Wind Therapy - A.J. Downey Page 0,12

the men talked about other things.

Chapter Five

Maverick…

She was more tired than she let on, sitting silently, almost miserably, shoulders hunched and still wearing my jacket. I couldn’t decide if she was cold, which I couldn’t imagine. Even though the building had air conditioning and it was on, it wasn’t set to arctic chill or anything. I had to imagine it was more out of self-consciousness, though not around me but around the other guys. She finished her burger, crumpled the wrapper into a little ball, and I held out a hand for it. She handed it over and I ditched it in the trash behind the bar.

She watched the fights with mild interest at first, eventually her eyes glazing with a lack of concentration while she disappeared way away inside of herself. While she made a show of watching the screen, and most of the rest of the guys were glued to the action on it, too, I watched her.

I spoke perfect English. Had been born here, but my origins were decidedly more… Slavic. I spoke at least four languages fluently, and though I hadn’t intended to offend, the little nickname honey eyes, for the golden-amber cast she had to hers, had just slipped out in my original Russian. Her reaction had been fiery, to say the least, and I thought back to what her grandmother had said about her. About how Marisol lied and was a liar.

Something didn’t feel right about that. I think it was more a case of Marisol wasn’t believed. She had the air of a girl who spoke hard truths freely and doing so wasn’t apt to earn you many a friend. I got the distinct impression it had earned Marisol the opposite. I wasn’t sure if it was at school, at home, or some combination of both where she had been bullied but she certainly had a chip on her shoulder as a result.

The very second she thought we were having any sort of laugh at her expense, fire had sparked in her eyes, and she looked a hairs breadth away from turning into a full-blown Latina hellcat.

I know the fiery Latina was a bold stereotype, and in a lot of ways unfair, but stereotypes became stereotypes for a reason and there was nothing wrong with a little fire if she knew how and when to properly unleash it. Looking at her beautiful profile now, I could see trouble radiating off her like the heat patterns off the highway coming in. I was betting some time and distance from her family would do something to cool her off, though. If not, I was in for a wild ride with her, so long as it wasn’t too much drama.

I wouldn’t be able to get her full measure until it was just her and I alone and I could get over, under, or just plain through some of the heavily guarded walls she had up around her. Even though she’d volunteered for this, her defenses were up, and she seemed to be on red alert. It was going to be a lot like approaching a wounded wildcat to get close.

I expected to get clawed a time or two in the coming days or weeks. I was getting ahead of myself, though. Right now, we just needed to get through tonight so we could head home.

I came around the bar and heaved myself up onto a stool behind Marisol and let myself get lost in the fight for a minute. All of us were chill, laid back, and little better than armchair critics making a chess match out of the brutality going down on the screen.

Occasionally I would glance at Marisol and finally, Deacon looked back over the backrest of the couch to say something to me but whatever it was didn’t make it past his lip. He quirked an eyebrow and asked instead, “You want me to do something about that?” and gestured to the girl.

I felt my eyebrows go up, got to my feet, and came around her side to find her fast asleep on her seat.

“That’s impressive,” I commented. How she hadn’t come unseated off the stool was a mystery, but so long as she could maintain while I made up a pallet for us, I was good.

“Like I said,” Deacon said, a twinkle in his eyes. “Need a hand?” he asked, and I shook my head.

“Naw, I got it, man. Just gimme a few.”

I went to the pool table and pocketed the balls