Armed and Dangerous (The IMA) (22 page)

But she hadn't; she had taken me in, cleaned me up, bought me clothes. Grudgingly, but I couldn't blame her for that, even if I was still a little sore about the mace. The fact that she hadn't immediately gone for the knife said something. She still had that little switchblade. I'd gone through her pack when she went off to take a piss and found the knife wrapped up in a pair of panties right along with the pepper-spray. She could have used both on me as I slept, leaving me to die in the desert.

Oh, she didn't trust me, but I couldn't blame her for that, either. I didn't trust myself; I just distrusted everyone around me a whole lot more. I hadn't brought up the knife with her for that same exact reason — she
shouldn't
trust me. Asking for that was asking for a lot.

But when I felt her yield and kiss me back, and I realized I had a fighting chance to make this all work out somehow, I had hope.

That was far deadlier than any knife or mace.

Chapter Seventeen

Tension

Christina:

The next two nights followed the same pattern. We spent most of the day putting distance between Coswell and ourselves, wading through sweat and sand. The nights we spent sleeping in the rock walls like frightened animals.

He wouldn't touch me. Not unless it was by accident. He barely spoke. It was too hot and painful to speak with blistering lips. Harder still with a fevered mind. The minutes ticked away in sluggish silence, leaving me to the recess of my thoughts.

I relive what I did to you every night
.

I wanted to believe him. He had spoken the words with such sincerity, such heart-wrenching sadness, that it was difficult not to — until I remembered his easy banter with the drugstore clerk, and the countless other lies that had paved the path down which he had happened upon me.

Was any of what we had real?

I decided not to dwell on it. Instead, I took a page out of Michael's handbook; I focused on surviving.

Michael:

Our fifth day of playing Lawrence of Arabia brought us to one of those outposts that make Coswell look like a hustling, bustling city. I stared at the stunted pony looking at us from over the top of a wooden corral. It was grazing on yellow-green grass, watching us stumble into the town perimeter. A one-horse town in every sense of the word.

I hoped they had an inn. After five days in the desert I probably stank worse than the fucking pony.

We trudged along on the shoulder of the road. There was a general store, a gas station, a fire station, a police station. Empty shells, like the mining and lumber towns I'd passed through in the Cascades. Remainders of something greater, left to crumble to dust in the sweltering heat.

The road led to an old ranch house set back a ways on sandy soil, tufts of dead grass choked to death by the gravel. A sun-peeled sign read, “Bed and Breakfast.”

I jerked my head towards the sign. “Here looks good.”

Christina lit up, but the smile on her dirty face was chased by a more troubling expression I didn't care to think about. I walked purposefully towards the front door and a bell chimed overhead, signifying our arrival.

I noticed the foyer had been converted into a small lobby. It was a failed attempt. There wasn't even close to enough space and the plastic stand of brochures was partially blocking the door. Definitely violating fire code.

We squeezed past the rack, making our way further into the dim room. Most of the shades were drawn. To keep out the heat, I guessed. There wasn't any AC out here. I hoped the bedrooms were better accommodated.

“Hello?”

I blinked, my eyes only partially adjusted to the light. The speaker was a woman, mid-seventies, at least part Native if the cheekbones were any indication. She looked us over distastefully.

“Are you here to rent a room?”

“
That all depends. How much a night?”

She named a price lower than I'd expected. It was obviously inflated. Considering the foot-traffic this place didn't get, I'd have figured that beggars couldn't be choosers. Her demeanor changed, however, when I paid in cash. It changed some more when I said we'd gotten lost while hiking, and hinted that we might stay an extra night or two if conditions were favorable.

“You poor dears,” she said.

What a joke. Christina was staring at me in disbelief. I winked at her. She flushed and turned away as the woman came back from the back room with a key. Hand-tooled leather fob. How cute.

“The rooms are on the second floor.”

Great. Stairs. My favorite.

There were several doors. The open door led to a bathroom, which I guessed we shared with the woman downstairs. It was the middle door, and the one to the left of it was labeled “guests.”

I unlocked it, revealing brownish-red walls. It was an attempt to mimic the adobe houses scattered around nearby. A poor attempt. It looked like what it was: a botched paint job. The blankets, cushions, rug, and draperies were a particularly loud Navajo weave. Probably available for sale in some shitty gift shop nearby.

I wondered if Callaghan's goons had bothered to track us through the desert. The image of his henchmen sweating .45s in their own kevlar was enough to make me laugh out loud. Lead vests didn't do shit against those kinds of bullets. Then I remembered the helicopter I'd heard a few nights ago, distorted by the cave, and my amusement died.

Christina whipped around when she heard me shut the door. She looked cornered, and very dirty. I kept my face implacable. “You want to shower first?”

Her eyes darted between me and the door. I could see her weighing her options, trying to suss me out. “Okay,” she decided. She grabbed her backpack and hurried inside. The door locked. A moment later, the shower started. I shook my head. She was acting as skittish as a kicked cat.

I sat on the edge of the bed and waited for her to finish.
Trying not to imagine her standing naked under the cold spray. Head tilted back. Eyes closed in ecstasy as she ran her soapy fingers up her —

Fuck.

This was going to be more difficult than I thought. What if she said no? I'd have to honor her decision, and my cock might just explode from sheer frustration.

I tugged off the sweaty t-shirt and kicked it aside. I wanted to persuade her, but I didn't want to scare her, and I certainly didn't want to make her cry. I wanted her to be safe. I wanted her to be mine. I wanted to have my cake and eat it, too.

The water shut off. I held my breath. The bathroom door unlocked. She stepped out in a red tank top and flannel boxers. It wasn't a corset but my mental Rolodex was already rotating around to accommodate for this new image. She flushed under my scrutiny. “It's all yours.”

Are you?

Christina stumbled out of my way as I walked by her and I caught a whiff of floral soap. She was quite a bit taller than most of the women I'd been with. Petite women make me feel like a bull in a china shop and height differences require some creative rearrangement during sex.

Christina was the perfect height — I could kiss her without stooping down or picking her up. And if she let me, I could do a lot more. So much more.

Shit
.

My cock tightened, pulsing with impatience. I shed my clothing quickly and jerked off in the shower, which was a bit like scratching an itch without using your nails; it did the trick, but it wasn't as satisfying. Then I washed all traces of that reddish sand from my body until I smelled like a fucking florist's from all that purple shampoo.

I shut off the water. Toweled myself off. The mirror was still fogged up from Christina's hot shower, and through the blur of the steam I could make out a week's worth of beard. I ran my fingers along the bristles, then shrugged it off. I was too lazy to shave. Besides, it could make for a nice disguise; I went to work clean-shaven.

I pulled on some boxers and a loose pair of drawstring pants. Opened the door. Christina was in bed with the sheets wrapped around her. I pulled back on one end to get in beside her and she jumped. I saw her hands clutch around the sheet as she moved to cover her breasts, staring up at me with eyes that looked far too white.

I raised my hands, palms out. “Do you want me to sleep on the floor?”

Her eyes dropped to my chest. To my stomach. It wasn't a sexual look, there was too much pity in it — she was looking at my scars — but I stirred a little regardless. “No. That's okay.”

“Thanks.”

I felt a cool whoosh of air and saw that there was an old fashioned air conditioner mounted on the wall. Christina must have found it and turned it on while I was washing off. Goddamn, but it felt good to have a mattress at my back and cold air at my front.

Christina:

I frowned at the unfamiliar ceiling. The cool, clean covers were an odd but welcome respite from the hot, hard sandstone I had spent the last couple nights sleeping on.

And then I remembered —

The door closed. I shot up, hugging the sheet to my chest. Michael glanced in my direction. “Did I wake you?”

That question made me blush. It wasn't sexual, but it made me feel as if we'd slept together. Which I supposed we had, but not in that way. “No. I was up.”

“Good.”

“
Where did you go?”

“
I was getting food.”

Food?

He sat down on the bed, near my leg. I shifted it away and he noticed — of course he did — and tilted his head. He set the paper bag beside him and said, “You hungry?”

My stomach growled traitorously, but the way he was looking at me bespoke a different kind of hunger.

“Y-yes.”

He reached into the bag and handed me a pastry. Then he got up to fill those chipping glazed mugs in the bathroom with lukewarm water from the faucet. I was going to wait, but he said, “Go on and eat while it's warm.”

I hadn't realized how much I'd been craving something that didn't come from a can. The pastry had soft dough, crispy bacon, runny eggs. It reminded me of a breakfast burrito, except with flaky crust. We'd been so sparing with our supplies out of necessity but now I wanted a second pastry, then maybe a third. I couldn't choke it down fast enough.

“
Don't eat so fast. You'll give yourself a stomachache.”

I swallowed the mouthful I had, wincing. I remembered his snappish behavior from before, in the cave, when he had yelled at me for smacking too loudly. I'd been so embarrassed. Eating was a sore point with me, thanks to my mother, and one he had no right to make comments on.

I took a sip of water and uttered one of my fallback responses. “I don't care.”

“
You will if you throw it all back up.”

He had a point there. I shrugged. “I'm fine.”

“I think you'll want to save room for dessert.” He produced a watermelon. My mouth watered. I loved watermelon. Maria used to make the best watermelon lemonade in the summertime.

That stopped me. I hadn't thought of Maria once until now. She had disappeared from the household when we moved. Had my mother even remembered to write her a recommendation or give her a reference? I pushed the guilty thoughts away. If — when — I got out of this, I'd take care of it myself.

“Where did you get that?”

“
Do you want me to cut you some?”

“
Yes. Please.” I looked around. “What are you going to cut it with? You aren't going to use your weapon, are you?” I didn't like the idea of him using a killing blade to cut food. It seemed wrong.

“
Don't you have a knife?”

“
Yes, but I — ” I froze. I hadn't told him about the knife
or
the pepper-spray. There was only one way he could have known that I'd brought them along. “You searched my bag.”

I expected denial. He gave me honesty. “Yes.”

Honesty didn't make me feel all that much better about what he'd done. “You went through my
things
.”

He didn't blink. “Yes.”

“Did you take it away?”

“
It's still in your bag.”

It was? “Why didn't you take it?”

“If you feel unsafe, you should have a knife. Instincts save lives. I told you to bring what you needed. You listened.” He shrugged. “You should trust your instincts.”

He was wrong; I couldn't. “Okay. Well…good.”

“I suppose I ought to thank you for not using it on me.” I opened my mouth to protest. He stopped me. “Remember what happened on the sofa?”

Oh, yes. As if I could forget.

My heart hammered as I slipped out of bed to retrieve the knife. If he was angry, he was hiding it well. His mood had been so unpredictable these last few days, emotions oozing through the immobile stone facade like cracks in a weathering dam.

He had been like this before, back at the safe house, when I had been forced to watch him like a hawk to gauge his mood when he had began to lose his control. When he finally had, I had been the one to get caught in the deluge.