Chapter 7: Terms Broken

Kirk rolled the bay door down behind us and the street noise stopped.

I stood in the middle of the garage with my fists closed.

My whole body shook with what I had done in that tent and with what I had not been able to do for five years.

"Say it again," I said.

"Say what?"

"Year three. What did you write?"

He looked at me for a long moment.

"That you were dangerous. That you'd shown no remorse."

"Year four?"

"The same."

"Last year?"

"Camilla."

"Say it."

"That the board should keep you where you were," Kirk said, "because you'd said you'd kill him, and I believed you meant it."

"Did I mean it?"

"I don't know."

"Good," I said. "Neither do I."

I crossed the floor and put my hand flat on his chest.

His heart was going hard under my palm.

"You owe me five years," I said.

"I know."

"I'm collecting."

His breath caught, and his hands stayed at his sides.

"Rule one," he said, low. "You start it."

"I'm starting it."

I took a fistful of his shirt and kissed him.

It was clumsy and angry, and I bit his lip.

He made a sound in his throat that went straight down my spine.

His hands came up and framed my face, very carefully.

I pulled them down to my hips instead.

"Don't be careful," I said.

I took him up the stairs by the front of his shirt.

At the top I stopped in the doorway and left the door wide open behind us.

He saw it, and understood, and said nothing.

I pushed him back onto the bed and stood over him.

I unbuttoned his shirt with fingers that weren't steady and pushed it off his shoulders.

He had a long white scar under his ribs and a chest built by lifting engines.

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