Page 11 of Wings of Lies
In the distance, lights enticed me with the promise of food and water, possibly safety, and, if I was lucky, a warm bed.
“You got this, Lucille,” I whispered under my breath, pushing back into a crouch. My flimsy muscles strained to keep me stable. It took almost all their strength to hold the position. I bit my cheeks in frustration.
A tanned hand fell into my line of sight, showing off an interesting tattoo on the corner of his wrist. “As much as I enjoy watching your determination in action, we don’t have the time.”
Flicking my eyes from his wrist to his face, I knew he was right.
“Cool tattoo,” I muttered, clasping his hand. He lifted me, placing a supportive arm around my waist as my legs steadied.
“That’s better than I expected. I for sure thought I’d have to fireman carry you again. And if your swamp water appearance didn’t draw attention, that sure would’ve. Too bad we can’t do something about the bruises underneath your eyes or…” Oliver licked his thumb, eyeing my cheek.
“Don’t you dare.” All kinds of different substances were on and in me. The last thing I needed was Oliver’s saliva spread across my cheek, even if it did make my face look cleaner.
Sheepish, Oliver dropped his hand.
He supported me as we walked, filling the silence with his chatter. Either Oliver liked to talk or hated awkward silences with strangers.
“Okay. So, once we cross the rest of this field, I figured we could find you some food. You truly look starved. And my conscience would take a beating if I left a starved child out to rot.”
Again, I wasn’t a child. But if that’s what he needed to believe to help and stay with me, then fine. I nodded, too tired to do anything else.
My thoughts strayed to the voice that invaded my mind. If this was the Oliver she had talked about, I was one step closer to finding my mom.
Chapter
Four
After ten minutes of jumbled walking, we reached a little town called Greenwick. Wrought iron lanterns lined the cobblestone streets, illuminating scattered golden leaves on the sidewalk. Voices and music spilled out from restaurants and cafes. People were everywhere.
I death gripped Oliver’s side as strangers shot us glances and whispered into friends’ ears. After the first two strangers asked if I was alright, Oliver picked me up, not caring about my weak objections. It didn’t stop their eyes. It didn’t stop my cheeks from prickling or my hands from clutching Oliver’s shirt, but it prevented anyone else from approaching.
Oliver walked us into The Grind, a café with fewer people. Cradled against his chest like a child, I squirmed, wanting down. Being held in the arms of a 6’6” giant inside an establishment didn’t help the stares.
But he refused to let go.
“Oliver!”
He ignored my protests and waited silently for the host, disproving my earlier assumption that he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.
“Oliver, you’re making it worse. Let me down.”
Stubborn, he stared straight ahead.
Once the hostess turned our way and noticed the tall guy standing with a scrawny, dirty girl in his arms, she rushed over. Her blue eyeshadow, soft face, and blonde ringlets screamed young.
“O—” She opened her mouth to speak, staring at the dirt on my legs.
Oliver interrupted. “My friend here had a little tumble with her wheelchair. Seeing as she’s paraplegic, I couldn’t let her drag herself to find food. So, if you could stop staring at her legs and find us a table, that’d be wonderful.”
My blush traveled from my hairline down to my clammy hands. I officially wanted to leave.
“Do you—did you want to call someone?” she stammered.
“She’s fine. Just a place to sit, please?” Oliver said with a smile. It was like I wasn’t even there.
“Of course! Follow me,” she squeaked, leading us to a dim corner near the back. We gained a new pair of lingering eyes with every table we passed.
She placed down two menus. “Here you go,” she said, then hurried away.
