Page 2 of Mystic Wonderful

But Francis didn’t have much choice in the matter. He was hooked, more or less. All three of the posters he’d bought were of Mayweather. He hung one, but put the other two in his footlocker, for some sense of propriety.

He looked up at it, at night, in the red glow of the dull bulb on the wall, a nightlight designed to allow him to dress in a hurry, should the call to arms come in the small hours. But until then, in the long, sleepless stretches between, he could roll over and look up at the stern visage of his idol – his crush, he could allow – and feel his heartbeat quicken with something besides the usual fear.

Sometimes…sometimes in the privacy of his tiny quarters, he would slip a hand beneath the thin blankets and touch himself, while he gazed up at Mayweather. He imagined the corded steel of his biceps; the rough scrape of his stubble. It was hopeless and dumb, but he knew well enough that life wasn’t guaranteed. This sort of innocent indulgence wouldn’t hurt anyone. Only him. The hurt of unattainable longing.

~*~

Rose was the first person who’d felt like a friend since…well, in a long time. Dangerous, probably. It didn’t bode well to get attached to people. Not in general, and especially not in his line of work.

She repelled the other potential recruits. Walker Boot Camp was full of young, bubbling, boastful Soldiers and Airmen and Marines all more than convinced that they would be the next great generation of Knights. All smirking and show-boating to cover their nerves. Rose could put all of them on their backs. Francis heard the ugly whispers, saw the nasty looks aimed her way; Rose didn’t seem to care. She kept her head down, her gaze flat. If she wasn’t sparring, or trying to break a treadmill, or listening attentively in lecture, she was sharpening a knife – personal weapons were allowed in the Knights, even among trainees, due to scarcity – or staring off into space, eyes glassy, totally removed from the moment.Shock, he thought.Trauma. He’d seen that look on his sisters’ faces growing up.

The others called herstuck up, though.Bitchy.Cold.

“Why does she think she’s better than us?” Martinez asked, too loudly, at dinner one night.

Because she is, Francis thought.

And in being better, she had no friends, nor sympathy. She clearly didn’t want to make an effort in that direction, and if Francis had been smart, he would have left her alone.

No one had ever accused him of brilliance.

“Hi.” He stood at the edge of the sparring mats, as the rest of the recruits filed out, and Rose Greer sat with her legs stretched out in front of her, unpicking the tape from around her knuckles. Wilson left muttering under his breath, jaw already puffy and red; Rose didn’t have a mark on her, as usual.

Her hands stilled: capable hands, he thought, deceptively slender and delicate-looking. She tipped her head back and looked up at him guardedly through her lashes. Her face was impassive; she didn’t greet him in return.

Francis had the sense he would get only one shot at this, and he chose his words carefully. “I’m Gallo,” he said. “That is: Francis Gallo. Frankie. My friends call me Frankie.”

What friends?a nasty voice asked in the back of his mind. He had acquaintances, at best.

“Or Frank,” he added. “I guess that’s more – mature, or something.”

She stared at him.

Might as well get on with it, then. “I know you probably think I’m an idiot – most people do,” he said in a rush. “I’m too soft.” He couldn’t help but grimace. “But you’re good. Really good. And I was wondering if you would help me get better.”

She kept staring – but her brows twitched, once, and he chose to view that as a good sign.

“Help you?”

“Yeah!” Too enthusiastic, but oh well. “I mean – if you had the time. If you had some pointers.” He lifted his hands and struck a pose. “I’m all ears.”

She stared another moment, then tilted her head, examining him. He felt like a butterfly pinned to a board. “No, you’re all thumbs. Don’t tuck them in like that. That’s a good way to break one.”

“Oh.” He glanced down at his hands. His thumbs were tucked inside his fists. “So that’s wrong?”

“That’s very wrong.” She stood; seemed to unfold herself from the floor, impossibly graceful. She was shorter than him, by at least a head, but her aura was tall as she pinned him with a gaze. “You’re asking formyhelp?”

“Well…yeah. You’re the best.”

She waved, a dismissive gesture, and snorted.

“No, you really are,” he insisted. “They wouldn’t hate you so much if you weren’t.” He winced, after the words had left his mouth. You didn’t just go around telling people they were hated. “Sorry.”

But to his surprise, she met his gaze again, and the ghost of a smile touched her lips, briefly. “No, you’re right. They hate my guts.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“You don’t even know me.”

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