Page 2 of Theta

I desperately want to impress her. To be cool. To protect her—not need protecting.

To know that she knows I'm freaking out? It sucks.

"It's just…" I thud my head against the container wall with a dull, hollow thunk. "Roger. My bodyguard. I…I keep seeing him dead. Like, Rog has been my guard my whole fucking life. Y'know? I don't…I never joked around with him that much. He didn't want to. Wasn’t his job to be my buddy. But he…he was a constant in my life. And now he’s dead. And for what? I just keep seeing his face. The way he stared at nothing. The hole in his head. Brains everywhere." I shudder and have to hang my head between my knees to keep from upchucking what little food I have inside me.

A small soft hand rests on the inside of my forearm, warm and tiny and gentle. "I'm sorry, Killy. I can't imagine how that must feel." I usually hate being called Killy, even though it’s been my nickname my whole life to anyone who knows me well, but from Story it somehow feels different. More intimate, maybe. Meaningful, somehow.

The touch of her hand on my skin makes my heart thud in my chest. Despite growing up with Story, I've only made physical contact with her very, very rarely. We don’t hug, and we also don’t shake hands—we’re too close for handshaking and not platonically close enough for hugging. The closest we ever get to touching is sitting next to or near each other at a table or in a vehicle, boat, or aircraft, the occasional jostle of an arm against arm or thigh against thigh, and even that little bit of contact usually leaves me tingly and short of breath, like a pathetic fucknut.

Which means this is the first time she's made direct, intentional physical contact with me.

And my heart is slamming in my chest, out of control. Which, I know, is beyond idiotic. It means nothing.

It's stupid to even think that way.

We're hostages. My concern needs to be getting us out of here in one piece, not worrying about being attracted to someone so far out of my league.

However, I leave her hand on my arm. Hesitate, and then I cover her hand with mine. "Thanks, Story. It's…it just sucks. This is all so stupid. Like, why do our parents' enemies keep pulling this shit? You'd think they’d learn at some point."

Story giggles—it sounds involuntary. She's not a giggly girl, for the most part. "Right? It never goes well for anyone. Yet these idiots keep doing it."

Her hand stays on my arm, which is nice.

I rest my hand on hers, and I can't seem to stop myself from brushing my thumb over her knuckles, exploring the back of her hand, sliding the pad of my thumb over the crease between fingers.

"Killy?" Her voice is so quiet I can barely hear her even in the stifling silence of the pitch-black container.

"Yeah?"

“I’m terrified."

"Coulda fooled me."

She giggles again, and now I realize the giggling is a sign of her fear. "I'm usually good at managing my emotions. I have to be, to do the job I do. But this is…in part, I know I've trained for this my whole life. But now that it's here, I'm scared out of my mind."

"I am too," I whisper. "Or, I was, at first. I thought they were gonna, like, cut my fingers off or something. But then it's just been me alone in this fucking black box for…however long it's been. Now I'm just bored and pissed off."

"Well, I'm still in the fear stage." A long pause. "I, um…I really really don't want to for a lot of reasons, but it's at the point now where I don't have a choice."

I cough a little laugh. "Story?"

"Hmm?"

"You don't want to what?"

"I have to pee. Like, really bad."

"Cross the container and then left to the corner. There's a bucket."

A pause. "Killy, I'm a girl."

"Hasn't escaped my notice." My tone is so dry and wry that there's no chance she doesn't catch something in it and give away my hopeless, helpless attraction.

She sighs. "You have a sister, Killy. Do I really need to spell this out?"

I try to fathom what she's talking about and fail. “Um, I guess so, yeah."

"Peeing in a bucket as a girl wearing pants is…tricky."