Breathless (19 page)

Luna stared at the spot on her arm where Morgan had bumped her, as if waiting for hives to break out. “What now?”

“When you get your legs . . .”

Luna blinked at her. “Yesssss?” she hissed.

“Do you get al the human parts or just the legs?”

“Morgan!” I covered my eyes with my hand. “I can’t believe you just asked that.”

“What?” She asked. “I’m curious. Just pretend I’m a scientist. Besides, you can’t tel me that you haven’t wondered yourself.”

“Me? That’s . . . I . . .” I refused to look up at her, to expose my burning cheeks. “Of course not.”

“Liar liar, pants on fire,” Morgan sang. “Unless . . .”

Oh God.
I glanced at her, silently begging her with my eyes to stop the direction of this conversation.

“You’ve never seen one.” She folded her arms and smirked at me, as if daring me to disagree. When I didn’t, her eyes widened and she brought her hands to her face to cover her gaping mouth. “Oh. My. God. It’s true. You’ve never seen one.”

I crossed my arms, trying to copy her defiant pose, but I only managed to look defensive. “And you have? I thought you were into girls.”

She laughed. “Honey, did you ever think that maybe I’m into girls because I
have
seen one? And wasn’t impressed.”

My mouth flapped open and closed like a screen door banging in the wind as my mind scrambled to come up with a good comeback.

“What are you talking about?” Bastin asked.

“Your boy parts,” Morgan answered with a wink. “Edith’s never seen what’s under a guy’s zipper.”

“Oh.” Bastin slid out from under me and undid the top button on his shorts. “Why didn’t you say so? I’l show you.”

I gasped. “No!” My hands flew back to my eyes.

Across the room, Morgan fel onto the ground in a fit of laughter.

I stil hadn’t removed my hands from my eyes. “I don’t want to see!” My face seemed to sear my fingertips, my skin was so hot. Before I could stop myself, I felt the first teardrop trail down my palm, fol owed by a stream. I dropped my hands and glared at Morgan. “Thanks a lot for embarrassing me.” Before she could answer, I ran from her room, back outside, where I hoped the cool night air would melt the heat washing over me.

It wasn’t long before a door open and shut behind me. Without looking I said, “Morgan, I real y don’t want to talk to you right now.”

But it was Bastin who answered. “I’m sorry for upsetting you.”

I quickly wiped away the remaining tears before I turned to face him. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t know.”

He nodded. “Yes, but I stil don’t understand. I was just trying to help.”

The burning returned to my cheeks. “People don’t usual y show their stuff to other people, Bastin.”

“Why not? Our kind has no problem with nudity. We only cover when we’re on land so we don’t draw attention to ourselves. We’re ashamed of nothing.”

“I don’t . . . I don’t know.” I sighed. “While your way sounds liberating, here, on the surface, we keep our clothes on.”

“You’re
never
naked?”

The blush spread from my face, creeping down my neck, until there wasn’t a place on my body that wasn’t warm. “I . . . wel . . . there are times when people get naked, I guess. When we bathe and . . . other things . . .”

He moved in front of me, tilting his head so that we were removed from the world, under the curtain of his hair. “What kind of things?”

His breath brushed my cheek like a velvet glove, sending delicious tremors coursing down my body. I had to lock my knees to keep from toppling over. “Um, sex.”

“Sex,” he repeated, settling a hand against my hip and drawing me closer so not even the night air stood between us. “What the sailors wanted.”

I was suddenly aware how alone we were and just how dangerous that was. “What sailors?” My voice was a whisper.

“Years ago, several tribes would have their younger maids lure sailors into the water by displaying their nakedness. I never understood why the sailors would plunge to their deaths before now. The pul I feel to you is”—he shuddered—“almost painful. If I were a sailor, and you the maid, I would already be dead.”

My mouth went dry and I felt myself wanting to pul away from him. What was wrong with me? This was Bastin. My Bastin. Why was I suddenly so afraid?

Bastin lifted his hand to my face, but stopped before his skin touched mine. Tilting his head to the side he sniffed the air and frowned. “I can smel your fear, Edith. Why are you scared of me?”

I tried to speak, swal owed, and tried again. “Not you.” My voice trembled. “I’m scaring myself.”

He blinked.

“Because,” I continued, “you’re looking at me as if you’d like to devour me. And al I want to do is let you.”

“Good.” And then he had both arms around me, moving so fast that it brought a startled cry to my lips—a cry that was quickly swal owed by his mouth. And then, it was as if he real y was devouring me—melting together in a tangle of limbs and hungry mouths. So much so, that when the morning final y came, and Bastin would return to the ocean, I wondered just how much of me would be left.

I spent the rest of the weekend holed up in my bedroom, trying to stay under Sir’s radar. Aside from my midnight visits with Bastin, I did my best to blend into the background, hoping Sir would forget about his threat and the suitcase propped next to my bed.

I real y should have known better.

Monday morning, I awoke to a banging outside my bedroom door. Unlike Bastin’s soft taps against the glass, this knock wasn’t asking permission.

After rubbing the grit from my eyes, I glanced at my clock radio; four-thirty AM. My heart sank, as it did every day, when the confusion of morning cleared and my dreams dissolved, leaving behind the very real nightmare.

“Get up!” A voice growled from outside. “You have approximately ten minutes to get yourself dressed and on the deck.”

Oh God.
My stomach clenched painful y. I grabbed four antacid tablets out of my nightstand. With everything that happened at Morgan’s house, I’d nearly forgotten my punishment for being caught outside. The physical training had begun.

I dressed as fast as my protesting shoulder would al ow by throwing on a T-shirt and running shorts before meeting Sir outside.

He narrowed his eyes at me—I’d almost forgotten. Quickly, I dropped my arms to my side, stuck out my chest, and snapped my head up in attention. “Sir.”

He nodded. “On the ground. Pushups.”

Good morning to you, too. Why yes, I slept very well. Thanks for asking.
I lowered myself to the ground, my shoulder screaming under the weight of my body.

Sir dropped to the ground beside me and did three pushups for every one of mine. He turned his head, shouting in my face, things like, “You cal that a pushup? I’ve seen five-year-olds who could do better. You wouldn’t last a second on a battlefield. You’re soft. They’re going to eat you up and spit you out!”

I didn’t know which was going to make me pass out first—that my shoulder felt like it was on fire, or the fact that Sir had yet to brush his teeth and every time he shouted at me little flecks of spit landed on my cheek.

“Pathetic,” Sir said, standing up. “It’s making me sick to watch you. Get up.”

After saying a quick prayer to the Lord of Mercy, I did.

He placed his hands on his hips. “Now, we run. Original y, I’d planned a nice five mile course with hil s and obstacles, but I realize you’re stil recovering from an injury. So a three mile jog around the neighborhood wil have to do.”

Apparently, the Lord of Mercy was out of the office today. Maybe I could appeal to the Lord of semi-trucks to send a big-rig to mow me down and put me out of my misery. Tears pricked the corner of my eyes and my face flushed with pre-crying heat. To keep the crying at bay, I bit down on my tongue and fluttered my eyelids, trying to blink back the tears. It worked, which was nothing short of a miracle. The man in front of me was trying to kil me and crying would have made it that much worse.

Sir took off down the street and I had to sprint to keep up with him. After a mile, his breathing and pace were the same as when we’d started.

The only sign that he was working out was a thin sheen of sweat that glittered on his bald head. I, however, was gasping for every breath with an aching cramp that ripped into my side. Stil , I managed to keep up.

The last mile, it was al I could do to remain upright.

When our house came into view, my knees gave out and I stumbled onto the gravel.

Sir glared at me but kept running. “Don’t sit down. Do you want your muscles to knot up?”

It was too late for that. My entire body was a guitar strung too tight.

“Walk it off!” he yel ed.

“Yes, sir,” I stood on shaky legs and brushed the rocks off my knees, at least the bits that weren’t embedded in my skin. After limping home, I was relieved to find that Sir wasn’t waiting for me in the yard. I used that opportunity to dart into my room and jump in the shower. Afterward, I’d twisted the handles off but water stil drizzled from the showerhead. I had enough on my plate without worrying about leaky plumbing.

I pul ed on a Sir-approved blouse and crammed a black T-shirt and my makeup case into my backpack. After walking into the kitchen, I found Mom standing before the sink with her hands on her hips. Water trickled from the faucet.

“Stupid thing,” she muttered. “It was working fine a minute ago.”

Sir walked in a moment later and positioned himself at the table. “What’s going on?”

I sat next to him without making eye contact and careful y unfolded a napkin, smoothing it around my legs.

“Oh, nothing.” Mom turned and gave him a smile, though her eyes were a little too wide to make it look natural.

Sir didn’t answer, only grunted as he opened the newspaper that waited for him on his plate.

A pop from the stove startled Mom. She picked up a wooden spoon and gave the steaming pot several turns. Next, she grabbed a jar of cinnamon and gave it a few shakes before turning the stove off. “Finished,” she announced with a smile. “My grandma’s famous oatmeal.”

Sir peered at her from over his paper but didn’t return the smile. “About time. We’re going to have to rush to not be late.”

Mom’s smile twitched. “Sorry about that. I guess I fel a little behind this morning.”

Sir took the bowl she offered and dug in. “If that’s the case, Carol, you might want to consider getting up earlier. I can’t have you making me late because you can’t make a pot of oatmeal in under thirty minutes. I think you can microwave the stuff for less than five.”

She stared at her hands, as if straining to keep from reaching for her ring. “Yes, you’re absolutely right.”

Anger flooded my veins like acid. Sir was a jackass. I was used to his constant belittling of myself and my mom. But something I’d never grown used to was the way she accepted it—like a beaten dog ready to rol on its back at the first sign of tension.

She handed me a bowl before sitting down with her own. “I just want to say how wonderful it is the way you two got up early this morning to exercise. It’s great to see you spending time together.”

I almost choked on my oatmeal and had to take a swig of milk to swal ow it down. Sir eyed me dangerously until I’d composed myself enough to resume eating. Leave it to Mom to put a twisted spin on his abuse.

I couldn’t stand to be around them for another minute, so I inhaled my breakfast. When I stood to put my dishes in the sink, a car horn blared from outside.

“What the—” Sir was on his feet in an instant and at the window even faster.

I dared to peek around his shoulder. Outside, parked in our drive, was a red convertible, the top down. Morgan sat behind the wheel, a scarf tied around her head Thelma and Louis style.

Mom came up behind us both and clapped her hands. “Wel , look at that. It’s your new friend, Edith. I bet she’s here to give you a ride to school.

Isn’t that wonderful, Michael? Now you won’t be late for work.”

He didn’t answer but kept his gaze fixated on Morgan. If a look could turn one to stone, Morgan would have been lovely sitting in a garden somewhere with a bunch of pigeons on her head.

I snatched my backpack off the floor and dashed for the door before Sir could stop me. “I’m off to school!” I turned back to sketch a quick wave.

Mom smiled. Sir opened his mouth to say something, but I’d shut the door before he had the chance.

Morgan didn’t look at me as I climbed in next to her. Wordlessly, she handed me a scarf—black with white skul s wearing pink bows—and peeled out of the driveway. The scent of burnt rubber fol owing us for several miles.

“You’re real y trying to get me into trouble, aren’t you?” I asked above the rushing wind. Quickly, I tied the scarf around my head to keep my whipping hair from stinging my eyes.

She lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “We’re already in trouble, don’t ya think?”

She had a point.

When I didn’t answer, Morgan turned to me with a smirk. “The way I see it, if we’re already in trouble, then it doesn’t matter what the hel we do.”

Another good point.

Her grin turned sinister. “Besides, your stepdad’s an ass. I can’t help but screw with him. I can tel he’s not used to it.”

“He’s not,” I said. “Because most people know better. It’s not that I don’t appreciate you pissing him off, but he’s real y good at revenge. And, like you witnessed at dinner, you’re not untouchable.”

“Maybe not.” She remained quiet for several minutes, staring at the road.

Soon, the silence became uncomfortable and I attempted to distract myself by fidgeting with the seatbelt. Morgan hadn’t mentioned the mers once since they left her room early Saturday morning. I wondered what she real y thought about the whole thing but was too chicken to bring it up.

So, what did you think about my merman boyfriend
just didn’t feel like a good conversation starter.

Morgan eased her foot off the gas pedal and turned into the strip mal where we’d played hooky only a week ago.