Page 69 of Gunslinger Girl
He jumped in beside her with a sly grin. “I wouldn’t want you ladies to tire of the view.”
Pity rolled her eyes at him, but the humor was welcome. Anxiety still slithered at the edge of her mind, but for the first time in days she felt the grip of tension retract slightly, loosened by a generous pour of bourbon and the relaxed company. At Luster’s suggestion, they ordered up dinner and watched a bumbling black-and-white comedy as they ate.
“I wish CONA would make films like this.” Luster licked at a spoonful of ice cream. “Might convince me to join up, become a star.”
“They do.” Pity shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position. Her wound, irritated by her overzealous practice, now ached like an infected tooth. “They’d show them on the commune a couple of times a month.”
“Those hokey things they call movies?” Luster laughed. “More propaganda than stories, and no soul at all. Now, this… Would you stop squirming?”
“Sorry. My leg hurts.”
“Take one of Starr’s pain pills. That’s what they’re for, right?”
“I left them in my room.” You could always call a porter to go get them. Pity eyed Luster. Or…“I don’t suppose there’s something in that stash of yours that would do the trick?”
Surprise, followed by impish appreciation, flashed in Luster’s eyes. “Aren’t you feeling wicked?”
“Don’t tease. Not tonight.”
Luster, chastened, said, “Well, not exactly. But I’ve got something that’ll have you feeling no pain.” She pulled out her tin, picked a pill, and offered it.
No pain. Pity reached for the pill, then hesitated. Is this what you want? She knew this road. One day, long ago, her mother had started on it and never turned back.
Frustration flared.
I’m not my mother. If the last few weeks had taught her anything, it was that.
She swallowed the pill dry. It left a bitter trail on her tongue.
“And so you don’t feel alone…” Luster grinned as she gave one to Garland and took another for herself.
Garland raised his up. “Cheers!”
Quicker than Pity expected, the pain in her leg began to recede. At the same time, her attention started to wander; minutes passed, or maybe it was only seconds. The colors in the room seemed to sharpen as an intense calm spread through her. When she moved her head, she felt adrift.
“See?” Luster’s voice poured like syrup. “Better, right?”
Pity nodded. “Doesn’t hurt anymore.”
Luster tucked her knees to her chest. She looks like hardly more than a child sometimes, Pity thought. On the other side of her, Garland looked like anything but. Everything about him was acutely mature—square jaw, high cheekbones, bronze skin. His hair, so naturally dark compared to Max’s, gleamed like obsidian.
“Told you.” Luster took Pity’s calf in her hands and ran a gentle hand over the bandage. “Poor Pity’s leg.”
Through the fabric and gauze, Pity felt a shiver of electricity run through her. Beneath her, the linens, always soft, now felt like pure silk. Silk that was about to melt into cream. “It could have—should have been worse. If Beau hadn’t… if I’d only…”
“Stop thinking about that.” Garland turned onto his side next to her, head propped on one arm. The other reached out and took her hand, squeezing it reassuringly. “It happened. It’s over now.”
“That’s not how it feels. The last assassin—”
“Isn’t your problem to worry about.” Luster released Pity’s leg and fell back among the pillows. Her hair fanned out around her like dark corn silk. “Whatever’s happening to him, he deserves it.”
“Maybe.”
Garland seemed to move closer to Pity. Or maybe she moved closer to him. It was hard to tell—the feeling of his hand encompassing hers made her thoughts flutter and break apart like leaves in an autumn wind. Comforting warmth radiated off him, and Pity found her eyes drawn to where his shirt had pulled up a little at the waist, a mesmerizing boundary where fabric ended and his skin began.
“Y’know what?” Luster’s sat up abruptly, face bright. “I’m tired of lying around. I’m gonna go see what Dutch is up to.”
Pity let go of Garland’s hand and started to rise. “We can…”
