Echoes Marissa Lete (best ereader for students .TXT) 📖

front.” The gun goes back to me. “She’s next. Any sign either of you is going to run, and I’ll shoot.”

Maverick and I just stand there, waiting.

“Move,” he says, making a little flick with his gun to show us that he’s serious. Maverick glances at me then steps forward calmly. As he passes, the guy points the gun directly at him. Then, in one second, Maverick turns on the guy, grabbing his wrist and shoving the gun out of the way. It goes off, the sound punching through the room and startling me, but no one is hit. It topples to the ground.

After recovering from hearing the shot, I spring into action, too, ripping the pepper spray from my back pocket and aiming it at the guy's face. It hits, and he stumbles, gasping, his eyes scrunched up in pain.

Maverick grips my arm. “Let’s go.”

We turn, exit the room, and race down the hallway. The receptionist from earlier is blocking our path, walking in our direction hesitantly, a concerned expression on her face.

“What is going on—” she starts, but Maverick reaches her before she finishes and touches her arm. She blinks, and he shoves her toward her seat. Then he turns to me and pushes me through the door, glancing behind us as he does.

When we get outside, we tear through the parking lot toward his car. About halfway there, a gunshot rackets through the air. I turn my head around, looking back at the building. There’s a dark figure in the window of Alice’s office.

“Watch out!” Maverick’s voice rings out, and just as I’m turning my head to look back at him, he crashes into me, knocking me down onto the ground. At the same moment, a gunshot rings through the air.

We land, a tangle of limbs on the cold pavement. “Stay low. Get to the car,” Maverick hisses once we’ve recovered from the fall. I get back up on my feet, crouched to the ground. I shuffle, squeezing between two cars, edging around them. I look behind me to see Maverick following, but I notice he’s moving slower. Clutching his left arm.

“Are you okay?” I ask, reaching for him. My hand touches his sleeved arm, and when I pull it back it’s wet.

Blood.

Chapter 30

“You’ve been shot,” I say as we sit there, crouched behind a car.

Maverick meets my eyes. “I know.” In any other situation, I think he might have rolled his eyes. “We need to leave.”

So we do, moving as fast as we can behind cars, past lampposts. When we get to the Corolla, Maverick throws me the keys. “You’re gonna need to drive,” he says, grimacing.

We climb in and I put the car in gear, tearing out of the parking lot as fast as the engine will let me.

Maverick starts giving me directions. “Where are we going?” I ask.

“My house,” he replies.

“You’ve been shot. You need a doctor.”

“No. It’s not that bad. We can take care of it ourselves.”

I glance over at him as he clutches his arm, face taut. I check my mirrors to make sure no one is following us, then I pull onto the side of the road, shifting the car into park.

“We need to at least stop the bleeding.”

I turn to him and reach for his arm. Reluctantly, he lets go, wincing as I touch him. There’s a small hole torn through his black, long-sleeved shirt, and blood oozes out, wetting the dark fabric. I can’t tell how much blood there is because it blends into his sleeve. “I need to get your sleeve off so I can see the wound.”

His eyes flash at me, filled with pain. “There’s a knife in there,” he lifts his chin towards the glove box. I reach over him, my arm brushing against his knee as I sift through the glove box, then pull out a small pocket knife. I get to work, sawing at the fabric of his shirt just beneath his shoulder. I peel the sleeve back, cutting a line down the length of his arm, trying to be gentle as I pull the fabric away from the wound. He winces but doesn’t protest.

Finally, his sleeve is gone, and there’s a large patch of skin covered in blood. I reach for his arm, ready to grab it and pull it closer so I can examine it better, but then I stop. Before, I’d been touching his shirt sleeve, so I hadn’t been worried about it, but now, staring at his bare skin, I remember how quickly and easily he’d erased the receptionist’s memory.

“You don’t have to touch me,” Maverick croaks out as I sit there, gaping at his arm.

My hand hovers there, above his skin. Certainly he won’t try to erase my memory right now if I touch him, I know that. But something about knowing he can makes me nervous.

I push the feeling away. Maverick had pushed me out of the bullet’s path, even when it meant risking getting shot himself. Without even thinking about it. Without even hesitating. If that doesn’t say something about him, then I don’t know what will.

“I trust you,” I finally say across the darkness of the car. Then, without meeting his eyes, I grab his arm, my hands making contact with his hot, bare skin.

“You do?” he asks as I inspect the wound, noticing that even though there’s a lot of blood, the wound isn’t too deep.

I tear off my jacket, still avoiding those piercing yellow eyes. “You just took a bullet for me. I’m pretty sure that warrants my trust.”

“Maybe I should have started off by doing that,” he tries to laugh, but it comes out breathless.

Shaking my head, I wrap my jacket around the bullet wound, tightening it on his arm despite his sharp intake of breath. “You got