Chapter 9
“I packed two tents and two survival bags, boss,” Ginny says, pulling the cord that straps our bags to the cycle taut. “Should be enough to get you through five days, if need be.”
Lowell slides protective shades over his eyes, instructing with his hands for me to do the same.
“It’ll be plenty. This should only take three days, maximum.
” He swings his leg over the sandcycle, the entire metal frame creaking and bouncing under his weight.
Twisting at the hip, he turns to extend his hand, urging me to take it.
I stare at his wide, calloused palm. In a matter of hours, my desperate attempt to stay alive has turned into an ill-planned suicide mission assisted by a maniacal loose cannon.
When I came up with this stupid plan, I’d neglected to factor in that while only any idiot would go for it, Lowell is that idiot.
At the very least, I get to ride a sandcycle for the first time.
Typically, only thieves and merchants ride sandcycles due to their unrestricted speeds.
This lack of regulation makes the cycles incredibly unsafe and therefore illegal within city bounds.
This doesn’t quell my curiosity about these death traps however, and I can’t contain my excitement to finally be able to ride one.
I lower my goggles and take hold of Lowell’s hand. He lifts me with ease, gently setting me down so I’m straddled across the seat behind him.
“Grab my waist and loop your fingers through my belt. We’re going to go fast,” he says, turning the ignition.
The engine roars to life, shaking me so hard I fear I might fall off.
My arms instinctively cling to Lowell’s waist, hands searching for his belt.
Once I feel the soft strips of leather, I twist my fingers around the loops so tight it’s painful.
Adjusting myself, my legs dangle off the sides of the cycle like a child in a high-chair, the height of the footrests set to someone much larger than myself.
The seat vibrates between my legs when Lowell revs the engine, stimulating the sensitive nub just above my groin. I yelp, and Lowell’s head snaps to me with an eyebrow raised. I’m thankful the scent of the arid desert is pungent.
I’m still so sensitive from…
My cheeks burn pink.
“Like this?” I yell over the engine, wiggling my hands at his belt loops to pull his attention.
Lowell nods, still observant, revving the engine a few times before idling. He yells something to Ginny that I can’t hear.
She mouths, “Yes, sir,” her voice still inaudible.
Coming closer to me while leaning in, she shouts over the engine’s purr, “Be careful.” It’s more of a warning than words of concern.
She vehemently protested my plan, initially, but Lowell had the final say.
It’s clear from her scowl that his choice still perturbs her.
I give a weak grin in response.
Lowell extends his reptilian leg to lift the kickstand, standing the bike upright. With a twist of the throttle, the freed cycle shoots us toward Rime Mountain. The sudden surge forward yanks me backward I and gasp. I squeeze Lowell’s waist, the hard muscles refusing to cushion my straining arms.
The sandcycle spits up mounds of sand in our wake, the rumbling motor a relaxing harmony with my anxiously swirling stomach. It feels odd to be this close to Lowell. To be hugging his back protectively despite nearly being inside his stomach twelve hours ago.
This whole situation is bizarre.
I’m fortunate my plan is fairly straightforward, given its absurdity.
With no need for advanced preparations, there were no more cold, damp nights in the prison accompanied by tasteless gruel.
Although I’m surprised by how quickly Lowell accepted my proposal — he seems just as desperate to find something that works as I am to leave.
I wonder if my previous work was as detrimental as Lowell tried to make me believe.
If my efforts were truly in vain, this would be one of the few ways to correct it.
Then again, taking up a position as an eco-terrorist isn’t a solution I desire, either.
Despite our differences in execution, Lowell and I have similar goals.
Although the pit in my gut deepens, I hope that we’ll be able to succeed.
* * *
We set up our tents approximately five hours from Rime Mountain.
The full moon peeks out from the edge of the horizon as shadows are cast from the dunes.
The chill of the desert overtakes the once-sweltering heat, howling winds whistling over the sand.
Thermal tents make the temperature change manageable, but it’s far from comfortable.
The frigid air freezes me down to my bones, every hair standing on end.
I pull my knotted hair loose from the lazy braid I weaved before leaving Nilsan, the strands fused in a disastrous tangled web. Running my fingers through the knots, I wince when they catch with each pass.
Outside my tent, Lowell is clamoring about. He was uncharacteristically quiet during our small dinner of rehydrated beans and rice, his face serious and focused. He almost seemed nervous.
“Shit!”
I hear the distinct sound of a tool dropping into the sand.
Reaching to unzip a corner of the tent, I peer out of the small slit to remain unnoticed.
Lowell crouches near his sandcycle, pieces of the passenger footrest strewn about. He wears nothing but tightly fitted pants, his leather jacket tossed on the ground beside him. Occasionally reaching for his bandana to wipe away building sweat, it otherwise remains tucked into his back pocket.
Under the moonlight, Lowell’s scales glow. Their deep-grey assumes tones of blue from the night sky, accentuating every curve and muscle of his body. The scars that crisscross across his pectorals and abdomen vary in depth, puckering the skin to form a color much deeper than the rest.
I haven’t noticed until now how large his biceps are. How they look capable of crushing a human skull with little effort. Unfortunately, Lowell is sickeningly attractive. I can’t take my eyes off him, drinking in every blemish, scrape, and scar that glimmers in starlight.
“Enjoying my struggle?” Lowell grunts, his amber eyes shining in the darkness as he looks over his shoulder at me.
I’m unsure why I thought a Lizardfolk, notorious for their night vision, wouldn’t catch me spying.
I pull my lips into a thin line, zipping open the door until the metal touches the ground. “I have to enjoy it when it happens. Your pain is the only thing that’ll keep me sane,” I say, gingerly stepping outside.
Lowell turns his attention back to the sandcycle, whipping one of his hands back and forth as he sucks his teeth. “Can’t die from a minor pinch. Sorry to disappoint.”
I stare at the sandcycle, leaning over his shoulder for a better look. Before I can assess whatever Lowell is doing, a gust of wind slaps my hair against my face, pulling it in every direction. I spit a few strands from my mouth once the wind quiets down.
Lowell fights a smile, his lips twitching with a snicker.
Embarrassed, I puff out my cheeks, furiously grabbing chunks of hair to braid it once again. My fingers fumble with the strands, the braid pattern messy and juvenile.
“Stop laughing at me,” I snap, tying the ends.
Lowell shrugs, tilting his head to hide his expression. “Your braiding skills are horrendous. But I can’t complain too much — the matted knots are much easier to grab,” he retorts, intentionally trying to get under my skin.
My jaw ticks, unable to hide my irritation. “Goddess, I don’t even know why I came out here,” I huff, stomping back towards the tent.
Lowell snatches my wrist to halt me from storming off. He sighs in resignation, softening his hardened face. “Let me do it. Riding in the open air on the sandcycle will tangle it like crazy — to the point you’ll have to cut it off. It has to be braided correctly.”
I suspect he is teasing me, but his face remains serious. Usually, he’d smile his usual shitty, smug smile when he’s making fun of me, but for some reason, he’s not. It’s a bit unnerving.
“Why do you care — or better question, how do you know how to braid? You don’t have hair,” I say, skeptical. There is no chance his intentions are pure.
Wrinkling his snout, he rolls his eyes. “I grew up around humans with long hair, so I learned.” A claw points in my direction, not accusatory, but questioning. “Besides, why are you so bad at it?” he presses.
Pulling the band from the braid, my hair tumbles from its confines. The ends are frayed with each strand matted like coarse twine, the dryness only exacerbated by the weather.
“I’ve always been bad at it. My grandma would do it for me,” I reply, my fingers getting stuck as I try to run my fingers through it.
With an obnoxious sigh, Lowell pats the space between his legs, stretching them out into a V. “Then sit.”
I don’t know if exhaustion, stress, or anxiety are the factors for my lowering guard, but I plop down between his legs without question, my back turned. The sand is chilly at this time of night, goosebumps spreading over my skin as a shiver runs down my spine.
At my chilled wiggle, Lowell snickers. He gently drags my hair to my back in one swipe, and I almost feel bad for my exaggerated flinch as his knuckle grazes my neck. I’m still not used to the feeling of his scales.
Slowly, Lowell runs his claws through my hair, each knot slicing apart like a warm knife through butter. I’m impressed that he doesn’t snag once, my shoulders tensed and bracing in anticipation of pain that never comes. He makes it seem so easy.
“Your hair is the color of chestnuts,” Lowell muses quietly, a hint of admiration on his tongue.
His claws scrape my skull and I shiver, this time for a different reason. The sensation of his sharp claws dragging over my skin feels divine, my lips parting in delight as my head lolls.
With an unexpected dexterity, Lowell hooks chunks of hair into the crooks of his fingers and begins to weave them into braids. I can tell he’s taking his time, my thick hair partly to blame.
“Back before Nilsan set their eyes on this area, it used to be home to many oases,” Lowell starts, his voice low and rumbling.
“Some say the pools of water would glow at night, the plant life carrying a type of energy akin to electricity.” He pauses, smacking his lips.
“But we’ll never know, since most of it was destroyed when Nilsan and Ataria plucked every living plant from this desert. ”
I hum, ignoring his jab, and instead lean into his hands while he rakes his claws through my hair repeatedly. “Grandma told me there were fish that looked like rainbows. She said that if you touched one, it would send a painful tingle through your entire body.”
Lowell loops the final pieces of hair together at the end, securing it with a band. He lets out a longing sigh, his chest brushing against my spine. “I wish I could have seen the old world.”
I pull the braid over my shoulder, my eyebrows rising in shock at how sleek it appears. I wouldn’t have expected such a high level of precision from such offensively designed hands, nor the tenderness.
“Thank you,” I say with a faint smile, bumping Lowell’s chest.
I jump when his snout blows air in my ear, his voice a sultry whisper. “You’re very welcome.”
Heat rises from my body like the kindling of a newly started fire, and I swallow shakily. Rolling my lips between my teeth, my cheek brushes against Lowell’s nose as I turn to face him. When I capture his gaze, his pupils are large. Obsidian devours the small ring of amber.
My heart palpitates, drawing in a sharp inhale to fill my lungs.
My heart is beating too fast.
Eyes that once stared at me in anger and hunger now appear almost… inviting. So beautiful in the moonlight that I can nearly see my reflection. I wonder what they would look like if they saw me undress.
I snap my gaze forward.
What the hell am I thinking?
Suddenly pushing to my feet, I keep my face turned away from Lowell, and most importantly, out of the light. I have no doubt my beet-red face would give away my current swelling of emotions.
“What are you doing out here, anyway?” I ask, voice cracking with nerves.
I hear Lowell shifting his position in the sand, but I don’t look. There is sounds of metal clinking as he resumes working on the sandcycle.
“Your feet could barely reach the footrest, so I’m raising them,” he says plainly.
My chest squeezes in a way it shouldn’t, my lower abdomen warming in a way that it definitely shouldn’t be.
“Ah, I see,” I say. My cheeks flush deeper.
“Don’t get the wrong idea. It’s so you can balance yourself properly when firing your crossbow, not because I care about your comfort,” Lowell says with a hint of playfulness. It’s hard to tell if he’s telling the truth or not.
I push the tip of my shoes into sand, swaying my hips. “I could shoot a target while falling off a cliff. Don’t concern yourself with my aim.”
Lowell laughs, his low, gravelly, hissing voice sounding like music. “Alright, then. Don’t disappoint me tomorrow.”
I nod, slipping back into my tent. I keep my back turned while I say, “Good night, Lowell.”
“Good night, May,” he replies.
Once I’m in the comfort of my tent, I nearly let out a scream. One day ago, Lowell was about to eat me. Many days ago, I was destined to be killed. But this feeling… this warm feeling pooling between my legs?
Desire for the Lizardfolk who wants to eat me.
Fuck, I think, rubbing my palms into my eye sockets.