The Amnesty Games: A Dystopian Novel by K. A. Riley

Author:K. A. Riley [Riley, K. A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Travel Duck Press
Published: 2023-09-20T16:00:00+00:00

HOPEFULS REMAINING:

1

23

FLIRTING

After coming back to the dorms following our first day of the Pursuit, I have a nice warm shower. It doesn’t take.

I get lathered up. I rinse the mud, dirt, burs, and blood out of my hair. I even get a nice sense of satisfaction watching all that messy goopiness swirl away in a gurgling vortex down the drain between my feet.

I step out of the shower. I grab the last two towels from the heated rack—one as a wrap for my body, one as a turban for my hair—and I join my fellow Hawkers in our shared dorm room.

I feel lighter and warmer. I even feel better, but I don’t feel any cleaner.

I wish there was some kind of way to wash the dirt and muck out of my brain.

My fellow Hawkers are already changing into their post-Game casuals. For us, that means khaki cargo pants and short-sleeved white linen shirts.

I give my hair a vigorous rub before draping my soggy towels over the rail at the foot of my bed.

The Hawkers and I have changed in front of each other every day for the last year. There’s not much privacy in our shared dorm room, so modesty isn’t high up on our list of priorities.

We’re a combat team. We train and fight together, so it makes sense that we’d know everything there is to know about each other.

There’s nothing remotely surprising about how well I know every inch of my teammates: Callynne’s slick brown skin and tight, ropey muscles. Darrion’s hairless chest and wrinkly pink knees. Kaia’s flawless bronze skin and highlighted chestnut hair hanging in a wavy cascade down to the middle of her tapered back. Viktor’s razor-sharp cheekbones, bulging calves, and now, the overlapping layers of yellowing bandages fastened around his midsection.

None of it is unusual. Nothing is out of place or cause for concern.

Except for one thing: my inability to take my eyes off Nico.

Standing in front of his cot, he buckles his belt and reaches over to grab his white linen shirt from the back of a chair. The muscles along his ribcage ripple and flex. He slides his arms into the tight sleeves of his shirt and starts buttoning it up. Deep furrows ripple through the muscles in his forearms as his fingers flit from button to button. His rounded chest stretches the shirt, and I think it might rip at the seams.

I hope it might rip at the seams.

I’m used to being afraid of Nico. I’m used to being intimidated by him and even tossed around in training by him. In the past six days, I’ve eased into a comfortable professional partnership with him as we’ve stood side by side, competing for points and tagging out Hopefuls. I’ve known him for most of my life. I’ve trained with him for a year, and I even had that nice conversation with him earlier today out by the tree in the Netherwoods.

Sitting here on my bed, slipping into my underwear, pulling my pants on, and buttoning up my own shirt, I’m still afraid.

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