Played: An Altered Saga Novella

  Played

  An Altered Saga Novella

  Jennifer Rush

  Little, Brown and Company

  New York Boston

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  Loud rock music played overhead, but the heavy bass thumps did nothing to cover up the incessant buzzing of the tattoo machine at my back. I’d decided to go big for my first tattoo, and this was my third and final sitting.

  “Almost done,” my tattoo artist said. “How you feeling?”

  “Feeling fine,” I answered. “Thankfully, I have a high pain tolerance.”

  Tony was the kind of artist who focused more on his work than on his conversation, so I’d filled in the silences during our sessions. I liked to talk. One of my friends, Evan, said I liked to hear the sound of my own voice.

  Tony surprised me, though, by pushing the conversation further. “What’s the worst pain you’ve experienced?”

  “Getting shot in the head.”

  The tattoo gun let out a short buzz and then cut off abruptly. “Seriously?” he asked.

  “Seriously.”

  The needle returned to my back with a sharp bite. “How’d you survive something like that?”

  “I was a test subject in a clandestine government experiment that made me invincible.”

  The tattoo machine went quiet again. The radio switched from hard rock to pop and the front desk girl sang along with the lyrics.

  Tony still said nothing.

  I glanced at him over my shoulder and put on my liar’s smile. “I’m totally kidding, Tony. Do I look like someone the government would turn into a science experiment? I mean, with this sweet, innocent face?”

  He exhaled with a shaky laugh. “Dude, I was going to say.”

  I chuckled with him. If only he knew.

  The truth was, I really had been a volunteer test subject for a program that had made me invincible. The organization behind the program was known as the Branch, and they’d pumped me full of something they’d named the Angel Serum. I had, in fact, died when I’d been shot in the head.

  But I came back.

  Which was why I’d decided to get the tattoo Tony was currently finishing up.

  Fifteen minutes later, he said, “All right, Chloe. All done. Wanna take a look?”

  He cleaned off the excess ink, my skin still burning and tender from the needlework. When he was done, he hurried over to his floor-to-ceiling mirror and crossed his arms, waiting excitedly. I held the flimsy sheet to my naked front as I turned my back to my reflection.

  The tattoo started at the nape of my neck and ran down the length of my spine, all the way to the small of my back. In swirling, vibrant reds, yellows, and oranges, the phoenix was a symbol of my own resurrection, rising from an inferno of embers and ash.

  “It’s beautiful,” I breathed, and twisted left, then right, to get a good look at every angle. “Thank you, Tony.”

  He smiled, big and dopey. “You had the vision.”

  That I did.

  Seven years ago, my family and I had been on our way to see a movie when a semitruck lost control on the icy roads and sent our car through a guardrail, plummeting us into the frigid East River.

  The only reason I made it out of the car was because my brother sawed through my seat belt with a pocketknife, then smashed his feet through my window.

  That was the last time I saw him. He’d managed to cut through half his seat belt, and the police suspected it was the river current that finally freed him, sending his body so far down the river that he disappeared into Lake Michigan. His body wasn’t recovered with my mom’s and dad’s.

  Emerging from the frigid water was my first resurrection. I’d had many more since then.

  After Tony taped up his work with plastic and skin tape, I paid the last of what I owed, promising to return once the tattoo had healed so everyone could see how it looked. I’d never been good at keeping promises, though, so I considered my good-bye a final farewell. Chances were, I’d be leaving town soon anyway.

  I went straight home to the apartment I’d rented above a bookstore in this small Ohio town. It was a studio with boring beige walls and rough oak flooring. I’d only been there a little over a month, and tonight I planned on packing what few possessions I had so I could leave first thing in the morning.

  Every day I felt like I was getting closer to my goal: tracking down Tom Riley and killing him.

  Back when I first volunteered to work with the Branch, Riley had been second-in-command of the program that had changed me. A man named Connor had been the program leader, but he’d been killed less than a year ago. Killed in action. So if I was going to get revenge, it had to be on Riley. He was always the bigger asshole anyway. All things considered, I’d actually liked Connor.

  Last time I’d seen Riley with my own eyes, he’d been in Trademarr, Illinois, the headquarters of my Branch program. I’d elaborately planned my revenge, but the people involved—Nick, Elizabeth, a few others—royally screwed it up and Riley got away.

  I was trying not to get my hands dirty, but you know what they say: “If you want something done right, don’t send a bunch of idiots to do it for you.”

  So here I was, getting shit done.

  I’d tracked Riley here, to northwestern Ohio, where he and a few of his remaining men had acquired a new SUV from someone government affiliated. I didn’t so much care about the government contacts as I did the Branch agents. The government people were the financiers, the fringe interest group, and not directly involved with turning people into bio-weapons.

  I needed to take the Branch down first. I would worry about the government entanglements later.

  From Ohio, it seemed Riley had headed south, to Virginia, and I suspected he’d gone there to be closer to his government contacts.

  I’d also found out that some members of the Turncoats—an opposition group founded by ex-Branch employees—were tracking Riley, too. Which meant if I wanted to dish Riley a plate of sweet, hot revenge, I had to get to him first.

  The next morning, I showered, grabbed my bag, and headed out for Virginia. I managed to make the trip in just over eight hours. It would have been less had I not had to stop every hundred miles to give my freshly tattooed back a break. While I was technically invincible, and therefore nearly impossible to kill, I still needed time to heal. Thankfully, it didn’t take as long for me as it did for normal people.

  When I turned off the freeway and headed into the city, I passed a wood sign on the side of the road that said ROCKWELL in big golden letters. The bottom of the sign proudly proclaimed NUTCRACKER CAPITAL OF THE WORLD.

  I wasn’t sure if that was something worth bragging over. I’d Googled the place this morning, while I had breakfast in a little roadside diner, and found out that a famous jazz musician from the ’20s had been born here, too. It was rumored he’d sold his soul to the devil in exchange for his talent. Now that was something I’d carve a sign for.

  ROCKWELL: THE DEVIL WAS HERE.

  The outskirts of Rockwell were residential, with coffee shops, drugstores and gift shops threaded throughout. Cookie-cutter suburbia always gave me hives, so I headed straight toward downtown using my pho
ne’s GPS to navigate.

  As the cookie-cutter houses faded away, and the turn-of-the-century buildings took over, I started to feel a little more relaxed. The streets were narrow and stained with a hundred years’ worth of dirt. The buildings were built with brick—red and white and rusty-red—and fronted by wrought-iron balconies that reminded me of intricate henna tattoos.

  I liked this place more already.

  Since I’d left for Rockwell in a hurry, I didn’t have an apartment lined up. I stopped at the first hotel I could find. Its sign hung from the roof like an icicle trimmed in neon lighting.

  I parked out front along the curb and grabbed my bag. The warmer southern weather breathed a sigh down my neck. I’d never been a fan of the Illinois autumn and winter, and I silently thanked Riley for coming this way.

  Maybe once I’d put a bullet in him, I’d do some sunbathing. I could use a little bit of a tan.

  Inside the hotel, I gave the desk clerk my fake driver’s license—Phoebe McDonald was my new, temporary name—and the credit card I’d acquired with it.

  “All set,” the clerk said a few minutes later, and handed me a room key. “You’re paid up through the week. Let me know if there’s anything else we can help with.”

  “Sure thing,” I said.

  Once settled in my room, I dropped onto the bed, on my stomach, and pulled in a deep, settling breath. The bedding smelled like bleach and lavender, but it was thick and clean and that’s really all that mattered.

  I always plotted murder better on good sheets.

  After tending to my still-sore tattoo, I went out in search of food. Less than a mile from my hotel, I found a pizza place that hadn’t yet filled with dinnertime customers.

  Inside, I took a booth along the south wall that afforded me a view of the front door and the street I’d just come in from. My server came over a few minutes later. I couldn’t help but watch him navigate the dining room with a quickness and grace that seemed at odds with his tall, muscular frame.

  He smiled when he reached me, and I smiled back, glad to have him instead of the harried middle-aged waitress who clearly thought her customers were there to annoy her rather than help pay her wages.

  I’d been a server at a restaurant in Trademarr before I’d ditched town. I knew how stressful the job was, but rule number one was, you didn’t take it out on your customers. Unless they deserved it, of course.

  My friend Elizabeth, who’d been a server with me, had had a hard time knowing when to be a dick. She was almost annoyingly kind.

  “Evening,” the waiter said. “Can I get you anything to drink to start with?”

  “Whatever you have that has the most caffeine.”

  “Long night?” he asked. “Or early morning?”

  I looked up at him through my lashes, and let my mouth spread into a crooked grin. “Every night is a long night.” I was, of course, referring to the fact that I usually only slept four hours a night. But he didn’t have to know that.

  “I see. Well, we have some kind of energy drink here. Not sure what the brand is, and it probably tastes like shit, but the caffeine content is practically illegal.”

  “I’ll have that, then.”

  He nodded. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Hey?” I called, and he twisted half-around. “What’s your name?”

  “What’s yours?”

  “Phoebe.”

  “You don’t look like a Phoebe.”

  No shit.

  “Family name,” I explained.

  “Uh-huh.”

  I frowned. “You don’t believe me?”

  “Never said that.”

  “So?” I nodded at him. “Your turn.”

  “You’ll have to work harder than that, Phoebe.” He started off and then said, his back to me, “Don’t go anywhere.”

  I definitely liked this guy. Maybe I’d invite him to my hotel room after his shift. No one ever said you couldn’t have fun and plot murder.

  As I waited for my drink, an older couple dropped a few coins in the jukebox and Elvis Presley crooned from the speakers a second later. In the far corner, two kids animatedly played a game of foosball. From the kitchen, a cook called out an order and the harried waitress scurried to retrieve it.

  My waiter returned. He set the drink down on the table.

  “What time do you get off?” I asked.

  He glanced at the clock over his shoulder. “Well, now, actually. You’re my last table.”

  “What do you say we go back to my hotel for a drink?”

  He frowned. “You haven’t even ordered food yet.”

  “Then we’ll order in.”

  A smile spread across his face. He was considering it. Of course he was considering it. It wasn’t like I was ugly.

  “All right,” he finally answered. “A drink sounds nice.”

  So I paid for the energy drink that I hadn’t touched and followed mystery boy out the door.

  Back in my hotel room, I mixed two drinks and gave mystery boy the one with more alcohol. Mine probably wouldn’t even be considered alcoholic, since I’d gone light on the rum. I wanted this guy to loosen up, but since I was technically on a mission, I needed to keep a clearer head.

  “So,” I started as I handed him the glass. “When are you going to tell me your name?”

  He took a sip of the drink and winced. “Are you trying to get me drunk, Phoebe?”

  I gave him an innocent grin. “Not at all.”

  He set the glass on the dresser and came over to me, fetching my own glass. That, too, went on the dresser. “We didn’t really come back here to drink, did we?” he said.

  God, this guy was smooth. I wondered how many times he’d hooked up with random girls from the restaurant. I had a flash of myself getting Nick drunk in a club back in Trademarr, and following him back to his hotel. The hookup hadn’t really gone as planned, what with his violent, sudden flashback, but I probably would have gone through with it, all things considered.

  Nick was hot. Can you blame a girl?

  Mystery guy ran his fingers back through my hair, his short nails grazing my scalp. I suppressed a shiver.

  “What do you think we came back here for, then?” I asked, trying to sound coy. Instead I sounded sleepy and somehow hungry.

  His grip on me tightened, and he brought his mouth down on mine, and I thought, well, at least he’s hungry, too.

  We ended up on the bed within seconds. My lips parted beneath his, and a tingle went down my entire body. All of the Branch shit melted away, and there was only the press of our bodies against each other, and the feeling in my limbs like I was on the edge of a never-ending tremor.

  Mystery guy’s hand came down to the hem of my shirt and his fingers slipped beneath it. His mouth pulled away from mine and trailed along my jaw, then my neck and lower, following the deep V-neck of my shirt.

  I reached down, grabbed his shirt, and pulled it off in one quick motion. He had the kind of body I knew he’d have—muscled, corded, and tight. I couldn’t help but run my hands over his abs.

  My shirt came off next and, impatiently, I fumbled with his belt. He smiled down at me.

  “You still don’t know my name,” he said, voice husky and teasing.

  “I don’t need to know your name,” I said. What I wanted was to know every inch of his body.

  When I woke late the next morning, still naked beneath the sheets, mystery guy was gone. He’d left nothing behind to prove that he’d been there at all. Well, except for that near-constant shivery feeling in my gut and the silly smile that looked back at me in the mirror.

  Sometimes a girl just needs to blow off some steam.

  I took a shower and dressed. I felt more rested than I had in a long time. Surprisingly, I’d slept more than my usual four hours.

  After a cup of black coffee, I walked over to the pizza place where I’d met mystery guy intending to thank him for last night, and to figure out his identity.

  He’d made finding out
his name a challenge, and I intended to win.

  Inside the restaurant, the dining room wasn’t as packed as it had been last night. Of course, the lunch hour hadn’t struck yet. I found the harried waitress from last night filling shakers of Parmesan cheese.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “You can take any table you want, darling,” she said without looking at me.

  “Thanks, but I’m actually here for a friend. He works here. Worked a shift last night? Tall, blond, eighteen or nineteen, maybe. Super-hot.”

  She side-eyed me with a frown. “Kitchen staff or waitstaff?”

  “Waitstaff.”

  She shook her head. “There’s only me and two other girls on the waitstaff.” With a grumble she added, “We’re extremely short handed right now.”

  “Okay, so maybe he’s kitchen staff but helped out waiting tables last night?”

  “No one here by that description, actually.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She set the canister of cheese on the counter and turned on the bar stool to face me. “There is no one here by that description,” she said slowly.

  Anger, and a growing sense of panic, ran through me. “Then why did you ask whether he was waitstaff or kitchen staff? You could have just said no from the beginning instead of wasting my fucking time.”

  She scowled and went back to her work. “I need to quit this godforsaken place.”

  I took two steps away from her, disoriented and unsure. What now? I found myself heading toward the back door, out into the late-morning sunshine.

  A sliver of annoyance burrowed into my side. Mystery guy had played me, and I prided myself on being unplayable. And I couldn’t help but wonder, was he Branch affiliated?

  I’d been counting on the element of surprise in my attack on Riley. If the guy was Branch, then they already knew I was here.

  I started walking, hyperaware of my surroundings, but with no destination in mind. I just needed to clear my head, think through every conversation I’d had with the mystery guy and see if I could glean any clues.

  I slipped around a small crowd of hipsters on the sidewalk, then dodged a mom pushing a stroller. Near a line of newspaper boxes, I wedged myself between the last one and a lamppost, to pause and get my bearings.