“Jakov wanted me to check you were well.”
“He already asked Ranger.”
“Then perhaps he wanted me to check he spoke the truth.”
“Ranger does not lie.”
Katya piled bacon onto a plate and added eggs to the grease in the pan. She pointed to a jar of pickled vegetables.
Ranger pulled a face that made him look twelve years old and my sister laughed again.
“He is nice, brother.”
I sighed. “Indeed, he is.”
Katya left us after she had prepared a breakfast far better than any I was capable of.
She took Lida with her. Because she knew that I would spend my morning goading Ranger into fighting me, and as much as my loyal dog loved Ranger, she could not watch such things without ripping his throat out.
Ranger inhaled his food, washing the dishes while I picked at mine. Loitering with intent until I was finished. “Is it easier if it’s on my plate?”
“Maybe. I have come to like sharing things with you.”
“Makes a change from you outright twoccing them.”
“Twoccing?”
“You’re the linguist. Work it out.”
He left me with that while he showered, something he had not done before. Perhaps because he knew too that fighting for Jake trumped everything, even the festering desire for oblivion.
It did not stop me thinking about drugs. Already missing Lida, I went outside and sat on the patio steps, watching the horizon—the birds, the cloudless sky, and the distant glittering ocean. The air smelled of oranges. Of health and vitality. Was I ready to return to a world heavy with smoke and blood?
Ranger emerged from the house, Jake’s loose sweats low on his hips, boots jammed on his feet, no shirt.
He was beautiful.
He was dangerous.
And for the two weeks of borrowed time, he remained all mine.
The thought of what would happen next drove me to my feet. Ranger flashed to help me, but that had to stop. I had to stand whether it hurt or not. I had to remember how to fight.
And then I had to leave him with no guarantee that I would ever see him again.
“Did you sit on a wasp?”
“Excuse me?”
Ranger made use of his extra inches and gazed down at me. “You’ve got that look on your face.”
“What look?”
“This one.” He pushed my lips down. “Makes you look old.”
I swatted him away. “How old?”
He shrugged. “You look twenty-five, but I reckon you’ve lived too much life to be that young.”
