Rites of Passage (25 page)

My heart is pounding. If I move a fraction of an inch my lips would be on his. “Like right now?” The electricity in the room crackles. I lick my lips, suddenly not sure what I'm doing anymore. I feel out of control, like I could do anything I want tonight and no one would hold it against me, least of all Drill.

“Yes,” he breathes out, holding as still as he can as I inch closer. “Like right now.”

His blue eyes are wide, staring right at me. My lips are just a whisper from his now. We're balanced on the edge of a cliff. One breath closer and we'd be in a free fall.

TWENTY-FIVE

HE LETS OUT A FRUSTRATED GROWL, LEANING BACK BUT NOT
moving off the futon. “God, if you were
anyone
else but my recruit, we would not be talking right now.”

I lean back, trying to regain my senses. “Well.”

“You don't say.” He laughs now, still tense but a little more relaxed. “It's late. You staying?”

I raise my eyebrows and stand up. “I probably shouldn't.” But the thought of going back to the dorm, where one brother won't talk to me and my other brother's memory will haunt me in the dark sends a shiver down my spine.

“You can stay.” His voice is quiet, understanding, and he won't break my gaze.

“If you don't mind . . .”

He throws a pillow at me, breaking the spell. It thumps me in the leg. “Of course I don't mind.”

“Hey!” I grab the pillow and throw it back at him, the charge of the last few minutes dissipating.

He catches it easily. “Grab the other end and pull up.”

I watch what he's doing, then mimic the move. The futon that we sat on moments ago is now a bed on a wooden frame. My eyes get big. “I can sleep on the floor. . . .”

“Just go with it. I promise I won't take advantage of you no matter how much you try to throw yourself at me. Besides, we're on Christmas break. In my twisted mind, I can make this okay somehow.” He tosses two pillows on the futon and lies down on one half, leaving me enough room to crawl under the blanket on the other half. He turns on his side, looking up at me. “Do you trust me?”

The mattress suddenly looks small, like a life raft in the middle of the ocean. I swallow hard and then lie down beside him. My voice is weak, breathy, but I answer him anyway. “I've trusted you from day one.”

The smile that lights up his face is all I need to forget the crap I'm going to have to deal with in the morning. He inches closer, laying his arm over my stomach and pulling me tight against him. “Then I'd better not do anything to screw it up, huh?”

 

The smell of bacon makes me think of home before everything turned to shit. When Dad was stationed stateside and Amos, Jonathan, and I used to play forts outside, even during the hot summers in Louisiana. After Mom lost her battle to make me a girly-girl and when all of us were equal. Before Dad and Amos started bonding over the military.

When life was good.

I roll over, completely disoriented after my first full night's sleep in five months. I stretch, enjoying the lazy feeling of sleeping in. Then last night slams into me like a wrecking ball. The truth about Amos, the boundary blurring with Drill.

His side of the futon is cold. Quickly, I unbraid my hair and run a hand through it, trying to tame the bed head before pulling it back into a ponytail. Hushed whispers in the kitchen give me pause, and I stop just outside the door.

“I don't know what it means. I've told you that. Rev and I are looking into it.”

“So meanwhile, I'm just supposed to pretend like nothing's happening?”

“Pretty much, Dean. If you draw attention to it, they'll go into hiding. We need
proof
.”

A loud thump makes me jerk and I bang into the wall. The boys go silent and my face burns.

“Come on in, Sam,” Tim says from the kitchen.

Drill's face is pink when I walk into the kitchen. His eyes scan my face and I shiver under his gaze, thinking about the feel of his body against mine last night. I'd stayed awake a long time, just being next to him, listening to him breathe.

“Were you talking about me?”

Tim turns slowly, spatula in hand and a Kiss the Chef apron on. “When did you wake up?” He wants to know how much I heard.

“Just a second ago. Is there coffee? I need coffee.”

Drill walks over and sets a mug he's holding in front of me. “I just poured it.” He tugs my ponytail as he goes by and can't help smiling.

I hope Drill woke up before Tim. Tim seeing me and Drill like that, curled together on the futon, would be bad. “Thanks,” I say, focusing on Tim.

He glances between me and Drill then turns back to the bacon he's cooking on the stove. Drill grabs the coffeepot and pours coffee into another mug. “We were just talking about your KB. Who might have drawn in it?”


“Matthews.” Or Jonathan, I think. At this point, I'm not sure what he'd do. But I don't say that out loud. “He's the one who found it up on the mountain that night.”

“Do you know who he was with?” Drill sounds hopeful.

“I don't. I didn't know anyone well enough back then to recognize them.”

The smile falls from his face and he bangs his hand down on the table, the same thump that had made me jump earlier. A tremor goes through me. With what we might be up against, I kind of like knowing that Drill could be dangerous if he wanted to be.

“So tell us what you do know.” Tim blots the bacon off and sets it on the table. When he pulls the eggs out of the oven, he plops them down, too, and both he and Drill sit.

I chomp down on a piece of bacon to give myself time to think.

“Tim was one of your brother's best friends. And you said last night you trust me,” Drill says. It sounds like an accusation.

Again, Tim looks at Drill, then me. “Let us help.” The way he says it is genuine, like Amos would say it if he were here.

I rub my eyes and then sigh. “I think there's a group after me, maybe a secret society. I know it sounds crazy—”

“It doesn't,” Drill insists, trading a look with Tim that I don't understand. “You're a military brat . . . you know they exist.”

“I've heard scary stories, that's all. Look, I'm taking care of it. I don't want you to risk everything you've worked for at the DMA. I can handle this.”

“We want to help, okay?” Tim says. “Have you heard any names? Of people or what group might be after you?”

“The Society. That's all I've heard. Real original, right? And as far as members go, besides Matthews, I think an upperclassman named Evers might be in on it. I don't have any proof, though. . . .”

Drill looks up at this, his eyes wide. “Why Evers?”

“He just . . . I can't explain it. He and Matthews are really close. . . .” I can't bring Bekah into this. Not yet. If Drill knows she's dating Evers, he'll have to report it and she'll get kicked out.

Tim grabs a piece of paper, scribbling something. “Have you seen this anywhere?”

He's drawn a picture of Evers's tattoo. “Why?”

“Whoever screwed up your KB drew that on the last page.” He's right, but I'd forgotten all about it. “So, recognize it?”

“Evers has a tattoo like that on his shoulder.” I flush when Drill looks at me, clearing my throat before continuing. “He likes to walk around shirtless during morning calls.”

Drill stands, pacing the floor. “Why didn't you tell someone about this?”

“It's a tattoo, that's all. I never even thought about it and the drawing together. As for why didn't I tell someone? Because I don't know who I can trust. Because anyone could be involved. Because my own brother told me to either keep my mouth shut or go home.”

“Jonathan knew?” Tim looks like he could beat the shit out of Jonathan. “He knew and didn't do anything about it?”

“He said he needed solid proof. All I've got are guesses. And, nothing's
happened
. Not really . . .”

“Amos never would have dared you to do this if he had known something like this would happen,” Tim says.

“Something like what?”

But Tim's lost in his own mind. I don't think he hears me. “And if it
did
happen on his watch, you know damn well he would've protected you.”

Unlike Jonathan.
The unspoken words hang heavy in the room.

Tim scrubs his hands across his face and lets out a frustrated sigh. “What are you guys doing today? I need to make some calls.”

“I guess I should go back to campus. . . .”

Drill looks at me, studying my face. “No. We'll go get you some clothes, but you're staying here until break is over.”

I don't want to say no. “Okay. Thanks.” I try to smile at him but it sucks. The whole situation sucks. “I'll wash your clothes and get them back to you once I get mine from campus.” I don't want to. What I really want to do is keep his shirt since I can't have him.

He grins, finally, taking a step toward me. “Keep 'em. They look better on you anyway.” Then he takes another step and heads into the hallway. “I'll take a shower then we can go.”

Drill thumps up the stairs and Tim just laughs. “They look better on you?”

“Shut up,” I say, and walk back in to lie on the futon, my head spinning a million different directions. Secret societies. The anniversary of Amos's suicide. The feel of Drill's arm across my waist last night.

I pull the blanket up over my head, sheltering myself in the dark, hoping Drill will take a long time in the shower and leave me to my angst for just a little bit.

TWENTY-SIX

I STAY OFF CAMPUS THE REST OF BREAK, SPENDING IT FREE
of anything DMA-filled, except for Drill. There's plenty of Drill. We run every day, he lets me beat him at a video game every once in a while, and we get to know each other. Drill tells me about his family and where his parents have been stationed over the years. It's almost normal, except for Tim's daily report on what he's found out about the Society, which pretty much equals nothing every day.

Christmas Day itself didn't suck like I thought it would without Mom and Dad around. We made homemade pizza instead of roasting a chicken, and we ate ice cream out of the container instead of pie. We didn't swap presents but we spent a lot of time talking about family, about happy memories. And for just a minute, things didn't seem so bad.

Despite wanting to know what Kelly is up to, I stay off campus on New Year's Eve. His involvement I've kept to myself. Without proof, I don't want to betray him. Besides, with school starting back soon, I want to be focused on Drill for as long as I can.

Before the first class of the new semester, I log in to my email. There are only two I care about. Suddenly Worm outings in January don't matter much when the Society is deciding my fate.

I click on Mom's first—it'll be quicker. No way would she put serious news about Dad in an email. The subject says as much.

 

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: No news—just checking in

Sammy,

It was good to talk to you over Christmas. I wish I could have come, but I needed to stay here. Thanks for understanding. There's no news on Dad yet.

Focus on school, on getting through the rest of the year. I love you, baby. Talk soon, okay?

Love,

Mom

 

I send her a quick reply, trying to ignore the feeling in the pit of my stomach. Dad's strong, though, and fighting fit. Even if he is in trouble, he's probably never been happier. He lives for this. And the last thing he'd want any of us to do is distract ourselves by worrying about him. He'd want me to press on, to complete the objective. And that's what I'm going to do. For him. For me.

I save Mom's email to process later, and click on Jax's.

 

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Tunnels

THERE ARE TUNNELS UNDER THE DMA. THEY MEET THERE. MORE WHEN I GET IT.

 

I look around, but no one is sitting close enough to read it, and thankfully Matthews doesn't appear to be in this new class. Still, I minimize the window while the last of the cadets come in and I think of a reply. I've never heard about tunnels under the DMA, but that doesn't mean they aren't there. If we know where they're meeting, maybe we can sneak in there and listen in on their plans.

Drill enters and scans the nearly full room, then sits in the chair next to me. He jerks his head up in a greeting. “McKenna.” No “Mac.” No “Sam.” We'll never be just a pair of normal teens at an ordinary high school.

I try to ignore the small grin he gets when he sees me here and how much I want to touch him when he's this close. I clear my throat. “Drill Sergeant Stamm, good morning, Drill Sergeant Stamm.” He smells like aftershave and there's a small nick on his chin. I want to ask him why he's in a sophomore English class as a junior, but I don't know how to walk this line. How can I ignore what happened over Christmas?

Thankfully, Professor Williams, my Military History professor from first semester, starts to speak. “Good morning, gentlemen.” He has a leather bag slung over his shoulder and is wearing an Army sweater with leather patches on the elbows. “Oh, and, uh, ladies. Lady. Please forgive me, Miss McKenna. It's nice to see you again.”

I smile but can't make myself answer him.

“Now, this is sophomore English,” the professor says, sounding unsure as he reads the title on a piece of paper. “And I am . . .” He reaches for the glasses stuck on top of his head and slides them down on his face as if that will help him remember. “Professor Williams.”

Some of the cadets laugh, but he's grandfatherly, just like he was last semester, and I instantly want to come to his defense.