An odd expression flits across his features. Regret? Maybe.

“What?” I ask. “What has you frowning like that? What are you not telling me?” As soon as I ask the question, an eerie chill crawls over me. “Tell me.”

He scrubs his palm over the faint stubble that shades his jaw. “I knew exactly what I was doing when I told the Committee I’d stay,” he says. “You want the truth, Miki? I’ll give it to you, plain as porridge, so there’s no more question in your mind. I knew what I was reupping for. And there’s a part of me that wants it. Bad.” His fingers tangle in my hair and he says, very low, “There’s a part of me that likes this.”

The way he says it makes me shiver. Because he’s telling me the truth. I feel it in my gut. He likes the fight, the adrenaline rush. Maybe even loves it. But there’s another truth, one he’s keeping hidden, and I don’t know what or why. So I push a little harder for answers. “And?”

He lets me go, steps back. “And just for clarity, I’ll spell out a few points. One: I signed on, eyes wide open. Two: if I’m in the game, I will lead, not follow.” The silver in his eyes swirls and deepens to stormy gray. “Three, and the most important point: if you’re in the game, Miki, then that’s where I’ll be, watching your back. End of discussion. We don’t talk about this again.”

I believe every word he’s saying. But I know there’s something he isn’t saying. He’s doing it again. Hiding things. “There’s the Jackson I know and love. Moody, bossy, cocky—”

“Asshole,” he finishes for me.

My chin comes up. I hold his gaze and inch even closer. We’re almost nose-to-nose. Tension thrums in the air between us.

“You. Are not. The boss. Of me,” I say, holding up my index finger and making a wavy line in the air, throwing as much attitude as I can into both the words and the action.

He stares at me. Blinks. Bares his white, white teeth. Not a nice smile; not warm, not friendly. Dark. Feral.

Appealing.

“Sometimes,” he says, very soft, “I think you’re the boss of me.”

My insides melt. How did Miki, the girl who would never in a million years fall for a boy like Jackson Tate, end up falling for a boy like Jackson Tate?

Maybe because there are no other boys like him. There’s just him.

“As if,” I say back, equally soft.

The sound of a muted cough makes me turn. Luka’s on the far side of the clearing, hands shoved in his pants pockets. I don’t know how long he’s been standing there. I don’t know how much he heard. And I don’t think I want to know.

Jackson flips his glasses down, covering his eyes.

Did Luka see them when he first arrived? I try to picture exactly how we were all standing, what his sight lines were. If he did notice anything, he isn’t saying.

“Seriously?” he asks as he saunters over. He’s wearing an outfit very similar to what Jackson and I have on. His paintball visor’s pushed up on top of his head. “Are we seriously doing this tonight? When I have not one but two attractive and slightly tipsy ladies sitting in my car right now?”

“Slightly tipsy?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Seems that Sarah’s brother supplied a few bottles of beer for her and Amy.”

I study his face, worried that he’s going into the game at a disadvantage. “Are you slightly tipsy?”

All humor fades from his expression. “I don’t drink and drive.”

I nod. “Sorry.”

He bumps me with his shoulder.

“We’re due for a mission,” Jackson says. “It’s been weeks since we’ve been pulled. Might as well be tonight.”

Or any other night. Or how about no night? Ever.

“Let’s get this done,” Luka says, looking first at Jackson, then me, before pulling off his paintball visor and hooking it to his vest. “Not the ideal getup for alien hunting.”

“Deal with it,” Jackson says, and tosses me a harness.

Tyrone shows up a few seconds later.

Jackson nods at him. “Hey,” he says.

Tyrone nods at Jackson. “’Sup,” he says.

“You good?” Jackson asks.

“Good.” Tyrone juts his chin in Jackson’s direction. “You?”

“Yeah.”

And that verbose conversation somehow leaves me with the impression that they’re happy to see each other. Gotta love guys.

But I remember Tyrone before Richelle was killed. She teased him about talking too much and slowing the team down.

He’s changed.

I guess we all have.

Tyrone takes a quick look around the lobby. “Before they get here, I need to give you the heads-up,” he says to Jackson. “We’ve got one, maybe two.”

“Two what?” I ask.

“Problem players,” Tyrone says.

I think about that. “Kendra’s pretty freaked out,” I agree. “She’s definitely scared. I don’t know if I’d say she’s a problem, though. She did her share the last couple of times.”

“More than her share,” Tyrone agrees.

So why do I feel like he’s saying something really horrible about her? Like whatever it is, he’ll trust Jackson with the information but not me?

“Tyrone, do you have a problem with me?”

His expression softens. “Never, Miki. Got nothing but respect. You kept a level head through some pretty rough shit. I’m just a little concerned about them.”