Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
I huff. “Why would I do that?”
“Because he obviously loves her. So he would save you. Send you back home to tell her the whole story about how he did that. Then… you know, maybe she’d…”
“Forgive him?” Oh, my God. Underground men are so dumb. It takes a lot of self-control not to laugh at him right now. “He kidnapped her, Riggs. Twice. And almost killed her.”
“He was never gonna kill her.”
“How would you know?”
“My father’s a general. I was briefed. And look, I’m not saying he’s a nice guy. I’m just saying that if you wanted to stop this plan where both of us get out alive, you could. Very easily. Telling Ike who you are tonight would change everything.” He stares at me for a moment, those weird brown eyes of his lit up with emotion. “If I wanted you dead, Clover, I’d have left you behind. But I didn’t. I trusted you to keep me safe when I brought you with me. You’ve got power over me now. We need to trust one another. I don’t want to be here.” He points to the floor. “I want to be up there.” He points to the ceiling. “And having you here…” He lets out a long sigh. “Well, it just reminds me of what I’m giving up.”
“What does that mean?”
“I ran, remember? I lived up top. And then they sent me to the tunnels for six years to punish me for wanting something more. Bringing you here is just me admitting that I still want more. What other reason would I have to risk everything for a woman I don’t even know?”
“Well, see… that’s my problem with you, Riggs. I don’t understand why you’re doing this. If not to get even with your father, then why help me?”
His sigh is long as he rakes his fingers through his hair. He holds up his hand, one finger raised. “You’re pretty.” He raises another finger. “I don’t want to hurt you.” He holds up a third finger. “There’s a part of me that thinks… maybe…”
When he doesn’t finish his sentence, my eyebrows go up. He likes me? As in ‘likes’ me? And he’s thinking that maybe I’ll like him back?
I scoff. Maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe he’s not. It’s impossible to tell, so of course, I have to lean towards the latter. Because misplaced trust is far more dangerous than misplaced suspicion.
“What?” he says. “What are you thinking?”
I shake my head and turn away, just kind of looking around the room to buy myself some time because I don’t really know what to say to him right now. It’s a nice big room. Looks like any other penthouse suite in a hotel. Not the Dixie Yonder, since the décor is all very modern here and the Yonder was very Colonial cottage, but there’s a living area with a big L-shaped couch and two sleek club chairs opposite.
The dining area has a round table and enough chairs to seat eight. There’s a bar on the far end, stocked with bottles of alcohol.
I head that direction.
“What are you doing, Clover?”
“Getting a drink.” I step behind the bar and study the liquor, unable to recognize a single brand. There’s one bottle of everything—a red wine, a white wine, a bourbon, a brandy, a vodka, a gin, a rum, and a tequila.
Normally I’m a wine girl, but for this occasion, I choose the bourbon. I take two glasses down from a shelf, then turn and face Riggs as I set them on the bar. “Neat or ice?”
His grin is lopsided. And I’m not gonna lie, he’s got a certain charm to him. This grin in combination with the rogue dark hair makes him look like he belongs in the wilderness climbing the rocky red cliffs of Utah or rounding up cows in a Montana valley. And even though this city is lit up and bright, it’s a lie. We’re underground. There’s no sun, no ocean, no cows, I bet. So it’s nothing but a lie.
He’s nothing but a lie.
But I guess I can see his point. He’s stuck here and when your father’s some highfaluting general of a secret underground army, there are expectations.
Is it any different growing up in Disciple? I mean, no one ever asked me if I wanted to sing in the children’s choir every fucking weekend. No one ever asked me if I wanted to make crafty things to sell in Lowyn’s family booth. No one ever asked me if I wanted to play a part in that show—fanning myself and shoutin’ ‘amen’ during the Revival. It was just the straw I drew.
He and I are staring at each other when he says, “Neat.”
I press my lips together and nod. Then pour us both a shot of bourbon and slide his glass across the bar. He crosses the room and picks it up, locking his gaze with mine. “To trust?”