attention.
“An institute for the deaf?” he asked.
A logical assumption probably, from his standpoint.
“No. I’m not quite deaf enough to qualify for one of those.”
Technically, she wasn’t deaf at all. Her hearing loss had occurred suddenly at the onset of puberty, and the doctors had never been able to determine a physical cause for it. They had dubbed the condition “hysterical deafness” precipitated by trauma. The trauma being that Roxanne had discovered a rogue force lurking within her; it was at the age of twelve that fires had first begun erupting around her. In her mind the two problems were inextricably and inexplicably linked. But she didn’t try to explain to Slo what she didn’t understand herself. All she knew was that one problem was correctible, and the other wasn’t.
“With an aid I can hear almost normally,” she said, without saying how. The hearing aid was a psychological treatment more than a medical one, and based on the placebo principle. A mental crutch. The power of suggestion. Supposedly the aid allowed her to believe she could hear, so while she was wearing it, she could. Go figure.
“I was in a mental institution.”
“A what?” Slo jerked away. His gaze went wary.
For some strange reason that bothered Roxanne, despite the fact it was pretty much the reaction she’d been hoping for.
“You heard me. A mental institution. A lunatic asylum, a nuthouse, a funny farm. A lockup for crazy people.” She laid it on with a trowel to make sure he stayed wary. Better to be bothered than burned alive. If he tried to kiss her, the motorcycle’s gas tank might explode.
“Mine was a pretty ritzy nuthouse though.” A gilded cage. Privately owned and operated, it catered to a rich clientele. Only the best for haughty Russell Sinclair – the perfect place to dump a distressing daughter and then forget about her, secure in the knowledge she’d be properly pampered as befitted the Sinclair name. “It was kind of like a five-star hotel with bars on the windows. My father committed me when I was twelve. Sam got me out last month.”
There. That was over. And judging by his expression, Slo would now avoid her like the plague. She should be very pleased, very proud of how calmly she’d handled this.
So why did she feel like crying?
Slo swallowed down outrage. In the town where he’d been raised people didn’t lock away their kids. He wanted to ask Roxanne why her father had been such an asshole, but couldn’t think of any tactful way to phrase the question. He reached for her instead, because that was the other thing he wanted to do. Hold her. There was nothing sexual about it, no attempt at seduction. It was the bleak look in her eyes. She tugged at his heartstrings, turned him tender. His arms slipped around her, and he pulled her to his chest in an act of pure comfort.
You might have thought he’d tried to strangle her. She screeched in alarm and grappled free.
Good God , Roxanne thought, he couldn’t still be interested. Or was this some sort of weird perversion? Maybe he’d never made it with a lunatic before and wanted to see what it was like.
“You are a very dangerous and sick man,” she said.
Scrambling upright, she started to flee, evidently preferring the storm to him. Slo no longer wondered why she had been committed. It was obvious the woman was nuts. Mad and maddening. Nonstop trouble. He was half inclined to let her run off and be blown to Oz. But by this time, rescuing her had become a hard habit to break.
He grabbed her arm and tugged.
She lost her footing and fell.
And somehow they ended up tangled together on the floor of the cave.
Anyone for a game of Twister?
It was the tussle in the tent all over again – horizontal dirty dancing full of bumps and grinds – except Slo enjoyed it even more this time, because without the constraining folds of nylon, he had much better maneuverability. When the dust cleared, Roxanne lay breathless beneath
“An institute for the deaf?” he asked.
A logical assumption probably, from his standpoint.
“No. I’m not quite deaf enough to qualify for one of those.”
Technically, she wasn’t deaf at all. Her hearing loss had occurred suddenly at the onset of puberty, and the doctors had never been able to determine a physical cause for it. They had dubbed the condition “hysterical deafness” precipitated by trauma. The trauma being that Roxanne had discovered a rogue force lurking within her; it was at the age of twelve that fires had first begun erupting around her. In her mind the two problems were inextricably and inexplicably linked. But she didn’t try to explain to Slo what she didn’t understand herself. All she knew was that one problem was correctible, and the other wasn’t.
“With an aid I can hear almost normally,” she said, without saying how. The hearing aid was a psychological treatment more than a medical one, and based on the placebo principle. A mental crutch. The power of suggestion. Supposedly the aid allowed her to believe she could hear, so while she was wearing it, she could. Go figure.
“I was in a mental institution.”
“A what?” Slo jerked away. His gaze went wary.
For some strange reason that bothered Roxanne, despite the fact it was pretty much the reaction she’d been hoping for.
“You heard me. A mental institution. A lunatic asylum, a nuthouse, a funny farm. A lockup for crazy people.” She laid it on with a trowel to make sure he stayed wary. Better to be bothered than burned alive. If he tried to kiss her, the motorcycle’s gas tank might explode.
“Mine was a pretty ritzy nuthouse though.” A gilded cage. Privately owned and operated, it catered to a rich clientele. Only the best for haughty Russell Sinclair – the perfect place to dump a distressing daughter and then forget about her, secure in the knowledge she’d be properly pampered as befitted the Sinclair name. “It was kind of like a five-star hotel with bars on the windows. My father committed me when I was twelve. Sam got me out last month.”
There. That was over. And judging by his expression, Slo would now avoid her like the plague. She should be very pleased, very proud of how calmly she’d handled this.
So why did she feel like crying?
Slo swallowed down outrage. In the town where he’d been raised people didn’t lock away their kids. He wanted to ask Roxanne why her father had been such an asshole, but couldn’t think of any tactful way to phrase the question. He reached for her instead, because that was the other thing he wanted to do. Hold her. There was nothing sexual about it, no attempt at seduction. It was the bleak look in her eyes. She tugged at his heartstrings, turned him tender. His arms slipped around her, and he pulled her to his chest in an act of pure comfort.
You might have thought he’d tried to strangle her. She screeched in alarm and grappled free.
Good God , Roxanne thought, he couldn’t still be interested. Or was this some sort of weird perversion? Maybe he’d never made it with a lunatic before and wanted to see what it was like.
“You are a very dangerous and sick man,” she said.
Scrambling upright, she started to flee, evidently preferring the storm to him. Slo no longer wondered why she had been committed. It was obvious the woman was nuts. Mad and maddening. Nonstop trouble. He was half inclined to let her run off and be blown to Oz. But by this time, rescuing her had become a hard habit to break.
He grabbed her arm and tugged.
She lost her footing and fell.
And somehow they ended up tangled together on the floor of the cave.
Anyone for a game of Twister?
It was the tussle in the tent all over again – horizontal dirty dancing full of bumps and grinds – except Slo enjoyed it even more this time, because without the constraining folds of nylon, he had much better maneuverability. When the dust cleared, Roxanne lay breathless beneath
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