Grip (The Slip Trilogy Book 2) (7 page)

Benson grits his teeth. All this time he’s thought he was alone in this world. He knew there were other Slips, but only because they’d get caught and killed. The news was full of stories about UnBees getting terminated. Slips were rarer, but still, he’d heard of them. But he never dreamed there were that many running loose.

Just another thing his father never told him. Unless his father didn’t know? He wonders whether Pop Con is so oblivious to not realize its own ineffectiveness.

“Do the Lifers know about the other Slips?” Benson asks. “Did you tell them?”

“Tell them?” Destiny says, looking at him strangely. “They already knew. How could they not? This is Refuge, right?”

Benson knows he must be missing something. When they helped rescue him, Jarrod made it out to be a big deal. Like he was one of a kind. Like he was the symbol of the revolution. If they knew there were more like him, they wouldn’t have done that, would they? “Yes, they call it Refuge. But what does that have to do with Slips?” he asks.

Destiny’s frown deepens. “Because Refuge is where all the Slips go to be safe,” she says.

Luce, Check and Benson all share a look. Benson starts to speak, but can’t bring himself to say the words that fill his mouth. Luce nods toward Check, the best talker of the three of them. “You and Benson are the only Slips here,” he says.

“No,” Destiny says right away. “That can’t be right. Everyone knows about this place. It was hard to find, sure, but there are people to help us. Pointers. I met one of their brothers. He helped me find it. Without him, I’d still be skating around in circles.”

“Do you have any injuries from today?” Luce asks. Benson had the same question in his head, only more like, “Did you hit your head today?”

“No, I—” Destiny pauses, rethinking her answer. “A Hunter took a shot at me this morning. I think some shrapnel from a ricochet caught me in the back. I don’t think it’s deep, but…”

“You should probably get it checked out. I’ll take you to medical,” Luce says. She slides away from Benson, barely brushing his hand with her fingertips as she passes.

He knows exactly what she’s doing. Giving the rest of them a chance to discuss things in private. Figure out what it all means for them.

For their world.

For the rest of their lives.

~~~

The Department of Population Control terminated twelve Slips last year.

Hundreds of unauthorized births were brought to justice.

Keeping you and your resources safe.

Fighting for your lives.

Population Control is for all of us.

This advertisement paid for by the Department of Population Control.

S
imon’s back is to him, but his eyes are boring into Harrison’s like a pair of drill bits. Well, one of them is boring into him; the other is half-closed, almost swollen shut. The battered look suits the Lifer guard, like he’s worn a black eye many times before. Like a favorite article of clothing. A shirt or a hat perhaps.

Shirtless, the guard continues casually washing his hands in the sink, his eye-and-a-half like lasers coming out of the mirror.

Harrison waits for him to finish, equally relaxed.

“You’re either courageous as hell, or a complete moron,” Simon says, turning off the tap and drying his hands on a towel. Scars interlace across his chest. At least one of them looks like an old bullet wound, marring a stretch of skin that’s all muscle. He’s taken a beating in his life—that much is clear. But Harrison suspects he’s dished out as much as he’s received.

“Oh yeah?” Harrison says. “Why is that? Because I went outside to save some girl?”

A smile dances on the guard’s lips. “No. That was nothing compared to coming alone into a room with me,” he says.

Harrison grimaces inwardly but doesn’t let it reach his face. This was probably a mistake, albeit a necessary one. “I came here to apologize,” he says.

“For what?”

“For kicking your ass.”

“You little punk,” Simon says, taking a step forward, his hands tightening into fists.

Harrison puts both hands up. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it the way it came out.”

Simon stops, although Harrison can tell he doesn’t want to. The guard’s muscles are like coiled springs, tight against his skin. “Your words won’t save you from what you’ve got coming,” Simon says.

“I know,” Harrison says, dropping his hands to his sides. “I wanted to get you alone so you could get your revenge.”
I must be crazy
, he thinks to himself. Simon’s got at least forty pounds on him.

The guard laces his fingers together and pushes them outward. All ten knuckles seem to crack at once, a sickening crackle of shifting joints. But that doesn’t scare Harrison nearly as much as Simon’s grin. Like a Bengal tiger. No, this smile has less warmth than a tiger’s would.

“That clinches it. You’re a damn fool,” Simon says.

“Just make it quick,” Harrison says, gritting his teeth and firming up his jaw.

“How do you want it?”

“Your choice.”

Simon steps forward, raises a fist, pulls it back slowly, winding up. Like a hoverball keeper preparing to chuck the ball back onto the field. Harrison closes his eyes and waits for the blow.

One second, two. Three. Harrison squints, wondering what’s taking so long. Simon is still standing there, but his fist is no longer raised. Could he really be this lucky? Could his spoken apology have helped him avoid a more painful punishment? His eyes open the rest of the way.

That’s when Simon head butts him and everything goes dark.

~~~

Harrison wakes up on the bathroom floor with a wicked headache. Simon is gone, having laid Harrison on his back with his arms crossed over his chest like a dead person. The message is clear: Mess with me again and you’re a dead man.

Fair enough, Harrison thinks, dragging himself to his feet. He sways, the room spinning. Before he can topple over, he grabs one of the sinks, hugging it, feeling nauseous and disoriented. Despite the pain and dizziness washing over him, he has to respect Simon’s style. An eye for an eye; a head butt for a head butt. And he even spared Harrison’s nose, not breaking it the way he had Simon’s. A small kindness, but a kindness all the same. He’ll have to thank him the next time he sees him. Or not. Might be better not to remind him or he might finish the job.

As he lifts his chin to look in the mirror, he wonders what time it is. For all he knows, hours might have passed with him unconscious on the floor. Or days. Down in this dungeon, time has no meaning.

Which is why Harrison couldn’t keep away from the Portal, even if it was just to get a glimpse of the outside world. Which is why he ended up saving Destiny’s life. Which is why he’s got a massive headache now. A vicious cycle of torment and satisfaction.

Ugh. He shouldn’t have looked in the mirror. His forehead is a mottled mix of purple and black and blue, an asymmetrical swollen blob of color.

His mouth is dry, his throat dryer. Clutching the sink with one hand, he uses the other to turn on the tap, cupping his hand to bring mouthful after mouthful of water to his lips, until he’s gasping for breath.

He feels exhausted, like he could curl up on the floor and sleep some more. “No,” he says aloud. “Enough sleep. I need a drink.” He doesn’t mean more water.

Tentatively, he steps away from the sink, his hands out like he’s balancing on his hoverboard. He staggers to the doorway and out into the corridor beyond. Although it’s impossible to tell, it feels late. Either late in one day or early in the next. The passageway is deserted. To find Simon he had to go all the way down to level minus-sixteen—where the guards’ quarters are.

Using the walls to keep his balance, he makes his way to the lifter, which he rides up to level minus-ten. The Lifer club. Dark. Surely he’ll be able to get something to take the pain away there.

When the lifter door opens, he can hear the slash of an electronic beat. It cuts into his skull, worsening the headache. He clutches his forehead with one hand, following the sound. An open door at the end of the corridor is flashing with multi-colored lights that seem to change with the beat of the music.

The world inside doesn’t seem real, and for a moment he forgets about the hammer-crunch of pain slamming inside his head. In the darkness, long cylinders of purple lights curve along the ceiling and walls in twisting, turning patterns. Black lights. Hence the name of the club, Harrison thinks. The various colors he saw through the doorway are moving and writhing, and he realizes they’re attached to people. Dancers, bobbing and jumping and spinning in time with the music. The colors are streaked on their clothes and skin with some kind of special paint that shines brilliantly under the black lights. The effect is hypnotic and alluring. Mesmerizing.

“Have a drink,” a voice says from beside him.

He turns, feeling the room spin, both because of the lights and his pounding headache. Check stands next to him, offering him a tall thin glass of a glowing blue liquid. “You look like you could use one,” Check adds.

“Do I look that bad?” Harrison asks, gratefully accepting the drink and taking a quick sip. The drink is as cold as ice and absolutely delicious, a mixture of something spicy and something sweet.

“Worse,” Check says. “Simon?”

Harrison nods. He doesn’t explain that he offered himself up; it would only make him sound stupid or crazy or both.

“You probably deserved it,” Check says.

“Probably,” Harrison admits, scanning the crowd for other familiar faces. “Benson here?”

“Nope.”

“His gir—I mean, Luce?”

“Nope.”

“That Slip girl—Destiny?”

“She’s with them, I think,” Check says.

“Party poopers.”

“Pretty much,” Check says.

Continuing to check out the crowd, Harrison realizes that many of the partyers are young, teenagers like them. “Why do they let us do this?” he asks.

“Do what?”

“I don’t know—drink I guess. Have fun. Half the people here are underage.”

Check nods. “The people here have been through a lot, and Jarrod expects them to do some crazy stuff for him. Suicide bombings, undercover missions, assassinations. I guess he realizes that people need to blow off steam no matter what their age.”

Harrison’s not sure how to respond to that, but he doesn’t have to because two familiar forms with fluorescent tribal-like markings on their faces bob and weave toward them.
Great
, he thinks.
I just got here and there’s already going to be trouble.

Rod and Gonzo stop dead when they see Harrison, their bodies going rigid. “What’s
he
doing here?” Rod asks.

“C’mon, guys,” Check says. “We all need a little fun.”

Harrison’s opinion of Benson’s best friend goes up about three notches. But he doesn’t say anything. Just waits, ready for the fight that’s coming.

Music thumps and Harrison takes another sip of the cool liquid. Already his headache is fading into the background.

Gonzo’s body language softens first, and he says, “Alright. Let’s call it a temporary truce. But this doesn’t mean we don’t think you’re a prep-school creep.”

“Wow, thanks,” Harrison says.

Rod continues to stand rigid, glaring at him. Like an AttackDog on high alert. Except uglier, Harrison thinks, chuckling at his own thought.

“What are you laughing at?” Rod says.

“Nothing,” Harrison says. “Are we partying, or what?”

That seems to do the trick, as Rod bobs his head in resignation. “Fine. Temporary truce.”

“Thanks,” Harrison says, and this time he means it. The last thing he needs right now is a fight.

“You’ve got your drink, but you still need some paint,” Gonzo says. He grabs two jars off a nearby shelf and gives one to Rod. “You do his clothes, I’ll do his face.”

Harrison considers refusing, but doesn’t want to do anything to make them change their minds about the truce. “Be gentle,” he says, closing his eyes.

“Gentle’s not really in our nature,” Gonzo says, grinning. “Fun is though.” He goes to work on Harrison’s face, using a finger to draw on his skin. He feels Rod rubbing paint onto his shirt. He even smacks him on the butt for good measure, which will surely leave a giant fluorescent hand print. Awesome.

When they finish, Harrison opens his eyes and the pair step back to admire their handiwork. “A work of art,” Rod says. “Nice work, Gonz.”

“Perfection,” Gonzo says.

Harrison can see the paint glowing on his cheeks and lips and nose. On his shirt are metallic silver crests that look like ocean waves catching early rays of morning sunlight. They’re actually pretty cool-looking. “Thanks,” he says.

After that, they hit the dance floor. Harrison finishes his drink and has another. He grabs four of them from a woman with long red eyelashes who passes by with a tray. He hands them around to the others. They drink together, and this time the drink is in a round glass ball with a straw sticking out the top. The liquid swirls with incandescent reds and oranges. It looks like a fireball. Or the sun. Appropriately, the drink is hot, burning his throat on the way down. A good burn, sending warmth throughout his entire body. The liquid tastes faintly of cinnamon and chocolate. The foursome clink their glasses and suck the drink through their straws, shaking their heads to various degrees.

They laugh when they finish, their inhibitions falling away like colorful leaves in autumn. The music picks up and they dance, slow and controlled at first, but then fast and urgent later, after they’ve all had another drink, something clear and bitter.

The drink server with the long red lashes approaches Harrison, her hands empty this time. She puts her hands on his chest and runs her fingers along one of the waves, from bottom to top and back down. “Nice paint job,” she says.

“Nice lashes,” Harrison says.

“I’m off-duty now,” she says.

The way she’s looking at him, the way she’s batting her long lashes, gives Harrison the usual thrill he gets when he sees a beautiful girl. And this one’s a knockout. Dark hair streaked with fluorescent blond stripes. A dazzling smile that accentuates her full lips. A petite frame, but not weak-looking.

This is a no-brainer, Harrison thinks.

And yet, he has no urge to move forward.

“Maybe next time,” Harrison says, plucking her hands from his chest.

“There won’t be a next time,” the girl says, her smile vanishing. “By the way, you look like a clown.” She struts away, slipping gracefully through the crowd.

“Are you into guys?” Check asks, apparently having witnessed the whole exchange.

“No,” Harrison says.

“Then why?”

“I’m not in the mood,” Harrison says.

“Fair enough.”

At least an hour later, Harrison can barely remember his exchange with Simon, can barely remember why he ever didn’t like Rod and Gonzo, can barely remember why he rejected the girl with the long lashes, and can barely stand.

“Better get going,” he says, barely able to make the wise decision for the group.

“C’mon, prep-boy,” Rod complains. “You done already?”

“No,” he says. “It’s just time for the after party. We’ll take it to the room.” He grabs a bucket full of metal cans.

“I’m starting to like this guy,” Rod says.

Together, they push through the mass of squirming, writhing bodies and out into the empty corridor. The sudden silence is deafening, the thump of the music like a distant thunderstorm, fading away with each step. They hold each other up, staggering like a single newborn organism still getting used to its body.