Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 44304 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 222(@200wpm)___ 177(@250wpm)___ 148(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 44304 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 222(@200wpm)___ 177(@250wpm)___ 148(@300wpm)
“It’s not going to work, Aslin,” Soren says.
“Yes. Alright. I see. Okay. Great. Let’s hike a mountain, then.”
They’re serious about this, and I guess that means I have to be too. I did pack some sensible boots, thinking I might need to make a getaway over rough terrain at some point. That means I’m ready to go for a hike with them when they demand I go on a hike with them. They don’t know me well enough to know that my compliance is a cover for a greater plan to do whatever I want after all.
We walk for several minutes, which I don’t love but can handle. Then, about fifteen minutes down the trail, there’s a turn off in the goat path. It goes off our route and starts winding up the hillock a little.
“What’s up there?”
“Local village,” Jason says. “The locals call it Ramro.”
A local village. Perfect. That means civilization of one kind or another. See, I knew this wouldn’t really be that far out. I bet they made me take the boat upriver for so long to try to create an air of remoteness, but in reality there’s probably an interstate over the next ridge. This is all a big scam. Everything is always a big scam.
Including the shit I’m about to pull.
I offered to pay my way out of the situation, but I guess no-more-Miss-Nice-Guy is the way we’re going to go instead. I’m not going to fight with them. Obviously I’ll lose any direct confrontation. But they have to know I’m in no shape to climb a mountain. I mentally dub this plan: Operation Pathetic.
As the incline grows steeper, I take a dive. I make it look good, too. A tree root becomes the scapegoat of my imagined accident. I tumble awkwardly over with a high-pitched yowl and grab immediately at my foot.
“My ankle!” I gasp. “My ankle hurts so much.”
They don’t know this, but one of my ankles is perpetually swollen from an injury when I was much younger. It’s not so much swelling as it is scar tissue that becomes a little inflamed and, well, anyway, I have a puffy ankle and I know how to work it.
They both stop. Jason looks at me with an expression I find hard to read. Soren goes to his knees beside me, blue eyes full of concern. I lay it on thick, whimpering, but not crying. You don’t want to pretend to cry if you can’t produce tears. That’s a rookie mistake.
“It hurts,” I whine.
“Shh. It’s okay,” Soren comforts me. “Let’s get that boot off.”
“Shouldn’t take that off until we get back. Her leg’ll swell up and we won’t be able to get the boot back on,” Jason says. He’s trying to pretend he’s not concerned, but he’s concerned.
“It doesn’t look so bad. I don’t see any bruising.”
There's never going to be any bruising. But he doesn’t know that. This is working. I can’t believe it’s actually working.
“We’re heading back to camp,” he says. “Want a piggyback?”
I wrap my arms around his neck and rest my head on his shoulder. I don’t really have any choice. It’s hard to keep my head up while he carries me back toward the camp. I’m a little sad that I pulled this shit so soon. They’re a lot quicker going back to camp than they were going out from it, so I get approximately five minutes clinging to Soren’s muscular back, my legs supported by his strong arms. Five minutes of feeling as safe as I ever have.
“Alright,” he says, setting me down back at Camp Gazebo. “We’re going to make you comfortable.
I didn’t count on this. This feeling. Guilt. Why the fuck do I feel guilty?
It’s because he’s being so nice, that’s why. I knew this would be a good way to get out of being compelled on an unwanted death march up the hill, but I didn’t think it would force me to confront my own lack of what I guess you’d call morality. It’s not nice to manipulate nice people. Soren might be a nice guy. Hell, Jason might be a nice guy too.
Oh no. Does that mean that I’m the bad guy?
I might be the bad guy.
I might always have been the bad guy.
Soren
I know she’s faking. When someone is in real pain, their face goes pale and their eyes go wide and there’s a tension in their body that you can’t miss. Aslin was complaining, but she wasn’t truly in pain. That might change later.
“You’re so nice,” she says, looking at me almost bewildered. “Why are you being so nice?”
She’s adorable. A huge brat, but adorable.
“Because you deserve it,” I say. It’s true, even if she doesn’t understand why. Even if she thinks she’s not worth the kindness, or the discipline, or the time. Even if she wants to be left alone because she’s certain nobody could understand her, even if they wanted to.