Today's Reading
I took care assembling tonight's anti-cute outfit: red lips, platinum pompadour, fresh undercut. A black tank top emphasizes my newly completed left sleeve—a cyborg fantasy in shadowy gray with the Rebel Alliance symbol on the back of my wrist and Luke Skywalker's prosthetic circuits over the tender skin immediately opposite.
I look pleasingly scary, but I'm fucking freezing.
The second I glance at McHuge, toasty in his long-sleeved, high-necked fleece, he appears at my side like he can hear my brain waves. "You're shivering. How 'bout you borrow my jacket for ten minutes, and give it back once you get warm?"
Not even this miserable cold can unclench the hesitation that fists in my stomach. I don't take spontaneous favors from people I don't know. That's how my dad would reel in a mark, with favors they didn't ask for but felt obliged to repay.
"N-no, thanks," I say, teeth chattering.
A spiky-haired figure takes the stage. The crowd wakes like a beast, miserable moans giving way to a roar of excitement. Relief floods me, feeling almost warm. I'll duck up to the front—one of the rare times being tiny comes in handy—tuck myself into the crush, and get my core temperature up.
"Sorry, everyone. The Bare-knuckle Fighters have some cold-related equipment problems we haven't been able to fix. We wish we could play for you, but we have to cancel."
Disappointed wails transform to an angry mutter, then a collective scream of rage.
Bodies surge around me, knocking me face-first into McHuge's chest, because of course he's right here, where I'd swear he wasn't a second ago. Maybe he is that big, I think, as my cheek mashes against his pec.
Somebody grabs my shoulder while clawing their way to the howling mayhem in front of the stage. McHuge's chest tilts hard. Shit, I'm falling, my head accelerating toward a seething forest of legs.
Before I can get my arms over my face, I'm up again, two big hands hoisting me to my feet. No, farther; he's somehow gotten an arm under my ass and I'm cradled in the crook of his elbow like a new puppy. His arm is...I think "thick" is the word I want? Thick and oaken, dusted with springy ginger-blond hair that teases the back of my thighs.
"Are you all right? Take any hits?"
I scan my body for pain points. "I'm good. Damn, that was close. Thanks for the lift." Up here, I see things I missed before. His beard is trimmed around those full lips with surgical precision. The harsh artificial lighting gives everyone here a zombie complexion, but when I look at his face, my imagination superimposes a fringe of pale-ginger lashes, hair a couple of coppery shades darker, beard two tones deeper still, face and arms covered with a dense lacework of golden freckles.
Someone jostles him. For a second, I'm afraid we'll both fall.
The smallest cloud crosses his placid expression as he sets his feet wide. The next person who bumps him bounces off, landing on their ass. His lips twitch microscopically.
He liked doing that.
Now that's interesting. Underneath the Friendly Giant personality he wears in public, there's something steelier. Something that doesn't give.
Maybe he's a little bit my type.
The crowd pushes toward the exits, rushing to get away from the trouble seekers up front with their chaos dreams of smashing guitars and starring in blurry social media videos.
"You have unusual eyes," he says, like he's too tall to have seen them before this moment. "Pale blue. Like whitewater."
Compliments aren't my thing. "You can put me down now."
He looks at me for a beat. Two. Three. Then sets me down carefully, one armed.
Okay, that was hot.
"How are you getting home?" he asks.
"The buses."
"Those buses?" He jerks his chin at the public transit parking lot, where there are enough buses to handle a slow trickle of people, not a full-on stampede. They're all jammed with bodies. The drivers honk ineffectively at the swirling, pushing crowds, unable to leave so more buses can pull in.
...
