somewhere, the one-eyed man laughs.

And then I hear something else—Jesse's voice calling my name.

I open my eyes and see the purple-gray of morning filtering through the blinds. I'm in Rose's room—the floor hard beneath me.

I sit up sharply, the folds of her comforter falling away. She is everywhere, too close. Her rose pendant hangs heavy around my neck; her clothes and magazines are still piled at the end of her bed.

“Hey.” Jesse is peering at me through the partially open door. “Why are you sleeping on the floor?”

I ignore his question. I don't feel like explaining the customs of my childhood or my apparent psychological regression to him. “Why would you put me in here?”

He yawns. “I didn't. I dozed off and just woke up. I was looking for you.”

A sharp pain shoots through my chest. “I came in here by myself? Sleepwalking?”

“I guess.” He shrugs. “Maybe I was suffocating you on the couch and you came in here because of the blood in your room.”

“Maybe.” It's been a while since I've sleepwalked. I thought it was something else I had outgrown. I thought I was normal. Healed.

Now I'm starting to wonder.

I should probably make an appointment with Dr. Abrams. It was silly of me to stop going to therapy, but it had started to feel redundant—the same questions, the same answers. I felt stable. I was acing my classes, doing well at my job, and even starting to make friends … if Jesse counts as a friend. I figured I'd go back when I ran out of sedatives or if I felt like I
needed
to go.

Maybe I need to go.

The panic must be written all over my face, because Jesse slides through the open doorway and sits down on the floor next to me. He touches the back of his hand to my face like he's checking for a fever. “You're probably still shaken up from last night.”

With one finger, I reach up and trace the dark circles under his eyes. “You said you'd wake me to take a turn keeping watch,” I say accusingly. “So you could sleep too.”

“I lied.”

I massage the side of my cheek that's been pressed into the pillow. My eyes feel like they're full of sand. I hear a sharp, snarling sound as I rub them—it's coming from the TV in the living room.

I arch an eyebrow. “You watched that channel all night?”

“I watched your apartment all night,” Jesse says. “I got a hold of Gideon a couple hours ago. Needless to say, he's freaking out. You're supposed to call him as soon as you wake up.”

I groan. “I think I'm going to pretend I slept for another hour or two.”

Jesse swallows back a yawn. “Better yet, let's not pretend. I could use more sleep. I feel kind of delirious.”

I flinch at the word. It's too close to
delusional
. “Go ahead. I don't think anyone is going to try to break in now that it's daylight.”

“Cool. Just give me about an hour to recharge my batteries.”

“Of course.” I wish I could recharge
my
batteries in an hour.

Jesse returns to the living room and stretches out on the sofa. I head to the bathroom, splash some water on my face, tame down my hair, and go to the kitchen to brew myself a cup of tea. I dice some ginger and lemongrass and add it to loose green leaves. Before the water even begins to boil, I can hear Jesse's even snoring. I glance over and smile to myself. There's something innocent and peaceful about a person lost in sleep, even someone with a dark history and an unconventional sense of morality.

Maybe Jesse doesn't know himself as well as he thinks. If he didn't care about right and wrong, he'd be getting rich by stealing or selling drugs instead of working as a recorder for Gideon. War does things to people, just as my old life did things to me, but that doesn't mean you can't overcome them.
We are who we are.
I prefer to think as Rose did.
We choose who we become
.

When the tea is ready, I pour myself a mug and stand in the doorway to the living room, watching Jesse's chest rise and fall. Then I slip into my bedroom and grab the comforter from my bed, carefully skirting the bloodstain on the carpet on my way in and out.

Jesse stirs as I drape the blanket over him, but he doesn't open his eyes. Rolling onto his side, he exhales deeply and tunnels into the folds of fabric. He twitches, his lips forming silent words. I wonder if he's dreaming, if he's haunted by his own one-eyed man.