Page 120 of Scoring the Player
I sniff the air and follow the scent to Salem’s neck.
“Want some?” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tiny vial.
He rubs the roller against my wrist and temples. I clasp his hand as he pulls it back. “Vetiver,” I say out loud, reading the label.
“You like it?”
My eyes roll closed as I sniff my wrists. “It’s kinda like wood in a new house.”
“Yes, exactly,” he says, twisting the cap back on.
“This is what you do in the morning?”
“Hm?” He sips from the mug.
“Rub on oils, make tea, and sit with Simba.”
“Yeah…kind of.”
“You’re a real human.”
His dimple deepens. “What are you? A mountain lion?”
“If I’m a mountain lion, then you can’t be human.”
“Nah.” He smirks. “I’m whatever eats mountain lions.”
Mmm. Hello, morning wood.
“Wanna go for a run?”
He hands me the mug to finish. “If I beat you, will you throw a tantrum like you did losing to me in Klask?”
“Fuck off!” I down the tea. “I won fair and square.”
“You are a terrifyingly competitive sore loser.”
“Whatever, I won.”
“You did not.”
“I will drown you in the river.”
The fawn’s head darts up.
“You’re scaring the kids, honey.”
“Say I won!”
He pulls my curls. “Do I need to discipline you again?”
A coil of heat stirs in my belly.
“Close your ears,” he whispers to the fawn, whose head slumps back to the ground. He turns back to me. “If I win the race, you gotta give me something I want.”
“Like?”
“Information.”
