Page 95 of Sky Song
Cricket brought Lyle home under the stirrings of Hipper’s growls. From behind the wall, she heard Mr. Sulys snapping at his pet to be quiet and Hipper’s responding squeal. Then silence fell.
Lyle lowered himself to the floor, his back to the couch. With a pang, she realized that she expected it. She was learning him, knew his habits by now.
“Are you okay?” she asked. He looked almost fine, but gave off a strange swirling energy that bothered her.
“My head is clear, but my body is like a bag of wet sand. I feel more on drugs than when I’m on drugs. I don’t think I’ll be using that trick with electricity again.” He pulled up one knee and rested his arm over it.
She opened her mouth. His eyes flattened, a snake ready to strike. “Don’t ask about my past now,” he warned quietly.
“You will have to tell me eventually.”
“Why?”
Cricket lowered on the floor next to him. “Because,” her hand hovered over his arm in indecision before settling on top of his sleeve, “you can’t run from yourself forever.”
He groaned, and closed his scary eyes. “You know I committed crimes and went to prison for it. You know I bargained with a white-haired asshole defender to get out. Can we leave it at that?”
“No.”
He opened his eyes and she sank in a sea of onyx. “Why?” he whispered.
“Because I want to know you.” She took his face into her hands. “You’re mine to know.”
She kissed him on his busted lips, tasting the vanilla of the ointment Rosamma had smeared over them. He kissed her back, surging against her, so strong… Suddenly, he pulled back, turning his face away.
“I can’t, my hearts. Not now.”
Immediately, Cricket backed off. “Are you in pain?”
He laughed, a short bitter burst. “I am in pain. My system is all revved up from the shock but I can’t do anything about it. I’m still medicated. Do you understand? I can smell you…”
Cricket sat back on her heels. She wanted to tell him how she hated what he’d allowed to be done to him, that no amount of clear sky over his head was worth this, but really, what did she know? If she were in his position, how much would she be willing to trade to go free?
But it was killing her slowly, seeing this male struggle inside the body that no longer processed the world around him like it was designed to.
She took a ragged breath. “The shock helped you fight.”
“It did,” he agreed. “That bastard was big.”
“You weren’t scared.”
“No.”
“You’ve fought before.”
“Not in the ring.”
“On the streets?”
“Are we digging into my past again?”
“And again.”
He sighed. “Yeah, in the streets. I always fought. That’s what men did where I’m from. If they wanted something, they took it from whoever had it. Food, gadgets, women.”
“You too?”
“Me, too. I was a runt, small for my age - still am. The doctor at the prison told me it was because of malnutrition in my early years.” He smiled crookedly and without regret. Truly, this man had an amazing ability to never feel sorry for himself. “When I was young, I got picked on a lot. I learned to fight because I had to, and I only know how to fight dirty. You had to maim quickly to keep the fight as short as possible, to win without depleting your energies, or you were dead.”
