Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 109245 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109245 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Meridian’s mouth didn’t curve, but something in his eyes reflected approval.
“Not bad, but you’re still not one hundred percent focused.”
Scar’s huffed.
Meridian was right. Part of his mind kept pulling toward Gage like a magnet. Wondering where he was. What he was doing. Whether Adrian had touched him again.
Meridian’s lowered his voice to that harsh grit.
“Disassociate, Scar. Care for your partner can sharpen your instincts, but fixation will dull them, and that’s when you’re either made or dead.”
Scar exhaled roughly. “I’m trying.”
“Fuckin’ try harder.”
Scar pushed Gage as far back as his mind would allow.
“I want you to go to the bar and get the bartender’s first and last name, how long she’s worked here, what she does in her spare time, her birthday, where she grew up, if she has any siblings, if she lives alone or with someone, and if she has pets.”
Scar hummed under his breath, looking at the mostly empty bar. “I can do that.”
“You got ten minutes,” Meridian added.
“What the hell?” he gaped. “How am I supposed to—”
Meridian looked at his expensive watch. “Now you have nine minutes and fifty-four seconds.”
Scar hurried and pushed out of the booth.
White Ravens
Gage
Gage could still feel Scar’s heated gaze on his skin, but Adrian’s voice kept drawing him in the other direction.
They rode in silence for a while, and he appreciated how smoothly Adrian drove. There was no aggressive braking, sharp lane shifts, or swift acceleration.
Thirty minutes in, the car slowed, and gravel popped under the tires before Adrian parked and killed the engine.
“Okay, we’re here. You ready?”
“You mean to go to the place I have no idea I’m going to,” Gage shrugged. “Sure.”
The moment the door opened, the sound hit him like a memory he hadn’t touched in years, and his face lit before he could stop it.
He smiled at the familiar rattle of chains. A machine’s motor cycling, then the sharp thwup when the ball fired. The netting hissed each time something hit it. A bat cracked loud enough to echo.
“Baseball?” he said, almost accusingly. “You brought me to a batting cage.”
Adrian’s laugh was quiet and pleased. “I sure did.”
Gage’s heart gave a stupid, excited kick. “I played all four years in high school.”
“I know,” Adrian said, “I read it in your file.”
My file?
He wondered what else was in there. Jo probably had CIA database access and knew every detail of his life from birth to criminal conviction.
The Ravens most likely knew where his parents met, the second-grade teacher he’d had a crush on, his first pet—a box turtle he’d found trundling across the street that he’d stupidly named Speedy Gonzurtle—how many times he skipped Sunday school. Even that he was still a virgin.
Adrian took his hand in that respectful way and guided his fingers into the crook of his elbow.
They walked inside, counting his steps in a way that’d become an automatic, obsessive habit.
The air was warmer inside, but dusty, with the nostalgic scent of rubber mats and old leather gloves.
When they paid and got into their slots, Adrian narrated the space as if he were painting with words, and Gage was amazed at how clearly he could see it.
“Nets are on both sides. The cages are lined up like lanes. The machine’s about…twelve feet in front of us. There’s a bucket of balls to your right and a rack with bats. Nobody’s too close. We’ve got room.”
Gage nodded slowly.
He stepped up to the lane, and Adrian stopped him with a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Do you know why I chose this activity.”
Gage lifted his chin. “Because you’re trying to make me feel normal.”
“No,” Adrian said firmly. “To stop you from trying to function with a brain that still expects sight. And help you learn your body’s enhancements by training the right channels.”
Gage hummed. “And a batting cage trains what?”
Adrian slid a bat into his hands. The grip was wrapped in polymer tape, that was slightly tacky to the touch.
“You’re going to learn timing,” he said. “Not guessing. Timing. You’ll track the pitch by sound… Not just the machine, but the way the ball cuts through the air. Until your swing becomes a reaction, not a decision.”
Gage chewed on that for a minute, wondering if it was really possible.
Adrian stepped up behind him, his touch sure and careful, not clinging, just there. He settled one hand on Gage’s hip and used the other to guide his elbow.
“Feet shoulder-width apart. Little bend in your knees. You’re not muscle-arming anything. Let your reflexes drive.”
Gage adjusted his stance.
“Right there,” Adrian murmured close to his ear. “Feel your balance. Let the ground hold you.”
He sucked in a quiet breath despite himself. The heat of Adrian’s body at his back was startling after weeks of cold rooms.
The feeling caught him off guard. He wasn’t used to intimate contact.
As a young man, he’d been told those kinds of feelings were distractions that could deter his plans and were to be ignored until his father deemed him ready to consider courting.