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The Killing Dance :: Гамильтон Лорел
Страница: 18 из 285I don't see anyone outhere, but I'm suddenly looking too damn hard."
"I don't smell anyone close to us, but they could be downwind. The only gun I smell is yours."
"You can smell my gun?"
He nodded. "You've cleaned it recently. I can smell the oil."
I smiled and shook my head. "You are so blasted normal, sometimes I forget you turn furry once a month."
"Knowing how good you are at spotting lycanthropes, that's quite a compliment." He smiled. "Do you think assassins would fall from the trees if I held your hand right now?"
I smiled. "I think we're safe for the moment."
He curved his fingers around my hand, and a tingle went up my arm like he'd touched a nerve. He rubbed his thumb in small circles on the back of my hand and took a deep breath. "It's almost nice to know that this assassin business has unnerved you, too. I don't want you afraid, but sometimes it's hard to be your guy when I think you may be braver than I am. That sounds like macho crap, doesn't it?"
I stared up at him. "There's a lot of macho crap out there, Richard. At least you know it's crap."
"Can this male chauvinist wolf kiss you?"
"Always."
He leaned his face downward, and I rose on tiptoe to meet his mouth with mine, my free hand against his chest for balance. We could kiss without me going on tiptoe, but Richard tended to get a crick in his neck.
It was a quicker kiss than normal because I had this itching in the middle of my back, right between the shoulder blades. I knew it was my imagination, but I felt too exposed out in the open.
Richard sensed it and pulled away. He went around to the driver's side of his car and opened his door, leaning across to unlock mine. He didn't open the door for me. He knew better than that. I could open my own bloody door.
Richard's car was an old Mustang, sixty something, a Mach One. I knew all this because he had told me. It was orange with a black racing stripe. The bucket seats were black leather, but the front seat was small enough that we could hold hands when he wasn't using the gear shift.
Richard pulled out onto 270 South. Friday night traffic spilled around us in a bright sparkle of lights. Everybody out trying to enjoy the weekend. I wondered how many of them had assassins after them. I was betting I was one of the few.
"You're quiet," Richard said.
"Yeah."
"I won't ask what you're thinking about. I can guess."
I looked at him. The darkness of the car wrapped around us. Cars at night are like your own private world, hushed and dark, intimate.
"I don't smell anyone close to us, but they could be downwind. The only gun I smell is yours."
"You can smell my gun?"
He nodded. "You've cleaned it recently. I can smell the oil."
I smiled and shook my head. "You are so blasted normal, sometimes I forget you turn furry once a month."
"Knowing how good you are at spotting lycanthropes, that's quite a compliment." He smiled. "Do you think assassins would fall from the trees if I held your hand right now?"
I smiled. "I think we're safe for the moment."
He curved his fingers around my hand, and a tingle went up my arm like he'd touched a nerve. He rubbed his thumb in small circles on the back of my hand and took a deep breath. "It's almost nice to know that this assassin business has unnerved you, too. I don't want you afraid, but sometimes it's hard to be your guy when I think you may be braver than I am. That sounds like macho crap, doesn't it?"
I stared up at him. "There's a lot of macho crap out there, Richard. At least you know it's crap."
"Can this male chauvinist wolf kiss you?"
"Always."
He leaned his face downward, and I rose on tiptoe to meet his mouth with mine, my free hand against his chest for balance. We could kiss without me going on tiptoe, but Richard tended to get a crick in his neck.
It was a quicker kiss than normal because I had this itching in the middle of my back, right between the shoulder blades. I knew it was my imagination, but I felt too exposed out in the open.
Richard sensed it and pulled away. He went around to the driver's side of his car and opened his door, leaning across to unlock mine. He didn't open the door for me. He knew better than that. I could open my own bloody door.
Richard's car was an old Mustang, sixty something, a Mach One. I knew all this because he had told me. It was orange with a black racing stripe. The bucket seats were black leather, but the front seat was small enough that we could hold hands when he wasn't using the gear shift.
Richard pulled out onto 270 South. Friday night traffic spilled around us in a bright sparkle of lights. Everybody out trying to enjoy the weekend. I wondered how many of them had assassins after them. I was betting I was one of the few.
"You're quiet," Richard said.
"Yeah."
"I won't ask what you're thinking about. I can guess."
I looked at him. The darkness of the car wrapped around us. Cars at night are like your own private world, hushed and dark, intimate.