Regret

  regret

  Also by Elana Johnson

  possession

  surrender

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  SIMON PULSE

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  First Simon Pulse eBook edition April 2012

  Copyright © 2012 by Elana Johnson

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  SIMON PULSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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  Designed by Angela Goddard

  The text of this book was set in Berling.

  ISBN 978-1-4424-6781-1 (eBook)

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4: six weeks later

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  1.

  Jag Barque moved with catlike grace. Even the way he waved away someone with an unnecessary question held a fluidity I admired. I wished I didn’t. My eyes burned because I hadn’t blinked in a while, but I couldn’t stop staring as Jag talked with my brother, Irvine.

  Finally, when Jag refused to acknowledge me, I turned away with a muffled scoff. It was for the best, really. I didn’t want to appear obsessive, even if everyone already knew about my continued obsession with Jag, the leader of the Resistance. I reminded myself that I had broken up with him.

  I felt eyes on me and instantly knew I’d find him frowning at me from across the living room. He’d certainly be able to feel my anger and annoyance at him from that far. His empathic genes really pissed me off sometimes. All the time these days.

  I didn’t give him the satisfaction of meeting his intense, blue-eyed gaze. Instead, I hugged myself and rubbed my hands over my upper arms, pretending to be interested in the conversation taking place next to me.

  “Right, Indy?” Lex asked. When I looked at him, I found the glint of knowing in his eyes. I drew a deep breath in a too-late attempt to mask my irritation at Jag.

  “Right,” I answered, though I had no clue what he’d said. I didn’t care what Lex Yardley and Winston Luthy were arguing over. They had been selected for the mission into the Goodgrounds, and I had not. Thanks to Jag and the reasons he wouldn’t explain.

  But I nodded when they did and even pointed to something on the chart Lex had spread across his lap. He flashed me a quick smile, sweeping his shaggy bangs out of his eyes before focusing back on the task at hand.

  His job was to make sure the border guards in the Goodgrounds had somewhere else to be while the Resistance infiltration team crossed into the forest. Lex was amazing at his job, and I liked working with him.

  Ignoring Jag fully now, I truly engaged in the discussion with Lex and Winston. I settled on the arm of the couch and tuned out the hushed conversation around me.

  Winston sported a hooked nose, and his voice came out too nasal for my taste. But he could run as fast and quiet as a panther, and he knew how to hot-wire anything. He could probably make a potato explode with a length of copper tech and ten seconds’ time. He was dead useful on missions, and while I envied him for his permanent status on the infiltration team, I couldn’t hate him for it.

  So completely had I forced myself into the preparations for a mission I wasn’t participating in, I didn’t realize Jag stood before me until he cleared his throat.

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  “Not interested,” I replied, leaning over to collect a handful of papers Lex had discarded. My hands didn’t even shake. Cramped handwriting filled each page, and I focused on the letters so I wouldn’t have to look at Jag.

  Everything about him was big. His stature, his charisma, his ego. Let him wait, I thought.

  He sighed, a sound that generally meant I’d won. But in this case I knew I hadn’t. Jag didn’t change his mind. Not about missions. Ever.

  “Is this about the mission? Or Sloan?”

  “The mission,” I said, and then immediately regretted saying it so fast. Keep it together, Indy. That definitely meant my stormy silence was about both. Stupid Sloan Washburn. She’d been after Jag since the day I had gotten together with him last summer at his fifteenth birthday party. Just like she’d petitioned for second-in-command in the Resistance when she found out I wanted the job. Just like she’d stayed up all night studying technological advances so she could score better than me on the test. Even though we were best friends, Sloan had this weird competition with me that I didn’t understand. And there was no prize bigger than Jag Barque.

  He’d insisted nothing had happened between him and Sloan eight days ago. But I had seen everything for myself. The loud party music still pounded through my head, and the smell of stale water and rancid body odor still permeated my senses.

  Jag had been dancing, drawing more than a few appreciative female glances. He’d snaked one arm around my waist and drawn me close. I remember smiling and breathing in the piney scent of him. Never one for displaying my affections in public, I’d stepped back and made an excuse about needing something to drink.

  A true gentleman, he’d offered to get anything I wanted. But I knew how to play the game, and I knew if I left Jag, I’d leave him wanting. I’d felt his eyes on me as I’d walked away. I may have added a bounce to my step and a sway to my hips for him to admire. May have.

  Five minutes, I’d told myself. He’d miss me after five minutes, and it would be the perfect time to return to the comfort and strength of his arms. At the refreshment table, I sipped tepid water and idly chatted with Lex. Every second away from Jag felt too long, filled with minimal oxygen and too much noise.

  When I’d made my way back to the edge of the party, I’d found Sloan’s hands on his chest and his on her wrists. She looked to be laughing, and he smiled and leaned closer, and that’s when I realized I’d dropped my cup.

  Water splashed my ankles and the movement around me blurred. I did not want to witness Jag kissing another girl. Especially not Sloan. Pain warred with fury inside my stomach, which cramped against the sight before me.

  Suddenly Jag turned, jerked away from Sloan and her enviable multilength, multicolored hair, and started through the crowd toward me.

  Just as quick, I twisted and sprinted away from the party, leaving my cup on the ground. Whenever Jag looked at me, I couldn’t hide how I felt about him, about anything. Better not to give him a chance to pin me with those bright blue eyes.

  I hadn’t spoken more than a few words to Jag since then, and even those conversations had revolved around the Resistance. I couldn’t bear to discuss anything else.

  “I wasn’t going to kiss her,” he said, bringing me back to the present. I stood and leaned against the wall, noting the quick exit of both Winston and Lex.

  “I never said you were,” I replied.

  “But that’s what you think.”

  I met his eyes for a brief, fury-filled moment. “You have no idea what I think.”

  “Nothing happened,” he said. “Not then. Not before. Not ever. I don’t want anything to happen with her. I just want—” He cut off, but I refused to look at him so I wouldn’t see the despair on his face. “I just want things to go back to the
way they were between us.”

  “I want to go on this mission. Sometimes we don’t get what we want.” I placed the papers on the couch in a dangerously controlled manner. I let my gaze slide over Jag’s face, looking at him but making it very clear that I wasn’t looking at him. “Good luck tonight.” I stepped past him, careful to leave a healthy distance between us.

  He reached out and put his hand on my arm. I stared at it, wishing I didn’t crave the touch of his skin against mine. Slowly, he drew my chin upward until I had no choice but to look into the depths of his eyes. My heart thundered, painfully slow and heavy.

  “Maybe you’ll feel like talking when I get back,” he said. Yes, definitely, whatever you want, I thought, but managed to keep the words silent.

  Another moment passed before he released me and left the room. I inhaled a shaky breath and mourned the absence of his presence. I immediately hated myself a little more for feeling so strongly about him. For being so transparent with my emotions. For my inability to listen, and forgive.

  Still, Jag hadn’t made it easy on me. He claimed I wore everything too close to the surface, allowing every emotion to skate across my face. And he’d said this mission required absolute iron. His implication: I was too soft.

  He’d chosen only those on the permanent infiltration team to enter the Goodgrounds. He wanted Irvine to disperse tech and Winston to set up charges, but he’d been secretive about his own role.

  He’d been extremely tight-lipped about everything since his return from Seaside. I knew he was looking for something important in the Goodgrounds, but I didn’t know what. I don’t even think he knew. But he’d never said as much, and he didn’t broadcast his emotions through his eyes the way I did.

  I knew this was the most important mission Jag had planned. I’d heard it in the urgency of his voice. Seen it in the tension of his shoulders. And I wanted to go, because I longed to be as important to Jag as his missions were, as the Resistance was.

  Realizing I was the only one left in the house, I left the Resistance hideout and strode down quiet streets. I didn’t need Jag Barque. I needed some of my mother’s cooking, and it was just about dinnertime.

  By the time I reached my house on the northern limits of the Badlands, night ruled the mid-April sky. Cheery yellow lights welcomed me from the porch, and as I approached, the plaguing tension in my shoulders melted away. Warmth greeted me inside, along with the smell of roasted meat and curried vegetables.

  Despite my argument with Jag, I smiled. I found my mother in the kitchen, wearing an apron and brandishing a spoon at my father, who was trying to sneak a taste of the duck.

  “Indiarina,” he said. “Just in time.”

  I ignored his use of my full name. I much preferred Indy, and my parents knew it. Yet they both continued to call me Indiarina. “In time for what?”

  He snatched a piece of meat as Mom turned away from him. “You look terrible,” she said, her voice filled with concern, not criticism. Still, that didn’t make me feel any better. I hated wearing my emotions so close to the surface. I found it a weakness in others, and it was never a good idea to allow the enemy to know how you felt. Of course, I wasn’t in enemy territory right now. And I wouldn’t be tonight, either, no matter how much I longed to be.

  I offered my mother a weak smile as I sat at the already set table. The fact that only three spots were laid out indicated that Irvine would not be joining us tonight.

  In fact, Irvine was set to lead a mission out east that would require him to be gone for months. I missed him already.

  My parents supported the Resistance, a movement against the Thinkers of the Association. They didn’t agree that those who were endowed with special gifts should be allowed to brainwash legions of people—or control peoples’ choice of occupation, spouse, and everything else. I felt lucky to be raised by two people who believed in the Resistance.

  And not just because their belief led me to Jag Barque.

  I’d joined the Resistance as soon as possible: the day I turned thirteen. My parents had been in it from the beginning, and they knew the risks involved. They’d spent hours at this very kitchen table counseling Irvine and helping him plan his mission to the southeast region. They’d financed his eye enhancements so the recognizers wouldn’t log his true identity. Now whenever I looked at him, I found green eyes instead of his usual murky brown.

  “Is Jag coming tonight?” my mother asked, ladling soup into an urn.

  I slouched and grunted. I had forgotten that Jag had a standing invitation to eat at my house—especially on the night of a mission. The infiltration team didn’t carry food with them, and it often took two days before they returned.

  When I remained silent, my father stopped picking at the duck and sat at the head of the table. His bald head reflected the tech lights as he peered at me.

  I’d have to say something. “He’s too busy.” With Sloan.

  My parents exchanged a glance, but otherwise accepted my answer. They didn’t push me to talk as we ate, another reason I loved them. Stuffed in body, but desperately hungry in mind, I excused myself from the table.

  The comfort of the kitchen did not extend far. Halfway down the hall, I heard my parents begin to whisper, and by the time I reached my room, the irritation of getting left behind on this mission was blaring through me.

  I shut the door a little too hard, but it wasn’t like I had much to rattle. I tossed my high-tech phone on the thin blanket covering my bed. A closet I could fit in if I turned sideways housed my simple clothing, but I flung my shirt next to my phone and dropped my jeans to the floor.

  I moved toward the armchair in the corner and nestled into it. The fabric, though threadbare, housed the scent of Jag. That same smell I’d inhaled at the party. The same smokiness and piney-ness I’d had to endure at headquarters a few hours ago. Even my mother’s cooking could not remove his smell from my chair.

  He’d slept there too many nights.

  I lingered in the chair a moment longer than was healthy before moving to the window and staring out into the darkness. Don’t go.

  Just go, I told myself.

  Quickly now, I pulled on my black jeans and a black tank top. I covered up with a black leather jacket with matching gloves in the pockets, and slid out the window into the night.

  2.

  I crossed the desert alone, with only the occasional drifting of the breeze and the promise of catching Jag and the infiltration team at the border. The Goodgrounds existed a good ten-hour walk from the Badlands, which was why the team left at nightfall. That way, they’d arrive for a dawn entrance into the controlled and guarded city. The Thinkers in the Goodgrounds didn’t exert too much authority over the Badlands, something I knew hadn’t always been the case.

  Raids used to be a regular occurrence, and even now a trifecta of Thinkers sporting green robes could show up with their fancy iris recognizers and high-tech hovercars. When that happened, the streets emptied and doors were shut tight. I had only been out once during a raid, and that had been over a year ago.

  Entering the Thinker territory of the Goodgrounds promised untold risks. The Thinkers sent brainwashing messages into the air. You could never be sure if your thoughts were yours or not. They employed hovercopters with pilots that underwent vision enhancements and completed Ask Questions Later courses in the Association.

  Teleporters required codes. Buildings needed iris clearance for entrance. Even moving from one part of the land to another required the right permit. Luckily, the Resistance employed some spies, and we had people in several governmental departments inside the Goodgrounds.

  I loved the rush, the thrill of sneaking around right underneath the Thinkers’ noses. The night air swelled inside my lungs, filling my life with purpose beyond going to school and fighting with my best friend over a guy.

  I possessed useful skills for a Resistance member, though I had no special genetic talents. My keen sense of hearing and my dead-on gut feelings had helped me e
scape more than one pinch. And still Jag wouldn’t allow me to go on this mission.

  The baked sand of the desert gave little under my feet. I marched on, desperate to make up the hour I’d spent at the dinner table. Perhaps when Jag saw my determination to come on the mission, he’d relent.

  I clung to this hope, however small, and pushed my legs to move faster. While I walked, the moon made its arc through the early spring sky. The sight of that moon caused a rush of memories to overwhelm me. Each one featured Jag and me holding hands and kissing under a sky much like this one.

  I could almost feel his skin and lips pressed against mine.

  My stomach felt so tight as I forced back the pain threatening to bring tears to the surface. Those memories were too fresh, too real, too haunting. I swapped them out for happier ones about my brother, Irvine. Older than me by five years, Irv had been part of the permanent infiltration team for what seemed like forever. That could’ve been because of his ability to manipulate tech. Or maybe because he thought long and hard about things. Or perhaps because he only spoke when necessary, and when he did, everyone listened. We’d spent many nights reviewing mission notes and discussing tactics. He’d nudged me awake when I slept on the floor at Resistance headquarters, and he made sure I ate before my missions.

  Irv had a magnetic quality about him, making everyone feel like they were in his inner circle of trusted confidantes. He learned more through his methods of unhurried questioning than Jag did with his hot-tempered fits of frustration.

  And, once again, I found myself circling thoughts of Jag. Thankfully, my ears picked up a quick snatch of conversation, which eliminated all annoying thoughts of my stubborn ex-boyfriend.

  I slowed my pace and rolled my steps through the sand to ensure silence. I breathed shallowly, unwilling to broadcast my presence just yet. Upon cresting a gentle swell in the desert landscape, I located a fire with several forms hunkered around it.

  The infiltration team. All guys, they spoke little as they passed water bottles around the circle. Based on the liveliness of the fire, I estimated that they’d arrived only ten minutes ago.