Free The Alignment by Kay Camden Page A

voice, coming from outside. It’s him. I wonder who he’s talking to. He must be on the back porch. I strain to see him but it’s impossible from this angle. I crack the window, hoping it doesn’t make a noise. It slides easily.
    “…can’t explain the situation? It’s not what it looks like…so what if they don’t care, I’m just trying to save them some trouble…I know they can see everything. Can they see my middle finger?”
    I strain to detect a response but hear no other voice. He must be on the phone. He makes an exasperated sigh, obviously listening to the person on the other end.
    “Just do me this one favor, I’m sure you owe me for something…I don’t fucking know, but there’s got to be a way to explain…God, you know I don’t care about their prophecy crap.”
    He’s silent for a while until a burst of laughter surprises me. It’s such a strange sound from him, maybe there is someone else out there whose laugh I can hear but whose voice I can’t.
    “For real? Well they can suck it. Oh, and tell them their guys are getting worse and worse. It’s hardly a challenge anymore…Yeah, maybe I shouldn’t complain. The practice is good. My dad must be eating this up. Maybe it’s some sick way for him to keep me in training.”
    He pauses again. Another laugh. I press my cheek against the screen, hoping he’ll walk into view, hungry for proof that the sound is coming from him. “Okay yeah. Call me either way… You’re sick…yeah you wish. Okay. Later.”
    I slide the window closed and sit down to digest what I just heard. I’m involved in something, and I’m not sure I want to know what. A sharp knock on the door propels me to my feet.
    “You up?” he asks through the door.
    Trying to clear my expression, I open the door.
    “I pulled your car out of the garage. If you’re ready, I can walk you—what?” An innocuous sentence transformed into an accusation complete with narrowed eyes and a bitter scowl.
    I guess I wasn’t successful with my attempt at a blank look. “I’m ready.” I grab my bag and squeeze past him and go out the front door.
    He catches up and leads me across the yard in the same zigzag pattern as before. I try to memorize the route, but it’s hard to concentrate while trying to bridle my impatient tongue. When we reach my car, I spin to face him. My day is ruined anyway.
    “Did you enjoy undressing me?”
    “What?” He straightens up in surprise.
    “You didn’t think I would notice? That you took off my pants?”
    He leans into my face. “I did not take off your pants.”
    “Well they were off. And it only could have been you.” I glare back at him, holding my ground, even though he’s uncomfortably close. He expects me to recoil from his aggressive stance, but I won’t. We can stand here like this forever.
    He makes a lightning-fast movement to grab my shoulders but catches himself.
    “Try it.” I will scream bloody murder and aim for the groin.
    He stares at me through narrowed eyes, his chest heaving. There’s a scar running into his upper lip and another across his cheekbone. Old scars. Like something very large and sharp skipped across his face. His attitude must be a source of trouble with people much bigger and less civilized than me. It’s bad news to be face to face with someone like him, but I refuse to break eye contact. I watch him struggle to recover. His mass looms over me. He obviously has the physical advantage, but I know the human nervous system. And where to strike to cause the most pain.
    “You don’t have to believe me. But I would not do that.” He holds my eye to drive his point. He turns and stomps away, his boots making huge prints in the wet grass.
    He’s a grown man, trying to intimidate someone smaller than him like a bully in grade school. When he’s not doing that, he’s drinking like an alcoholic. He has the scars to prove he hangs with losers just like him.
    So much for this morning’s brief bout of