Page 18 of Fanged Secrets
Amara’s burst of laughter was like music to me. She wiped the back of her hand over her eyes, lashes slightly damp with unshed tears. But she was smiling when she typed into her cell, simultaneously downing the rest of her slushie with renewed vigor. “I wasbornto ride the bumper cars.”
Chapter 10
Amara
Something changed in Dylan after our impromptu Ted talks at the arcade. It was a slight change, only noticeable in the subtle way her hand brushed mine on the walk back to her car. She didn’t have much to say after I spilled my guts to her over the arcade game, but she didn’t jerk away from my touch like she usually did either.
And when we challenged the sole employee of the arcade to a bumper car race, she’d sat me between her legs and put her arms around me, gripping the steering wheel and hurling us around the rink like a woman who should not be trusted with a driver’s license. Her presence at my back had my whole body in flames, and I was grateful she couldn’t see the blush on my cheeks. In that moment I wasn’t thinking about getting under her defenses or gaining her trust. I wasn’t thinking about Don, and I wasn’t even thinking about escaping him. I was thinking about how pretty her hands were – pale, slender fingers grippingthe steering wheel. I was thinking if I could just hit the jackpot I could win her that bat plushie she’d been eyeing.
Having stumbled on the remnants of her past, and revealing a little of my own, I’d forged a kind of understanding between us – marching across no-man's land with a white flag. There was only one problem with that; I was far more emotionally invested than I should have been. Just how much was a question I didn’t want to face head-on. That question was a little too alarming, and that feeling was compounded by the fact that it had all happened so quickly.
I bottled those feelings on the drive home, watching the city pass by through the window, and consoled myself with another wicked thought: Dylan was cracking.
I stole a glance in her direction. Dylan had her eyes on the road. The usual hard line of her mouth had softened slightly, and she seemed at ease, one hand casually guiding the steering wheel while the other tapped along to whatever was playing on the radio. She glanced my way and caught me watching and I quickly looked away. But a moment later I felt a deep, thrumming vibration through the seat and the soles of my feet, and glanced over again to find Dylan turning the radio up. She gave me a half-smile and focused on the road again.
My icy wife was warming up to me.
Unfortunately, that thought did not bring me comfort the way I thought it would. I had made it this far by telling myself that no matter what I did – deceiving Dylan, gaining her trust only to break it later – it wasn’t personal. I was just doing what I needed to survive. And besides, it wasn’t like she didn’t expect it. Dylan knew Don had ulterior motives when he set up this marriage. Our relationship thus far was like a lion and a circus performer; every day I’d put my head between her jaws, and trust her not to close them and ruin our act.
But the creeping guilt remained. I closed my eyes and leaned back in my seat, brushing a hand over the speaker to feel the thrum of the radio in my palm.
After getting back to the apartment, Dylan thrust the door open and gestured for me to go in before her. I found myself suddenly shy and awkward, like a schoolgirl with a crush, ducking my head down and shuffling past her before she could notice my flushed cheeks.
After the arcade, which would have looked suspiciously like a first date to anyone watching, I wasn’t sure how to act around Dylan. It was clear we were closer than before, but I found myself at a loss on what to do with her attention now that I had it. I stood in the living room, wringing my hands and fidgeting.
Dylan caught my eye and gestured toward the stairs leading to the rooftop, her lips forming the words carefully. “It’s still kind of early. Do you want to hang out in the garden for a while?”
My jaw didn’t quite drop but I’m pretty sure my eyes bulged in my skull because Dylan took one look at my expression and laughed, albeit nervously if her own expression was anything to go by.
“Don’t look so surprised,” she said. “I know you’ve been lurking up there whenever I’m not around.”
And so I hung my head in shame and followed her up to the rooftop.
The garden was as lovely as ever, bathed in the soft glow of the city lights. Dylan sat down on a small bench near the edge of the rooftop and I hesitantly joined her, our knees barely touching. The slight contact was even more maddening than if I’d simply sat in her lap, every slight brush of her knee against minemaking my pulse quicken. I kept my eyes ahead of me, looking out over the city.
I jumped slightly when Dylan tapped my shoulder to get my attention and she quickly removed her hand. “Sorry – you left this up here.”
She leaned backward, rifling around under the bench, and pulled out one of my sketchbooks. I smiled sheepishly and reached for it but Dylan tugged it away, opening to a random page.
“I see you’ve been drawing the flowers,” she mouthed, her eyes scanning the sketches.
The rickety seat wobbled as she leaned back, her free arm resting on the back of the bench behind my shoulders. My neck burned at the proximity. Strangely enough, she exuded no body heat at all, and I was convinced that if I reached out and touched her now, she’d feel cold as ice and smooth as stone. Even more strange, I wanted to do it anyway.
I nodded, feeling shy about my work. The only art of mine that had ever seen the light of day was what was published in my graphic novel. Everything else, all unfinished sketches and rough drafts, were for my eyes alone. And for Aliyah’s, when I still had a sister.
The corner of Dylan’s mouth tugged with a smile and she lightly ran her fingers over the paper. “These are pretty good.”
The compliment flustered me and I wasn’t sure where to look. I couldn’t hold her gaze, so I kept dropping my eyes, lingering on the smooth curve of her collarbone, and then looking up to find she was still looking at me.
Eventually, I pulled out my cell and typed. “Thank you. I’ve always loved to draw. Pen and paper have always been easier to handle than people.”
And then, feeling a little more confident, I continued, “So, are flowers like your hobby?”
Dylan shrugged and lifted the sketchbook as if to get a better look at it. “Kind of, yeah. It feels good to take care of something and keep it alive.”
She gave me a wan smile. “And, you know, plants don’t expect you to talk. But that kind of makes it easier to do so.”
Her admission was surprisingly endearing. But while the hopeless romantic in me swooned at her small divulgence, the suspicious side of me wondered if this was all part of her plan. Her actions this evening had definitely been genuine, and so were mine. I had come to learn that IlikedDylan, something I hadn’t expected at the start. But I was still a mole with ulterior motives, and who’s to say she wasn’t the same?
