Free Drowning Instinct by Ilsa J. Bick Page A

sucks. Have you called her?‖

    ―I don‘t have a phone.‖

    ―No way. No cell ?‖

    ―Well, I . . . I just never needed one. I mean—‖ I tried to be all jokey about it.
    ―Who‘s going to call me?‖

    ―If you don‘t have a phone, how will you ever know?‖ His eyebrows pulled down in a frown. ―Seriously, you should have one for emergencies at least.‖ He made a move for a front pocket of his jeans. ―You want to use mine?‖

    ―No, thanks. My mom probably got delayed at the store, that‘s all.‖

    ―Okay.‖ David studied me a moment. ―How come you don‘t have a car?‖

    How long you got? ―I might get one.‖ I didn‘t have a license either, but he hadn‘t asked about that. ―Maybe this summer.‖

    ―Well, that sucks,‖ he repeated. ―Waiting around must be a drag.‖

    ―I don‘t mind too much.‖ Then, all bright and chirpy: ―I get all my homework done.‖ God, that sounded pathetic.

    ―I‘d hate having to depend on my folks all the time. It would drive me nuts.‖

    Been there, done that . I didn‘t know what else I could say, though, so I kept quiet.
    Why was he even talking to me? Student council elections had come and gone. (Yes, Bob, he won.)

    After another moment‘s silence, David thumbed off his gym bag, which settled with a dull metallic clatter to the floor. ―So,‖ he said, dropping into a chair alongside mine,

    ―what are you working on?‖

    ―Oh.‖ I made a move to minimize the screen, but he was crowding in at my right elbow, his eyes skimming the words. This close, I could see the fine film of sweat along his temples, too. He smelled . . . really nice. ―It‘s, uh, a letter. To my brother.‖

    ―Yeah? Where is he?‖

    ―Away,‖ I said, and then I did close out of the account. ―It‘s private.‖

    ―Oh, okay. Sure,‖ he said, and easily enough that I didn‘t think he‘d seen the word hospital . Or maybe he was just nice enough not to let on. No, on second thought, the word passed him by. David was a decent guy and didn‘t seem to be that good a liar. Believe me, Bob, it takes one to know one.

    More. Awkward. Silence. I glanced at the librarian, who was studying us through her office window. God knows what she thought was going to happen. She caught my eye then did the whole checking-her-watch routine. Like I always had guys drop in at the last second just to piss her off.

    I turned back to David. ―So how was practice?‖

    ―Not so great.‖ Wrinkling his nose, David tipped his chair back and then gave this long and very languid stretch so his shirt rode up and I could see bare skin. ―My focus is crap. I‘m making a lot of dumb mistakes.‖

    ―Oh?‖ His stomach was staring me in the face, so I couldn‘t help but look. David was a couple cans shy of a six-pack, but his belly was still muscular and trim—and crisscrossed with bruises. Some were fresh, angry, purple wheals; others, a mottled yellow-green, were healing. He looked as if he‘d been whipped. ―What happened?‖

    ―Hunh?‖ Startled, he followed my gaze and then rolled up the edge of his shirt and studied his skin as if seeing it for the first time. ―Oh. Those are saber cuts. You get used to it.‖

    ―But don‘t they hurt?‖

    ―Oh yeah, but saber‘s not like foil or épée. You can score with the whole blade, not just the tip, and everything from the waist up is target area. So it‘s really fast, and there‘s a lot of cut and slash.‖ He gave a lopsided grin. ―It‘s why I like it, I guess. But this year the coach thinks I‘m more interested in just beating the hell out of people.‖

    ―How come?‖ My eyes zeroed in on the tail of very pink scar tissue, as thick as my little finger, snaking down along his left side, just below his ribs. Take it from a pro, Bob: that slice had been deep and bad.

    ―Pissed off, I guess.‖ His laugh was humorless, more like a bark. ―You know . . .
    just stuff.‖

    Just stuff . Well, that was an invitation for a