Thoughts of my earlier suspicion of her trying to kill me returned. Surely a wake-up call that early on a non-school day would be enough to end me.

PixieBurn: Yes

NightLocker: Groan

PixieBurn: If you’re not up for it, I can ask Hannah

NightLocker: You better bring coffee

PixieBurn: Only if you’re a good boy until then

NightLocker: You never know

PixieBurn: LOL

PixieBurn: We should sleep

NightLocker: Are you saying you’re in bed right now?

There went those flames again, licking my skin and heating my blood. I tried not to think about what kind of PJs Amber wore…but failed.

Shorts and a T?

Sweats and a tank?

Silk boxers and matching spaghetti strap?

The images flipped through my mind like fast reels of old-school tape. Honestly, it didn’t matter how I pictured her or what I pictured her in. It was the hacker-pixie that drove me wild. Had me thinking things I shouldn’t—like dates, and lazy Saturdays, and partnered hacking tourneys.

PixieBurn: Yes

PixieBurn: Aren’t you?

NightLocker: I am

PixieBurn: So

PixieBurn: Let’s go to sleep

NightLocker: Alright, Pixie

NightLocker: Sweet dreams

PixieBurn: Night, Locker

NightLocker: Ha. Ha.

She clicked offline before I could type out another response to her totally corny pun. I shut my laptop screen, setting it on the nightstand next to my bed. Rolling to my back, I sighed.

My headache was gone, the internal battle I’d raged put to bed.

Replaced by thoughts of what Amber had in store for me.

Whatever it was. Wherever she took me. I knew it’d be incredible.

Because that was what Amber did. Made any kind of situation better.

…

“We’re getting on a train?” I cocked an eyebrow at Amber as she ushered us through the too-crowded station early Saturday morning. As promised, I’d been a good boy all week, and she’d rewarded me with a double Americano. I clutched the warm paper cup in my hand, siphoning the life it offered.

“No,” she said, rolling her eyes as she handed the clerk two tickets. “This is it. Surprise!” She waved her free hand in the air like she was in jazz club. “We’re going to watch the trains come and go all day and pretend like we’re passengers for each one. We’ll make up stories for what we’ll do on our travels. Whoever comes up with the best story wins.”

I gaped at her before scanning the station as she led the way to the main lobby. There were eight tracks, all of them concealed by a floor-to-ceiling glass wall, doors carved out with turnstiles for each track.

She stopped near an empty bench, eyeing me.

I shrugged. “Well, I’m going to win,” I declared, dropping my backpack filled with an extra pair of clothes, sleep-shorts, and a toothbrush on the bench.

Her lips popped into the shape of an O.