Fake by Francine Pascal Page A

they are . . . ?”
    He leaned toward her, raising his hands in a menacing monster sort of way. “Tickling.”
    Gaia made a noise somewhere between a shriek and a laugh and leapt to her feet. Skyler followed, pursuing her around the apartment until she ended up trapped between the armchair and stereo cabinet.
    She backed up against the wall, holding her elbows close to her rib cage. Never before had she felt such a mixture of fun and fear. As he slowly descended on her, his wriggling fingers inching toward her torso, she stood there cringing but laughing at the same time.
    â€œI haven’t even touched you yet,” he exclaimed as she jerked sideways with a screeching giggle.
    And suddenly, for the first time in her life, Gaia began to understand the absurd mystery of tickling. It wasn’t so much the actual sensation of fingers digging into one’s ribs but the anticipation of it that people responded to. She was laughing in expectation. A nervous, manic laugh, full of both dread and exhilaration.
    â€œDon’t worry,” he murmured. “I’ll go easy on you.”
    The next thing she knew, his hands were on her, fingertips burrowing beneath her arms. Gaia let out a loud burst of laughter cut short by a cry of pain.
    Skyler instantly drew back his hands. “I’m sorry! Did I hurt you?”
    â€œNo. It’s okay. I’m just sore is all.” Gaia rubbed the tender spot on her side. Skyler’s eyes were so full of pity and concern, the sight of them overwhelmed her. She had to turn away, focusing instead on the nubby weave of the carpet.
    A somber air filled the room, as if someone had dumped a bucket of reality on their fun.
    â€œI’m so sorry,” Skyler repeated. He reached forward and lightly grasped her sweatshirt. “Here. Let me see.”
    Gaia moved her arms out of the way as he slowly lifted her shirt to reveal the wound.
    â€œJesus,” he whispered, his fingertips gliding over the raised, credit-card-size welt. His knitted gaze met hers. “Are there more?”
    She nodded.
    â€œShow me.”
    Skyler led Gaia away from the wall and circled her, inching up her shirt to examine her back and sides. She stood there quietly, wincing as his warm hands touched her raw skin.
    â€œDamn,” he said under his breath.
    She couldn’t help feeling like some battered, neglected mannequin, but she wasn’t going to object. Skyler had the firm-yet-soothing voice of a doctor administering an exam. Plus she liked gaining his sympathy. She wanted more of his big-brotherly concern.
    â€œCome over here,” he said, pulling her over to the bar stools. “We have to do something about this.”
    â€œNo, I’ll be okay. Really,” she replied with a shrug. But even to her own ears her objection sounded weak.
    â€œStop it,” he admonished. “I know those have got to hurt. Just let me take care of you.” Setting her down on a stool, he began rummaging through a high kitchen cabinet, eventually pulling out a small tin box. He placed it on the counter and flipped back the lid, revealing a well-stocked first aid kit.
    â€œHere, take off your shirt,” he directed as he unscrewed the cap of a long metal ointment tube.
    For a fraction of a second Gaia hesitated. Then she dutifully tugged the sleeves of her sweatshirt off her arms. Again Skyler had that undeniable air of authority—like a doctor or a judge. She was just thepatient. The injured child. She would do as she was told.
    Once her arms were freed, Skyler grasped the hem of her sweatshirt and helped her pull it over her head. The cool kitchen air breezed against her bare skin. Gaia felt overwhelmingly awkward, hyperaware of the fact that her breasts were completely visible through the faded meshy material of her bra. She might as well not have been wearing one at all. Under the pretense of being cold, she instinctively crossed her arms over her