Page 101 of Last Man Standing

Me:

Hang on. I’ll test it.

Tapping the camera button and reversing the view, I attempt to smile at the image reflecting back at me, but all I see are my eyes, more shadowed than usual. My hair, messier than regular-life-me would typically allow. A soft red spot warms my skin just below my collarbone, and though I don’t recall exactly how it originated, memories of Sebastion’s lips settled right there last night fill in the blanks easily enough.

I tug my sweater just a fraction higher to hide the mark from my brother—because I’m boiled spaghetti, even on my birthday—then I consider flashing a peace sign.

Or a half-heart with my fingers.

But I only turn twenty-six once, and I’ve been stuck in what feels like the tumble setting of a washer/dryer for a month already, so I choose pettiness instead.

I flash just one finger.

The middle one.

I capture the picture and attach it to my message, then I hit send and… wait for the explosions. I glance toward my door, expecting armed soldiers on a raid. I peek toward the window; maybe they’ll come in that way.

Frowning, I tap on my screen again.

Me:

Did you get it?

Lincoln:

You sent a picture?

Me:

Yep! It was my gift to you.

Lincoln:

It didn’t arrive…

Guess Jameson’s cyber security folks earned their pay today. No pic. Now I’m sad.

Lame.

Me:

Kinda feels like a prison to me.

I draw a shaking breath and hope the painful yearning prickling my heart passes soon.

We’re not supposed to cry on our birthdays.

Me:

What happened last night? Did you find Greene? Ask him nicely to stop bothering me?

Lincoln:

No. Still waiting for my contact to come back with more information.

Double lame.

I turn toward the sound of my door handle rattling, then at the shuffling of feet on the other side. With a pounding heart and dread pulsing where my blood should be, I shove up straight and lock my phone screen.