Obsidian Butterfly - Laurell K. Hamilton [238]
Simon started up a flight of stairs. I looked up the long flight and the world swam. Deuce called, “Simon, I’m not sure she’s up to stairs.”
“Mickey.” The man in question moved up to the foot of the stairs. “Carry her.”
“I don’t want him touching me,” I said.
“I didn’t ask you, either of you,” Simon said.
Mickey gave his gun to Simon, then took my arm. He pulled me too fast and I was suddenly airborne on his shoulder, my head hanging down. I couldn’t breathe. The world was spinning, and I was going to be sick.
“I’m going to throw up.”
He dumped me unceremoniously back to my feet, and I fell. It was Simon who caught me. “Are you too hurt to do the spell?”
I knew the answer to that one—no. Because if Riker thought I couldn’t help him, he would kill us all. “I can do it if Mickey here doesn’t dangle me over his shoulder with my head hanging down. I need to stay upright, or it’s not going to get any better.”
“Carry her in your arms, not over your shoulders,” Simon said. “All those muscles got to be good for something.”
Mickey picked me up in his arms like you’d carry a small child. He stood there like I weighed nothing. He was strong, but carrying like this is harder than it looks. We’d see how he did if there was more than one floor to climb. Here’s hoping he didn’t drop me.
I put my arm around his shoulders. I’d have clasped hands around his neck to be more secure, but I couldn’t reach around his deltoids without straining. “How much do you bench press?”
“Three-ninety.”
“I’m impressed,” I said.
He preened a little. Mickey was dangerous, but if I could keep him from hitting me, he was the weak one. Rooster followed orders too well. Simon was Simon. Deuce seemed harmless, but there was something in those dreamy eyes that was a little scary. Maybe I was wrong, but I’d try Mickey before I tried Deuce, for trickery anyway. Arm wrestling, I’d take Deuce.
Mickey walked up the stairs with me in his arms, effortlessly. I could feel the muscles in his legs pushing, working. Again, I had the sense of immense physical potential and quickness.
“What’s Mickey mean?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Simon explained his nickname, I’m just wanting to know what yours means.”
Deuce answered. “It’s for Mickey Mouse.”
“Shut up, Deuce.”
“He’s got a tattoo of Mickey on his butt,” Deuce said as if Mickey hadn’t spoken.
Mickey’s face darkened, and he turned to glare at the other man. I just fought to keep my face blank. What kind of moron would have Mickey Mouse tattooed on his butt? But not out loud, not with those tree trunk arms wrapped around my tender body. If I hadn’t had the marks on me, he’d have probably killed me with that one blow. No, I didn’t want Mickey angry with me.
There was a landing, and a second flight of stairs. Mickey didn’t even hesitate on the landing. He just went for the next set of stairs. His legs moved as easily up the second set as the first. He never paused to catch his breath. In fact, his breathing barely sped up. Whatever you could complain about Mickey, being out of shape wasn’t part of it.
I told him so. “How far you jog a day?”
“Five miles, every other day. How’d you know?”
“A lot of body builders would be having trouble by now. They neglect the aerobic stuff, but you move like some kind of well-oiled machine. You’re not even breathing hard.” There was something very intimate about being carried in someone’s arms like this, a reminder of childhood and your parents’ arms maybe.
Mickey’s hands tightened on me; the one on my thigh began to massage my leg. I didn’t tell him not to. It’s been my experience that if a man is interested in having sex with you, they hesitate to kill you before they’ve had the sex. This rule is not always true, but more often than not. The trick is to get the