"Shon?" Bekka, lay in bed, the white sheet draped coyly around her slender frame. She beckoned him with a toss of her brownish-blond locks and a crook of her honey-colored finger. "Why don't you stay the night?"
She always asked the same question, albeit posed differently.
Shon had laughed the first time, telling her to remember their agreement. The subsequent times he'd answered her with nothing more than a scowl.
This evening was different. Shon had successfully substituted Bekka's face and body with images of Jeannie, making for the best experience he'd ever had. That made him in no hurry to leave and he dallied for a while, reveling in the afterglow.
Maybe it wouldn't hurt to have another go.
He lifted the shirt over his head, tossing it into a wingback chair. "I'll stay, provided like last time, you don't talk."
He almost laughed at the popping sounds her neck made as Bekka enthusiastically nodded her agreement.
When he finally came around and he ended it with Bekka, he could bet his IQ there would be a fight of epic proportions. Bekka was a jealous, spiteful creature and most times he regretted ever getting involved with her.
Why did you then? his mind asked.
He didn't have an answer. Deep down, Shon longed for a nice girl that would understand about his quest for academia, yet a tigress in bed. If Jeannie and Bekka were molded into one, he would have the perfect woman.
"Roll over," he commanded, lifting the sheet to slide under it.
Bekka complied, giggling.
Shon pushed his misgivings aside. Bekka was here, in the present. He could lose himself with her while he thought about Jeannie. It's all he could do for now.
Quentin and Dalton waited in the back of the van for Shon to waltz out so they could capture him. When Shon failed to make an appearance, Quentin made his frustrations known.
"He's usually done by now," Quentin whined.
The chilly night air buffeted around the van, rocking it. Quentin could see his breath every time he exhaled. Trying to fight off the chill, he huddled deeper into his jacket.
Quentin had been at a party when Thorne called. He dropped everything...including the hand of a girl who'd caught his eye.
"We have to wait for as long as it takes, okay? Stop your complaining," Dalton said, looking up from his e-reader to squint at Quentin. He was tired of his friend's running commentary of complaints. And to make matters worse, Quentin had interrupted his favorite fight scene in the book he was reading.
Usually, the two men got along, but every once in a while, things turned...nasty. Tonight, was one of those times.
Quentin threw Dalton a baleful glare. "Dude. Don't tell me what to do."
"Will if I want," Dalton countered, an eye cocked on the man who had thirty pounds of muscle on him.
"You'd better quit before I punch you."
"I dare you."
"Ow! Youâ"
Quentin's phone rang, and all hostilities ceased.
"Communication secure."
"59605?" asked the female voice on the other end.
"Yes, ma'am."
Their handler, H778, was on the line. Quentin pictured her as a MILF version of Nina Dobrev, Thorne as a young Judy Dench, and Dalton as an overweight Taylor Swift.
After Dalton's revelation, it had taken both Quentin and Thorne over ten minutes to stop laughing.
"You're on an unauthorized mission. We request you stand down and report to HQ. We expect you within the hour."
"Yes, ma'am."
Dalton noted the stricken look on Quentin's face and fear clawed at his insides like a rat in a trap. "What?" he asked, turning off his e-reader and stowing it in his bag.
"Dude," Quentin said, his voice shaking, "Thorne is FUBAR-ed, yo."
Locked inside a conference room as soon as they arrived, the men waited to hear their fate with varying degrees of nervousness.
Quentin twirled his chair in circles with a grim expression on his face.
Dalton clasped his thin biceps, the knuckles of his hands paper white.
Thorne, however, sat calmly, staring at the gray wall opposite him.
When a male voice, the same one that had called Thorne over a month ago, blared from a hidden speaker, only their training kept them from jumping in their seats.
"59638, did you authorize the grab bag for one..." The sound of papers rattling frazzled Quentin and Dalton's nerves even further. Thorne merely flexed his arms to keep from crossing them in agitation. "For one Shon Westwood."
Thorne replied without hesitation, "Yes, I did." He'd learned early on that when dealing with The Source, honesty was best.
Thorne was on his way back to bed from the toilet, when the two boys ran past him, scattering stolen bread and cookies down the hall. Some of the ill-gotten goods landed at Thorne's feet. The guards, coming from both ends of the corridor, quickly closed in on the three boys.
Thorne's only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but caught out of bed after lockdown, he'd have to suffer the same fate as the others.
The guards tackled them to the ground. The then lifted them up moments later and marched them to a room with blazing white tiles. Their captors departed, locking the door behind them. Seconds later, a disembodied voice from a hidden speaker told them to strip.
Thorne knew what awaited him. Other boys, punished in the same manner, had told the tale of the 'showers'. How the bone-chilling water stung like needles as it sprayed from the ceiling and walls.
And spray it did. Relentlessly. There was no escape from it. Sharp-icy nails dug into Thorne's skin. Each blast harder than the last.
Thorne had put on a lot of muscle in the six months since he'd arrived at The Source. Unlike the other two, he could keep his arms at his sides in a show of defiance. The thinner boys had to dance in place to stave off the chill.
The water blasts seemed to go on forever. The finally stopped when their lips turned blue from cold.
Then the questions started.
"Did you steal from the kitchens, 59605?" The disembodied voice of their squad commander asked the short boy to Thorne's right
A few moments passed before he chattered out the words, "N-n-no, sir."
"Was it you, 59688?"
The boy to Thorne's left was almost his height but had no bulk to speak of. His thin, pale skin showed the indents of his ribs underneath. Dark hair, plastered to his skull, made his narrow face take on a haunted look. Every time the tall boy opened his mouth to answer, his teeth clenched from cold, fear, or a combination of both.
Watching the boys suffering on either side of him, stirred something in Thorne. He could bare his discomfort, but not theirs. They couldn't take it as he could. He spoke up, taking the blame for himself, "It was me, sir."
"59638, Are you saying you acted alone in stealing the food?"
"Yes, sir. I am."
The sniffles and quakes of the boys on either side of him broke the silence while those in charge decided Thorne's fate.
"We know who the guilty ones are, 59638. Two days in The Hole, for lying."
The other boys gave Thorne silent gazes of thanks as they wrapped themselves in blankets before trudging back to the dorms. A guard directed a chilled Thorne to leave his clothes and put on a thin hospital gown. Once dressed, the guards marched him to The Hole.
He'd gone to his punishment with his head held high, stilling the nervous tremors that ran through him with sheer will.
That was the last time Thorne had been afraid. Those two days in The Hole saw him facing his worst fears imaginable. Whatever punishment The Leader deemed for an unauthorized mission would be nothing more than a walk in the park.