Page 19 of From the Ashes
Good, yes, that’s the word.
CARTER
I’m holding her hand.
I’M HOLDING HER HAND.
Women don’t usually make me feel anything but Lana, damn, Lana is making every single atom of my body awake and aware of her every move. I could tell the session we had was intense for her and perhaps reminded her of difficult memories. If only I could grab that fucker. I’d be happy to break his bones and bury him alive in the woods. Oh, that’d be a treat. Like presents on Christmas day.
Her hand is small and soft in mine, and I like that she hasn’t pulled it away, letting me stroke her hand since we left. It’s only a five-minute walk, but damn, between watching her get outside her comfort zone on the ring and not running away from my emotionless face, I’m out of my depth, and I don’t know if my next move will be good enough. Perhaps she’d prefer a fancier place, but I’m not that kind of guy. I like simple stuff, things that taste good, places where you don’t have to bother about your clothes and shit. But then, Lana has surprisingly accepted the things I gave her until now, so perhaps she will like this too.
She’ll leave you once she realizes you’re just a block of ice with no heart beating inside. You’re worthless, you belong in the basement with hammers, knives, and dead bodies.
“Thank you for the sweater,” she says softly, breaking my thoughts with a light smile as she looks up at me. We’re almost there, passing the streets in our workout wear, but it’s not that cold, so she won’t be sick from it. I would have never offered if I thought it would be too cold for her bare legs with her shorts on. I’m still in my black T-shirt, the evening air cooling down my blood pulsing like a racehorse since she let me hold her hand.
“You can keep it if you want,” I offer, my voice cold as ice. I’d like that, actually. Very much. Knowing that there’s something from me in her home. Something she can look at and think of me if the idea doesn’t repulse her. She blushes but doesn’t answer.
Is that a good thing?
I don’t ask ‘cause we’re already there. Small place, ten tables max, just a food truck with Mexican music, light bulbs, and a small terrace. It’s warm and inviting. There’s a few folk and a family with kids. It’s not much, but I like it. The food truck has been there for years, parked between the warehouses of our neighbors and paying the protection from the club to stay on our territory. I guide us to order and hear her hum at the sight of the food.
“Evening fellows,” greets Marcos, the owner, who knows exactly who I am since most of the club go there once a month to eat after fight night. “What’d ya like?”
I wait for Lana to choose, but I notice her smile fading. Did I do something wrong? “Do you need more time to choose? We can get drinks, there’s no rush,” I assure her, ‘cause her hazelnut eyes aren’t as sparkly as a minute ago.
“No, it’s fine,” she shakes her head, “I’ll take the shrimp one please,” she tells me, and I give her order to Marcos.
“What do you want to drink?” I ask her, and she points with a trembling finger at a bottle of soda. I pay, then invite her to sit on the multicolored wooden chair beneath the string of lights.
“Thank you for the meal,” she stutters with a low voice, the long sleeves of my sweater covering her hands. Something’s wrong. I angle my face on the side, scrutinizing her.
“What?” She chuckles, chewing her lip. “When you do that, I feel like you’re studying me.”
“I’m wondering why you lost your smile when you ordered.” I tell her blankly.
Her lips part before she swallows. “Oh.”
Nervousness.
Fear.
Anticipation of danger.
Nah, swallowing isn’t good.
Marcos brings the plastic platters in front of us, and she digs in with her hands, but puts the tacos back on the paper, light heat smoke coming out of them.
“Wait, it’s hot, think you’ll have to blow on it.” Don’t want her to get hurt, even from a light burn on the tongue. Her brown eyes double in size.Did I say something wrong? Focus, damn it.“Blow on it, sweetness, it’s hot. Don’t want you to burn your tongue,” I repeat, ‘cause maybe she misheard me.
“Okay,” she whispers and blows on her food with the cutest face ever seen.
“You okay?” I ask, wondering why her pupils are dilated.
“Yes-yes, I am, I….I just don’t want to embarrass you by blowing on my food.” She chuckles coldly. Strange. Why would I ever be embarrassed of her? It’s the other way around.
“I don’t understand. Did I say something wrong?” I ask, frowning, my heart skipping a beat.
“No, you didn’t, it’s…it’s perfect.” She smiles gently, the spark beaming back in her pupils, her chest lifting up and down at a normal rate. “Actually, those are the best tacos I’ve ever eaten, how’s yours?”
