Page 23 of Captured By the Scaled Outlaw
I give a weak grin in response.
Lowell extends his reptilian leg to lift the kickstand, standing the bike upright. With a twist of the throttle, the freed cycle shoots us toward Rime Mountain. The sudden surge forward yanks me backward I and gasp. I squeeze Lowell’s waist, the hard muscles refusing to cushion my straining arms.
The sandcycle spits up mounds of sand in our wake, the rumbling motor a relaxing harmony with my anxiously swirling stomach. Itfeels odd to be this close to Lowell. To be hugging his back protectively despite nearly being inside his stomach twelve hours ago.
This whole situation is bizarre.
I’m fortunate my plan is fairly straightforward, given its absurdity. With no need for advanced preparations, there were no more cold, damp nights in the prison accompanied by tasteless gruel. Although I’m surprised by how quickly Lowell accepted my proposal — he seems just as desperate to find something that works as I am to leave.
I wonder if my previous work was as detrimental as Lowell tried to make me believe. If my efforts were truly in vain, this would be one of the few ways to correct it. Then again, taking up a position as an eco-terrorist isn’t a solution I desire, either. Despite our differences in execution, Lowell and I have similar goals. Although the pit in my gut deepens, I hope that we’ll be able to succeed.
* * *
We set up our tents approximately five hours from Rime Mountain. The full moon peeks out from the edge of the horizon as shadows are cast from the dunes. The chill of the desert overtakes the once-sweltering heat, howling winds whistling over the sand. Thermal tents make the temperature change manageable, but it’s far from comfortable. The frigid air freezes me down to my bones, every hair standing on end.
I pull my knotted hair loose from the lazy braid I weaved before leaving Nilsan, the strands fused in a disastrous tangled web. Running my fingers through the knots, I wince when they catch with each pass.
Outside my tent, Lowell is clamoring about. He was uncharacteristically quiet during our small dinner of rehydrated beans and rice, his face serious and focused. He almost seemed nervous.
“Shit!”
I hear the distinct sound of a tool dropping into the sand.
Reaching to unzip a corner of the tent, I peer out of the small slit to remain unnoticed.
Lowell crouches near his sandcycle, pieces of the passenger footrest strewn about. He wears nothing but tightly fitted pants, his leather jacket tossed on the ground beside him. Occasionally reaching for his bandana to wipe away building sweat, it otherwise remains tucked into his back pocket.
Under the moonlight, Lowell’s scales glow. Their deep-grey assumes tones of blue from the night sky, accentuating every curve and muscle of his body. The scars that crisscross across his pectorals and abdomen vary in depth, puckering the skin to form a color much deeper than the rest.
I haven’t noticed until now how large his biceps are. How they look capable of crushing a human skull with little effort. Unfortunately, Lowell is sickeningly attractive. I can’t take my eyes off him, drinking in every blemish, scrape, and scar that glimmers in starlight.
“Enjoying my struggle?” Lowell grunts, his amber eyes shining in the darkness as he looks over his shoulder at me.
I’m unsure why I thought a Lizardfolk, notorious for their night vision, wouldn’t catch me spying.
I pull my lips into a thin line, zipping open the door until the metal touches the ground. “I have to enjoy it when it happens. Your pain is the only thing that’ll keep me sane,” I say, gingerly stepping outside.
Lowell turns his attention back to the sandcycle, whipping one of his hands back and forth as he sucks his teeth. “Can’t die from a minor pinch. Sorry to disappoint.”
I stare at the sandcycle, leaning over his shoulder for a better look. Before I can assess whatever Lowell is doing, a gust of wind slaps my hair against my face, pulling it in every direction. I spit a few strands from my mouth once the wind quiets down.
Lowell fights a smile, his lips twitching with a snicker.
Embarrassed, I puff out my cheeks, furiously grabbing chunks of hair to braid it once again. My fingers fumble with the strands, the braid pattern messy and juvenile.
“Stop laughing at me,” I snap, tying the ends.
Lowell shrugs, tilting his head to hide his expression. “Your braiding skills are horrendous. But I can’t complain too much — the matted knots are much easier to grab,” he retorts, intentionally trying to get under my skin.
My jaw ticks, unable to hide my irritation. “Goddess, I don’t even know why I came out here,” I huff, stomping back towards the tent.
Lowell snatches my wrist to halt me from storming off. He sighs in resignation, softening his hardened face. “Let me do it. Riding in the open air on the sandcycle will tangle it like crazy — to the point you’ll have to cut it off. It has to be braided correctly.”
I suspect he is teasing me, but his face remains serious. Usually, he’d smile his usual shitty, smug smile when he’s making fun of me, but for some reason, he’s not. It’s a bit unnerving.
“Why do you care — or better question, how do you know how to braid? You don’t have hair,” I say, skeptical. There is no chance his intentions are pure.
Wrinkling his snout, he rolls his eyes. “I grew up around humans with long hair, so I learned.” A claw points in my direction, not accusatory, but questioning. “Besides, why are you so bad at it?” he presses.
