Fast-Tracked (28 page)

“I’m starting to wonder if it’s more than just friendship you shared with him,” he snarled back.

“He’s my best friend and he’s suffering. How can you expect me to be focused on anything else? If you could get your father to change his mind, or maybe even just get him to transfer him to a better job, then maybe I could focus my attentions elsewhere.” I knew it was a lie, but I needed to calm Avery down, and if it helped Byron in the process, it was that much better.

“I’ve already explained why I can’t keep asking him,” Avery grumbled, but at least he was looking a lot calmer.

“Well then we’re at an impasse. Until I can fix what happened, Byron will remain my motivation for what I do.” I tried to soften the blow with my tone, but he had to understand where things stood.

“Fine.”
He stood and walked out of the apartment without
so
much as a glance back in my direction.

I let out a long sigh and walked across the kitchen to pick up the discarded flyer and ownership title.

“That went well,” Wendy called from behind me.

I shot her back a warning look. I knew she didn’t like Avery. In fact, her feelings bordered on hate, but the last thing I needed right now was her
I told you so
attitude.

Chapter 18

Fortunately with all of my new clubs to prep, I was too busy to dwell on Avery’s attitude. Wendy and I spent the next few days posting flyers throughout the blue districts announcing The Rivers’ grand opening. We had decided to cover all blue areas within an hour’s tram ride – which was an absolutely huge area. It also overlapped into areas that would eventually have their own club, but we figured if they liked The Rivers, they’d be even more anxious to try out their own club when it opened.

It sounded like a good plan, but executing it proved to be daunting. We came home each night with our feet aching, utterly exhausted. The second night we didn’t even make it home for dinner, and I had to quickly heat up leftovers before taking
Lariet
on his walk. I felt guilty that night as I watched Byron retrieve his bag. There was so little he’d allow me to help him with right now that he at least deserved a freshly cooked meal.

The next day we managed our time better and got back in plenty of time to cook dinner. The night was surprisingly warm, so Wendy and I ate on the patio while I waited for Byron. But by the time we finished dinner, there was still no sign of him. Wendy could tell I was worried, so she told me to rest outside while she cleaned up. After she finished cleaning she brought out a foot bath for me to soak my feet. I started to chastise her for waiting on me like she really was just a servant. But she refuted my argument stating she was just being a friend and had her own foot bath waiting for her inside.

“What time is it?” I asked, even though I already knew it was well past eight.

Wendy dodged the question. “He probably had to adjust his schedule for some reason. Some fast-tracker probably complained that there was actual garbage in a bin and wanted it changed earlier in the day so he wouldn’t have to see it. I’m sure he’s fine.” She gave me an encouraging smile, but I still couldn’t shake the sickening feeling that had planted itself in my stomach.

We ended up cutting the next day short. I had barely slept the night before, and was dragging along the entire day. Besides that, I wanted to get home early enough to see what time Byron came by.

I sat and waited impatiently, unable to enjoy the vibrant shades of fall now offered by the park. Sure enough, Wendy had been right about the change in schedule. It was just after six o’clock when I saw the familiar orange jumpsuit approach. But as the person came closer, I realized he had dark brown hair, and a mustache. It definitely was not Byron. Wendy had to block the front door and talk me down so I wouldn’t charge after the worker demanding answers he couldn’t provide. But I had to find out. If Byron wasn’t here, then where was he? What had happened? Horrible scenario after horrible scenario bombarded my thoughts.

I wanted to track down Avery and demand an answer from him. If he didn’t know, I’d somehow force him to find out for me. Luckily Wendy snagged and hid the tablets before I could use any of them. Initially I was livid with her, and I started to remind her of everything I’d done for her, but the hurt look in her face stopped me in my tracks. Even distraught I couldn’t be that cruel and hateful.

Once I calmed down enough I apologized for my actions and thanked her for hers.

We both agreed running to Avery distraught over Byron was not a good idea, considering his behavior the last time I brought him up. So instead I shot him a message asking if we were still going together to Slade’s party on Friday. He called back shortly after to apologize for the other day and reassure me that we were most definitely going together. As much as it pained me, I kept my promise to Wendy and kept from bringing up Byron.

Knowing there was no way I’d get any sleep on my own, Wendy made me some warm milk and gave me two of the sleeping pills left behind from Autumn’s stay. I tried to argue with her, but she reminded me that
looking
distraught would be just as bad as
acting
distraught when I finally brought up Byron.

The next day Wendy made it her mission to keep me too busy to think about Byron. It didn’t work, but I appreciated the effort. We spent the day remodeling our second club to open, The Bookworm. Its theme had been Wendy’s idea. Her dad had been a bit of a historian and was really hung up on the idea of information being printed and bound up in books instead of available on a tablet. But his collection never grew larger than a few tattered books in size. Books were uncommon and any worth having were usually in some fast-trackers personal collection. Wendy remembered several pictures of libraries her father once had. We had a bunch of beautiful mahogany bookshelves, desks and chairs, and according to Wendy they looked like they belonged in an old fashioned library. With a little research we were able to pull up some pictures of our own to authentically reproduce the look.

Wendy had also managed to locate a stash of old library books that were just collecting dust in a storage warehouse. We made an offer. Fortunately, the owner had no idea what the value of what he was sitting on was. We were able to get the books for next to nothing providing we took care of relocating them all. During the day, the club would be a café where anyone could grab a cup of coffee and leisurely read from one of the many books available. And at night it would turn into a club.

So I spent most of the day sorting through boxes and boxes of books to separate the interesting ones that were in good condition from the rest. It was late in the afternoon when I came across a beautiful leather bound book entitled
Economics of 18th Century France
. As beautiful as the book was, I just couldn’t picture anyone wanting to read it. Before I threw it into the discard pile, I leafed through it, hoping to find something worthwhile inside. That’s when I noticed the texture of all the pages didn’t match. Upon closer inspection, I could see that a giant portion of the original pages had been replaced. The color was less yellowed and the pages had a glossier and thicker feel to them. I only had to skim through a few of them to realize they were not about economics. I flipped to the beginning of the new section and located the title page:
President
Touffe
: Savior or Hitler Incarnate.

I sank down onto the floor and started reading. It painted a very different picture of President
Touffe
than had ever been taught in school. Yes, as I had been taught, President
Touffe
had stepped in after the economic crash. But according to the author, what he did from that point on was genocide. Whoa. No wonder the book was hidden. I put the book aside to take home with me. Even if it was crazy drivel, this was something I wanted to read.

Wendy seemed relieved that I had found something to help take my mind off Byron. The next day she headed out to distribute flyers and left me at home to read.

The book pointed out that President
Touffe
had always been a supporter of stronger immigration laws and tariffs, but after the economic crash, he placed the blame solely on illegal workers and overseas production.

The country was quick to support his argument. The crash was a tragedy and someone had to be blamed. By the time the country realized that there was a problem with
Touffe
, it was already too late. To enforce the country’s borders and protect it from invasion while it was so weak,
Touffe
quickly built the military to unprecedented numbers. To ensure their loyalty, he fed the soldiers and their families well. Then he began relocating citizens. At first no one noticed the correlation between where you were located and your nationality. Everyone was too concerned with surviving. But over time, a clear pattern emerged: anyone of white Anglo-Saxon descent was either drafted as a soldier or sent to the nicest relocation centers. Their centers had the largest food rations, the best medical care and the easiest jobs. Everyone else had to deal with horrible conditions. When President
Touffe
was initially questioned about the relocation he simply dismissed it a coincidence. He pointed out how many nationalities worked and lived in the same area, so it only made sense that they would end up in the same relocation areas.

Then people started questioning why the white relocation centers received much better treatment. Then
came
the revelation that African-American and Hispanic doctors, lawyers and other professors were being located to centers nowhere near where their white neighbors had been sent. These people and their questions quickly disappeared, never to be heard from again.

It was just a matter of time before the horrible conditions, lack of sanitation and food began to kill people. And if by some miracle it didn’t, the hard work assignments they were assigned to had a tendency to finish the job. The book also provided details on the original numbers of each nationality’s citizens, alongside what they had dwindled to after
Touffe
began to rebuild. It was tough to swallow. They certainly didn’t match any of the history I had been taught. I had been taught that our country had always been comprised of predominantly Anglo-Saxon citizens. Only a small handful of our country had been of any other descent, and they were usually here illegally.

Friday morning I headed to The Bookworm. It was the one place I could think of where I might be able to confirm or disprove what the book claimed. Wendy looked at me strangely as I began pawing through the boxes of discarded books, but she didn’t actually say anything. I couldn’t believe what I had almost thrown out. I found almost a dozen history books written before the economic crash. Their covers were worn, and in some cases completely missing, but they all confirmed the other book’s claim. America had once been known as a melting pot for cultures. Genocide seemed the most likely cause of what our nation looked liked today. I had never seen anyone of Hispanic, Oriental, or African descent. In fact, the darkest skin I had ever seen was due to a tan.

My family, my friends and everyone else in our country, including me, were descended from people who sat back and did nothing while millions suffered and died around them. This dirty little fact had been well-hidden. All the way back to when our country was first born. It wasn’t indentured servants or criminals that were brought here as slaves, but Africans who had been stolen from their homes. The information was mindboggling and stomach-turning. Even more of my life and everything I had been told was a lie.

I couldn’t throw these books away. They needed to be protected and saved for a day when our country was ready to know our true history. But even just storing them was dangerous. If the wrong person stumbled across them, whoever had them would suffer the consequences. So for now I sealed the box they were in and shoved them back into the storeroom. I’d have to figure out a safe place to hide them, but right now I didn’t have the time. I had to get back to the apartment and get ready for my date with Avery. I needed to know where Byron was.

When Avery picked me up that night, I was wearing one of my sexiest tops and my best fitting jeans. Wendy had a theory that the hotter I looked the more agreeable Avery was. I had my doubts, but was willing to try any advantage to get him in the right mood to find out about Byron.

At least the effort didn’t go unnoticed. When I greeted Avery at the door he took his time absorbing the view before finally speaking up.

“You know, we don’t have to go to Slade’s party if you don’t want to. We could always go somewhere a little quieter.” He slid an arm around my waist and pressed himself against me.

“Actually I think a party is just what I need after a long, busy week.” I also knew that by a little quieter, Avery meant secluded and private so he could try to get more than a peck on the cheek from me.

Stepping onto the tram, Avery said, “I’m sorry we fought.”

Reminding myself to be nice, I refrained from pointing out who started it. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my clubs sooner.” I grabbed Avery’s hand and gave it a squeeze. As I hoped, Avery took it as a sign of affection and not a redirection of his hand, which was slowly dropping from my shoulder towards my breast. “Will you come with me to the grand opening?” For his benefit I tried to look anxious that he might say no. In reality I couldn’t care less at this point if he attended or not.