SICK HEART by Huss, JA (non fiction books to read .TXT) 📕

letting the hot wind flow past me. I crack one eye open when Anya walks up next to me and smile when she does the same.

I’m not exactly tired. I would not call this a particularly strenuous training day. Most of the time I was distracted by Anya. But I’m tired in other ways, the way I was that day we spent inside. Weary. So I drop down to the roof and lie back, hissing a little when my back touches the sun-baked concrete.

Anya drops down beside me, sighing when she realizes how warm the roof is. I peek at her again. Her eyes are closed and her shirt drying from the wind. Less than a week on the Rock and her hair is already a tangle of unruly, blonde-streaked waves and her skin is already losing the too-pale look she had when I first saw her back on the ship. Her cheeks are pink, but her arms and legs are starting to turn a nice shade of golden brown.

I look back up at the sun and close my eyes, letting the yellow orb stain the back of my eyelids. This feels nice. The way yesterday felt in the game room. Comfortable.

Anya flips over on her stomach, hands under her cheek like a pillow, her head turned away from me. She looks like she’s ready to fall asleep.

I turn over as well. Then my fingertips are pulling up her t-shirt, exposing the small of her back.

She goes stiff and sucks in a breath.

I drag the tips of my fingers lightly over her skin, tracing a pattern and making it prickle up in goosebumps.

She doesn’t move.

I know what she thinks. She thinks I want sex. And maybe I do. But mostly I don’t.

I have decided that I will not use sex to get her secret. It’s not fair. I would be one of them if I did that, and I’m not one of them. I might kill for them on command, but I am not one of them.

So no, I’m really not thinking about fucking her. I’m thinking about knowing her.

And that is a far, far more dangerous thing. Because once I know her, I won’t be able to unknow her, will I?

And I’m already about to walk away from almost three dozen people I know very well. I’m not sure I can add another one to that list and live with myself afterward.

But then she turns her head my way and opens her eyes. They are blue—I know they are blue—but right now, the sunlight plays tricks and turns them the color of the sea. Deep green one moment, bright teal the next. The corners of her mouth lift up into a small smile and she stares at me.

What does she see? The killer? The trainer? The game player? The diver? Which of these men is the one she likes?

Definitely not the killer or the trainer. Which is too bad. Because that’s who I am ninety-nine percent of the time.

She frowns, like she’s reading my mind. And she might be. You get good at reading expressions when people don’t talk. You learn to see inside them. You learn how to know them without their consent.

But this is a dangerous path to go down so I slip my hand up her shirt instead. She closes her eyes, but opens them back up almost immediately.

Closing them is giving in. You don’t have to be a mind reader or a mute to know that. And she’s not the kind of girl who gives in without a fight.

But that’s what I do best. I’m a fighter. So this comes off like a challenge to me.

I begin tracing bigger patterns over her entire back. Figure eights and spirals. Squiggly lines that start between her shoulder blades and end up in the small of her back, just above the waistband of her borrowed shorts. I keep my touch feather light and super soft. She winces and closes her eyes again, tensing her shoulders.

And this is a dead giveaway for ticklishness. So I poke her.

She giggles and draws back, opening one squinty eye to warn me with a half-assed glare.

I tsk my tongue and sloppily sign, Don’t warn me, girl. That’s just another challenge, with one hand.

She can’t even follow two-handed sign language, let alone my made-up shorthand. So she squints her eye a little tighter, putting some threat behind her warning.

I almost laugh, but then poke her again instead.

She wriggles away this time. But I grab her and pull her back. Poking her a few more times just to prove I can. She twists and kicks and elbows me as she tries to get away. But in my arms, she is very small. And all I have to do is hold her tight to make her helpless. I don’t even need to use both arms. So I have one free hand to keep poking.

She goes nuts. Like… this is the girl I want to see on the mat downstairs. That’s how nuts she goes. Her back is bucking, her knees are jabbing, and she’s laughing out loud.

God, she has a nice laugh. It’s a little high-pitched, like it was that first time we met on the ship. But it rolls too. Smooth and easy. Something you want to hear more of, not less. And suddenly, that’s all I can think about.

I want to hear her voice. Is it deep or soft? Hard or sweet?

I stop poking and rearrange my body so I’m just a little bit over the top of her, propped up on my elbows. I put one hand up and slowly sign, Talk to me. It’s an easy sign and she gets it, because she goes tense again, then shakes her head no. But then she repeats my signs back with modifications, pointing at me, tapping her chin with a sideways hand, and then pointing to herself. You talk to me.

I already did.

She shakes her head and makes a sign for ‘whisper.’

And now it’s