Whatever my reasons were, he's right. I did let him think I was dead. I begged Will to help me, and he did. For years, we deceived Adam, but he deserved it.
"Why?" He cocks his head, studying me closely, as if the answer to his demand plays itself out in my features. "Why did you do it?"
Though my throat rasps as I try to speak again, I manage it. Just. "I could ask the same thing of you." A long, long pause. "In fact, that's the one thing I've been waiting all these years to find out."
Chapter 11
"HAVE A GOOD EVENING, GENTLEMEN."
The receptionist---not Jason this time, thank goodness---winks as we walk past his desk, and I throw a barely-restrained growl in his direction. I don't know what the hell he thinks is going on here ---actually, I do---but it won't happen. The only reason I told Adam where I'm staying, the only reason I'm allowing him to follow me now, is so we can talk. That's all. Talk. I'll explain to him what happened back then and why I kept myself hidden for so long.
And maybe, I'll finally get the answer to the question that's been bugging me since: what in the name of all that is holy did he think he was doing back then?
I throw open the door leading to the stairwell and lifts, not even bothering to wait for Adam and hold it open for him. I know he'll be right behind me, and oh, how metaphorical and Freudian is that little gem?
"And you used to be so proper and polite too," Adam throws at me, standing a couple of feet away, waiting for the lift to come.
I'm not sure if he's teasing or being sarcastic.
"You're perfectly capable of getting the door yourself, aren't you?"
"I am, but it would have been polite of you to hold it open. It might have been quite painful if it had slammed in my face."
I shrug. "It'd heal soon enough." Within hours, on a good day. Or rather, good night.
"Sometimes, I think you just don't care about my feelings, Sergeant."
I flick my head to the side, glaring with narrowed eyes, but he faces the lifts. Rocking back and forward on his heels, hands in pockets, he looks for all the world passive and innocent.
Please, God, don't let him be flirting.
"Oh, wait. I've just realised." At last, he turns his head to meet my gaze. "You don't."
Oh. It's like that, is it? I bite my lip before saying anything I'll regret, and face front again, hands clasped loosely behind my back. But it doesn't feel right, and I drop my hands to my sides, palms to my thighs.
"Admirable stance."
I won't give him the satisfaction of looking at him. Or answering.
"Army training, Nathan," he carries on. "You never lose it."
"Don't you forget anything?" Bang goes my resolve in an instant.
And there he goes again, the old Adam I used to know and love. Head tilted insolently, just a fraction, that smirk I want---no, wanted, past tense ---to slap or kiss, all at the same time. "Why, no, Sergeant. Memory like an elephant. Hung like one too." And his gaze drops momentarily to my crotch. He laughs when I flinch. "Words you said not even an hour ago?" Another, softer, laugh. "Of course I'll remember. See, what I'm interested in happened decades before. There's a few things on which you'll have to fill me in. I'm a bit hazy on the details."
"Why the fuck do you think I'm here?" I throw at him, unspeakably grateful when the lift doors open. A couple get out, and the woman looks like a woman dressed as a vampire. Waist-length curly black hair, flowing skirts made of random pieces of chiffon. A pale, powdered face and scarlet lipstick. Maybe she's one of those who gets off on people thinking she's a human who merely looks undead, and her companion is just along for the ride. Someone who, in turn, gets off on the look of surprise on the poor, unfortunate mortal's face when they realise they're encountering the real deal, here.
It's just the two of us in the lift now, and I press the relevant button and, out of habit, resume my former posture.
I've never felt so uncomfortable in my life. So damn awkward.
"Shame there's no basement in this place."
This is going to be the longest elevator ride of my life, I can just tell.
"Just imagine how funny it would be if you'd looked at me and said, going down?"
"I see your sense of humour hasn't improved any in the past seventy years."
"Nor has your sense of honour."
I can't help it; my head turns of its own volition, and I glare at the bastard like I hate him. I do. He fucking half-killed me, and now he insults my honour?
"Oh, Sergeant Stephenson, still full of that military pride, aren't you?"
"You say that like it's something to be ashamed of."
"And where has it got you?"
My body's ramrod straight (but for that traitorous head of mine) and facing front, but Adam shifts now, turning his entire body to face me. The lift's entirely white but for the silver button panel, illuminated by one of those strip lights that cause migraines and seizures for an unlucky select number of the mortal population. For us, though, they mean the ability to see quite comfortably inside a sealed, vampire-friendly building, and the light it casts down onto Adam causes an unholy glare. Even chance wouldn't be sick enough to give him an artificial halo, but I will say this: Adam Locke sure loves the spotlight.
"Honestly, Sergeant---"
"Nathan." I don't feel entirely comfortable having him use my first name, but when he uses my long-defunct title, it sounds like mockery.
"Honestly, Nathan, where has this military pride got you? Oh, you can tell yourself you're an honourable
