16. Chapter Sixteen

Sylas

Perhaps it’s that I was forged in the fires of the evil scientists’ lab, lived in a cell barely large enough to lie down in, and was then rescued only to be hidden away from the public for years, but my mind doesn’t exactly work like people who’ve lived so-called normal lives.

I have a highly developed appreciation for the quirky, peculiar, wacky, and strange. Some might call it gallows humor. Exactly where or how Cally developed her sense of the bizarre, I don’t know, but I want to find out.

What a brilliant way to grab people’s attention to the danger innocent animals face on our roadways. All I know is that although I liked her before I found out about Roadkill Chronicles, I have a much deeper appreciation of her now.

“I have so many questions. But I’ll start with the obvious. It got published? Some big company took a chance on such a cutting-edge concept?” I return to my stool, unable to stay more than a few feet from this amazing woman.

“Nope. I self-published it and somehow it caught people’s imaginations. It rose to number one in Amazon’s Photo Essays category. I got some,” she clears her throat nervously, “notoriety. I was even…”

She looks embarrassed as her gaze dips to the counter and her cheeks pinken.

“On The View.”

“The View? Not a fan, but I would have watched it in order to see you, Cally. Wow! You’re the only famous person I’ve ever met.”

“Five minutes.” Her tone is self-deprecatory and she can’t even meet my gaze. “It was my five minutes of fame.”

“Don’t put yourself down. What are you, twenty-five?”

“Twenty-two.”

“You’re twenty-two and you’re a self-made author and you’ve been on The View and you traveled by yourself all over the country and…” I run out of steam and all the air whooshes out of me because her career is like a runaway freight train and I’ve derailed it. “I’m so sorry. I’ve messed up your meteoric career trajectory.”

She snorts with laughter and echoes, “Meteoric career trajectory. Really, Sylas. I figure when all this settles down, I’ll write some of the prose for my current work in progress while I’m under house arrest.”

“Let me apologize. I wish I could let you go. It’s just that…”

“I told you, Sylas. I understand. It’s not your fault. If anything, we should blame it on Tater who should no longer hold the title of World’s Goodest Dog.”

I’m not sure I’ll ever lose the guilt I feel for keeping her on what she calls house arrest, but her sincere forgiveness means a lot to me and eases the tightness in my chest.

“Do you think he’ll drop into a depression?” I ask, my tone a caricature of sincerity. “Lose interest in b-a-c-o-n? I wouldn’t want to damage his fragile mental health by removing his hard-earned title?”

Her pretty face quirks into an adorable smile. “Nah. I guess we’ll let him keep his privileges.”

“Now that we’ve straightened that out, Cally, you’ve got to tell me. What amazing thing are you working on now? Please, please tell me it’s nothing ordinary like… The Mundane World: A Collection of Generic Photos.”

“Nope.”

“The Joy of Waiting: An In-Depth Study of Queues?”

“So, so close. But no.”

“Seamless Carpet Patterns: A Never-Ending Odyssey?”

“I considered that one, but chose to go in a different direction.”

“Stale Bread: A Year in the Life of a Loaf.”

“No, but I’m going to make a note of these amazing ideas for book number three.”

I’m having so much fun, I don’t want it to end. I’ve laughed and cut up with the other splicers, I often call them my brothers, but I’ve never felt this… connected to anyone before.

“All kidding aside. I have to know the subject and title of your next book.” Our glances connect, then hold. Although I don’t know her well, it seems she’s having just as much fun and perhaps feeling just as connected as I am.

“It’s going to be another fifty-state odyssey. Potty Palaces: An Outhouse Expedition.” She’s quick to add, “It’s a working title. Maybe you’ll have a better idea.”

I love that she’d even consider my input, but when I put that thought aside, I allow the brilliance of her idea to wash over me.

“So you find the oddest outhouse in each state, take pics, and tell stories.”

“Yep.”

“Will this give money for charity?”

“Yes. I haven’t tied it down yet, but am thinking of giving money to the parks and recreation funds of the county where the lucky john is located.”

“Brilliant and altruistic,” I praise. It’s so easy to do when you’re in the presence of such quirky greatness. “What’s the best outhouse yet?”

“I’ve only been to six states on this one, but perhaps the ‘skys-crapper’ in Gays, Illinois.”

When I give her a puzzled look, she adds, “Skyscrapper? Crapper? It’s a two-story facility.”

“Promise you’ll show me your pictures when I have time to savor them.”

“What if I told you they’re in my phone? The phone that has no battery because you threw it into the next county.”

“I’d say you’re lying because you’re a consummate professional and the pictures are certain to be in your camera.” I point to the item in question, which is still in her tight grip.

“You’re too smart for your own good, Sylas.”

“Yes, smart enough that I won the bet.”

My mouth got the better of me. In one moment, we were laughing and joking, and then I felt compelled to remind her that she hadn’t shocked me with her book title, and I won the bet—a kiss.

The hut is eerily silent. I don’t know what she’s thinking on her end, but I know what’s happening on my end. The most salient factor is my cock, which is about to twitch out of my pants. Secondary to that is my heart, which is beating faster than if I were running a marathon; my palms, which are suddenly sweaty; and my mouth, which is as dry as the Mojave Desert.

Even though I’m swimming in discomfort, I’m glad I blurted out my comment. If I hadn’t done it in a hurry, I would have never worked up the courage to claim my prize.

“You weren’t… joking? You seriously want to… kiss me?”

Shit! Oh shit. I wasn’t supposed to bring it up. She didn’t mean it. Not only have I offended her, but I’ve made things awkward and we have to spend the next several days together in this small hut with its one bed. I need to fix this—now—and I don’t have a clue how to do it.

“Uh. No. No. Just joking. Of course I knew we were just kidding around.” I’m backpedaling, trying to make the awkward moment disappear before the floor swallows me in mortification.

“Give me a moment.” I hold up a finger. “I’ll come up with some cute alternatives to Potty Places: An Outhouse Expedition.” I’ll do anything to change the subject and make the embarrassing conversation go away, so I throw out the first thought that comes to mind, “Outhouse Oddities: Quirky Commodes in Every State.”

She says nothing. Gone is our easy back-and-forth repartee. Gone is the effortless eye contact.

“Restroom Reveries: Outhouses from Coast to Coast?” I’m desperate now, grasping at straws. “The Throne Zone: America’s Best Outhouses? Outhouse Overviews: Architectural Wonders of Waste?” My ideas, and my emotions, are devolving.

“I’ve fucked everything up.” Closing my eyes, I shake my head, pissed at myself for destroying the easy camaraderie we’d built.

“I’ll kiss you, Sylas. That was the deal.”

Her words slam into me harder than a punch to the solar plexus.

I don’t want my first kiss to be the result of an obligation. I want it the way I’ve dreamed it since the first time I watched a rom-com after my liberation. When I have my first kiss, the woman’s body should be pressed close to mine of her own volition, her eyes should flutter closed so she can lose herself in the moment, her fingers should comb through my hair because she wants more of me than a mere kiss can provide.

“I rescind the offer.” After rising, I back away. “You do the dishes while I… read a book. That’s a fine reward for winning a bet.”

When she’s silent, I risk a glance and find her hazel eyes lasering toward me.

“Why did you rescind your offer, Sylas?”

“You want the truth?” I don’t know how to handle whatever is happening here. Would a real human tell the truth? I’m out of my depth. Lost.

“Absolutely. I want the truth.” Her face is stern, although maybe it’s serious. I’m woefully ill-equipped to navigate anything resembling a relationship with a woman. That has to be why I wasn’t chosen for the group of twenty splicers who were the first to integrate with the women, why I was relegated to the reject barracks.

Having no special ability to read minds and nothing in my history of human interactions to fall back on, the best I can do is to take her at her word. She wants the truth? I’ll give it to her.

“I want it as much as I want air to breathe, but it’s clear I’ve fucked everything up between us.” An exasperated breath heaves out of my mouth.

“I want it, too, Sylas. I want the kiss, but that’s all I want right now, and you’re in heat, or rut, or… whatever. So you tell me. Can you kiss me and then deal with,” she gestures up and down my body, “whatever powerful thing is going on underneath your skin when you get nothing more than a kiss?”

“Yes.” My answer is immediate, although I have no idea if it’s the truth. One thing is certain, I would never hurt Cally. Never.