Rush by Jonathan Friesen Page B

in this bargain.
    I need to see her.
    Three hours later I search the parking lots of Mid-Cal State. Her car has to be here. If I know her, and I do, she’ll be studying.
    The library.
    Sure enough, her green Saab is nearest the door. Though it’s Friday, I bet she’ll be here all day.
    I park and hop out, run my hand over the hood of the Saab. It’s her. It’s me.
    Us.
    I’ve been in this car a hundred times. We went everywhere together. Suddenly, my teeth chatter. Not because I’m cold, but because it’s been so long. Months. Everything she wanted to be, she is. Everything she wanted me not to be, I’ve become.
    I try the doors, and the passenger door gives. I slip inside and smell her. Filling my lungs with her should satisfy, but now I’m empty. My next jump, the zip into the forest, won’t be enough either. The rappel is not enough, not without . . .
    I peek out at the library.
    Salome. She stands and leans against a tree, hugging her books. The perfect university brochure shot. She smiles and talks to friends I don’t know.
    I grab a pencil from the glove compartment and scribble a note.
    It’s me. Jake.
    Been too long. Got things to say. I see you’re busy right now. Tomorrow? 7:00? I’ll be right here. Call my cell.
    Miss you, friend.
    I stare at my note, shake my head, and erase the last word.
    Miss you.
    I look around the car, see her light green jacket, and grab it.
    The note needs one more line.
    In case you’re thinking of saying no, took jacket as ransom.
    I lay the note on her dash and slip away before she sees me. Halfway home, my cell rings.
    â€œHey,” I say.
    There’s a pause on the other end.
    â€œI’ll be waiting.”
    Click .

    â€œWHERE HAVE YOU BEEN, Jake?” Mox demands when I get home.
    I step into our apartment, where Fez, Fatty, and Mox are working out, and gently lay Salome’s jacket on the table. “I needed to get away.”
    Mox hops off the stationary bike, stares at the jacket. “I bet.” He smirks. “Salome took you looking like that?”
    â€œShut up. She’s none of your business.”
    Fatty drops from the pull-up bar, and Fez pauses mid-push-up.
    â€œWatch your words, Jake. You may be a freakish physical specimen, but you’re still a kid who Moxie’s been more than generous with.” Fez slams out ten more and stands. “Mox is your lead. Even here.” He and Mox shoot glances at each other.
    Mox licks his lips, breaks into a smile, and the room relaxes. “I know, kid. You and Salome are best friends.” He walks nearer. “Richardson called. We’re off the rotation. Seems somebody is still talking about Kyle’s death. Seems my name keeps coming up, and I’m in for more questions. Been talking to anyone lately, Jake?”
    â€œOff the rotation? No drops?” I curse, knowing how much I needed that rush. “No, I haven’t talked to anyone.” I flop onto the couch, darkness filling my mind, and let my head swivel toward Mox. “I don’t know anything about it. You haven’t told me about any of the guys that died. So, Mox, how often is this going to happen?”
    That same tense feeling grips the room. It’s always like that. Only Koss can question Mox, or the team freaks.
    Mox climbs back onto the bicycle. I watch his hands—his tell. He’s crap at poker because he can’t control them. Knuckles whiten on the handlebars, but the words are silk. “We’ll have to find diversions to keep us sharp. Tomorrow night we should—”
    â€œGot plans,” I say. “I won’t be joining you guys.”
    â€œWere you invited?” Mox asks.
    â€œNo. I wasn’t. Isn’t that right, Fatty?”
    He peeks at Mox and hangs silent from the bar.
    â€œWhile we’re on the subject, why isn’t Koss invited on your rampages? I don’t imagine his dad got him on your