Page 51 of Three
My surprised cough turns into a laugh. Papa Bear mumbles something that suspiciously sounds like, “Damn brats.”
seven
RAMIEL
Hunter’s lips open to blow out smoke. The smell from the cigarette is strong, but I like the rich tobacco scent that lingers on his skin.
We’re still in his backyard. Fortunately, the wicked trio hasn’t bothered us again. The late morning sun is warm. A light breeze caresses my face sporadically. The beer in my hand feels cool and wet, the bitter aftertaste remains on my tongue.
So many things to feel. It’s a lot to handle after years of almost nothing. And yet, I want more.
He flips the beer cap between his fingers, and it hits the rim of the garbage can behind him before falling inside.
“Can I hold your hand?” I look at his strong profile.
He just turns his palm toward me. If I knew it’d be this easy, I’d have asked to hold something else.
I lace our fingers together, leaving my pinky against his palm to stroke his skin. The gesture feels right.
“What caused the numbness?” he asks abruptly.
“That’s a story for another time.” I’m still riding the afterglow train, don’t want to be pushed off yet.
His eyes skitter briefly across mine before looking away again.
“Powerful tool, the brain,” he finally states.
“Fascinating, my mother would say.”
“You have two, right?”
I smile at his partial knowledge of my life. I left some crumbs in case someone felt the need to stick their nose into my business—apart from my fans. Having no background at all would have been too suspicious.
“Foster mothers. And six foster brothers.”
“Brothers?” He didn’t know about them—few people do.
“Fosterbrothers. All with angel names.”
“Angel?” He makes an incredulous sound and then drinks from his bottle. The bobbing of his Adam’s apple is hypnotizing. Is wanting to suck on it a weird thing to crave?
“Hey, Papa Bear, you foster a wicked trio. ’Nuff said.” There must be a story there. I’m tempted to ask Serena to dig into it, but it can wait. “And it could have been worse than angels. We could have been called after the seven dwarfs,” I joke.
Hunter’s lips give a small twitch, but no smile. He puts out the cigarette in the ashtray on the small table. And I know it’s my cue to go.
I place my beer on the wooden surface and run my fingertips over the uneven grooves of the old table, trailing its contours as I tellmyself to stand up and leave. I have things to check, work to do. I can come back later.
“Well, I have three tortoises and a mountain of food waiting for me to taste, so…” I chance a glance his way.
“Tortoises? Not an iguana person?”
My nose scrunches up. “Iguana?”
“Odd, rare, high maintenance,” he easily lists.
“Are you describing me or the iguana?”
“Maple seems to love you.” When I frown at him he adds, “My dog. You have the humping in common, and the drooling.”
