Degrees of Wrong Page 10

Did he not hear the logic behind my chastisement? “Well, I was going to call

  him Pretty Princess. But I did correct myself.”

  “And why were you going to call him that?”

  I shrugged. “He thought of it himself. My first day here, he told us that his

  name was Pretty Princess if Ebony’s name was really Ebony. I accidentally

  laughed, and that’s when our… disagreement ensued. You know the rest.”

  “And you continue to call him this?”

  “Only when we’re alone. I wouldn’t disrespect him in front of his real

  cadets.” A pity, to be sure.

  At that, his face broke into the most breathtaking smile I ever had the

  misfortune to see. Elyse Morgan. My name is Elyse Morgan… “How often are you alone together?” he asked.

  “Every day.” Elyse. Morgan.

  “Every day?” he said, incredulous. “Why?”

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  “Because every single day he makes me do pushups after roll call. He stays

  to enforce it. Why? And did you not hear anything else I just said?” And, captain that he was, why didn’t he know this already? Agitation snapped me out of my

  trance. That, and I focused on his chair instead of his dimples.

  He leaned over the desk again and folded his hands together. I could see he

  was struggling to check his amusement, so I opted to give him a moment to gain

  composure—the last thing I needed was for him to keep smiling.

  “Well?” I said finally.

  “Well, what?”

  “Are you going to let me talk to your superiors?”

  He smirked. “Yes, I believe I will. I’ll make the necessary arrangements. You

  should be able to speak to someone within a few days.”

  I stood to leave. “Thank you.”

  He stood too. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Dr. Morgan?”

  Again with the loaded questions. “No. Unless you’d consider having Lt.

  Horan executed?”

  He grinned again, and I could’ve kicked myself. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Then have a good day, Captain.” I waved him off when I saw he’d walk me

  to the door. My knees almost buckled when I felt his hand press against the small of my back. Startled at the heat bleeding through my shirt, I stopped. Against my better judgment, I raised the back of my hand to his forehead, ignoring the shock jolting through me from the contact.

  He didn’t flinch, didn’t move away. In fact, he seemed to lean closer. I

  moved my hand from forehead to cheek, biting my lip at the absence of fever.

  “Huh.” Not my most intelligent response, but it was something.

  “Care to expound on that, Dr. Morgan?” He covered my hand with his own,

  keeping it pressed to his cheek.

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  Realizing he didn’t let go—just like on the docks—I fumbled for a good

  reason why I’d be touching an engaged man’s face in the first place. Then I

  remembered I was a doctor. A medical one, even. “I thought you might have a

  fever. Your hand felt hot.”

  “Did it?” He sandwiched my hand and forearm between both of his, pulling

  me closer with the act. “What about now?”

  I nodded, making a bionic effort not to shiver against the heat coming off his

  entire body. The feel of his flesh against mine sent tingles in all the wrong

  directions. “But your forehead is cool, so I’m satisfied.”

  “Are you?”

  “Am I what?”

  “Are you satisfied, Dr. Morgan?”

  Proud of myself for not gasping, I tugged my hand from his grip and

  stepped back, not attempting to rub the goose bumps on my…well, on my

  everything. “Uh, yes, thank you, Captain Marek. For your assistance with my research, I mean.” Even though he couldn’t have known what I thought he was asking, I felt a blush scalding my cheeks. Not breaking into a run to get to the

  door was almost impossible. “I should be going. No, please don’t trouble

  yourself. I can show myself out.” As I said this, I noticed the door wouldn’t open.

  “Please allow me.” The door slid open immediately in his presence.

  “Thanks,” I grumbled, and hurried to the elevator. Before the doors closed, I

  saw him leaning against the entrance to his office, grinning like a fool—a very

  attractive fool.

  He was considerably more cheerful than I imagined. How many more of his

  stupefying smiles could I endure? As for his touches…I could probably count on

  one finger how many more of those I could stand.

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  I combed through my notes, thankful for once that I had nothing to add. I

  didn’t feel justified in asking my arms to complete thirty-five pushups and try to type in the same day. I knew the brunt of the aches and pains would come

  tomorrow, and in a moment of weakness, I regretted provoking Lt. Horan.

  The moment was a short one.

  I anticipated the arrival of the fresh research. Although Captain Marek didn’t

  understand the need to peruse failed lab experiments—child prodigy as he

  was—I hoped it would spike the punch of my own testing. Reviewing and

  eliminating every approached angle from the get-go would preserve invaluable

  time—time I could spend contriving unconsidered perspectives to create a new

  square one.

  I was also curious to see if I recognized anyone’s name, and if any had been a

  colleague of mine at The University. If I found someone familiar, I knew I’d

  wonder if they’d also been kidnapped. And I’d wonder if they’d been the one to

  suggest my name to the United Nations, sealing my fate.

  Still, my gut pointed to Dr. Folsom. And I couldn’t be angry about it. I

  conceded—if only to myself—that I enjoyed engaging in the activities of the

  Bellator. After the first few days, I stopped feeling like a prisoner here and more like a reluctant patron. My life would be forever enriched from the experience,

  regardless of the commencement, regardless of the outcome.

  My life on the island was routine, monotonous, lonely—a life without living.

  My father would have hated my grow-old-and-die mentality, would have

  denounced it as a shameful squandering of time, energy and vitality of youth. I’d have to argue that point. It took very little energy to breathe in and out, to eat and drink, to shower, to sleep—an energy-efficient schedule, indeed. I could see

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  me. Even so, I couldn’t bring myself to leave the island, to leave their final

  resting place.

  Good thing I’d been forced.

  I braved another glance at the clock and was surprised to find it was

  lunchtime. I grabbed the book, my symbol of anti-society, and headed for the

  mess hall. A certain Cadet Stanley was scheduled for confrontation this

  afternoon.

  I didn’t bother to get in line for lunch—my arms couldn’t carry the tray.

  Silverware would be dangerous in my unstable phalanges.

  I took my place at our usual table and waited for my prey. I threw my arms

  up at my chest and managed to cross them before Ebony entered the hall. She

  saw me and smiled, gliding to the table in her usual confident manner.


  “Do I need to feed you again today?” She grinned down at me.

  “If you don’t mind.”

  She inclined her head to me. “What’s with the face?”

  “I didn’t wake up on time this morning. I went to bed late and—”

  “No. The mad face you’re making right now. Liz?”

  “Stanley, actually.”

  “Oh, that’s right. We owe him one.” She winked at me and went to the line.

  I smiled after her, thankful for a comrade. She was still in line when Stanley

  entered the hall. He bounded toward me with the biggest smirk manageable by

  his Scottish features.

  “Is this seat taken?” He began to pull out the same seat he’d burdened

  yesterday.

  “Yes, it is,” I told him.

  His grin faltered. “By who?”

  “By someone other than yourself.”

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  He delivered himself into the chair, moving his rear around in it to get

  comfortable—not unlike a dog marking his territory. “You’re sore with me about

  this morning.”

  “I am sore, yes,” I confirmed with double meaning.

  “And why shouldn’t she be?” Ebony had arrived, eyebrows angled in

  animosity. She looked impressive.

  “Aww, come on, ladies,” Stanley said. “The man has a gift for comedy.”

  “You egg him on.” Ebony shoved my tray of food toward me. She mouthed

  sorry when some of the corn spilled onto the table. Made no difference to me—

  my hands weren’t meticulous enough to spoon corn into my mouth at the

  moment.

  “You egged him on today,” he parried.

  She sniffed, lifting her nose in that special way. “I was trying to help Elyse.”

  “Well, she wouldn’t need so much help if she didn’t have such a bad temper.

  Are you Irish or something, Morgan?”

  “No.”

  He shook his head. “Didn’t think so. Beats all I ever seen.” I couldn’t tell if he was perplexed at the obscurity of my descent, or the simple fact that I had a

  temper and wasn’t Irish.

  “You need to stop laughing at his jokes,” I said. “They’re not funny.”

  “Yes, they are.”

  “They are unoriginal, boring and flat. Not funny. Do you understand?” I

  would’ve pounded my fist on the table for emphasis, but both of them were

  nestled in my armpits, growing delightfully numb.

  He grinned wider. “Funny, funny, funny. All of them.”

  I shook my head. “Stanley, I don’t know how to tell you this. I’ve been

  watching you for some time, and I’ve grown concerned about certain behavior

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  patterns you’ve been displaying. I think you have a chemical imbalance in your

  brain that inhibits your ability to assess your surroundings. This same defect is common in clowns. Mimes, also. And politicians. You all live in an altered sense

  of reality.”

  He beamed, unaffected by the misapplication of my medical degree. “I like

  mimes.”

  “Well, there you have it. We need to get you treated right away. The

  traditional method is decapitation, but I’m sure I could find some meds—”

  “Excuse me, Cadet Morgan?” A pale, boy-looking man interrupted our

  banter. We all peered up.

  “Yes?” I answered.

  “Lt. Horan sent me to find you.” He seemed anxious about his message,

  which made me anxious as well. His lips trembled like an infant’s would after a

  vaccination.

  “Why?”

  “He said you were due in class today, and when you didn’t show up, he sent

  me to find you.” The man fidgeted his hands, avoiding eye contact with me. A

  very bad sign.

  “What class?” A familiar fire broiled in my stomach.

  “Hand-to-hand combat training.”

  Ebony gasped, and Stanley snickered through his nose. My horror-stricken

  face would have to suffice as a response until my heart pumped an extra helping

  of blood to my voice box.

  “H-H-He’s mistaken,” I stammered. “I’ve been excused from hand-to-hand.”

  The admiral had made arrangements for my absence from this class, citing a

  fabricated knee injury. He’d made these arrangements directly with Lt. Horan.

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  The man fidgeted his hands so much they should have been raw from the

  burn of friction. “He said you were excused, but that you volunteered this

  morning to be his assistant. He said you’d know what he meant. He gave me

  strict orders, Dr. Morgan. I need you to come with me.”

  “No,” I said. Stanley let out another undignified giggle.

  “Dr. Morgan, please,” he pleaded. “He said he’d have to start calling me

  Lefty if I came back without you.” Apprehension strained his voice, transparent

  terror radiating from his face.

  I swallowed. “Lefty?” I asked against my better judgment.

  “Yes. He said that’s the only testicle I’d have left if—”

  I stood. “Fine. I’ll come with you, if only to straighten out this

  misunderstanding.” I tried to sound kind but impatience overruled.

  Instant relief transformed his face, relaxing his features.

  Stanley guffawed. “I told you. He’s brilliant. Just brilliant.”

  The boy beckoned me to follow him. Ebony trailed behind me and Stanley

  behind her. I glared at him to stay, but he said, “Oh no. I wouldn’t miss this for ten roll calls.”

  We herded into the elevator, and the boy commanded it to take us to

  Tactical. My stomach smoldered with fury. No doubt the sasquatch still licked

  wounds from this morning. For a split second, I again regretted provoking him.

  And again, the remorse passed with ultrasonic speed and morphed back into

  rage. Rage was more useful than regret anyway.

  The elevator delivered us to the open door of a huge room which smelled

  similar to the gym. Large blue mats padded the walls, and hard rubber mats

  covered the floor.

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  I recognized most of the cadets forming a circle around the center of the

  room—a center I knew contained the lieutenant. The ring parted for me, and

  Ebony and Stanley squeezed in among the ranks.

  “You sent for me, sir?” I asked, standing at attention.

  “Why yes, yes I did, Cadet Morgan. And thank you so much for

  volunteering this morning to be my assistant in demonstrating hold techniques.”

  “You are mistaken, sir.” This incited a collective gulp from the circle.

  “I’m what?” he yelled.

  “I said, sir, that you are mistaken. I didn’t volunteer for your

  demonstrations.” I raised my voice this time, giving him the benefit of the doubt that somehow the echo from the walls had warped his hearing.

  “Yes, you did. You volunteered if I say you volunteered. You’re going to be

  my assistant today.” He stepped toward me.

  I took a reflexive step back. “No.”

  “Well, that’s just it, maggot. You don’t get to say no. We can do this the easy

  way, or the painful way. I prefer the painful way.”

  “You will not take another step.” I pointed a shaky finger at him.


  A clamor of excited whispers broke out as he did just that. I stepped back.

  Again.

  “Come here, Morgan, or this is gonna get real humiliating to you, real fast.”

  He grinned his evil, malevolent grin.

  I considered my options. Number One: Give in and take the abuse.

  Inconceivable. Audience or no, I wouldn’t allow him to impose on me in this

  way.

  Number Two: Make a run for it. I was a fast runner. I flashed a glance

  around the ring of cadets, looking for an opening.

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  Seeing my intent, Lt. Horan barked, “The person who lets her through is my

  next volunteer.”

  As if they’d practiced it before, the entire circle locked arms with each other,

  snatching away my only chance of escape. I whirled around, glared at Lt. Horan.

  “That’s right, scum sucker. There’s no way out.”

  He took another step. Out of room behind me, I stepped to the side. He

  followed suit, mirroring my movements, until we circled each other. He stalked

  me with a wary aggression, forcing me to the left, forcing me to the right.

  Number Three: Bring him down.

  I never trained in hand-to-hand combat, and I didn’t know tactical

  maneuvers. I didn’t have any weapons, and if I did, I’d be more dangerous to

  myself than to the feral lieutenant. I’d tried my hand at kickboxing once—the

  only thing I got out of it was a bloody nose and a scrape on my knee from hitting the floor. Still had the scar.

  I was a doctor, not a fighter. Trained not to hurt, but to heal—and therein lay

  the answer. At The University, I took a class on alternative medicine. It mostly

  involved herbal remedies and midwife lore, but we did cover one section on

  acupuncture. Pressure points.

  Pressure points of the body were very real and could be used to remedy

  anything from stress tension to migraines. Or they could be used to cause pain.

  And incapacitation.

  I racked my brain, trying to remember the best ones to use. I’d never done

  this before on a live specimen, and especially not with a view to inflicting pain.

  Lt. Horan picked up the pace, making the orbit we danced smaller and

  smaller.

  “Stop that,” I snapped.

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  He laughed. “Not on your worthless life.” He lunged forward to grab me. I

  narrowly escaped his grasp by dodging to the left and almost fell when I tripped.