by Jaime Rush
They trudged through the woods back to the bike, which, thank goodness, started. It bore scrapes and dents, but landing in the grassy shoulder helped it, just as it made their tumble a little better.
A little.
Every muscle, bone, and hair on her body thrummed with pain, but it didn’t feel as though anything was broken. She sucked in her groan of pain when she climbed on behind him. “I need chocolate. Like a mountain of it.”
He flicked her an amused glance before heading onto the road. They went back to the RV—Tank— pulled the bike into the garage, and within minutes were back on the highway.
“They didn’t see the Tank,” she said, realizing that’s why he’d stashed it right away. She pulled a Dove chocolate out the bag but paused and offered it to him. When he shook his head, she ripped into it.
“They’ll be looking for a bike. It’ll help, but eventually they’ll track us down. How the hell did they come to work together? Glouks stick to themselves and don’t generally trust anyone, not even their own kind.”
“Isn’t there a saying about common enemies making good allies?”
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
“Yeah, that worked with Eric and Fonda.”
She changed into dry clothes and returned to the front. He’d jumped right into the driver’s seat wearing his wet jean shorts and nothing else. She braced her hand on the back of his seat, remaining standing. She had to fight the urge to pull at the long string of denim that lay against his thigh.
“Want me to drive for a few minutes so you can change?” Not that she wanted him to change, because he looked juicy, but he had to be uncomfortable. “I know cats hate being wet.” She gave him a smile to let him know she wasn’t being mean.
He raised an eyebrow at her. “Do you, now?”
“And they love their chin scratched.” She crooked her fingers.
“They also mount females from behind.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. So much for light flirting. He was trying to cut her off. “I rescind my offer. Your behind can stay wet.”
A smile tugged at his mouth, but he kept his gaze focused ahead. His hair was still damp, curling his waves. “Jags and tigers actually enjoy swimming. But not like what we just did.”
She could imagine him, as jag, frolicking in a lake.
He was watching her expression, and she wiped the emerging grin from her face, still stung.
He nodded. “You did well back there.”
“Something came over me, like I became someone else.”
“Adrenaline and your survival instinct.”
Bracing her hands on the arms of the chair, she slowly and painfully lowered herself into the chair. “Please tell me that you’re hurting like you were trampled by a herd of water buffalo.”
“I’m sore.”
She rolled her eyes. Men. But he wasn’t just any man.
A short while later he pulled into a home improvement store’s parking lot, driving around to the far side. He put the RV into park and, engine running, walked to the back. She pushed to her feet and hobbled to the fridge to get a bottle of water. He hadn’t bothered to close the door to the bathroom, so when he shucked out of his shorts, she saw just about everything in the mirror’s reflection.
Of course, he glanced up while she was gaping. Without a blink, he dragged on a pair of jeans, replaced his belt, and then wriggled into a shirt as he walked to the front. The shirt was cool, red at the shoulders, beige at an angle at his midsection, and white on the bottom. He rested his fingertips on her shoulders as he eased by her.
He didn’t seem the least bit bothered that she’d watched him, but she was. To cover her embarrassment, she said, “Don’t you close doors?”
He dropped back into his seat and put the Tank back into gear. “I’m not used to having a woman in here. And when I do, I don’t have to be modest.”
“I see.”
And she did, getting a mental picture of some sexy woman sprawled out on that bed with him. Not lying next to him as she had but wrapped around him, their bodies intimately joined.
Stop that!
She unwrapped another piece of chocolate and jammed it in her mouth.
He pulled out of the parking lot. “In a couple of hours we’ll find a campground, dump the tanks, and fill the water tank. We can also grab a shower.”
A hot shower sounded heavenly. She eased back into the chair, leaned her cheek against the back of the seat and drifted off, exhausted. In her disjointed dreams the river tumbled her and a jaguar ate her. She woke an hour later when she felt the Tank slow to a stop. A sign welcomed them to THE COZY PINES CAMPGROUND.
He obviously didn’t know she was awake yet, because he winced when he got to his feet. He’d never give that away otherwise. He stretched, arching his back, then stepped out the door. She watched him walk to the office, noticing his gait was a bit stiffer than usual. That didn’t detract from the view at all. His jeans weren’t tight, yet they fit him just snug enough to show the solid body wearing them. They were unusual, with two waistbands and various zippers and pockets sewn on in places you wouldn’t expect, like down the side of the legs.
A few minutes later he walked back, the stiffness gone. He had the confident gait of a soldier on a mission, his stride long, his movements economical. Two young boys raced across his path, so caught up in whatever game they were playing they didn’t see Cheveyo. Instead of looking annoyed, though, he watched them run off, a wistful look on his face. Was he remembering himself at that age? Had he been able to play like that, free and fearless?
His expression turned grim again as he took in their surroundings, always checking. That was how he lived his life. Just like domestic cats she’d seen, never really relaxing or sleeping, always ready for either predator or prey. Sadness overwhelmed her, the need to heal his soul, to make him happy.
She wiped the expression from her face when he stepped inside, which was a good thing since his gaze went right to her. “One hot shower, coming up,” he said.
She twined her fingers and sighed. “You know just what to say to a girl.”
He dropped into the driver’s seat. “Yeah, I’m a real charmer. Things like ‘I’ve got to get rid of you’ and calling you wicked.” His mouth was quirked in a wry grin even as he maneuvered the Tank into the campground. He’d probably asked for a spot near the entrance, because he aimed for the second spot after the gate.
“You can sleep in the bedroom, you know,” he said, tracing a line across her cheek. “You’ve got seat crease.” He paused, his gaze holding hers for a breathless moment. He dropped his hand.
She rubbed at her cheek, checking the rearview mirror. Oh, jeez, it looked like a Frankenstein scar, with stitches and everything. “I like being up front. That way I don’t miss anything.” She honestly hadn’t even thought about lying down on the bed, as much sense as that made.
Because you want to be near him.
He backed into the space and then went outside to hook up the water or whatever one did to these things. She got out, too, watching him move like he’d done this a lot. The word OUTLAW was painted on the side of the Tank. Appropriate model for Cheveyo. “Need any help?”
“Got it, thanks,” he said absently.
He did, too, and she found herself following him back into the Tank. “How much of your life do you spend hunting?”
He walked to a small closet in the hallway and pulled out towels. “There’s always something that needs to be taken care of. There are portals—what Pope calls finestras—all over the world.” He held out a towel to her. “We’ll use the common showers.”
“Can I take longer than a ten minute shower?”
“As long as you want.” The hint of a smile on his face warmed her. She’d never seen him full out smile. A desire to do anything, anything at all, to bring out that smile washed over her.
She shuffled over like a ninety-year-old, taking the towel from him. He stepped into the bathroom and grabbed sha
mpoo and soap bottles. When she took them, he pulled out a black vinyl bag from the lower cabinet and threw clothes into a larger bag.
“Wait, need to get my razor and shaving cream.” She was not going on the run with hairy legs.
He opened the door for her, and they walked to an old wooden building. People were friendly, nodding at them, obviously thinking they were a couple. As she headed toward the entrance marked WOMEN, he touched her arm.
“Uh-uh.” He nodded toward another door with a sign that read FAMILIES. “We stick together until we get to my place. I’m not taking any chances with you.”
With her. As though she were precious. Then it hit her: “We’re showering together?”
“They have separate stalls. The guy was selling me on the fact that they had this family shower room so couples can bathe in the same space.”
“Oh. After what happened today, do you think that’s a good idea? I don’t want to kill you or anything.” She couldn’t help the snippy tone in her voice, which he obviously picked up.
“Don’t take it personally.”
“How am I not supposed to take it personally? Especially knowing you don’t throw words around like ‘death’ or ‘killing’ indiscriminately.”
“What we feel is a jumble of neurotransmitters and hormones, probably increased by our connection. Biological and dangerous as hell when the enemy is in the vicinity.” He opened the door. “But we’re taking showers in the same general space. No big deal.”
Easy for him to say.
He locked the door behind them, an ominous click that juxtaposed his words. She swallowed hard.
The room was softly lit and filled with the scent of soap and damp air. There were two stalls, each with a flimsy plastic curtain, and one dressing area with a sink and a bench. Perfect for shaving, since it had water and a drain around it. She turned on her shower and when it was good and hot stepped in. A long, guttural sigh escaped her throat. She let the hot water pound her back and neck, the most achy parts of her body.
Next door she heard the water hitting his body, and . . . a groan? She couldn’t be sure and fine-tuned her hearing. Yes, another soft sound, because he hurt as much as she did. So he was human after all.
His shower cut out, and through the crack where the curtain didn’t meet the wall she saw him step out and grab the towel on the hook. Steam wafted out with him like a magical mist. He dried his hair, his movements slow, languid. Or his thoughts were a million miles away, since he was staring off into space.
His back was to her, graceful lines dipping to narrow hips and a butt that was so exquisite it hurt to look at. Even his palest skin was olive, and unmarred. Elsewhere, though, she saw faint scars. He bent over and rubbed the towel down his legs, muscled thighs finely dusted with dark hair. After wiping down the mirror above the sink, he wrapped the towel around his waist and started shaving.
Of course, she wasn’t doing a bit of lathering while watching him. The sight of him and the hot water beating on her back were an alluring combination. She forced herself to turn and continue. As much as she wanted to linger, she realized he had no intention of leaving her in there by herself, which meant he would have to wait for her. That he was obviously willing to do that, well, it just warmed her heart. That he wasn’t used to being around people made it all the more meaningful.
She turned off the water and blindly reached for the towel she’d hung on a hook. She yelped when she felt a hand instead of terry cloth. He was holding the towel for her.
“Oh, thanks.”
It felt strangely intimate, him standing so close when she was wet and naked. She dried off, wrapped herself in the towel, and stepped out. He was dressed in the clothes he’d thrown on after their river dip. She grabbed her razor and cream and sat on the bench, squirting some on her legs and lathering them up.
After cutting herself badly early on, she always paid one hundred percent attention to the task. That wasn’t easy with a sexy guy leaning against the sink watching her. She tried to ignore him, but that became impossible.
“Why are you watching me?” she asked as she rinsed the razor under the faucet.
“I’ve never seen a woman shave before. I’d think the knees would be tricky.”
“Not usually.” Of course, the blade nicked her, and blood poured out of the tiny cut.
He tore several paper towels from the dispenser and knelt down in front of her, pressing them against the cut.
“Can you heal yourself?” he asked.
“No, dangit.”
“It’s normal, you know, that people with abilities can’t use them for their own benefit.”
She met his gaze. “Does that mean my mother didn’t purposely set herself on fire?” Her heart felt heavy, as it always did when she thought of that horrid scene.
He squeezed her hand. “No, she couldn’t have.” He quickly let go. “She probably just lost control. Many of them did.”
She breathed that in, feeling something in her chest loosen.
“She died when she was my age. It’s funny—well, not funny ha-ha—that when I was a kid, I thought I’d die at twenty-four. And I almost have, more than once.”
He was looking at the wad of paper he held on her knee. “You’ll live till you’re eighty.”
“How do you know?”
Now he met her gaze. “It’s my job to make it so.”
His job. She shivered at that, the straightforward way he’d said it, the fire in his eyes, kneeling in front of her like her knight-protector.
She turned her attention back to her legs, her heart taking a perilous dip. Once she was done, she took her clothes into the booth and got dressed. “Thanks for being patient,” she said when she walked out.
“Is that what I’m doing?”
He didn’t look the least bit annoyed. In fact, he was smiling just a little.
“Most guys would be pacing or complaining by now.”
His smile disappeared. “Is that a fact?”
She ran that through her head, realizing how it sounded. “Not that I’ve been in this kind of situation a lot. Only Eric, who was totally impatient when he was waiting for the bathroom we had to share when we were teenagers. The problem was, he spent as much time getting ready as I did.”
They walked back to the Tank, Cheveyo surveying their surroundings. It was late afternoon now, and the smell of BBQ wafted through the air.
“Hungry?” he asked.
“Why do you ask?”
“The way you were sniffing the air.”
Her nose was tilted up to catch the scent. “Oh. Yeah, I guess I am.” Her stomach gurgled just to make the point.
“The guy in the office said there was a good steak place down the road. We’ll hit that.”
They climbed on the bike and headed there. It was the first time she’d ridden with him that she hadn’t had to hold on for dear life. Now she could enjoy holding onto him, leaning into the turns, feeling the freedom of being out in the open. She liked seeing their shadow on the asphalt, two people riding together. Together. Soon they’d have dinner like two normal people. And always, always, he would be watching for danger.
As they returned to the Tank, Cheveyo could see Petra’s movements becoming stiffer. She was putting on a brave face, but he caught her wincing as she leaned against the kitchen counter. He latched the heavy duty locks he’d had installed on the door and stepped up beside her. Her hair smelled like cherry blossoms, and his fingers itched to unravel her long braid. He would resist the temptation.
Early evening light slanted into the dim space. They didn’t have much time, and he needed to recharge. After taking care of one thing.
“Strip down to your bra and panties,” he said. “And lie down on the bed.”
She spun around, her mouth open in surprise.
“I have a special rub, made by the Navajo, that’ll ease your bruises, cuts, and aching muscles.”
She closed her mouth for a moment, though her blue eyes were filled with pu
zzlement. “Okay.”
He was going to put his iron control to the test. He turned away so she could get undressed in private.
He’d glimpsed her in the shower earlier, through the gap in the curtain. If he’d been a lesser man, he would have shoved the curtain aside and taken her right there. She pushed his control to the fine edge, but he would master it.
He heard her pad upstairs to the loft, heard the shush of clothing fall away. His erection responded instantly, but he willed it down. He couldn’t let her see his arousal. He went to the console at the front and turned on the seventies rock music channel on the stereo. Bad Company’s “Ready for Love” flowed from the speakers.
“Okay,” she said, a slight quiver in her voice.
He regulated his breathing when he got to the top of the steps and saw her lying facedown on the bed. He could lower his heart rate, and he needed to do that now. Her arms were up by the pillows, her head to the side. She was long, her body pale and gilded by the waning sunlight. Her back was elegant, curving in at the waist and flaring out at her hips, lush and curvy, not twig thin like most women starved to be. Her sweet ass was covered by silky pink panties edged in lace. All it would take was a flick of his fingers to break the thin ribbon at the side.
What he needed to focus on were the bruises and scratches that marred her creamy skin. None brutal, but the rocks had taken their toll on her. She’d suffered abuse that day. Unacceptable. He would do his best to make sure she never had to suffer it again.
She pushed her hair to the side, and he saw an eye looking at him from the back of her neck. It was roughly the size of a quarter, blue with slashes in the iris. “What’s with the tattoo?”
“Zoe’s a tattoo artist, and she’d drawn this eye. Said she had a dream about it. We deemed it the Rogues’ symbol. She inked it on all of us. We decided the blue eye is for the program our parents were in; the O of the iris is for Offspring; and the R in the iris is for Rogues. Later we found out it’s a symbol for elite Callorian spies and pilots, and Pope’s father was a pilot. His DNA is in us, which is probably why Zoe dreamed about it.”
He ran his finger over it, tracing the lines. Goose bumps popped up on her back wherever he touched, and he pulled his hand away. He lit the sage stick and used the hawk feather to clear their bodies of negative energy.
