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I shift The Leg back and forth, a couple inches in each direction. No pain. Nothing.
Solo gives a small, approving nod.
I meet his eyes. “If I needed to, say, disappear from here for a couple of hours without being caught, could you help me do it?”
There’s an intriguing arrogance in his face. “Talk to me.”
– 15 –
I’m seeing an interesting side to Solo. He’s not the blushing boy in my hospital room, rendered speechless by Aislin’s antics. He’s totally in control, coolly pushing my wheelchair through maintenance areas and unused kitchen facilities and darkened labs.
As we move, he provides muted commentary. Things like, “This room hasn’t been used probably ever, so I turned off surveillance cameras.… The camera on this part of the stairwell is broken.… I can delete tape of this later—no one will notice.… The scientist who works in this space is a paranoid so no camera.… Infrared is off here so as long as we don’t turn on the light…”
What I’m coming to think of as “Escape from Spiker” involves about sixty different, distinct steps, all inside Solo’s head. The building is massive, but he has it memorized—every door, room, and camera angle.
We reach a set of steps. “How do we get down those?” I ask.
“I carry you. Then I come back up and get your wheelchair.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You want out or not?”
“You don’t look that strong.” I say it, but it’s a lie. He does look that strong.
Another text from Aislin. Maddox in trubble.
Spelling is not Aislin’s favorite thing.
“Lean forward,” Solo says.
I do, and his hand goes behind my back. I feel his arms slide over the clasp of my bra.
“I’m going to lift The Leg.”
“I’m afraid it will hurt.”
“It won’t,” he says, and I wonder what makes him so sure. His palm slides under my thighs and with barely a grunt he has me up and out of my chair. My face is close to his, close enough that his hair brushes my cheek and my nose and I have to fight an urge to sneeze.
I ask myself what I ate at lunch. I ask myself why I didn’t bother with deodorant this morning.
I ask myself whether that’s the smell of his shampoo or just the smell of him. Either way, I like it. In fact, whatever it is, and I’m not saying I know, I find it strangely fascinating.
He carries me down the stairs, kneels, places me on the next-to-bottom step, and runs back up to grab my wheelchair.
I don’t turn around to watch him climb away, because that would be me checking out his butt. Which is not something I would ever do.
But his jeans fit. No sagging for Solo.
/> I insist on climbing into my chair on my own. It’s easier than it should be. We’re back in gear, and a few minutes later, we arrive at an underground garage.
Solo touches my shoulder. “We have to be careful here,” he warns.
We wait just inside a recessed doorway in a corner of the garishly lit concrete-plus-more-concrete space.
“Do you have a car?” I ask.
“I have a dozen cars,” he replies. “Oddly enough, they’re all identical.”
