the side of the road. “I didn’t sleep in my own room, either.”
He didn’t open his eyes. “It’s hard to sleep while you’re being watched, isn’t it?”
I wanted to ask him why They would watch him, but I was afraid he wouldn’t answer. I wanted to ask him why he was sleeping in his car a stone’s throw from my house, but I was afraid he would answer. I thought about his hand darting to his ankle and wondered if there was something hidden beneath his pants leg, something a bit more deadly than the golden band his shirt sleeve had obscured. Sudden doubts crowded in my mind during his silence, but then he opened his pale blue eyes and smiled at me, and the doubts were swept away like so many cobwebs.
“You’re a nice thing to see first thing in the morning.”
The giddiness came rushing back as if it had never gone. I grinned. “I know.” Why did I become this strange, light creature when I was with him?
Luke laughed. “Well, sing something for me, nice thing.”
Entirely shameless, I sang a made-up song about walking without shoes and strange men sleeping in cars, to the tune of “The Handsome Cabin Boy.” Seeing his face lighten, I added another verse about the dangers of cow pastures and men who stayed near them. “Lure” and “manure” rhymed nicely.
“You’re in a good mood today.” He sat up and rubbed his hands through his hair, looking in his rearview mirror. “I’m self-conscious. You’re seeing me without my make-up on.”
It was my turn to laugh. “You’re hideous. I can’t see how you stand yourself in the morning.” With careful fingers, I lifted the very edge of his shirt sleeve, revealing the gold band just under it, beaten into a multitude of different facets. “I didn’t see this before.”
He looked away, out the window, voice oddly dead. “It was always there.”
I touched it, rubbing a finger against one of the beaten facets, and noticed that the skin just at the edge was all smoothly calloused and that the muscle of his arm was contoured around the band; the torc had been there a long time. I looked at it for longer than I needed to, wanting the excuse to run my finger along his skin. Staring, I saw something else: pale, shiny marks running perpendicular to the torc. Scars. My mind recreated the dozen slashes running down the length of his upper arm, gashes that sliced his biceps to ribbons of flesh held together only by that torc.
I ran a finger down one of the scars, toward his elbow. “What’s this?”
Luke looked back at me and answered with another question. “Do you still have my secret?”
For a moment I didn’t know what he meant, and then I gestured to the chain around my neck, lifting it to reveal the key. “One of them. Can I have another one?”
His lips lifted into a smile. “Sure. I’m still fascinated by you.”
“That’s no secret.”
“Maybe not, but it’s fairly stunning, all things considered.”
I pouted. “I can’t consider all things, because I don’t know most of them.”
“Don’t pout. Sing me another song. A real one. Something that makes people cry.”
I sang him “Fear a’ Bhàta”—“The Lonesome Boatman”—and it was sadder and more beautiful than I had ever sung it, because it was for him. I’d never wanted to sing for someone else before—was this how Delia felt every time she walked on stage?
He closed his eyes. “I’m in love with your voice.” He sighed. “You’re like a siren, leading me into dangerous places. Don’t stop. Sing me something else.”
I wanted to lead him into dangerous places, if I was included in said dangerous places, so I closed my eyes and sang “Sally Gardens.” A car’s not the greatest place for acoustics, but I wanted it to sound beautiful, so it did. I don’t think I’ve ever sung it better.
I sensed him, close to me, a second before I felt his breath on my neck. I was surprised at the emotion that flashed through me in the instant before his lips pressed
He didn’t open his eyes. “It’s hard to sleep while you’re being watched, isn’t it?”
I wanted to ask him why They would watch him, but I was afraid he wouldn’t answer. I wanted to ask him why he was sleeping in his car a stone’s throw from my house, but I was afraid he would answer. I thought about his hand darting to his ankle and wondered if there was something hidden beneath his pants leg, something a bit more deadly than the golden band his shirt sleeve had obscured. Sudden doubts crowded in my mind during his silence, but then he opened his pale blue eyes and smiled at me, and the doubts were swept away like so many cobwebs.
“You’re a nice thing to see first thing in the morning.”
The giddiness came rushing back as if it had never gone. I grinned. “I know.” Why did I become this strange, light creature when I was with him?
Luke laughed. “Well, sing something for me, nice thing.”
Entirely shameless, I sang a made-up song about walking without shoes and strange men sleeping in cars, to the tune of “The Handsome Cabin Boy.” Seeing his face lighten, I added another verse about the dangers of cow pastures and men who stayed near them. “Lure” and “manure” rhymed nicely.
“You’re in a good mood today.” He sat up and rubbed his hands through his hair, looking in his rearview mirror. “I’m self-conscious. You’re seeing me without my make-up on.”
It was my turn to laugh. “You’re hideous. I can’t see how you stand yourself in the morning.” With careful fingers, I lifted the very edge of his shirt sleeve, revealing the gold band just under it, beaten into a multitude of different facets. “I didn’t see this before.”
He looked away, out the window, voice oddly dead. “It was always there.”
I touched it, rubbing a finger against one of the beaten facets, and noticed that the skin just at the edge was all smoothly calloused and that the muscle of his arm was contoured around the band; the torc had been there a long time. I looked at it for longer than I needed to, wanting the excuse to run my finger along his skin. Staring, I saw something else: pale, shiny marks running perpendicular to the torc. Scars. My mind recreated the dozen slashes running down the length of his upper arm, gashes that sliced his biceps to ribbons of flesh held together only by that torc.
I ran a finger down one of the scars, toward his elbow. “What’s this?”
Luke looked back at me and answered with another question. “Do you still have my secret?”
For a moment I didn’t know what he meant, and then I gestured to the chain around my neck, lifting it to reveal the key. “One of them. Can I have another one?”
His lips lifted into a smile. “Sure. I’m still fascinated by you.”
“That’s no secret.”
“Maybe not, but it’s fairly stunning, all things considered.”
I pouted. “I can’t consider all things, because I don’t know most of them.”
“Don’t pout. Sing me another song. A real one. Something that makes people cry.”
I sang him “Fear a’ Bhàta”—“The Lonesome Boatman”—and it was sadder and more beautiful than I had ever sung it, because it was for him. I’d never wanted to sing for someone else before—was this how Delia felt every time she walked on stage?
He closed his eyes. “I’m in love with your voice.” He sighed. “You’re like a siren, leading me into dangerous places. Don’t stop. Sing me something else.”
I wanted to lead him into dangerous places, if I was included in said dangerous places, so I closed my eyes and sang “Sally Gardens.” A car’s not the greatest place for acoustics, but I wanted it to sound beautiful, so it did. I don’t think I’ve ever sung it better.
I sensed him, close to me, a second before I felt his breath on my neck. I was surprised at the emotion that flashed through me in the instant before his lips pressed
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