15. Chapter Fifteen

Cally

All three of us seem calmer now that the escape issue has been put to bed. Whoops. Bed. That’s not a safe topic.

Even though Sylas is currently prancing around the room, being far too generous with bacon morsels, his erection is still the elephant in the room neither of us is talking about.

At some point between commands, Sylas emits a bugle. He tries to contain it, slamming his lips closed, but the compulsion must spring from some primitive place deep inside him because the plaintive bellow continues until it ends with two almost whistling sounds at the end.

Eyes rounded in dread, he glances at me to see my response, but I just shrug, then laugh.

“Are you warming up to provide dinner music?” I try to normalize things, imagining spending time with a splicer is going to be the most interesting thing to happen to me since I was invited to do a five-minute segment on The View to talk about my coffee-table book.

“I’m a male of many facets.” He tosses his shaggy brown hair to punctuate his statement. “If you want musical accompaniment, I can provide it. Although I’ll expect a tip.”

His eyes widen and fly to me, perhaps asking if I caught his double entendre. I’m not even sure it was intentional.

We both manage to smile, which is far better than the threats we traded earlier. It’s just that he’s so freaking handsome. There’s something about his perfect features and all those muscles combined with his complete lack of guile that is ridiculously appealing.

Soon we’re sitting on opposite sides of the bar that separates the galley kitchen from the rest of the room. Tater has gorged on so many bacon bits that he’s not even begging for people food. He wouldn’t like it, anyway. It’s vegetarian.

Now that he’s not bossing me around, Sylas seems almost shy. It’s kind of cute. When he’s distracted by food, though, his awkwardness fades and he engages me in conversation.

“I’ve been wondering since I met you, why were you on that dirt road? I’ve looked at drone maps of the area. We’re out in the middle of nowhere.”

“Do you want the long story or the short answer?”

He finishes chewing his bite, sets his fork down, leans forward, and gets the most sincere expression on his face. “I want the long story, Cally. Nothing would make me happier than knowing more about you.” Then a startled expression crosses his face as though he realizes maybe that was too authentic.

“I’ll let you off the hook and skip my childhood. Let’s start right around high school graduation. I’d never been a great student. I--”

“Really, Cally? You’re so smart.”

I may be the first woman he’s ever met, but he’s a natural at making his dinner companion feel appreciated.

“Thanks, but all my report cards used the phrase, ‘if only she would apply herself’.”

I glance at him with a self-deprecating shrug. When I catch the enchanted expression on his face, another one of those swift, hot zings flashes through my body.

If we spend enough time together, I’ll have to teach him to have a better poker face. It would be far too easy for a person with ill intent to take advantage of someone as open and candid as him.

I explain that I didn’t feel ready for college and had saved up all my years of dog-walking money for my grand adventure. A road trip to Alaska.

“From the time I was five, mom and dad would pack up our Airstream Bambi and we’d head out on road trips every time they had holiday time together. Just picked a direction and went. When I decided to do an internship after high school instead of going to college, they gifted me the little silver Bambi to pull behind my used Subaru Forester.”

“I thought it was a stroke of luck when one of my dad’s friends had to re-home Tater. He’s the g-o-o-d-e-s-t boy.” I’d lowered my voice on those last two words because he’s finally asleep at the foot of Sylas’s chair and I didn’t want to get him all fired up again.

“He proved to be the perfect companion as I set off on my journey to Alaska. I was beyond thrilled to work at a wildlife sanctuary near Anchorage. That was when I realized how many animals were injured or killed on highways and how many orphans died because of that carnage. It inspired me to write a book.”

I glance at him to see if he’s even still listening. It wouldn’t be the first time someone lost interest before I even got to the good part of my story. He seems entranced—his little tail is wagging slowly—so I continue.

“When my internship was up, Tater Tot and I headed south to Washington State to start working on the book. I chose the state animal for each state and drove until I found one on the road.”

His eyes widen and his entire body tips back.

“I know, gruesome, right? But I was armed with statistics of the carnage, and there was a grand purpose behind it. In addition to hunting for the ravaged roadside victims, I spent lots of time in wildlife areas taking pictures of critters gamboling in their natural habitats.”

He settles back, his face still skeptical. That’s okay. I haven’t fully explained things yet.

“Each of the fifty chapters has the money shot. That is, after all, what got people to buy the book, but it has so many happy pictures of healthy wildlife. The end of each chapter is filled with statistics of how many animals are killed every year on American roads, and a call to action for people to donate to wildlife charities, including my pet projects, land bridges. That’s where safe passages are constructed over or under busy highways for wildlife to cross.”

He’s nodding his head, a calm smile on his face, now that he understands the concept.

“Half the proceeds of the book go straight to charity, and although it’s impossible to calculate, several charities mentioned in the book reached out to inform me that their annual income increased by about seventeen percent the year my book launched. They attribute it to my book.”

I’m very proud of my book and the results, but not everyone is a fan of the concept. It was quite controversial, which is what earned me a spot on The View. By the calm, approving look on Sylas’s face, though, he’s a fan.

“When I began, I didn’t know if my book would make a dime, but I was on a mission and it was the perfect way to see America, work odd jobs along the way, and grow up a bit.”

I grab my last bite of the pasta primavera. Sylas has praised it a dozen times during the meal. I must admit, it’s yummy.

“That’s an amazing story, Cally. A wonderful concept that has done so much good in the world in such a short time. I’m… proud of you.”

He almost reaches to grab my hand but thinks better of it and snaps his hand back to hide in his lap.

“Are you purposely withholding the name of this book? You’ve told me everything about it but the name,” Sylas goads.

“You’ll laugh. Then you’ll be appalled.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Let me get my camera and record your reaction. You’ll see. We should make a bet.”

“You’re on! What are the stakes?”

I almost blurt, “A kiss.” Why would that idea pop into my mind? He’s a splicer! We were enemies until an hour ago.

“If I’m right, Sylas… you do tonight’s dishes.”

“Because you cooked, I was going to do the dishes, anyway.”

The male is too nice for his own good.

“And if you’re right? What will be your reward?” I wait for his response.

“I want a kiss, Cally.”

The room goes silent and if I’m not mistaken, the laws of physics transform because, for a few long moments, time stops.

“Shit! Shit, Cally. I… shouldn’t…” His eyes look half-wild as he scans the room as though he’s looking to escape.

Laughing, I shrug it off. “I’m the first female you’ve ever been within a mile of; you said so yourself. You’re in rut. Of course, you’d want a… kiss.” I retrieve my camera and point it at him to both change the subject and use it as a shield. “So if you win—which you won’t—what do you want?”

I turn on the camera, waiting for some mundane answer, and am only half listening because I’m going to win. That’s what everyone does. Before the book launched, I shared my vision with dozens of people. Their response was always the same. Nervous laughter, then shock and disapproval.

Looking through the screen at him, I watch as his face slowly morphs from embarrassment to what my mom would call ‘serious as a heart attack’ as he considers his answer to my question about what he wants if he wins the bet.

He looks straight into the camera and says, “It has nothing to do with you being the only woman I’ve ever met, and although I couldn’t swear on a stack of Bibles, I don’t think it has anything to do with my biological imperative. I already said what I want. If I win, Calliope Quinn, I would like a kiss.”

Be still my heart. My chest flutters and then the fluttering turns warmer and moves lower, filling me with liquid desire. He’s still looking at me. I don’t think he’s even blinked.

I guess this proves one thing I’ve often wondered about. People are either born with the flirtation gene or they’re not. Me? I was not. I’m seldom even aware if someone is flirting with me, although I’m one hundred percent certain I’m on the receiving end of it now. Sylas? He’s a natural-born sex god.

Choosing to say absolutely nothing in response to his outlandish proposal, I quickly forge ahead with my disclosure. This, I hope, will catch him off guard and I’ll be even more assured of winning the bet so the kiss will be a non-issue.

“Roadkill Chronicles.” There is no trace of humor in my voice.

I pause, letting it sink in. This is the point where most people give me a nervous chuckle.

Nothing. No response.

Okay. This has happened once or twice before. If there’s no anxious tittering, it usually means we move straight into the shocked and disappointed portion of the adventure.

“It’s sensational, I know. The sensationalism was to get eyes on the book to make more money.” I’m mostly babbling, waiting for the rest of his response to the name of my book.

“Brilliant!” Not only did those two syllables escape his mouth without seeming disingenuous, his eyes are sparkling with excitement. “You thought that up yourself? It’s perfect.”

I don’t actually hear angels singing and the heavens really don’t open up, but the moment seems thunderous all the same. I used to joke with my friend, Carlotta, that meeting someone who accepted my books name and nature without question meant I’d found my soulmate. When I look back at this recording, it will document for all posterity that my hands are actually shaking as I observe his reaction.

“Calliope Quinn, you are a fucking… whoops, sorry, but you are a fucking genius.”

I wish I had my phone. I’d call Carlotta and simply say, “He gets me. He really gets me.” It would need no further explanation. She’d know exactly what I was talking about.

“Tell me.” He leans closer, reaches over, and eases my camera to the countertop. “I must know the subtitle.”

“No.” I click the camera off, not wanting to waste the battery. I got what I needed. Damn him, but he won the bet—no nervous titters, no shocked disgust. “Tell me your ideas first.”

“Oh. This is going to be the best party game.” He slides off his stool and starts pacing, deep in thought, his antlers bobbing with each clip-clop of his step.

Tater, the traitor, follows obediently as though Sylas is his new master and I’m chopped liver. No. He’d love if I were chopped liver. He’s acting as though I’m chopped cauliflower.

“A Tribute to Fallen State Fauna?” he asks, hand thoughtfully on his chin.

Before I can answer, he shakes his shaggy head. “No. It’s accurate, but too mundane.” After a pause, “Fallen Mascots of America?”

“Not bad, actually. I never thought of that one.”

“Tales From the Asphalt?”

“You’re amazing at this! You’ve barely had any time to think. Roadkill Chronicles: Tales From the Asphalt. You should help me name my next book.”

“That’s why you were here in my little slice of heaven, weren’t you? Working on your next book.”

“Yep. I suppose I should tell you the book’s real name, though. Roadkill Chronicles: A Roadside Eulogy.”

He closes his eyes as his face lights up with a close-lipped smile. I’ve seen pictures of wine lovers on TV when they sample an expensive bottle of wine and savor the taste. That is exactly what he looks like right now.

He gets me. He really gets me.