Page 30 of Uncontrolled

“Allie,” Christopher says, gesturing. “This is LowLow, dirtbag pacifist. Emphasis on the fists.”

“Hey no!” LowLow blurts as if offended. “I don’t fight! They fight me!”

Despite his carefully constructed shell, a few seconds with the guy and I’m at ease enough to lower my guard. I offer a tiny wave.

“LowLow, this is Allie.” As Christopher finishes the introduction, his amusement sobers. “She’s no angel, but she sure as hell is something else.”

I have the distinct impression he’s not referring to the blood in my veins and what I can do with it. “Such a flirt,” I deadpan, to stop myself from blushing even as my stomach flip-flops.

“And,” he adds to LowLow. “She has a supremely comfortable couch.”

The happy bubble inside me abruptly pops. Why did he specifically mention he’s sleeping on the couch? Does he not want LowLow to think we’re together? My mind skips to the screaming match we had about the hunters, at the hints Christopher dropped about wanting an us.

What if he’s done waiting for me to muddle through my feelings? What if he discovers I’m blowing him off to do a resurrection and it’s the last straw?

“Ploy, your girl’s upset,” LowLow says.

I startle to find the gutter punk’s attention concentrated on me. “Who, me?”

“You went away from us.” He sets the drum aside and fiddles with the end of one enormous braided loc, studying me far too intensely. It’s insistent, like he’s gearing up to read my palm or another silly “talent” the street performers here use to scam the crowd. “You seem…blue,” he says and I’m almost positive he paused to set the color off on purpose, as if he knows the secret meaning.

“What?” I say, unnerved.

He smiles. “Forget it.”

I mentally shift LowLow from harmless to bright yellow caution. He doesn’t seem dangerous. Now I’m wondering if that’s what he planned. Except with his genial mood as he plops into the grass and takes up the drum again, I’m wavering. It’s the paranoia, I think. I’m reading into a totally innocuous exchange.

He pounds a new beat on the drum, deep and driving and steady. I’m hyperconscious of our audience. The crowd swells as LowLow plays, drawn in by the music. I’m working on what to make of him when Christopher’s touch skips over the bare skin of my shoulder, distracting me. “Come on,” he chides. “Don’t be mad.”

Before I can move away, he finds my elbow and tugs me to his side. When his arm comes around me, I feel the tickle of his breath at my ear before he whispers my name. He rocks us in a slow dance at odds with the drum.

“Sure you’re fine?” he asks. He twirls me once, scrutinizing, and then draws me close. “You’re not fine.”

He smothers my denial against his chest. While his arm tightens around my middle, his lips graze my temple, then the lobe of my ear. A flare of goosebumps rises on my arms. I curve into the shape of him.

“Better?” he murmurs, his voice a shiver I can’t shake. His smile sickles across my skin. I want him, want tonight, this, us. Yet, in my head, a timer is counting the minutes. Two, three, four.

I swallow hard, my split second of joy forgotten. “I can’t stay.” I watch him for a reaction, tension crawling into my muscles. “Talia needs me.”

He’s going to ask when he’ll come first. As long as I’m a resurrectionist, the answer is never. Let him go before he gets hurt, my brain whispers. Before this gets too complicated. “I’m sorry about date night,” I say.

He kisses my forehead and slings a casual arm over my shoulders. “Don’t be.”

He flashes a sign to LowLow, who stops playing. Around us, tourists step forward to throw coins into the banged up plastic Frisbee I didn’t notice in front of his drum.

LowLow rises from the ground in the opposite of a pounce. He points at me. “Allie, until we meet again,” he says. “Be decent to Ploy, here.”

I’m certain he’ll say something else, but Christopher’s tugging, drawing me elsewhere. Swallowing hard, I fight my attention from LowLow.

“Everything go good with your call?” Christopher asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “Standard drama.”

He kisses my knuckles as I lead us across the square in a brisk walk. We’re out of time. Talia’s probably already waiting for me.

Despite our speed, he swivels to face me, jogging backwards. “It was the couch comment, wasn’t it?” he asks.

“Huh?”

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