First, there’s a flirty glint in his hazel eyes, then concern when he sees I’m not smiling. “Shit, I’m sorry, did I—”
I slide my palms up his, pressing them together.
“Thank you for giving me a glimpse into the life I moved here for. It’s not going to be a long life, but I’m getting to live it because of you.”
“I don’t know how long I got either, but if you’re my first and only, then I could—”
“Don’t say you’ll die happy.”
“Then I could die . . . miserably . . .”
“That’s not great either.”
“How do I win, then?”
“By not accepting defeat. I’m honored to be your first, but I don’t want to be your only.”
“Things don’t exactly work out for me. You’re the best guy I’ve ever liked and . . . ”
I bring his hand to the inside of my overshirt, my heart beating against his palm. “After the operation, you’re going to have more time. Please use it wisely so you’re not trying to squeeze in everything in one day. Write the longest novel ever. Look for love. Start your family.”
Orion is tearing up. “Why are you hitting me with a goodbye speech right now?”
“I can’t hold off on anything anymore.” I kiss him again. “Especially not after my favorite first with you.”
“There’s still time to one-up it.”
“How so?”
“I’m going to take you on your first date, Valentino.”
Joaquin Rosa
1:11 p.m.
Joaquin has returned to the Death-Cast headquarters and stares at the empty call center. The heralds have gone home for the day, but will there still be jobs to return for tonight?
He goes straight to the company suite, expecting to find his family around the table or watching TV, but no one’s in here. He can hear the TV on in the bedroom and gently knocks on the door before letting himself in, where he finds Naya and Alano asleep on the king-size mattress, a luxury Joaquin invested in knowing his family would occasionally find themselves staying overnight. The puppy leaps off the bed and rushes Joaquin. Joaquin sweeps Bucky into his arm and snuggles him, already feeling his blood pressure drop. He really needed this.
Everything he’s been through since he left has been difficult and frustrating and disappointing and heartbreaking.
Joaquin turns off the Scorpius Hawthorne movie on the TV and goes to the restroom to wash up, cleaning his face and drinking water straight out of the faucet too. The time spent in the vault always leaves Joaquin feeling out of touch with himself, but now, Joaquin is starting to feel like, well, Joaquin.
“Hi,” Naya says from behind with tired eyes. “Any luck?”
They never openly talk about what’s inside the vault or what happens in it. For the rest of their lives, Joaquin and Naya—and perhaps one day Alano—must live as if there are tiny cameras everywhere they go, planted by someone wanting to know the secret behind Death-Cast.
“Some luck, but not enough. Have more deaths been reported?”
Naya nods. “There have been eleven reported deaths. All registered. None notified.”
Joaquin feels unanchored again. “I have to release a statement.”
“Is everything over?”
He can hear the slight hope in her voice for a dream he can’t make come true.
“No. But if my understanding of the issue is correct, this glitch isn’t done.”