Zhukov's Dogs (21 page)

Authors: Amanda Cyr

It had been four days since Val made a pass at me; not that I’d been counting or anything. By the third day—after nothing but casual interaction and no mention of what happened between us on the porch—I’d convinced myself his flirting was a one-time thing and completely in jest. Apparently, it wasn’t.

I should have let it go with a laugh and gone on to my room. I should have been a good dog and written up notes. There was something enthralling about the game he was playing, though. I walked after him, quickening my pace until directly in front of him. For every step he took backwards, I took one forward.

“You’re doing it again,” I said.

“Doing what?” he asked, hiding both hands in the pockets of his cardigan.

Val didn’t feign ignorance well, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. I decided it was about time he got a taste of his own medicine. Something to show him I wasn’t going to overlook his advances, joking or not.

I looked over my shoulder to make sure we were alone in the hall then, taking a slightly longer step forward, hooked a foot behind Val’s ankle as he took a step backward. He started to fall, eyes wide and smug grin vanishing. I seized the opening of his cardigan with both hands, turned, and shoved his back against the wall.

Val’s hands shot up to grab my wrists, a natural reflex for anyone whose pupils were blown as wide as his. The tight grip loosened as Val shifted further against the wall. Watching his arrogance falter provided the most gratifying, but also unexpected, rush. It tricked me into taking half a step closer.

I only set out to rattle him. A taste of his own medicine. A joke. That’s all I meant for it to be, but my pulse was speeding up. A thick dryness coated my mouth, and every shallow breath felt entirely unnecessary.

We were so close. Just us. Alone in the hallway. My hands wrung the scratchy material of Val’s sweater tighter, knuckles digging into the boy’s bony chest where I could feel his heart pounding even faster than my own.

“I can play this game too, Val.”

Val flinched. His hands tightened around my wrists as he laughed uneasily. “You don’t even play on the same team, idiot.”

“Hasn’t stopped you,” I pointed out through a smirk far more devious than intended. I was anxious, alert, and intrigued all at once by the way Val’s tongue swept over his lips. The sheen left behind on them was positively mesmerizing. It could have been something as sinister as a poisonous gloss, and I wouldn’t have been any less captivated by his soft lips, hung so tauntingly agape. They were far more sinister, though, and maybe that was why all I could think about was closing the small space between Val and me and giving them a taste.

“It’ll stop you.”

Val’s firm tone broke me out of my daze. Everything crashed down in a cold, icy wave. My pulse jumped. What was I doing? I let go of Val and stepped back, suddenly very aware of how near we were and how I’d almost—Christ—I’d almost kissed him.
Kissed him
, I repeated over and over to keep from thinking about the much less innocent things which had crossed my mind.

Val’s eyes snapped shut. He stayed propped against the wall and brought his hands up to grip his shoulders. As he exhaled, I heard a quiet curse under his breath. My head spun, desperately trying to make sense of the impulse which had seized me and form some kind of explanation, when I heard him mumble.

“I was just joking around.”

“What?”

“I’m not actually interested in, you know, you.” He kept his eyes shut and tilted his head down as he spoke. “I was just trying to get a rise out of you.”

Everything, from the way his fingers tapped on his shoulders to the way his voice faltered, suggested he was lying. I didn’t care if he was or not; I jumped on the opportunity to escape the situation.

“Me, too.” I chuckled.

I took another step back from him. We were still too close for my own comfort. Val opened his eyes, stared at the ground for a minute, then laughed. It was hoarse and obviously forced. He let his hands drop from his shoulders and tucked them into his back pockets.

“Good. Good, man that was…” Val couldn’t seem to figure out what it was either, so he just forced another laugh. “I mean that was just weird.”

“Yeah. This fever must be messing with my head.”

“You’d better not get me sick.”

“All the more reason it’s a good thing we stopped.”

We laughed a little more in a pointless attempt to ease the tension. Val checked his watch and said, “Right, well, I’m going to walk to the corner market and get the paper. I’ll see you at breakfast?”

“Yeah, I’ll see you there.” I made the mistake of giving Val the most awkward pat on the shoulder; a “good job, bro,” only a million times worse. His posture stiffened under my hand and then, in almost perfect unison, we turned and walked in opposite directions.

I couldn’t believe it. How long had it been since I’d been in such intimate proximity with anyone? I mean, sure, flirtation with a target for information had frequently led to an emotionally detached one-night stand, but this was different. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been so caught up in the idea of letting go, and it made me sickeningly uncomfortable.

It was impossible for things to get worse. Or, at least, that’s what I thought before I saw Anya standing in the doorway of the war room, hands behind her back and a knowing smile on her face. She’d seen everything.

I quickly glanced over my shoulder to make sure Val was gone. Anya giggled. She walked down the hall, still in her pajamas, until she was right in front of me. Her big, gray eyes were softer than Val’s when they bore into me. They didn’t look one-tenth as exhausted as his.

Anya reached out and rubbed her hands down my arms, like I needed comforting or something. Then, without the slightest laugh in her voice to suggest she was joking, she asked, “Why didn’t you kiss him?”

“Sorry, what?”

“He wanted you to.”

“That’s not the… Wait. No, Anya. I’m not—”

“Oh, sunshine, just hush. I saw the way you were looking at him.” She squeezed my arms gently, flashing a bright smile.

Heat rose in my cheeks. “It’s not going to happen, Anya.”

“Why not?”

Because I’m not going to be here much longer. Because I’m not the person he thinks I am. Because he’s just another target I’m supposed to collect data on. Twenty other excuses ran through my head, but the only one I said out loud was, “Because I’m not gay.”

Anya’s brow creased softly, and her lips pressed into a line. “That’s not a good reason to stop yourself from going after someone, especially if you really want to be with them.”

“This is ridiculous. We’re friends, and that’s all,” I insisted, pulling away from Anya. I was already flustered before she started her nagging; now, I was ready to snap.

She stood there, staring at me, for a long second. Finally, when I was certain she was about to press further, she smiled. Slowly, she shook her head and said, “Okay… Sorry I brought it up… Come on. Let’s go eat.”

It wasn’t until Anya and I were halfway down the last flight of stairs that I remembered the notes I was supposed to be writing on the revolutionaries. I told myself I’d get to them right after breakfast. We rounded the corner and stepped through the large arch into the dining room.

The usual bunch of revolutionaries were present
—
the ones who actually lived in the house
—
and so were Gemma, Michael, and a tall boy with glasses who I’d never seen before. He had a full head of curly, dark hair, and just as much on his face. Chatting nosily, they passed wicker baskets of bread around, shoveled mountains of scrambled eggs onto their plates, and reached across the table with forks to stab at platters of sausage and bacon.

Michael cheered a quick greeting through a mouthful of food. “G’mornin.”

The others tossed out their own greetings as Anya and I took the two empty seats toward the end of the table. Val’s chair at the head was unoccupied. He must have still been out getting the paper. A second after the thought crossed my mind, the front door swung open. Anya looked to me with a tiny smile. I rolled my eyes and reached for the pot of coffee.

Before I could reach it, the bearded-boy across the table grabbed my hand and shook it vigorously. He swallowed his mouthful of biscuit and said, “Name’s Patrick.”

There was something familiar about him I couldn’t put my finger on. I was about to introduce myself when Patrick beat me to it. “Nik. Yeah, I’ve heard of you. Good to finally put a face with the name.”

“How do you—?”

“I work in the eastern base with these two clowns,” Patrick said with a wave to Michael and Gemma. “They’ve told me all about you.”

All about me? I tried not to laugh at how impossible that was. I looked up as Val stepped into the dining room, rubbing his hands together with a newspaper folded under his arm. There wasn’t time to appreciate the awkward way he glanced up at me, not with how fast he commanded the attention of the table by throwing the newspaper in the center. I was seated close enough to smell the cigarette smoke lingering on his breath when he said, “Operation Oxford.”

“What’s that?” Gemma asked. Val gestured toward the paper, and we all leaned in to read the headline.

Granne Approves New Ammunition Factory in the Oxford District.

“The governor wants to launch a new project, so I say we launch one of our own in response,” Val said. “As you all know, the Oxford District is right at the heart of the city. It’s home to more than two-hundred, low-income families who are going to be conned into signing their homes away starting this afternoon.”

“Any plans announced for relocation?” Tibbs asked, reaching to pick up the paper and skim over the article.

Val’s fingers tapped against his ribcage as he spoke. “It says people will be compensated. We all know just how well people get ‘compensated’ by the governor.”

I didn’t, but the grumbling which came from a few of the revolutionaries gave me a good idea. “So what’s your plan?” I asked.

Val didn’t falter; he even managed to look at me when he answered. Maybe things wouldn’t be uncomfortable between us, after all.

“According to our informant up on the docks, the governor’s got a big delivery coming in this afternoon. It’s a huge truck, packed full of essentials. We’re going to make sure it never gets to his door and, instead, take it over to the Oxford District for proper redistribution.”

“And while we’re there, we’ll talk to the people and convince them not to sign their homes away?” Anya guessed.

“That’s the plan,” Val said. He sat down as suggestions for how to proceed were tossed around the table. When Tibbs finished with the paper, I took it from him to read over.

Governor Granne sat down with officials early this morning and announced that, due
to an increase in funding from Washington, plans to build a new factory in the Oxford District of Seattle are in the works. “It’s a perfect space,” Granne says. “Close enough to the river to run efficiently off hydro-electric power and home to four out of the six central supports, giving us ample room to build upwards instead of outwards. Utilizing this, we could build multiple facilities.” The new factory, or factories as Granne suggests, are estimated to employ…

An awful thought filled my head, and I found myself unable to finish the paragraph, let alone swallow my mouthful of bread. Four out of the six central supports. I scanned the rest of article until I located the paragraph I was looking for, at the very end.

The Oxford District will be canvassed starting today, and inhabitants of the area will be relocated with compensation. The construction itself will begin exactly one week from today.

In one week, the underground would be buried under the guise of a new factory construction. I felt sick.