waited until the doors of the church thudded shut, and exhaled. In unison.
“Wow, Petrie,” Miles said. “You have such a way with the ladies.”
Petrie retrieved his flask from the steps without comment.
“You are an asshole, though,” Miles went on. “Like she said.”
That pissed Petrie off. “This, from a guy who runs out on his friends without even a message to tell them he’s not rotting in a ditch?”
Miles shook his head. “You don’t see it, and it’s right in your face.”
“What?” Petrie felt his voice rising. “What’s in my face?”
“She likes you,” Miles said.
Petrie stared at the guy, slack-jawed. “Wrong,” he finally said. “Dead wrong. Don’t know where you got that. She hates my guts.”
Miles grunted. “That explains why her heart spikes to one-forty when she gets close to you. Her eyes dilate. And those pheremones must have . . .” He glanced discreetly down at Petrie’s crotch. “Yep. She blushed, too. I only saw from tits up, but God knows where it started from. All those capillaries, expanding just for you, you lucky bastard.”
“Bullshit,” Petrie muttered. His balls tingled, and his belly did a strange, flopping maneuver. He clenched to subdue it. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, looking at her tits?”
A mirthless smile twitched the corners of Miles’ hard mouth. “I may be fucked up, but I’m not dead. Watch yourself, dude. Sveti’s the untouchable virgin princess. Rescued from evil ogres. They’ll shred your ass if you look at her funny. Let alone touch her.”
True enough. There was an unspoken dictate against thinking dirty thoughts about vulnerable, waif-like, china-doll perfect, tragically orphaned Sveti, always and eternally way too young. If anyone did think such thoughts, eight different guys in the McCloud Crowd, plus Tam Steele, who was worse than all of them put together, would rise up and smite him down. Splat.
“So it’s true, then?” Petrie said. “What they say, about your new superpowers? You saw all that? Or are you just jerking me around?”
Miles laughed and then put his hand abruptly to his head, wincing. “Superpowers, my ass. I heard the heart rate, I heard her breathing, I smelled the pheremones, I saw the pupils dilate. I’ve got a sensory overload problem. It comes at me like a fire hose. I can’t block it out.”
“I don’t see why you’d want to,” Petrie said. “Sounds handy.”
Miles just looked at him. The guy’s stark gaze gave Petrie a guilty twinge. It would seem that the guy was not having any fun at all with his super-senses. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Didn’t mean to make light of your, uh . . . disability.”
“It’s okay,” Miles said. “I’m used to being out there. I was a freak before. Now I’m a freak with brain damage. Just a little category shift.”
“So, it hurts?” Petrie pressed for more, unable to help himself.
Miles rubbed his temples. “Cigarettes and bourbon on your breath. Pert shampoo. Old Spice aftershave. Arid Extra Dry, the chemicals they used to dry-clean your suit, the plastic they wrapped it in. Christ, if I took a step closer, I’d pass out from the toxic fumes.”
Petrie uncapped his bottle, drank. “Keep your distance, then.”
“I will,” Miles assured him. “Sveti smelled way better than you. Those pheremones pumping out of her, man. Yum.”
“Keep your dirty mind off her pheremones,” Petrie snapped.
That smile twitched across Miles’ face again. Caught out, in his fucking schoolboy crush. What a dickhead. He held out the flask, in silent invitation.
“Tried that,” Miles said. “Doesn’t help.”
Petrie stoppered the flask, stuck it in his jacket. “That’s sad, man,” he said. “I’m sorry for you. Let’s get on with this.”
They pushed into the church. The organ blared, and lace fluffed, orange flower-scented matrimonial hooplah swelled to greet them.
If managing his disability was like walking a tightrope,
“Wow, Petrie,” Miles said. “You have such a way with the ladies.”
Petrie retrieved his flask from the steps without comment.
“You are an asshole, though,” Miles went on. “Like she said.”
That pissed Petrie off. “This, from a guy who runs out on his friends without even a message to tell them he’s not rotting in a ditch?”
Miles shook his head. “You don’t see it, and it’s right in your face.”
“What?” Petrie felt his voice rising. “What’s in my face?”
“She likes you,” Miles said.
Petrie stared at the guy, slack-jawed. “Wrong,” he finally said. “Dead wrong. Don’t know where you got that. She hates my guts.”
Miles grunted. “That explains why her heart spikes to one-forty when she gets close to you. Her eyes dilate. And those pheremones must have . . .” He glanced discreetly down at Petrie’s crotch. “Yep. She blushed, too. I only saw from tits up, but God knows where it started from. All those capillaries, expanding just for you, you lucky bastard.”
“Bullshit,” Petrie muttered. His balls tingled, and his belly did a strange, flopping maneuver. He clenched to subdue it. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, looking at her tits?”
A mirthless smile twitched the corners of Miles’ hard mouth. “I may be fucked up, but I’m not dead. Watch yourself, dude. Sveti’s the untouchable virgin princess. Rescued from evil ogres. They’ll shred your ass if you look at her funny. Let alone touch her.”
True enough. There was an unspoken dictate against thinking dirty thoughts about vulnerable, waif-like, china-doll perfect, tragically orphaned Sveti, always and eternally way too young. If anyone did think such thoughts, eight different guys in the McCloud Crowd, plus Tam Steele, who was worse than all of them put together, would rise up and smite him down. Splat.
“So it’s true, then?” Petrie said. “What they say, about your new superpowers? You saw all that? Or are you just jerking me around?”
Miles laughed and then put his hand abruptly to his head, wincing. “Superpowers, my ass. I heard the heart rate, I heard her breathing, I smelled the pheremones, I saw the pupils dilate. I’ve got a sensory overload problem. It comes at me like a fire hose. I can’t block it out.”
“I don’t see why you’d want to,” Petrie said. “Sounds handy.”
Miles just looked at him. The guy’s stark gaze gave Petrie a guilty twinge. It would seem that the guy was not having any fun at all with his super-senses. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Didn’t mean to make light of your, uh . . . disability.”
“It’s okay,” Miles said. “I’m used to being out there. I was a freak before. Now I’m a freak with brain damage. Just a little category shift.”
“So, it hurts?” Petrie pressed for more, unable to help himself.
Miles rubbed his temples. “Cigarettes and bourbon on your breath. Pert shampoo. Old Spice aftershave. Arid Extra Dry, the chemicals they used to dry-clean your suit, the plastic they wrapped it in. Christ, if I took a step closer, I’d pass out from the toxic fumes.”
Petrie uncapped his bottle, drank. “Keep your distance, then.”
“I will,” Miles assured him. “Sveti smelled way better than you. Those pheremones pumping out of her, man. Yum.”
“Keep your dirty mind off her pheremones,” Petrie snapped.
That smile twitched across Miles’ face again. Caught out, in his fucking schoolboy crush. What a dickhead. He held out the flask, in silent invitation.
“Tried that,” Miles said. “Doesn’t help.”
Petrie stoppered the flask, stuck it in his jacket. “That’s sad, man,” he said. “I’m sorry for you. Let’s get on with this.”
They pushed into the church. The organ blared, and lace fluffed, orange flower-scented matrimonial hooplah swelled to greet them.
If managing his disability was like walking a tightrope,
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