Page 66 of Omega

Not good. So very intensely not good.

Now that was all I could think about.

We drove in complete silence for several minutes. Neither of us daring to look at each other, neither of us daring to cross the invisible line drawn between us.

He seemed to know exactly where we were going, and it wasn’t back to the epicenter of São Paulo. If I had my directions right, we were heading east. I didn’t care, though. Or rather, I didn’t have the mental capacity to care.

All I could think about was NEED.

The sexual tension in the car was at DEFCON 10. High alert. We’d gone past storm watch directly into tornado warning. I couldn’t sit still, and neither could he. We stole glances, each pretending nothing was wrong.

And then a spark flew.

He took his hand off the wheel and set it on the bench at his side, and I did the exact same thing at the same time. Which meant my hand went under his. My head snapped around and my gaze fixed on our hands, his on mine, and then I looked up at him, at his eyes, and saw that his gaze was daring, challenging.

You move your hand first,his eyes said.

I didn’t. I never back down from a challenge. That’s rule number one with Layla: never dare me or challenge me, because I have zero common sense. Iwill notback down.

I rotated my wrist, turning my hand palm-up under his. He narrowed his eyes, looking from me to our hands to the road and back. And then his fingers splayed apart, snaked between mine.

What the hell was this, junior high?

Clearly, because my heart was thudding against my ribcage like a fucking tribal drum at the innocent, ridiculous, childish contact of his hand on mine, his fingers in mine.

We were holding fucking hands.

HOLDING HANDS.

I’d never held hands. I’d skipped the silly cute innocent stage of my sexuality, going straight from thinking boys were stupid to making out in janitor’s closets within the space of a single grade—fifth grade, if you want specifics. I’d sucked my first cock in sixth grade, and was pretty well experienced in the basic missionary position by the end of seventh. By ninth grade, I was on the prowl.

Holding hands wasn’t exactly on the itinerary, needless to say.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Mogi das Cruzes,” he said. “It’s an offshoot of São Paulo. Thresh has a safe-house prepped for us.” He let go of my hand and pulled a cell phone from his pocket, dialed a number, and put the phone to his ear. “Thresh. We’re ten minutes out. No, just secure the perimeter and then head for Rio as we discussed. Affirmative.” He hung up, and shoved the phone back in his pocket, doing that uniquely male thing where he lifted his entire body off the seat to wedge the phone into the pocket.

And then he reached out, took my hand in his once more, and threaded our fingers together. His eyes cut to mine to gauge my reaction; I’d felt strangely disappointed when he’d let go of my hand, and giddy when he took it back. None of this had crossed my face, though, hopefully.

Or maybe it did, because the corner of his mouth quirked up in a small, pleased smile.

Somehow, over the next ten minutes, my position on the bench seat shifted. I’m not sure how, or why, but I kept sliding further and further left, closer and closer to Harris. And then he let go of my hand, but only to rest his palm on my knee. This made it hard to breathe, and impossible to swallow.

When his fingers found the tender skin of my thigh just beneath the hem of the skin-tight shorts, I had to focus on forcing each breath in, and each breath out.

I lost track of my left hand, and found it on his thigh.

What the hell was going on?

We were in a residential area, quiet, sunny, hilly, São Paulo proper in the distance, the buildings more well-kept, the cars a little newer. Kind of like Clawson or Livonia in Metro Detroit, not super wealthy but not run-down either, where people were getting by and weren’t exactly poor, but weren’t really close to even upper-middle class.

Harris drove with his left hand, not taking his right off my leg. His eyes were in constant motion now, though. I could feel his attention, and it was laser-focused on our surroundings, checking the mirrors and the rooftops and each doorway we passed. He slowed, made a left turn, and then stopped outside a small house with white siding and terra cotta roof tiles, a gray fence separating the driveway and front door from the street and sidewalk. A momentary pause, and then a truly massive human being emerged from the house, ducking under the lintel and straightening to a full height that had to be close to seven feet tall. The man was nearly as broad as he was tall, which was a terrifying distortion of physical proportion. Despite his gargantuan size, the man moved with the same predatory grace that Harris possessed. Quick motions unlocked the gate and slid it aside, letting Harris pull the Range Rover into the driveway.

My door was pulled open and I climbed out, straightened, and turned to face the giant. And he was, truly, a giant.

“Jesus Christ on a cracker,” I said, “you’re the biggest person I’ve ever seen.”

“I get that a lot,” he said. His voice was…I’m not sure I have a word for how deep it was. Metaphor also seems to fail, but I’ll do my best: it sounded sort of like mountains crashing together, the sound emerging from the depths of the Marianas Trench.