Rise: Populations Crumble, Book 2 Read online

  He sighs, finally sets his coffee down on the table, and addresses Peter. “Well, the secret’s out now. Auto-uploader?” He gestures to the smashed pile of technology in front of me.

  What’s an auto-uploader?

  Peter’s only response is a tight nod.

  “What’s an auto-uploader? You smashed the camera, so what’s the issue?”

  Peter points to a blue button before answering, “NAA One has equipped their best photographers with satellite-linked cameras. Every shot they take is uploaded directly to the media company’s satellite as soon as they hit the button on the back. The signal isn’t great here, but there’s still a chance they got through before we smashed it. Even though the guy’s going to jail for trespassing, they’re all cheering because he got the shot. He’s going to be wealthy when he gets out.” Peter shakes his head, frustration clear.

  “I’ll make a call and see if they can do anything to stop it from seeing daylight,” Patrick says calmly. He heads to the front, to make the call from the director’s office. I, however, feel anything but calm.

  Royally Screwed

  Our plans for a quiet day hiking and planning with Nell and Atlas are soured by the morning’s run-in with the photographer. However, the urge to do something pushes me past my reluctance to run into any more khaki-clad nightmares. Once Atlas and Nell arrive to keep me company, Peter leaves to arrange the guards to ensure we don’t have any repeat fiascos. The three of us are waiting for Patrick to return so we can make our exit.

  “I can’t believe somebody’s willing to go to jail to get a picture of you. I mean, you’re pretty and all, but not jail-worthy. No offense,” Nell muses.

  “I’m sure it was more the fat wad of money he’s going to earn than my looks that encouraged him,” I say drily.

  “I don’t know—I bet it would be big news if you were a hideous shrew. Patrick would be cast in a sympathetic light, doing his duty to further humanity, and the crown, despite your odiousness.” Her dramatics know no ends.

  Atlas puts a hand on her shoulder. “Nah, people are going to eat this up. Especially if word gets out about your high match rate or unique genetics.”

  My heart falls to my feet. “Oh, no. You don’t think that’s a possibility, do you? We aren’t even supposed to know about that. How would the reporters get wind of it?”

  He shrugs. “Same way Glitch did. Not to mention, there’ve been two leaks already. Somebody high up is benefitting from this information getting out, and pushing in the monarchy. From what Patrick has said, it’s not his father. Most likely some well-connected lackey in the office, then, who stands to move up in the new order.”

  “I don’t really care who it is; I don’t want my family dragged into this. If word gets out about me being different, they’ll all get dragged through the wringer with me.” I drop my face into my hands. I hadn’t thought about the multi-layered crap storm that would ensue if my new political position came head to head with my genetic anomaly.

  Can’t anything go right? How are we supposed to free those women with a security detail, media hounding us, and the Damocles’s sword of my genetics?

  Patrick walks back in, and I can tell right away that he’s angry. He strides over to where the three of us wait, and runs his hands through his hair. “Let’s get out of here. I have a lot to tell you,” he says as he meets my eyes. “All of you.”

  It takes finagling, but eventually it’s agreed that the four of us, plus Peter and one other guard, are enough to go out on the beach. We brave the buffeting ocean wind, rather than the more protected hiking trails, so that we’re less likely to be overheard by our guard detail.

  “So, our lives just got a lot more interesting,” Nell observes, once we’re spread out. Peter trails behind us at a distance, and the other guard, Rolf, is about 30 yards ahead. “How are we supposed to get anything done now?”

  “My thoughts exactly,” I agree.

  “It’s about to get worse,” Patrick says, his disgruntled voice is barely above a mumble. “I spoke with my mother. The photographer this morning got three shots uploaded before the camera stopped transmitting. So, now, they know where we are, who we are, and what we look like.” He stops talking, and that sinks in for a moment.

  “So, what happens now? There’s no way to get NAA One not to run it? Your father’s the prime minister; won’t they do him a favor to protect your privacy?” Nell asks.

  His face turns thunderous. “Mom informed me that they’re choosing instead to get ahead of it. Candy Thomas from NAA One will be here, with a full film crew—tomorrow—to interview us for the national news.” He looks at me apologetically. “Apparently we’re about to make our public debut as a couple.” His mouth flattens into a thin line of displeasure.

  “So, that’s it, then? Our cover is blown, everyone is going to know where we are, and we’ve already got paparazzi stalking us at the guest house,” I say, still trying to fully grasp the change that’s happening in my life.

  “Unfortunately, that about sums it up.” I can hear the simmering anger in his voice.

  “But how are we supposed to help those women if we’ve got people watching our every move?” Nell’s question is the same one I’ve been turning over myself, ever since the beginning. Where do we go from here?

  “We don’t,” Atlas answers.

  “There’s no way we’re leaving them there and forgetting about it!” Nell’s reaction is instant, and heated.

  “Didn’t say we were. But we can’t do jack with a twenty-four-seven guard, paparazzi stalking the front gate, and no proof.” His rebuttal quiets us all.

  “What do you recommend, Atlas? Even as the prime minister’s son, I can’t haul out an accusation of this magnitude with no proof. It would be too easy for whoever’s running things to make them all disappear. And if they’re willing to drug and impregnate unwilling women, I can imagine what they’d do with them if they knew they’d been caught,” Patrick says.

  I shudder, the implication chilling me worse than the cutting wind off the ocean.

  “We have to get out of here.”

  “That’s what I was afraid you were going to say.” Patrick lets out a gusty sigh.

  I push my windswept hair back from my face. “How is leaving going to help? Going to another resort is only going to draw the media attention there, and the guards.”

  “That’s why we can’t go to another resort. We’ve got to get out of the system. Otherwise, we’re sitting ducks to be snatched ourselves.”

  His words echo the fears I’ve been holding onto ever since they dragged Josephine away. “What’s the alternative? If we leave, we’ll be putting a target on our backs.” I point out.

  “Leave the escape plans to me,” Atlas says, “I’ve got an idea how we might be able to pull it off in a way that we’re not incriminated for escaping, but I’ll have to call in a few favors. The question is, how do we get the proof?” he says cryptically.

  “I actually had an idea about the proof. Glitch is still around, right Patrick?” I ask.

  He nods. “He’s just laying low in the next town over, why?”

  “Well, you guys found the security camera setup in that facility. What if Glitch could hack into it, record the women in there? Once we had video proof, maybe even video of whoever is guarding and caring for them, we would have something to use to show your father, or whoever needs to see it to stop it,” I suggest.

  Atlas is the first to respond. “It could work. Do you think Glitch could hack it? We have no idea what network the footage is on, or what kind of security protocol they’re typically running inside.”

  “All we can do is ask. I’m sure he’s up for the challenge.”

  ✽✽✽

  Later that evening, a brisk knock sounds on our guest room door. We’d been snuggling on the couch, watching an action movie Patrick picked this time. He gets up, taking his warm shoulder with him, and answers the door.

  A tanned, leggy brunette in a pink dress that
barely hits her mid-thigh is on the other side. Her brunette hair is pulled tightly back into a French twist, not a strand out of place. “Hello, I’m Brooke,” she says, taking Patrick in from head to toe.

  I bristle at her blatant perusal of my husband and stand from the couch. A second later, I remember that I'm wearing the dreaded bow-covered pajamas and pull at the hem in regret at their wrinkled state. Them being less wrinkled won’t make them any less embarrassing to be seen in. Ugh. I’d considered getting rid of them, but my first kiss with Patrick happened in these pajamas. They’re with me for life, now.

  “Hello, Brooke, can I help you?” he says politely. To his credit, his eyes don’t stray to the impressive display of tanned legs. I can barely look away, myself; she’s nearly a foot taller than me.

  She gives him a flirtatious smile that makes me want to bite my own tongue off. “Yes, I’m here to see about your wardrobe for tomorrow’s interview. Well, both of your wardrobes,” Brooke amends, once she finally notices me standing behind Patrick. “Your mother sent me.”

  “Ahh. Well, come on in, I guess.” Patrick looks over his shoulder and shoots me an apologetic grimace.

  “Delightful.” She turns and pulls a rack I hadn’t noticed crammed full of clothes in behind her. “Wow, not much room to maneuver in here,” she observes as Patrick barely manages to scrape the door shut behind the rack. “You’d think being royalty would get you a bit more space.”

  “We’re not royalty yet,” I remind her. “The coronation is still a month away.”

  She waves a hand at me in dismissal. “Details, minor details. For all intents and purposes, you’re royal. Not very tall, but royal.” She scrunches her nose as she scrutinizes me.

  How rude can you be? I think angrily. But I keep it to myself, my mom’s voice echoing in my ears so many times over the years to “be kind, or be quiet.” I thought that advice would get easier as I aged, but boy, was I wrong.

  Brooke claps twice, snapping me away from my thoughts of my mom. “Okay, now that I’ve seen you both, it’s time to get down to business. Patrick, they want you in a suit. Sadie, they want you in a dress. I’ve got a variety of cuts here, but a few of these are going to be long . . . unless you’re comfortable in a pair of high heels?” She rummages in the bottom basket of the rolling rack and comes up with a pair of white platform stilettos at least four inches high.

  “Uh, not so much. I usually wear tennis shoes or cowboy boots.”

  Her hand flies to her chest, and from the look on her face you’d think I kicked her dog. “Well”—she sniffs —“that will be the first thing we work on. A princess, even by marriage, can’t very well go around in cowboy boots.” She spins back to the rack and starts tossing clothes onto our bed, so she misses the angry glare I direct at Patrick.

  Sorry he mouths at me.

  “Patrick, you’re up first. Be a dear and go pop these on so I can see how they fit.” She hands him a hanger with a blue suit, and a honeyed smile.

  He walks slowly to the bathroom, and gives me one last apologetic look before he shuts the door, leaving me alone with Brooke-the-fashion-Amazonian. Her focus narrows on me as soon as the door clicks shut behind him, and I barely stop myself from taking an involuntary step back.

  What is it about overly-coiffed women that always makes me uncomfortable?

  She shoves a white gown towards me. “Try this on first. It will probably be too long, but hopefully not by as much as the others.

  I accept the dress, but look around awkwardly and realize there’s nowhere to change. She rolls her eyes at my hesitation. “Go on, I’ll turn around. Although I must tell you, I’ve seen it all before.”

  True to her word, she spins and faces the bathroom door, arms crossed across her chest. Quickly shucking off my childish pajamas, I slip the dress over my head. It has a plunging neckline, and a gather on one side over halfway up my thigh. I’m trying to arrange it to cover more of my cleavage when she tuts, and I look up to see her inspecting me again. “No, that’s not what we’re looking for at all. Too sexy.” She flips through the rack again, and hands me another dress, also white.

  I toss the first dress on the bed and pull on the next one. Thankfully the zipper is on the side, and it zips in one fluid motion. I look down and take in the one-shoulder, fitted gown. It’s pretty, but not at all my style. There is a large fabric ruffle on the side with the shoulder, and the other side swoops daringly low.

  The bathroom door opens, and Patrick re-enters looking hot as Hades in the blue suit. His white dress shirt has one button undone at the top, and my eyes are immediately drawn to the tiny snippet of skin I can see there.

  “Oh dear, that’s all wrong. We don’t want you looking like some old presidential candidate. That’s so last century.” She shudders, and hands him a different suit before shooing him back to the bathroom. She turns to me, and looks exasperated. “That won’t work, either. They didn’t tell me you had so much cleavage.” The glare she gives me implies I somehow had control over this, which I would like to assure her, I did not.

  She taps her chin and assesses me with a frown. “I think I have one gown which might work. To think, I almost didn’t bring it because it’s the wrong color.”

  She hands me a third gown, and I wait for her to turn back around before stripping again. This one slides over me in a smooth rush of deep blue gossamer silk. It settles, right at my toes, and the split sleeves allow for plenty of freedom of movement for my arms. It almost looks Greek, like a goddess’s robes from the stories I read growing up. The neckline is high, and the gathered material hugs my collarbone. The only risqué bit is that the waist is made with see-through lace, with gold threaded details stitched throughout and my bare skin showing underneath. Of the three options, it still leaves the most to the imagination.

  “Ah, yes. That’s much better. I think we have a winner.” She claps once, and gestures for me to hand it back to her. Before I do, the bathroom door opens again and Patrick steps out in a silvery pin-striped suit. It fits him like a glove, and he looks mouth-wateringly good.

  His eyes, however, lock on me in the Grecian gown. “Wow, you look gorgeous.” He peruses me from the pooled hem up to my messy, bed head.

  I blush. “You look quite dashing, yourself.”

  “Aww, newlyweds. All blushes and romantic fluttering eyelashes. They were right to choose white, but royal blue makes a powerful statement of its own.” Brooke gestures for us to hand the clothes back, so Patrick retreats back into the bathroom. He tosses one more heated look at me before shutting the door.

  “Why are all the other dresses white, now that you mention it?” The question comes out muffled, as I pull the dress over my head.

  “Oh, you know, that’s the image they want to portray for the public’s first time seeing you. White is innocent, virginal, pure, all the good stuff.” She waves, as if it’s of no import.

  Sacrificial lambs are white, also. I sigh and pull the infamous bow pajamas back on over my messy hair. Quite a few tendrils have escaped my nightly ponytail, and I feel like a disheveled child next to the statuesque beauty with the tailored designer clothes.

  Patrick emerges, and hands the suit back to Brooke. How does he still look so good in his lounge clothes? His t-shirt and soft pajama pants cling slightly to his defined chest and trim waist, and his hair is perfectly swooped to one side. He looks like a god, even at eleven p.m.. Life isn’t fair.

  Brooke, satisfied with our clothing choices, promises to have them steamed and ready to go for the interview tomorrow morning before pushing the overstuffed rack back into the hallway. One of the guards—Spivey, I think—is waiting to carry it back down the stairs for her.

  Patrick shuts and locks the door, before turning and striding across the room to me. He reaches both hands around and presses them to my lower back, fingers playing with the hem of my pajama top.

  “You,” he says, and kisses me on the nose—“were an absolute vision”—another kiss, this time to the cheek�
�“in that dress.” He kisses the other cheek. “If Brooke hadn’t been here, I’d have loved”—this time the kiss lands just below my earlobe—“to help you out of it.”

  I shudder at the promise in his words, yet still can’t help but ask, “You weren’t too distracted by brunette Barbie?”

  He chortles low in his throat, the vibration traveling through his lips to my jaw, where he’s kissing now. “Brunette Barbie doesn’t stand a chance against my little spitfire.” He kisses along my jawline, leaving a delicious trail of sparks in his wake, and suddenly I forget to be worried about anyone’s opinion except his.

  ✽✽✽

  The next morning dawns, and my least favorite chimes in the world wake me when the sun is barely over the balcony railing.

  I pull my pillow over my head, fully intending to ignore the cursed thing, until Patrick rubs my shoulder. “Hon, I’m sorry, but you have to get up. The beauty crew are already waiting downstairs.”

  “No,” I groan, “it’s too early. We didn’t get nearly enough sleep last night.”

  He chuckles. “Funny, I didn’t hear any complaints at the time.”

  I decide my pillow makes a much better weapon than it does a barrier, and whack him with it. He laughs and steps out of swinging range. “Come on, I’ll run down and get you some cocoa.” He peppers kisses across my nose, and I give him a tiny smile in return. He is impossible to stay annoyed with.

  True to his word, he heads out of our room, and I flop back against the bed, in no hurry to get up and start getting made up for this interview. The interview that’s going to be on national television. I lay there for a few minutes, dreading having the perky newscaster question us, until I sit bolt upright in the bed as a thought hits me—my parents are going to see this interview!

  At the same moment, Patrick backs in through our door while balancing two mugs.