Eye of the Sh*t Storm by Jackson Ford (most romantic novels .txt) 📕

the strangest expression on his face. A queer mixture of horror, pride and disbelief. He shakes his head, his eyes never leaving mine.

I fight my way over to him. He’s only about twenty feet away, but it seems to take for ever to get there. Everybody wants a hug, a fist bump, to give me a shoulder squeeze or a pat on the back. Someone starts chanting – the chorus of DJ Khaled’s “All I Do Is Win”, if you can believe that – and in seconds, half the crowd is singing along, wildly off-key, drunk on it.

I get within a few feet of Africa, and he reaches out for me, pulling me into a crushing hug.

It hurts. A lot. Every muscle aches, from my toes to my eyelids. All the same, it’s so, so tempting to just stay there, in the deep, warm circle of his arms, but I can’t. We haven’t won yet, I think. Because no matter how many faces there are in the crowd, no matter how happy they all are, I don’t see the faces I really want.

“Reggie,” I say. Thinking: Nic too. And Annie. And Leo.

“Huh?”

I pull away so my words aren’t muffled by his chest. “Reggie. We gotta go.”

He nods. “Ya, we go find her. Together.”

There’s no mistaking the question mark at the end of that word, hanging just out of sight.

I reach out, grip his arm.

“Always.”

FIFTY-FIVETeagan

There’s a lot Africa and I have to say to each other.

We need to talk about Leo. About everything that’s happened over the past few hours. We need to talk about whether or not we can actually work together any more: the ground beneath us was always a little shaky, from the moment he joined China Shop, and now it feels like it’s split into a huge chasm. One I have no idea how to cross.

Oh, and we also need to talk about how, exactly, we are going to deal with the goddamn fucking asshole known as the Zigzag Man. Personally, I’m in favour of holding him down and hitting him in the face until he stops moving, but I’m open to suggestions.

The problem is, I am finished. Done-zo Washington. I have passed somewhere beyond the point of total exhaustion. I pushed my body and my ability to the absolute limit, and as much as I want to have all of these conversations, I am completely unable to talk. The moment Africa drives the van away from the noise and chaos of the crowd, I pass out. There’s no slow slip into unconsciousness, either. One second, I’m awake. The next, it’s goodnight, Teagan.

At one point, I become aware of Africa trying to talk to me, his voice growing more and more frustrated when I fail to respond. It’s like a half-remembered dream. One filled with noise, bright bursts of distant lightning. Like I’m lost in the depths of a thundercloud.

Faces keep drifting in and out. Sometimes they look at me, but most of the time, they just pass me by. Nic and Leo. Africa. Reggie. Carlos, grinning at me, his face blistered and blackened. Jonas, with that enigmatic smile.

And Annie.

Africa is the last one. It takes me a minute to realise that unlike the others, he’s real. And then it takes me even longer to realise that he’s talking to me.

“Wake up. We are here.”

Even then, it’s not enough to pull me out of the darkness. It’s only when I hear the next sound he makes – a horrified intake of breath – that I finally force myself awake.

The van comes to a shuddering halt, Africa clambering out the door. We’re in a muddy field, lit by the van’s headlights. There are people visible in the light. And not all of them are on their feet.

I make a noise that is unlike anything I’ve ever heard. A sick, desperate, animal gasp. I don’t care how done-zo I might be – I dig deep, find enough strength to clamber out the van myself. It’s a lot harder than it should be. My knee is in agony, jeans taught over swollen flesh. Dried blood crusts my face. It’s still pounding with rain, although I barely notice any more.

I don’t know where to look. Nic, Annie and Reggie, all down; no Leo, no Zigzag Man. Please, no. Please.

Reggie is closest. She’s propped up on a backpack, and as I skid to my knees next to her, she says, “She took him.”

“I—”

“Annie. Help Annie.”

“Is everyone OK?” Africa shouts. My breaths are coming quick and fast, as if I can’t quite get enough air into my lungs. The rain is falling thick and fast now, and it makes the air feel too thick, almost soupy. Nic is slowly sitting up, blinking hard, bald head shining in the wet. There’s something wrong with his face. It’s covered in blood, and his nose—

“Teagan.” Reggie lifts her arm, gesturing. “Get Annie. Go.”

That’s when I see her.

Really see her.

The awkward way she is lying, with her legs cocked out, as if broken. The strange angle of her head.

She’s not moving.

I don’t even register the run to her body (it’s not a body, she’s alive, she has to be). I’m simply there, as if I teleported away from Reggie. I can’t breathe. It’s not just her body position, bent and awkward and wrong. Her shoes are gone. Parts of her clothes are smoking.

Behind me, Nic is saying, “The backpack bomb – it was fake. They—”

Reggie: “Doesn’t matter. We need to get out of here.”

Africa, thundering: “What is happening? Who did this?”

I barely register any of it. I kneel beside Annie, my hands hovering. We need a doctor. We need—

Africa moves me aside. Almost gently. Then he reaches down, and lifts Annie off the ground. In his arms, she looks as fragile as a baby bird.

I can move things with my mind. I can lift cars, shred concrete, throw people through the air. I can stop an entire flash flood in its tracks.

And I