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“You’re full of bullshit.”
My voice cracked. “No other way to survive life.”
At home, throat and eyes stinging, I threw myself at my desk. My screen was unlocked, my game still open. Cowering from life behind knighted armor and losing myself in fantasy worlds was the best thing I had going for me.
DaMage: One more thing.
DaMage: It doesn’t seem right to know who you are while you don’t know who I am.
DaMage: I gotta confess, I’m not sure you’ll love the revelation.
My stomach twisted into fiery knots and I rubbed the screen like it might erase the truth.
DaMage: Hey, Marc Jillson. It’s me. Travis Hunter.
Chapter Two
I soaked in the impressive neo-Gothic facade of the Jefferson humanities building that housed the Scribe offices. Gray stone, arched windows, and steep-sloping roofs rose against a sunny sky. Gusty warm wind prompted me inside.
A deep laugh rang through the green-and-white tiled corridor. My step faltered as a funky electric thrill shot through my nauseated stomach.
A dozen yards away, waiting for the elevator, stood the two guys I most wanted to avoid. Liam Davis—tight-shouldered, Clark Kent lookalike—
And Hunter.
His wheelchair positioned him away from direct view but my mind conjured his face. Defined, strong jaw, straight hard nose, and a dimple on his right cheek. A dimple I’d only ever seen in profile.
Hunter. DaMage. One and the same.
Goosebumps shattered over me from scalp to feet.
I couldn’t face him. Couldn’t share the same elevator.
My shoe squealed as I pivoted back toward the entrance.
A swarm of literature students pouring out of a lecture hall blocked my path. Hunter, hand on his wheel, was about to turn—
I lurched behind a large potted palm, praying the ridiculously long leaves curtained me.
“Go ahead, Liam. I’ll catch up.”
Hunter’s deep, calm voice carried down the rib-vaulted corridor.
Through the leaf gaps, I watched the elevator doors close on an inquisitive Liam, pen in hand, glasses pushed to the bridge of his nose.
Hunter waited a beat before spinning around and rolling down the corridor, gaze fixed on . . . my palm tree.
I’d been made.
I studied the leaves intently and begged the gods.
Roll past, roll past, roll . . .
“Jill.”
Hunter cornered me. Dark, product-coiffed hair; tight forearms inked with hummingbird tattoos; a truckload of confidence glittering in blue eyes.
“What are you doing?” he asked, biceps flexing as he folded his arms.
I pinched a leaf, desperately searching for words. “Examining this plant for anthrax.”
“Anthrax, eh? Without gloves?”
I lifted another leaf. “It’s a fungal disease. Nasty. This palm is covered in it.”
“Do you maybe mean anthracnose?”
That sounded better, yes. “That’s the one.”
“I see. Into plants, are you? Or are you working on campus as a caretaker now?”
Another leaf inspected. “Civic duty. I was taking initiative. I’ll be reporting this anthracnose to the campus . . . people.”
Hunter’s mouth worked hard suppressing a laugh, and for the first time I saw his dimple face-on. It punctuated his face with charisma, complementing eyes that danced with humor.
He leaned forward on his chair, voice creamy, smooth. “Show me your holes?”
My fingers slipped from the leaf so fast I cut myself. I swore and sucked on them, fighting the blazing heat in my cheeks. “My holes aren’t for your eyes. Jesus, you’re forward.”
Hunter’s brows shot up and he gestured to the potted palm. “The holes you found? The lesions? Anthracnose?”
Oh. “Right. Holes.” I turned over a leaf. “Would you look at that. They disappeared. A miracle.”
Hunter nodded thoughtfully. “Almost as miraculous as an indoor plant being infected with anthracnose in the first place.” He eyed my tight jeans and even tighter T-shirt before rolling back a foot. “You’re hiding from me.”
I winced. It was true. “Or procrastinating seeing the chief?”
“You haven’t played Demon-Slayage since Saturday.”
“My computer broke?”
“You shrank in your Econ 302 seat when I came in yesterday.”
“Unusually cold draught?”
He pinned me with a look that said he knew I was full of bullshit. “We’d better move this upstairs. Meeting’s about to start.”
“You go ahead.” I moved toward the next potted palm. “I’ll just—”
His stern look had me sighing and reluctantly trailing him to the elevator. He paused at the opening doors. “After you, Jill.”
“You called me Marc online.”
“I guess I couldn’t quite believe the guy I’ve been chatting with all summer is you.”
“Yeah. Can you . . .”
Hunter side-eyed me. “Can I what?”
Keep calling me Marc? “Never mind.”
We arrived at the conference room just in time. After Uncle Ben—ugh, Chief Benedict—told the crew in short words that I’d be back as reporter, he started the meeting. Nobody said anything or tried to catch my eye, and I returned the favor. Assignments allocated, the chief left. And so did the respectful quiet.
Hannah, writing for the Scribe’s party page, tightened her long ponytail, accidentally elbowing my chin as we piled out of the conference room. “Sorry—oh, J-Jill.” She stammered. Awkwardness stretched the foot between us, and I shrugged it off, determined to dump my belongings and hightail out of there.
