by Lyn Forester
But the crack in the wall, narrow and jagged, calls to me, a gravitational pull greater than myself. I squeeze through, the journey short, and pop out the other side, less bruised and bloodied than before.
The journey has never been so easy. Am I smaller, or has the crack gotten bigger? I want to think I’ve shrunk. It’s an easier idea to live with.
I need to visit the lake in the center.
First, I find rocks and drag them to the crack. The difficulty comes in lifting, their weight disproportionate to their size. Like mountains, compacted into the size of a fist, while still retaining a mountain’s weight. Stacking them takes time, days of sweat and broken nails, of cursing at aching muscles that shake with fatigue. I can spend a lifetime in here, and the clock of the real world will stay frozen, waiting for my return. So I take my time, make sure the rocks sit just right, with a sturdy foundation that won't collapse. Slowly, the passageway becomes narrow again.
I step back and scrutinize my handiwork, satisfied when I question whether I’ll even fit back through the space left open.
Exhausted, I can go back now and fall asleep. But it seems a waste to come here and not take a peek at the lake. I turn and trudge toward its shimmering surface, kicking over little stacks of prayer stones on the way. Those annoy me. Three stones, stacked big, medium, with small on top. They litter the floor of my cave, towers that keep resurrecting themselves, no matter how many times I knock them down.
Grandma would be proud. She’d say they’re signs I haven’t lost the belief. Of course I haven’t. I never believed to begin with. But here I am, kicking the stacks over on my way to my soul’s lake.
I stop at the edge, just out of the lapping water’s reach. Sweaty and hot, I feel no desire to jump in. The thing feels like ice melt and monsters live in the frigid depths. I know, because I put them there. One at a time.
Bending, I pick up one of the prayer towers and chuck it into the water, one stone at a time, in place of the emotions I usually dump. They break through the surface without sound. Rings spread and overlap from their landings.
Comforted by the ripples, I search the ground for another stack so I can see them again. When I return to the lake, the surface has settled, flat and glassy, reflective.
And there I am, but not me.
I raise my arm, rocks clenched in my fist. The other me does too, fingers spread as if to wave. Rocks strike the surface, shattering the mirror.
The other me disappears.
I breathe.
In, In, In.
THE ART OF WALKING
The pillow smells musty from disuse. The blanket had, too. Company doesn’t visit often, if ever. After the long day, that scene with creepy Victor, and then finding the dead body, she'd probably looked forward to her alone time.
Yeah, he’d pushed her too far and might have deserved to be shot. But she hadn’t dragged him into the hall. If his facial muscles would respond, he’d smile.
Definite progress in team Drake and Reagen. Team Dragen.
At some point, he falls asleep. Not much else to do in the soft, smothering darkness of pillow land. He wakes later, unable to tell how much time has elapsed. Unsure what jostled him back to consciousness, he strains to listen. The stuffing over his ear makes it difficult to hear, but the small hairs on his arm shift with a change in air current.
An unsuccessful attempt to move his mouth verifies that they're still within the six-hour time limit. She should be asleep, not awake and moving. He tries to sense her location, but the frigid temperature of the room distracts him. If not for the full body stun, he’d shake with shivers. The temperature modulator needs to be bumped up a few degrees.
She took the blanket. Not that she uses it. It had sat unused for a while.
Maybe she refuses to let him use it because he took it without asking. He likes that, means he doesn’t have to put effort into being gentle with her. He’d made her uncomfortable by intruding on her space. She’d made him uncomfortable by stunning him.
The vibrations in the air change, a muffled hum audible through the pillow. A moment later, the quiet clack of a keyboard joins in. He relaxes, her location in the office identified.
Too bad she doesn’t have an ambient noise generator. It would make sleep easier. His hip hurts from lying on his side in the same position for so long. An indrawn breath brings a whiff of the air freshener. That thing needs to be incinerated. The first time he snuck in, the smell of chemical spice overwhelmed his senses, burning his nose.
How does she live with it?
~
With a start, he comes back to full awareness as his muscles relax, and he tilts toward the floor. Tensing, he halts the motion. Must have crossed the six-hour mark. A slow flex of his toes reveals the full return of muscle control. The crack of his jaw opening reverberates in his head, and he hopes the pillow muffles the noise.
Still and motionless, he tries to sense Reagen’s location. No more buzz from the office, the desk-port inactive. No quiet clinks from the bathroom or kitchen areas. Did he miss her return to the couch to sleep? Revenge could be his. The gadget on her wrist will have to be blocked to stop her from pulling that secret psy-gun on him.
He wants one of those. It takes top-level tech to create that kind of technology. Who'd she bribe, and will she do it again for him?
The air shifts at his back, sudden and fast. He rolls forward, grabs the pillow from his face and flings it as he comes to his feet in a crouch, fists raised. Reagen stands with the pillow clutched to her chest, head tilted in amusement. Her right foot, cocked back, rests on the toe.
“Did you just try to kick me?” His gruff voice feels sticky from disuse.
“I thought I saw you twitching.” She moves to throw the pillow on the couch, but stops, wrinkles her nose at the fluffy rectangle, and tosses it on the floor instead. “Come on, let’s go.”
“Where?” He pulls his palm-port out to check the time. “It’s still Quarter-Light. Nothing will be open until Half-Light.”
“Gym.”
“I don’t have workout clothes with me.” He takes in the blue short shorts, the snug-fitting mesh tank top and sports bra. He’d assumed she had weird taste in nightwear. Guess she doesn’t own pajamas.
“You don’t have to work out.” With a shrug, she moves toward the door.
“Then I’ll wait here until you get back.”
“No.”
“Come on, we spent the night together. We’re friends now.”
“You want me to shoot you again?” But her light tone borders on playfulness. She might even be smiling.
“Eh, I’ll pass. A little too kinky for me.”
“You have a kink limit?” The door opens at her touch, and she glances over her shoulder.
“Naw, not really.”
“There’s hot singles at the gym.”
“You should have lead with that.” Excited, he shoves her into the hall. “How hot are we talking?”
~
She wasn’t lying. Five in the morning equals prime time for eye candy. As if to avoid association with him, she ditches him at the door and beelines for a running sphere at the back. He'd like to stretch his legs too, but the tight cut of his pants would chafe too much. He parks himself at a bench near the free weights, with a full view of the small gym.
Forty-five minutes later, he discovers coming here is the best idea ever.
In his direct line of sight, a young woman works her inner thigh muscles on the hip abduction machine, thighs opening and closing like a doorway. Dark brown curls escape a high bun and cling to her adorable, pink face. Her hands grip the side bars next to her hips, bracing as she pulls her knees back together, forcing the padded arm extensions to touch, before opening them again.
She casts a coy glance in his direction to make sure she has his attention. He lifts the heavy weight in his hand, bicep bulging with effort, and she smiles and looks away.
Over her shoulder, a young man with narrow hips bobs up and down o
n the triceps bar, a slow, controlled pace to accentuate the definition in his arms and broad shoulders. Dark brown hair, cut long in front, sweeps across his forehead. When he comes up on the extension, his light brown eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles at Drake. He bites his lip in concentration and dips down for another set, rock solid as he pushes back up.
The duo settled into their respective exercises fifteen minutes ago, and stayed there. They tag-team his attention to make sure his interest doesn’t wander. He hopes they'll be this focused in bed.
The running sphere pops open, and Reagen steps out, legs shaky with the effort. She rubs a towel over her face until her frown disappears. Her run must not have gone well. Later, he’ll goad her into a race to check out her speed.
She wobbles her way to the stretching bars and settles next to a bulging brute. The man was admiring himself in the mirror when they arrived and hasn’t moved since. She doesn’t acknowledge the man, but she stands close enough for him to be within her usual back-off-asshole zone.
Are they friends? Does Reagen have friends?
She ignores the muscles he flexes in her direction and grips the long, metal bar attached to the mirror. Bending forward, she aims her head toward the space between her spread feet, extending her shoulders back. Flexible in a super bendy, kinda creepy way. Like she has bones made of rubber.
She wiggles, the hot-pink handprints on her ass waving in the air. He chokes on a laugh, distracted and fumbling the weight in his hand. He stands and returns it to the rack, fearing for his toes’ safety.
What is she doing?
In one smooth motion, she rises from the stretch and lifts a graceful leg to the bar, toes pointed toward the man beside her, and touches forehead to knee. She does the other leg next, doing that wiggle wave again.
Drake should record this to blackmail her later.
When she straightens, and both feet are back on the mat, the mass of muscle next to her leans close to whisper in her ear. Drake expects her to skitter out of reach, but she goes closer, chin tilted down to look him in the eyes. The man dips a hand into a pocket in his gym shorts and pulls out a small disc, passing it to Reagen. She tucks it into her bra and finger waves as she walks away.
She catches Drake’s eye and tips her head toward the exit, indicating he should meet her outside. Doesn’t want to risk giving the brute the wrong idea by leaving together.
Huh, never would've pegged that as her type.
He glances back at the duo he was flirting with for the last forty-five minutes, wanting to get their contact discs before heading out himself. Identical scowls greet him as they stare at the door where Reagen disappeared. The woman folds her arms over her chest, pushing a nice set of boobs up higher. The man drapes a protective arm over her shoulders, lifts a hand in Drake’s direction, and middle fingers their disinterest in him.
Well, shit.
~
Out in the hall, Drake glances both ways. No sign of Reagen. Must be worried he’ll ruin her chances with the muscle dude. He heads for the elevator.
“Did you get their numbers?”
“Shit!” His shout echoes in the corridor as he whips around to face the stairwell. The cracked door brackets Reagen’s amused face. “Don’t do that.”
“Be more aware of your surroundings.” She makes room for him to join her on the landing.
“I checked the door. It was closed.”
“You didn’t hear it open?” She jogs down the stairs, soft sneakers silent on the concrete.
“No, sneaky-sneaker-pants. You got me good.” His own footfalls thud against the steps, and he slows his pace to be quieter.
“Huh. I thought your hearing was better.” The gap between them lengthens until she disappears around the bend at the next landing. “You heard Margie in the alley before I did.”
“Really? You were already looking in that direction.” On tiptoes and going super slow, his steps become silent.
“What are you doing?” Reagen’s head pops back into view, her eyebrows raised as she stares at him.
“Nothing.” His heels thump down, and he stomps down to join her.
“Uh-huh.”
He passes her, the thud of hard soles against concrete bouncing off the beige walls.
“Walk on the outer edge of your shoe, and roll your foot heel to toe.”
“What?” He turns to face her.
“You’re trying to walk more quietly. Practice on the landing first.” She strides to one side of the platform. “Try walking on the outside of your foot, starting the step on the heel, not the toe. Bend your knees to stay closer to the ground. It gives you more control.” She pauses to demonstrate. The slight bend to her knee makes sense, but he doesn’t understand the foot position. She exaggerates the motion, ankles bent at right angles as she rolls her foot heel to toe, imitating the step.
“Are you making fun of me?”
“Just try it.” She paces back and forth a couple times in complete silence.
The awkward angle hurts. His stiff boots don’t want to accept the new angle and leave him unbalanced. He rolls his foot forward from heel to toe as he practices a couple laps. Takes more time than the damn tiptoeing. But he makes less noise. Another round and he figures out he doesn’t need to bend his ankles as much if he shifts where his weight lands on his feet. The one after becomes easier.
“Good.” Reagen gives him a small smile.
“But not silent.”
“You need better shoes.” She kicks a leg up to show the bottom of her sneaker. The rubber dents under the poke of her finger. “There’s more cushion with these bottoms. Yours are too hard.”
He gazes at the faux leather surface of his boots, the small flashes of silver grommets at the sides, the nice curve to the toe. After a run through the extractor last night, they look new again. The gray material of her sneakers is scuffed, the laces frayed. Does he need to go completely silent?
Aiming for the steps, he almost falls on his face trying to put his heel down first. He flails and grabs the banister.
“Oh, that doesn’t work on stairs.” Reagen zooms past him, short inky hair ruffling.
He glares at her. “But stairs are what I was trying to be quiet on.”
“Silence is an art form, Junior.” She runs back up to him, cheeks pink. “Stairs are harder. Hug the wall and put more of your weight on the railing.”
“You’re not doing that.”
“I’m not a muscle bound beast in biker boots.” She zips down to the next landing with a laugh.
“You’re a horrible person,” he calls down to her and grabs the railing.
“I’m aware of that.”
He hugs the wall down the next flight of stairs and puts more weight on the handrail. The slower pace doesn’t bother her. Or if it does, she keeps quiet and waits for him.
“You gonna call the muscle guy?”
“No.” She peeks up at him, brow creased in thought. Then she jogs back up to him. “Girlfriend hired me. She thinks he’s cheating on her.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, it sucks.” A shoulder lifts and falls. “But if she suspected it, then there’s trust issues, and the relationship’s doomed, anyway.”
Realization hits him. “So you're dressing like that to catch the guy? The inappropriate gym outfits are your lure. It makes so much sense now.”
“Fuck no. These clothes are awesome.” The handprints on her butt wave as she jogs ahead again.
He can’t read her tone. Serious or sarcastic?
She dances on the landing, narrow hips shimmying to make the shorts look even more obscene.
He groans. That’s so wrong, it’s not even funny. “Stop, I’m gonna be sick.”
“My moves are amazing.”
“I’m never going clubbing with you. You’ll scare everyone away.”
“I got a contact disc today. What did you get?” She dances around the bend in the stairwell.
“I could have gotten two.”
; “Did you?” He turns the corner to find her waiting, eyebrows raised in question.
“Shut up.”
“You’re making more noise again.”
“Shit.” He pauses, moves closer to the wall once more, and starts on the last flight leading to the twelfth-floor landing.
“Practice, practice, practice.” Reagen dances down five steps, then walks up them backward without peeking. All without sound. Show-off. “Or you can quit. It’s not a skill you have to have. Unless there’s someone you need to sneak up on?”
“You never know.” He won't lose to her.
“No, you never do.” With a leap, she bypasses the remaining steps and cracks open the door to peer into the hall.
“Anything interesting?”
“Empty.” She pulls it open all the way and holds it in place until he catches the edge.
“You have issues with ambushers?”
She shoots him a sardonic look. Yeah, that was a stupid question.
The hall's beige carpet helps muffle his steps, and now he moves as silently as the woman ahead of him. He picks up his pace, kinda proud of himself.
The door next to Reagen’s pops open as he passes, and the strawberry-blonde neighbor from yesterday rushes out. She crashes into his chest, bounces, and he catches her before she falls. The can of coffee in her hand tips forward to splash cool liquid across his front.
“Oh my gosh, I’m sorry.” She shakes in his hands, large, blue eyes blinking back tears as she gazes up at him.
“It’s okay.” He releases her and steps away. A flower-printed dress flows from chest to mid-thigh, a pale orange that accentuates the creaminess of her skin. Low-heeled sandals wrap her feet, leaving toes exposed to display dark orange polish. “Looks like you have somewhere nice to be. I’m glad your outfit’s not ruined.”
Her face turns pink, and the scatter of freckles on her nose stands out. She glances at the floor, biting a glossy lower lip.
