By Gena Showalter
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Extra resources for Playing with Fire
My arm collapsed at my side as the stupid black box landed on the floor with a thump. “What kind of virus do I have? ” His lush, kissable lips dipped into a frown as he bent to pick up the box. ” he asked, ignoring my questions. ” Someone I’ve been in contact with…Ohmygod! I sucked in a breath. Sherridan. And my dad. Had my dad contracted this horrible, probably-going-to-kill-me disease? —days ago. He’d seemed fine, but with his weak heart he wouldn’t be able to fight off an infection this strong.
Bang. Bang. The sound reverberated in my ears. My mouth fell open. He had hit a solid object—a solid object I couldn’t see. An invisible wall? No, not invisible, I realized in the next instant, my shock increasing. The air had somehow solidified, become dappled; opalescent waves rolled through it, rippling, sparkling with dust. That wasn’t possible. That simply wasn’t possible. As I watched, the man threw his shoulder against…whatever it was, rattling its very foundation. What. The. Hell? I’d never seen anything like it, never heard of anything like it.
A stiff, uncomfortable step stool I liked to call the Naughty Chair. File cabinets pressed close on both sides of me, making me feel pinned. I studied Ron. He had thin lips, and right now those lips were pressed tightly together, barely visible slashes of pink in the contours of his rotund face. His sandy hair stood on end, as if he’d plowed his fingers through it one too many times. Lines of tension bracketed his eyes, and his brow was furrowed. Ron had been pissed at me a lot these last few weeks, but he’d never radiated such disgruntled irritation.
Playing with Fire by Gena Showalter