Free Hit by Delilah S. Dawson Page B

me.”
    â€œAnd why’s that?” he asks with the same amused, flirtatious lilt I had a minute ago, back before I realized how thoroughly his presence had screwed up my situation.
    â€œBecause if I let you out of my sight and you tell your brother what’s up and he runs, then I can’t make my entire list, and then my mom and I are . . .”
    Even after everything, I can’t say it.
    He just nods, lips pursed, considering. Not agreement. Almost understanding.
    â€œSo it looks like we’re stuck together.” I try not to sound too pleased. It’s been hard, doing this alone, not being able to tell anyone or talk to my mom without her breaking down into tears and useless apologies. Just having someone to talk to changes everything—I hope for the better.
    â€œBut what about Max? What do we do when it comes down to that?”
    I snort. “I’ve got to get through seven more before then. Maybe one of them will be gone, or maybe someone will shoot me first, or maybe Valor will get whatever they want and cancel the wholestupid job. Maybe they’re just trying to make a point, incite anarchy so that they can squash us. Maybe someone will storm Wall Street, take it all back. Stage a rebellion. Maybe something will change.”
    â€œI wouldn’t have pegged you for an optimist,” he says.
    â€œYou don’t even know me.” I aim for flirty, but it comes out a little sadder and more woe-is-me-ish than I had hoped.
    â€œWho’s next on the list?” he asks, mercifully ignoring the very thing I would have ignored if he had said it.
    â€œAshley Cannon,” I say.

    We drag Dave out the back and dump him beside his friend. They’re as anonymous as china dolls behind their matching masks, and I’m grateful that I never saw their faces. The high grass is jeweled with dew around them as they disappear in my side mirror.
    Wyatt leaves his car right where my mail truck used to be, hidden behind the abandoned mansion. It’s exactly what you would expect a guy like his dad to give his son—an older gold Lexus with leather seats and a nav system that doesn’t work anymore. My nose wrinkles up just a little bit when I see it, but then I remember how angry he was about his dad. He probably didn’t ask for a fancy-ass gold car. I guess he’s just as much of a victim of his parents’ choices as I am of mine. He’d hidden it a few houses away before he came for me, which tells me how very serious he was when he put that knife to my throat.
    It’s . . . chilling.
    And it’s weird, having him in the mail truck’s passenger seat, barefoot in his pajamas. I kind of want to ask him if needs to stop by his house for some jeans, because those thin plaid pants are just too flimsy for propriety. At least while he was moving his car, I managed to brush my teeth, put on a sweater, and clean up with some shower wipes. I don’t feel quite so exposed now that I’m put to rights and feeling more like myself. But he looks like I imagine a boyfriend would look after you slept with him—rumpled and open and vulnerable. Just being this close to him feels more intimate than I’ve ever been with a guy. And I can’t deal with that right now.
    The mail truck’s special GPS leads us a few miles away, onto the highway. The fall leaves glitter with raindrops, reflecting a pale, shy sun trying to break through dark clouds. We don’t talk, and as I drive, I scan the road for any sign of anarchy or government breakdown. The only hint I see is an abandoned plastic fruit basket just like mine, sodden and crushed by the side of the road. A shudder threatens to yank me apart, but I snap my teeth together and ride it out. It’s like when they say a goose walked over your grave, but this was one big effing goose.
    How many people know that the government is no longer the government? Where are the policemen and the ambulance