Of Drag Kings And The Wheel Of Fate Part 3

The words made Rosalind's heart ache, like it was expanding to encompa.s.s them. "Rhea," Rosalind said, hearing the way Taryn lingered on the name.

"Yeah. I'm starting to see why she warned me about you. I live with her, Papa Joe, and a few others, depending on the week. Goblin, Laurel, and I have rooms, but lots of people stay. It's a big house. Old Victorian in Allentown, down on Mariner. Rhea's been fixing it up for years."

"Fighting for what's right?" Rosalind asked.

Taryn's head lifted, her eyes burning like they were lit from within by a supernatural glow. "I'm a soldier on the front lines of the gender wars."

Rosalind noticed, eventually, that their coffee mugs had been empty for some time. The sound of Taryn's voice had her mesmerized-the way the girl's lips moved; the guarded, angry pose vanis.h.i.+ng with every minute. Taryn talked about drawing, about designing tattoos for Rhea's clients, about the people she lived with in the rundown Victorian in the Allentown district. What Rosalind heard was the affection Taryn had for them, the way her face grew soft and delighted when she spoke of them, particularly Rhea. Taryn was telling her a story of getting her first tattoo, of the endorphin high that came along with the constant pain.

"You get addicted to it. Once you have your first tattoo, you can't wait to get another one." Taryn stopped, her eyes focusing on Rosalind. Rosalind felt her skin start to heat just from that and glanced down. When Taryn stood up and walked around behind her, she felt her heart go into overdrive. The girl lifted her hair, holding the braid in her large hands.

"You keep fighting with your hair," Taryn said, unclasping the broach, combing out the strands with her fingers. Rosalind sighed and held very still, s.h.i.+vering from the feel of fingers in her hair. She felt Taryn settle the hair around her shoulders, stroking it. "There," Taryn said, her voice like a guest in Rosalind's ear. Her hand stayed on the back of Rosalind's neck, resting lightly.

Rosalind closed her eyes, unable to believe what an effect this girl was having on her. Paul had never affected her this way in all their years of marriage. Other women never affected her this way, though she found many of them very attractive. This was something primal, a question that Taryn's nearness asked her, and her body opened in welcome. She wondered if it was obvious, how weak she felt, how hungry. She felt the hands leave her neck and wanted to cry.

Taryn slid back down next to her, watching her face. The look on the drag king's face was knowing, clear as the sun at its zenith burning through the clouds. Rosalind felt like she couldn't hide anything from this girl. Their bodies were already speaking. With agonizing slowness, Taryn took her face in her hands, directing Rosalind's motion. She pulled gently and Rosalind leaned forward, following. She closed her eyes, trembling, knowing that Taryn was going to kiss her.

"You two want anything else?" The voice was cutting, meant to divide them. Colleen stood, hand on her hip, picking up their mugs. Rosalind almost answered that question, telling Colleen exactly what she did want, but Taryn's sudden laughter calmed her anger. She smiled, ruefully, seeing the humor in it. She started to laugh, too, sharing Taryn's mirth. Colleen rolled her eyes and s.n.a.t.c.hed the mugs from the table.

"Oh, G.o.d, what a look. I'm in for a world of trouble in cla.s.s," Rosalind said, watching Colleen walk away. It didn't matter to her right then, that she had been seen in public nearly kissing...She turned, to find Taryn's impossibly blue eyes watching her. Her heart trip-hammered all over again.

"Why don't you give me a lift home?" Taryn said, making Rosalind's bones melt.

She'd parked on Pearl Street, behind Marcella's. Taryn strolled casually to the car, keeping her hands in the pockets of her jeans, inhaling the warm September air with an enthusiasm Rosalind echoed. "Gorgeous night," Taryn said.

"I didn't know it'd be so warm. Somehow I expected it to be snowing in September, from the stories I've heard about Buffalo."

"You can't believe everything you hear. You know Allentown?" Taryn asked her when Rosalind stopped and unlocked the door on the Saturn.

"Some. I know Allen Street. You'll have to direct me from there."

Taryn walked around and held the door open for Rosalind, surprising the professor enough that she dropped her keys. Taryn bent and scooped them up smoothly, handing them back to her.

"I will. You're in good hands."

Chapter Three.

The house at 34 Mariner was a dark purple, shuttered and trimmed in green. The front walk had a small garden of flowers, still braving the weather of September. A few leaves had fallen, a storm had tilted the stalks at crazy angles, but the garden maintained. It was only a five-minute drive from downtown, a fact that Rosalind mightily regretted. She hadn't been able to work up a topic of conversation.

The closeness of being in the car, with Taryn at her side, had obliterated whatever mad confidence had been carrying her. Her mind was churning, trying to a.n.a.lyze possible scenarios: Taryn would expect her to just provide a ride home and wave goodbye, Taryn would say something slick and ask for her number, in which case she might offer it, kiss her, and faint. This was territory she had no map for, and she was getting very lost.

Rosalind parked one door down, a huge red boat of a convertible taking up the s.p.a.ce in front of the house. "Papa Joe's beast. He refuses to spend more than five hundred dollars for a car. He buys these clunkers, then fixes them up so they run, then drives them into the ground. I think he's a frustrated performance artist," Taryn said as Rosalind shut off the engine.

Rosalind wracked her brain trying to think of something clever to say. The connection that had worked so well when there was a table between them was melting as their skin got closer, getting harder to define. Taryn seemed perfectly at ease, lounging in the seat, making no move toward the door handle. Taryn's nearness was making hash of her thoughts. The streetlight cast blue sparks from her black hair, highlighted the curve of her neck.

"Well. It looks like a lovely house. I love the Victorians in this area," Rosalind said, feeling like slapping herself. How could Taryn go on looking at her like that, so unerringly steady? Doesn't she know that she was about to kill a professor with the blue of her eyes? Rosalind thought desperately. A vision of the police finding her dead of a stroke in her car, with Taryn still sitting next to her smoking a cigarette, plagued Rosalind.

Taryn leaned forward and kissed her. There was no warning, no time to prepare herself, and Rosalind was drowning. Taryn's lips claimed hers, easing them open with a sure tongue, exploring the inside of her mouth. Rosalind put her hands on Taryn's shoulders and leaned in, pulling against her. She felt her whole body crave contact with Taryn, felt the kiss as a promise of a meeting. What started out as a slow tease became frenzied. She tangled her hands in Taryn's hair, trying to prolong the kiss forever. One strong arm wound around her waist, lifting her nearly into Taryn's lap. She felt Taryn's hands on her neck, her shoulders, sliding down to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She gasped against Taryn's mouth, then kissed her harder.

Taryn broke away, kissing her way down Rosalind's neck, down the exposed flesh above her s.h.i.+rt. She cupped Rosalind's b.r.e.a.s.t.s in her hands, feeling them through the thin barrier of silk. "Come upstairs with me," Taryn murmured against the skin of her throat. Rosalind closed her eyes.

The voice that answered was hers, but it was a tone she'd never heard before. "Yes."

Rosalind had a vague impression of a staircase, of climbing it wrapped around Taryn, seeming to climb Taryn at the same time. They paused on the top step, Rosalind falling back against the wall, Taryn still on the stairs. It gave Rosalind the height advantage to take Taryn's head in her hands and lean down, kissing the drag king. They were unwilling to be out of contact for a moment.

Taryn guided them down the hall, finding her way in the dark with impressive dexterity. She kicked the door open with the heel of her boot, while unb.u.t.toning Rosalind's s.h.i.+rt. Her jacket was somewhere back on the stairs; her skirt was unzipped, ready to follow. The haze that kissing Taryn induced protected Rosalind from knowing exactly how she got undressed so quickly.

She was on her back on a mattress on the floor, protesting Taryn's movement away from her. The air was cold where Taryn had lain on top of her, like an arctic wind after the feverish touch of flesh. Taryn stood, silhouetted against the streetlight from the window, and pulled off her T-s.h.i.+rt. She kicked off her boots, crawling back down on top of Rosalind in her jeans. The weight of her body anch.o.r.ed the spinning professor. She needed Taryn to hold her down or she would spin right off the surface of the earth.

Hands were on her rib cage, holding her like a feather, raising her up. Her breast was in Taryn's mouth, ruining the efforts she'd made to be quiet. She didn't care anymore if there was anyone else in the house, on the block, in the city. Rosalind moaned out loud, nearly screaming when she felt Taryn's teeth close on her nipple.

Her arousal became painful, the ache between her thighs unbearable. This had never happened to her, not in all the fumbling s.e.xual encounters during her marriage, not in the years preceding it. Rosalind's body became one coil of need, the wetness flowing from her, painting her thighs. If Taryn stopped touching her, she would die; she knew it. She felt herself falling, felt strong hands catch her, hold her in midair. She lay back down on the mattress, her muscles trembling too much to hold her up.

She felt long fingers reach between her thighs, stroking, teasing her. Rosalind's hands turned to steel, clamping down on Taryn's broad shoulders. Incoherent commands flowed from her lips, her head sprawled on the pillow. She thought she heard a low, rumbling laugh, felt Taryn take her fingertips away. She wanted to scream her frustration.

Rosalind felt weight leave her body. Taryn's hand parted her thighs, lifting her legs over broad shoulders. Rosalind opened her eyes and saw the dark head bend down. She could feel breath, a second before she felt her tongue. She inhaled sharply, trying not to scream. The sight of Taryn's black head bent lovingly between her thighs was almost too much for her. When the girl added her fingers, sliding smoothly into her aching wetness, Rosalind gave up the fight and screamed. After a lifetime of considering herself a warm person, but not a pa.s.sionate one, Rosalind came face to face with the blast furnace in her heart. She came hard, muscles trapping the dark girl as if she would never let her go.

Rosalind took a deep, ragged breath, calling the air back into her lungs. Her throat was raw from calling out things she couldn't remember moments after, but she thought she'd heard herself invoking Taryn's name, like the secret name of G.o.d. The breath filled her lungs, awareness inched back. Rosalind's mind stopped careening, and she fell apart.

She started crying like her heart had been rent. She felt as vulnerable as if her skin had been stripped off. Tears ran down her cheeks, she choked on them, trying not to let them out, unable to stop them. Great, this is s.e.xy.

Taryn didn't seem bothered or really even surprised. She climbed up Rosalind's body, kissing her stomach, her throat. She took the woman into her arms and gathered her, unresisting, to her chest. Rosalind put an arm around Taryn's narrow waist, ducked her head against the drag king's chest, and cried her heart out. There was something impossibly soothing about Taryn stroking her hair, crooning nonsense to her in a low voice. Rosalind felt a sense of freedom that made her giddy. At last the tears pa.s.sed. She raised her head, still feeling shaky, as if a breeze could blow her apart. Taryn's eyes were inches from hers, regarding her. The look on her face was amazing, a waiting tenderness that Rosalind would never have expected from the arrogant girl. Rosalind started to tear up again. "Sorry," she said, gearing up to explain her weakness away.

Taryn leaned forward and kissed her, very softly, stopping her words. The kiss was comforting, gentle, but her nearness had the opposite effect on Rosalind. To her own complete surprise, she felt her desire flare up, the strength of it shocking. I've turned into a s.e.x maniac overnight, Rosalind thought. She kissed Taryn back, exploring her lips, tasting herself on them. It sent a s.h.i.+ver through her.

Taryn lay quietly in her arms, letting her set the pace. Rosalind felt bold and started to trace the lines of Taryn's face-the firm jawline, the high cheekbones, the minute scar that divided her right eyebrow. Rosalind slid her hand behind her neck, feeling the heat of the sun on her palm, feeling the abandon of the eagle in the solar embrace.

"You said you'd let me see the rest of your tattoos," she heard herself say in a husky voice. Taryn grinned and rolled over. She stretched her arms above her head, letting Rosalind have an unrestricted view of her back. She saw the whole of the tattoo on her neck, familiar to her now. For a moment her eye stopped, imagining that the wheel design of the border had s.h.i.+fted minutely. She told herself that it must be the indirect light in the bedroom; lots of familiar things would look different to her now.

Her hands strayed down over the shoulder blades, feeling the muscles barely sheathed under smooth skin. On the left shoulder blade was a snake, coiled around a tree. An apple was set enticingly in the snake's mouth. Rosalind followed the lines, the scales, to get a sense for it. From the right shoulder, diagonal across the whole of the back, was a dagger.

It looked ancient, Egyptian perhaps, with a broadleaf blade and narrow, wrapped hilt. On the blade of the dagger was a drawing, like an engraving on the steel. Rosalind examined it in the streetlight and saw it was a red and white bull, head thrown back, wicked curved horns tearing at the air. A girl clad only in a wasp-waisted loincloth was leaping over the bull's back, as if she'd just vaulted through the horns. Another girl in the same costume stood in the bull's path, hands raised to make the leap.

"I got the idea from a mural at the palace at Knossos, the bull leapers. I set it inside a dagger as a kind of joke," Taryn said, her head in profile on the mattress.

"As a joke?" Rosalind asked, stroking the picture with her whole palm.

"Yeah. Bulldagger."

Rosalind bent down and kissed the blade of the dagger, kissed the girl vaulting between the horns of death. It didn't seem quite like a joke to her.

Taryn turned over, and Rosalind continued kissing her, trailing up to her mouth. She climbed on top of Taryn, her hunger directing her. Her tongue urged Taryn to life, opening her mouth, calling her out. She felt a moment of doubt that she'd be able to please her lover, inexperienced as she was. Her hand hesitated on the top b.u.t.ton of Taryn's jeans, trembling. Taryn took Rosalind's hand away, capturing it, refusing her access. She felt arms close around her and moaned into her open mouth. The distraction worked; she couldn't think enough to protest the distance that Taryn maintained.

Rosalind pressed her hips against the rough denim of Taryn's jeans in mute appeal. Taryn's hands nearly covered her back, stroking down to her hips, grabbing her b.u.t.tocks. The fingers dug into the muscle, and Rosalind pulled away from Taryn's mouth, gasping. She plunged back down, claiming the girl's lips again, letting her swallow the cries that came from her throat. Rosalind sealed their mouths together, trying to flow into Taryn, to claim a part of her with that connection. She felt Taryn's hand move surely between her thighs. Rosalind moved her hips in antic.i.p.ation. Taryn thrust two fingers into her, curving them, driving Rosalind upright. She broke the seal of their lips, straddling Taryn, impaling herself on Taryn's long fingers.

Rosalind rode Taryn's hand, feeling the slick fingers plunging in and out in a frenzy, grinding down to meet them. She felt herself cresting, felt the fingers in her center, then the agonizing withdrawal. Sweat stood out on her skin, her muscles tensed, she went blind with the motion. Her climax ripped through her, and she clamped down on the thrusting hand, claiming it.

Rosalind folded back over Taryn's body, lying on top of her with her fingers still inside. She felt them start to leave and grabbed Taryn's wrist. "Leave them inside. Please?" she breathed, desperate not to break contact with Taryn. Having Taryn there, underneath her, inside her, felt like coming home after a long journey. Taryn accepted, kissing her hair, lying still in companionable silence.

Rosalind lay with an ear against Taryn's chest, hearing the ragged heartbeat under her cheek. That, and Taryn's breathing, told her what she wanted to know, that Taryn was as moved as she was. The certainty she felt, after the rawness a moment before, was staggering. She felt Taryn exhale, her breath moving Rosalind's hair.

"You are gorgeous," she rumbled, and Rosalind closed her eyes at the sound. She felt Taryn's free hand stray to her back, lazily stroking her cooling skin.

"I'm glad you think so," Rosalind said, kissing the skin over her heart.

"Anyone would think so. You're magnificent. A walking miracle."

"I've never..." Rosalind said, struggling to find words large enough to fit the moment. Her whole world had just opened up, and the immediate, overwhelming emotion she felt for Taryn scared her. She was ready to fight and die for Taryn, ready to follow her anywhere, to make her a home. It made no sense, but it couldn't be argued with. Her body was coming apart, reshaped by the pressure of her expanding heart.

"You have now."

Taryn reached one long arm down and pulled a blanket up over them. Rosalind surrendered, falling asleep on the length of the girl, feeling perfectly safe. There would be time enough to find words for it in the morning.

The heat of the sun on her closed eyes woke Rosalind. She mumbled against it, rolling over and flinging out her arms. Her hands crossed empty s.p.a.ce, and that snapped her to attention. Her eyes flickered open, realization of where she was flooding them. She was naked under a thin red blanket, lying on a mattress on the floor, in Taryn's house. Taryn was nowhere to be found. Sunlight from the unshaded windows filled the room, giving Rosalind her first glimpse of it.

The mattress was set apart from the room in an alcove. The walls of the room were stripped plaster, covered in drawings and small paintings held up with thumbtacks. A peeled wood monstrosity of a dresser faced the alcove, next to a closet with a sliding door.

Rosalind saw her skirt and blouse folded over a chair. The floor was spotted with piled clothing, pieces of paper and books, in no discernible order. She sat up, holding the blanket over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, wondering where Taryn was.

At the foot of the mattress was a pair of black sweatpants and a T-s.h.i.+rt. Rosalind a.s.sumed they were for her and picked them up, the oddness of the situation flooding her. She hadn't pictured a morning after quite this way. Rosalind smiled wryly at that thought. This was a morning after she never had the language to imagine, even if she'd had the time between meeting Taryn and ending up on her mattress.

"I've gone and turned into a wanton woman," Rosalind said aloud, testing her voice in the s.p.a.ce of the room. The memory of the night came back with a vividness that made her grow warm, Taryn making love to her until she pa.s.sed out in her arms. No wonder she'd slept through her getting up.

Rosalind stood, feeling stiff from the mattress, her body still s.h.i.+vering from the night's aftereffects. She felt bruised, sore, and wonderfully sated, but she missed seeing Taryn's eyes in the sunlight. She vaguely recalled dreaming of that, while she'd been sprawled on top of her, the way the light would strike the clear blue. Her nakedness felt too vulnerable; she slipped into the clothing left for her. She was grateful for the softness of the sweatpants. Her body felt too changed and new to be buckled back into her jacket and skirt. She held up the T-s.h.i.+rt, reading it. f.u.c.k on! don't des.e.xualize the movement! Rosalind felt her face grow warm again, but slipped it over her head.

Feeling like a spy, Rosalind looked around the room at the drawings tacked up on the plaster. They were familiar to her, similar to Taryn's tattoos, done in pen and ink. There were dragons and skulls, pictures of snakes and lions, a tiger shredding through the paper. Many of them she glanced over and kept going, but interspersed between the expected images there were a few surprise moments of Taryn's personality s.h.i.+ning through. These she examined in detail: one of Alexander taming Buchephalus, and an early sketch of the bull dagger that gave her an odd but not unpleasant feeling.

The top of the dresser drew her eye. It was set up as an altar, with a bronze statue she recognized as a dancing s.h.i.+va inside his wheel of flame, red and yellow dried flowers, apples on a ceramic plate, a few stones of curious shape. There was a bra.s.s goblet with incised characters in no language she'd ever seen, a Greek coin with the profile of a man's head, and next to it a knife, its hilt in the shape of a dragon.

In the back corner was another bronze statue, nearly hidden behind the spray of red flowers. It was a woman, many-armed, her hands raised in a variety of gestures, some holding weapons. The bronze had gone green with verdigris at the edges, tinting the belt of skulls she wore, highlighting the edges of the blade of her scimitar. Her face had been painted at some point, black or deep blue; flecks of it still showed on the metal. The statue's whole aspect was ghastly, b.l.o.o.d.y, and unsettling. Rosalind looked closely, but was unwilling to touch it.

She left the bedroom, feeling a determination to seek Taryn. Barefoot, she padded down the polished wood floor, trying not to wake anyone who might be in the house. The hallway she vaguely remembered from stumbling down it the night before, wrapped around Taryn. There were three closed doors along the hall, other bedrooms, and a staircase leading up. At the end of the hall was a raised marble step and an open door, looking in on a bathroom. The bathroom walls were tiled in a burnt orange, half of them missing. An old-fas.h.i.+oned claw-footed bathtub dominated the room, making access to the freestanding sink and the toilet a dance exercise. Rosalind ran cold water in the sink, splas.h.i.+ng her face.

She looked at herself in the mirror over the sink, seeking signs that the world had changed. Her face bore marks from sleeping on the sheets; her hair was wild, bristling up like the ruff of a boar. Rosalind fought down the urge to immediately tame her hair and kept examining her face with the diligence of an archeologist. Her lips were bruised, there was a suspicious color in her cheeks. Her eyes looked the same to her, calm and focused, the surprised curve of eyebrows giving her a perpetually questioning look.

Rosalind sighed, touching her reflection. I look happy and anxious, which seems appropriate. Wonder if Taryn got a good look at me in the morning light and fled? She reached for a brush and started wrestling with her hair, bringing civilization back to her appearance.

There was a narrow staircase at that end of the hall, plunging down at a vicious slant. Rosalind leaned over the edge, hearing sounds of pots banging. A grin tugged at her lips. She crept down the stairs, keeping one hand on the wall. At the foot, to the right, was an open doorway. Rosalind stood in it, viewing the kitchen. It was huge, running the entire length of the house. The ceiling had been stripped, leaving exposed wooden beams. The walls were spotted plaster, in the same state of permanent reconstruction as the rest of the house.

Opposite the doorway was a round table, in the corner near the stairs to the backyard. A cast-iron stove stood on the facing wall, diagonal to a sink loaded with dishes. Bundles of dried herbs hung from the rafters, and cast-iron pots on iron hooks. There was a wall of nothing but coffee mugs parading up to the ceiling, each on its own hook. A counter bar stood under the mug wall, protruding halfway into the room, with three barstools tucked under it. At the far end of the room was a closed door, with three food dishes arrayed in front of it. Four large cats surrounded the dishes, pus.h.i.+ng over one another as they ate.

A man stood in front of the stove, his back to Rosalind. He was reaching up to grab an iron skillet from a hook. Rosalind thought him to be in his late thirties, not quite six feet tall, and powerfully built. His reaching move revealed a play of muscle under his thin T-s.h.i.+rt, stretching it tight. He was humming something in a low voice. She didn't recognize the tune. When he set the skillet on the stove and turned to reach for a knife, Rosalind got a look at his face. His hair was cut military short, receding over his temples. A tight beard covered his jaw, well trimmed, above a throat rough from shaving.

He glanced up and saw her, his eyes a pleasant chocolate brown that wrinkled at the corners as he smiled at her. "Morning. You want coffee?"

"Uh, sure," Rosalind said, thrown off.

He nodded and took a blue enameled cup off the mug wall, pouring her coffee from a pot on the stove. "Sit. You take anything in it?" He turned toward the fridge.

Rosalind, not knowing what else to do, sat down at the table. The strangeness of the moment carried her along on its current. The man didn't seem surprised to find a stranger in his kitchen. He handed her the blue cup, looking at her expectantly. "Oh, nothing, thanks. Black is good."

"Just like that kid," he said, then shrugged. He took up the knife and started chopping mushrooms, piling them along the cutting board.

"I'm Rosalind," she said, trying to get a feel for the etiquette of the moment. How do you introduce yourself to the housemates of the girl you just slept with? The man smiled at her again and set the knife aside. He wiped one large hand on his jeans and held it out to her. His grip was strong but not crus.h.i.+ng, an unmistakable impression of strength being restrained.

"I'm Joe," he said pleasantly.

Rosalind liked the sound of his voice. There was a burr to it that reminded her oddly of Taryn's voice. Rosalind remembered Taryn talking about the people she lived with, listing them off. What had she said? "Papa Joe?"

Joe's face twisted up in a grimace. "Taryn insists on calling me that." He picked up the knife, sweeping the mushrooms onto the counter, and reached for a pepper. "Relax, I'll fix you an omelet."

Rosalind sat and sipped her coffee, watching Joe wield the knife and skillet. It was comforting to watch the man cook, to accept his automatic friendliness, to sit in the warm kitchen and drink coffee. Rosalind was relieved not to be explaining anything-what she was doing here, who she was, what she intended. She basked in the anonymity. The coffee cup was warm in her hands. The sweats were soft against her skin. The banging of the cast-iron skillet against the stove took on a rhythm. She relaxed, finding pleasure in everything-the rough plaster walls, the exposed beams, the cats pus.h.i.+ng at one another around the food dish. It was wonderful, she discovered, not to be known, but to be accepted anyway.

"Rhea should be up soon," Joe commented, taking a plate out of the cabinet and sliding an omelet onto it in one smooth motion. He set the plate in front of Rosalind, then handed her a fork. "No meat. If you're a carnivore like that punk kid, I hope you'll survive," he said, his smile taking the edge from his words.

"She'll be fine."

The sound of Taryn's voice drew Rosalind's eyes up immediately, and she felt her heart leap in response. It was her first look at Taryn in the daylight, and it made her ache. She was dressed in jeans and a red and black flannel s.h.i.+rt with the sleeves ripped off, exposing her powerful arms. The tattoo of Alexander looked out on unfathomable distances. Rosalind remembered biting down on it during the night, when Taryn covered her, and blushed at the memory. There was a faint redness to the skin. She hoped that there weren't any visible tooth marks.

Taryn held up a paper bag like a hunting trophy. "Bagels. Had to walk up to Solid Grounds. Cybele's was closed." She loped into the room, pa.s.sing the bag to Joe.

"Cybele's closed on a Sat.u.r.day morning?" he asked, opening the bag.

"You can't set a clock by them. They run on their own time," Taryn said. Rosalind felt a surge of electricity when she walked near, a jumping of energy from Taryn's skin to hers. She reached out to touch her, but Taryn kept walking to the counter. "I see you met Joe."

"Yes, we met. Good thing, because your skill at introductions is sadly lacking," Joe said, cutting the bagels.

Taryn fished a coffee mug off the wall, a blue gla.s.s mug with gold stars painted on it. She poured herself coffee from the pot on the stove, then leaned her back against the counter.

"You're lucky it was Papa Joe in the kitchen. You'll at least get a decent meal out of him. Rhea would make you eat puffed millet with soy milk," she said, her eyes catching the sunlight.

Rosalind felt her skin hurt, felt the need to grab her and press against her. Taryn's distance, and the presence of Joe in the kitchen, prevented her. She couldn't keep herself from staring at Taryn, devouring the sight of her-the firm jaw, the carved lips, the tangle of black hair falling into her eyes. Rosalind let her eyes roam over Taryn's body, knowing more of it than was now revealed-the play of muscle in her shoulders and back, the lean hips, the feel of her hands. Dressed as she was, in loose jeans hanging low on her hips, unlaced combat boots, and the sleeveless flannel s.h.i.+rt, she could easily be taken for a boy. She looked handsome, c.o.c.ky, and it made Rosalind tremble.

"You cold?" Taryn asked, watching her over the rim of the blue gla.s.s mug.

"No. A little, maybe," Rosalind admitted.

Taryn jogged out of kitchen with a clomp of combat boots.

Joe shook his head at Rosalind. "She sounds like a platoon in those things. If I could get her to lace them up, they wouldn't be so bad."