Free Resenting the Hero by Moira J. Moore

would be better if he learned me the way I had to learn him, so he wouldn’t have to hang on to me all the time, but that would never happen with his eyes everywhere but on me.
    I shifted my feet uneasily. Someone was playing music somewhere near. It was the gorgeous, languid call of an oboe. It chilled me, but in a good way. I shifted my shoulders in the attempt to relax them. Then I clenched my teeth and dug my nails into my palms. Karish’s grip tightened. “Shall I tell them to stop?” he asked, his voice so low and smooth it sent shivers down my spine.
    I shook my head. I didn’t want it to stop. It felt good.
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œI’m all right.”
    The words were barely out of my mouth before a pair of cymbals crashed together inside my left ear. At least, that was how it sounded. I’m sure my feet cleared the ground by a good arm span, but I didn’t scream. Good for me.
    Karish pulled me to him, close to his side. I could see a passerby giving us a strange look. I felt suffocated. I struggled free. “Let me go.” He was far too ready to touch me, and I wasn’t used to it.
    â€œYou’re more sensitive than I thought.”
    â€œI’m not so bad you have to hang all over me.”
    â€œI won’t have you accusing me of neglecting you.”
    â€œSo don’t neglect me. Watch me. But don’t be touching me all the time.”
    He didn’t like that at all. “I’m sorry I’m so offensive,” he said coolly.
    Someone snickered and said, “I’ll watch her for you.”
    I looked at the man with surprise, ready to be offended again. I wasn’t a child who needed to be supervised. But then he smiled at me, and it was a cute smile, so I smiled back.
    â€œNo, thank you,” Karish refused him with chilly disdain.
    The man didn’t appear to be impressed by the note of hostility. “No, I’m serious. I know about Shields.”
    â€œI’ll bet you do,” Karish sneered.
    The man’s face darkened. Didn’t like the insinuation that he would take advantage of a woman made susceptible by music. Always a good sign in a man. “I will keep her out of harm’s way for you,” he said with a controlled voice. “Since you seem to find the task so troublesome.”
    Nice shot.
    Karish deliberately stepped in between the stranger and me. “You may leave, now,” he said loftily.
    The regular shrugged. “Let me know if you change your mind,” he suggested. “I know how overburdened you Sources tend to feel. Have fun.” And he wandered off.
    â€œPrat,” Karish muttered.
    I watched the stranger walk away. He’d been appealing in a nondescript kind of way. Wiry build, nice brown eyes, good smile.
    Then I forgot about him.
    The sun finally disappeared, and I took off my shoes and stockings and started stretching, rotating my ankles and wrists. It had been nearly a month since I last danced the benches, and I was finding it hard to get loose. The drummers did a few warm-up rolls on the timpani, and I let the music work my muscles over.
    Bench dancing was a dangerous pastime. People who were bad at it didn’t do it. Two opponents stood on the benches, facing each other, a foot on each bench. Four stalkers, two on each end of the benches, worked the bars. The bars were lifted to just over bench height and were clattered together. The dancers had to jump and hop from bench to bench to keep their feet from getting caught between the bars. There were three rules. The opponents couldn’t touch each other. A dancer couldn’t have two feet on the same bench at the same time. And no touching the ground. Getting caught between the bars didn’t mean an automatic loss according to the rules, but it hurt, a lot, so in such cases the dancer usually forfeited.
    All Shields had to learn bench dancing at the academies. It was a wonderful way to force us to pay