Finding It

moment to end.

His mouth answered with a faster pace, breath escaping as we shifted and tasted and savored every last second. We didn’t pull apart until we had to, until it was time to set foot in the real world again.

Maybe it was the fall or the blood rushing to my head or the reverberations of my universe finally snapping into place, but I had to grip the instructor’s arm to keep from falling as he unhooked me.

We didn’t talk as we were set free from harnesses and cords. But his gaze was like a touch—tender and aching and possessive.

We walked away that day. We took a bus back to the city. My feet hit the hard cobblestones step after step, but when I climbed into the bed opposite Hunt’s that night, I was still falling. My head hit the pillow, but I swore I could feel the rush of wind past my body, could hear it in my ears.

Hunt said something about my inner ear, said it would go away in a day or two, but I wasn’t so sure. In the quiet night, I wondered if it was only the beginning of something bigger. One long, exhilarating, terrifying fall. One without the safety of harnesses and cords and a plan. One with no guarantee that I wouldn’t hit rock bottom.

I woke up angry the next day.

I wasn’t PMSing, and no one had done anything to piss me off (yet). I was just sour. And it was only made worse when I hopped on one of the hostel’s complimentary computers to check my e-mail.

Bliss had arrived in Philadelphia, and there was a full novel in my in-box gushing about her apartment and the neighborhood and her perfect boyfriend.

I felt like a complete bitch when I closed the message without replying, but anything I would have written then would have caused problems anyway.

And then because I was a masochist, I decided to read the e-mails from Dad. Or his secretary anyway. I skimmed through the dozen or so messages in my in-box, most of which were an account of my whereabouts and my spending habits.

There was no need to worry about Big Brother with a father like mine. I imagined he had assigned his secretary to monitor all of my actions through my bank account.

It was so fucked up.

Not the money part. I was used to that. My only brothers and sisters were bank accounts, and I always came in last.

It was fucked up that he thought he could control everything. He thought himself the great puppeteer, managing and enacting it all.

It was fucked up because I was all too familiar with the fact that he couldn’t control everything, but he was still pretending like he could.

I wondered what he would do if I told him I’d been drugged. He’d blame me, say it was my fault for being a moral degenerate and spending all my time in places where people got drugged. That much, I knew. But I wondered what he would do after that. Would he care? Would he want me to come home? Or would he sweep it under the rug, smudge it with an eraser, tell me I was being overdramatic again?

While I was sitting at the computer another e-mail came in.

Secretary Cindy, who I had never met and was probably the same age as me, wrote:

Your father thinks it’s time you start making arrangements to come home. Your mother has a charity party coming up the week after next, and he’s trying to land a new account with a very family-focused company. He’d like you to be there to make a good impression. Follow the usual dress code, he said. I’ve attached a document with a couple of options for flights home. Please look it over and let me know which works best for you.

Unbelievable.

That answered my question about him caring. I knew Mom was just a prop to him. That was why he let her drink herself stupid every day. He let her buy whatever she wanted. They ignored it when one or both of them cheated.

Because in my family all that matters is what people see.

They didn’t see Dad’s business partner touch me when I was twelve. There was no mark on my hand from when he made me touch him. The only mark from something like that rests under the skin.

So, of course, it didn’t count.

When Jackson called my name and stepped into the computer room, I closed the window without replying. Not that the “Fuck off” I’d been planning was much of a reply anyway.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Grab your things. We’re heading out.”

“Heading out where?”

“Out of the country.”

I slid off my stool, but when I tried to move closer, he kept a careful distance between us. Frustration fizzled on my tongue.

“We just got to Prague yesterday.”

“And now we’re leaving Prague today. You only gave me a week, and there’s a lot I want to do.”

There was a lot I wanted to do too, but he’d barely looked in my direction for more than two seconds since our kiss.

Not even bothering to muffle my grumbling, I shoved my things into my backpack and left behind the Madhouse hostel. If only I could have left behind my shitty mood, too.

At the train station, I asked, “Will you tell me where we’re going now?”

Hunt just smiled. I loved and hated that smile.

“Why are you doing this?”

He said, “Wow, you really don’t do well with surprises, do you?”

I rolled my eyes, and crossed my arms over my chest.

“I mean all of this. Why do you care?”

Normally, I never would have asked a question like that, not from guy that I was trying to hook up with. Especially not when the answer could be that he didn’t care, not really. He certainly didn’t have any qualms about rejecting me.

But I’d spent days with him, and almost everything I knew about him was from observation alone. I mean, it was like pulling teeth just to get him to tell me his first name.

“Because I wanted you to come with me. Do I need another reason?”

“Do you have one?”

He shrugged. “No one likes traveling alone.”

And that was the Hunt one-two punch. Pull you in and then plow right over you. Give you the most intense kiss of your life, and then pretend like it never happened and let you fester in your sexual frustration.

I stayed quiet on our way to the station and as we boarded a train to somewhere in Germany. As soon as we were moving, I folded my arms over the top of my backpack, and used them as a pillow.

Just for once, I wanted to know where I stood with him. I wanted to shake him until some actual answers popped out, rather than his charming, sweet noncommittal words.

We changed trains that afternoon in Munich, and even though the train was fairly empty, Hunt sat beside me.

I tried not to react, because any reaction I had was going to be bitchy. Instead, I fished my phone out of my bag and stood to place my backpack in the luggage rack above our heads. I sat back down beside him and slipped one earbud in. I was searching for a song when he said, “You’re mad at me.”

I glanced at him briefly, then pressed play.

“No, I’m not.”

I’d just put in my second earbud when he tugged them both out.

“Yes, you are. I might have spent the last few years in various deserts with mostly men, but I’m not so far removed that I don’t know that ‘No, I’m not,’ means ‘I most definitely am.’ ”

I sighed. “Jackson, I’m not mad. I promise. I’m just tired.”

“But you slept on the last train.”

“I didn’t mean that kind of tired.”