Titanium (5 page)

"Great. Perfect." I couldn't stifle my yawn. "I need to pee, and
then I'm going to try to sleep. Geez. Did I really just announce that?
Sorry. I'm oddly comfortable with you. Do you feel it?"

"I do, and it's nice. Say whatever's on your mind, anytime,
good or bad."

"And don't bother lying because you'll know?"

"There is that."

Feeling better than I had all day, I left him in the living room.
By that time it was almost five in the morning. Although a bath
might've relaxed me, I didn't take one. What I did do was slip out of
my work clothes, which smelled like cumin and jalapeños, and
into fresh panties and a T-shirt. I went to bed, punching my pillow
until it felt just right and settling in. My room was dark, thanks to
mini-blinds. Outside, a chilly wind shook the panes in the window.
But I slept anyway.

I stared at Riley's Stone-Age TV, but didn't even know what
was playing on it. Had I really just agreed to move in with her?

Why the eff would I do such a thing?

Several reasons came to mind, and one of them really was
my desire to get out of the trailer I'd called home for the past few
months. I thought of my mom's reaction to the place when I moved
there and grinned. God, she'd hated it, from the sixties shag
carpeting--avocado green, naturally--to the fake paneling on the
walls. I thought of our three-story house in Amarillo with its
perfectly mowed lawns, perfectly tended gardens, and perfectly
decorated interior.

She and Dad lived to impress the neighbors. I hadn't
inherited the gene.

As for my other reasons...there were three. Riley, Riley, and
Riley. She was the flame to my moth. I couldn't resist her. Would I
regret my decision? Probably, but that wasn't what worried me
most.

What did, was my fear that Riley might regret it, too. More
than anything, I did not want to hurt that beautiful girl with the
sunshine smile. Once we shared quarters, it would be hard not to
follow her around like a lost puppy. Why? Because I hadn't seen one
thing about her that I didn't like. In fact, if I'd ever made a list of
desirable traits in a female, she'd have had them all. Petite? Check.
Toned? Check. Brunette? Check. Smart? Check. Sweet? Check.

Yep. I was definitely headed for a heartache. And the worst
part? I didn't give a rat's ass, at least about myself.

Lost in thought, I channel surfed until I came across a talk
show featuring Steve McConnell, CEO and owner of StMc Comics, as a
guest. I'd seen the creator of the Titanium graphic novels many times
before on TV and even once in person at Comic-Con. He'd held a huge
audience captive with his wit and wisdom. And if I hadn't already
been a fan of his series, he'd have made me one that day.

Followers of Titanium, a half human-half metal misfit of an
antihero, were cult-like in their devotion and even held yearly
conventions, where they all dressed up as characters from the series.
McConnell's recent decision to make a Titanium movie hadn't exactly
thrilled any of his
Titanimites,
as they called themselves.

Maybe they had a reason to worry. I could remember many
a comic book hero who'd fallen flat in Hollywood. But the man
deserved a chance in my opinion. After all, Titanium was his
brainchild. No one else really had a say in the decision. And the
thought of watching that character come alive in 3D or IMAX
completely worked for me.

Yawning so wide I popped my jaw, I gave up on TV to
recheck that the doors had been locked. Once sure Riley would be
safe while she slept, I stretched out on her couch, which wasn't even
as big as the love seat in my parent's home.

Did I miss that big ol' house in Amarillo? Not so much. I did
miss my folks now and then, even though they'd fatally disappointed
me. I especially missed my big sis and thought of her every single
day. We'd been tight, we two, growing up. I'd even told Angela when
I enlisted, a secret she'd faithfully kept from Mom and Dad until I
was ready to tell them, too.

I'd only seen her twice in the past year. Both meetings had
been emotional for her and, I thought, too sad. Though Ang hadn't
lied at any point--she knew better--her blatant belief that everything
would be okay had been just as upsetting to me. At some point she'd
have to do what I'd done: accept the fact that my life would never be
better than it was now.

I knew I should drive to Houston for another visit with her,
Rob, and the boys. But curious little kids asked a lot of questions--
questions with painful answers. And Timmy would want to play
football, something I wasn't physically able to do at the moment
though I believed I was getting closer.

When I woke, bright sunlight streamed through the cracks
between the mini-blinds on my only window. A glance at the clock
revealed it was after eleven on a Sunday. I'd slept without dreaming,
which I took as a sign that the bad stuff was over and all was right in
my world again.

What an idiot.

Dressed in yoga pants and a P!nk T-shirt, I walked into my
living room and found Zander already there, watching a NASCAR
documentary. He had on yesterday's clothes, now wrinkled as if he'd
slept in them, and hadn't combed his bed head, a look that went well
with his scruffy chin and equated to sexy as hell. My heart sort of
zinged in response.

"Morning," he said.

"Morning." I pulled back my long brown hair and began
twisting a band around it. "How long have you been up?"

"Five minutes, tops."

"You didn't sleep in your bed." I'd noticed.

"Nah, but the couch was just as good."

That had to be a lie. "Would you like some breakfast? Wait...
We did that already. How about some lunch?"

"I'm still full from all those pancakes I ate. I think I'll go to
my place and get started on packing my gear."

"Will getting out of your lease be a problem?"

"I'm renting month to month like most of my neighbors.
There's a big turnover rate at Brookside Trailer Park." Zander, now
on his feet and stretching, saw my curiosity. "No one can predict how
long they'll need to hang around the hospital."

"Oh." I stifled all the questions I wanted to ask. He'd talk
about his injury when he got ready. "I'll be glad to help you
pack."

"I don't really have that much to move. But if you want to
come, you're welcome."

"I do." And if loading up boxes beat staying home alone, I
probably still had issues. But I refused to think about them. Today
was a new day. Well, not literally, but close enough.

Since Zander thought his truck would hold everything, we
drove to his trailer in it once I'd changed into jeans and a sweatshirt.
I looked through the CD's tucked in the console and realized that
while we were on opposite ends of the spectrum musically speaking,
we did intersect in the middle, always a good thing when sharing a
roof.

Zander's digs were located in a park of aging mobile homes,
twelve total. He told me that a veteran had seen a need years ago,
bought some land, and set them up. All looked the same on the
outside--dated, weather beaten, but clean. I saw lawn chairs and
grills, some cycles, a basketball goal. What struck me most were his
neighbors, most of who appeared to be outside enjoying a clear
autumn day.

Young men for the most part--I only saw three women and a
couple of kids--who sat in wheelchairs or balanced on crutches. One
had his arm in a cast; another, his leg. Several clearly had missing
limbs. To the one, they smiled and waved at us. Emotion surged up
inside me. Emotion I hid as I waved. Heroes deserved respect and
appreciation, not irreparable damage to their bodies and lives.

"What are you thinking?" Zander asked.

I just shook my head. If I tried to answer, my voice might
crack and give away the depth of my sorrow.

"They're not ruined, you know."

I managed a nod, but still couldn't speak. Not with my heart
in pieces. Feeling self-conscious on several levels, I got out of the
truck. Every eye followed us across a carpet of bright orange maple
leaves to the wheelchair ramp leading to Zander's front door. All the
trailers had them, I saw.

Once inside, the smell of wet dog accosted me. Clearly my
almost housemate hadn't exaggerated that. With an eye out for the
bulletproof roaches he'd mentioned, I perused the pristine area,
which seemed oddly impersonal for him having lived there for
months. I saw no family photos anywhere or art on the walls. The
kitchen counter was completely clear, as was the tiny dining
table.

Crediting his neatness to the military, I explored the rest of
the trailer and found a small bedroom with the bed neatly made, a
smaller bedroom full of stuff, and a bathroom so clean I'd have been
comfortable eating there. Everything appeared to be old fashioned,
yes, but as shiny as the day it left the manufacturer. I easily decided
that I couldn't have picked a better housemate.

"There are boxes in here." Zander pointed to the smaller
bedroom. "I'll take the full ones to the truck first. Now I'm glad I was
too lazy to unpack them when I moved in."

"Where do I start?"

"Everything in the pantries, dressers, and closets is mine, so
any place would be good."

Hoisting a closed box, he left me. I picked out an empty one
and went to his bedroom. There was a built-in chest in there.
Checking the drawers, I found they had clothing in them. I began
with the top one, which held underwear. By the time I got to the
bottom drawer, my box bulged, but I'd managed to get everything in
it.

Zander took what I'd packed up and headed out the door
again. I don't know how many trips he and I made to the truck before
we finished loading his twelve boxes, flat screen TV, laundry baskets,
and crutches. I do know it was almost five and starting to get dark,
thanks to a cloud bank in the northwestern sky. We made one final
inspection to be sure we hadn't missed anything. Zander locked the
door. The two of us walked to his truck for the last time, with him
limping noticeably.

From the corner of my eye, I saw that some of his neighbors
had congregated and openly stared from a yard across the street, an
avid audience to Zander's departure. Just as we got to Zander's truck,
a neighbor with one intact leg and a bandaged stump joined us with
the help of crutches. He was a good looking guy, tall with short dark
hair and darker eyes. He had a soft cover book slightly squashed
against one of the handgrips.

The moment I saw it, I winced. Couldn't help it. That graphic
novel and I had history. Zander's eyes, which were on me,
narrowed.

The guy shot him a sympathetic look that made no sense in
the current context. "What's up, Xman? You skipping out on
me?"

Xman? A pretty accurate nickname, I thought, in light of
Zander's psychic skill.

"Yep," said Zander.

"Lucky dog. Who's this?" His openly admiring gaze swept
and flustered me.

"Kyle, Riley McConnell. Riley, Kyle Olsen, a buddy of
mine."

"Nice to meet you." I deliberately planted my gaze on Kyle's
face. I didn't want to be caught staring lower. His demeanor told me
he knew I was doing that, which was way embarrassing and almost
worse than gawking at his injured leg.

"You two been friends long?" he asked me.

"Just met, though it feels like I've known him forever. Zander
saved my life last night. Muggers in a parking lot."

"No shit? Well, he is good at that." Kyle handed Zander the
graphic novel, which was oversized and dog eared as if it had been
read a lot. "Brought your book back."

Zander tossed it in the seat of his truck without comment. I
realized his cheeks had flushed and he seemed oddly tense.

"My folks are bugging me to move back to the farm. They
think I'll do better there." Kyle dazed into the distance. "They can't
seem to understand that my hell is inside here." He touched a finger
to his head before sighing heavily. "Don't be a stranger, okay?"

"I won't." The two of them shared a brief man-hug. Zander
cleared his throat a little too loudly.

I saw that Kyle's eyes brimmed and hated to leave him. I
could only imagine how my new housemate felt.

From there, Zander drove us to the last trailer on the right. I
stayed in the truck while he knocked on the door, talked to some guy
for a bit, and handed in his key. They parted with a handshake.

The drive home was quiet. I had the distinct impression that
Zander was upset. I assumed it was because of Kyle's comment about
his personal hell or the fact they wouldn't be living next door to each
other anymore. Clearly they were good friends. Or maybe he
regretted telling me he'd share my apartment, essence of wet dog or
no.

We began moving boxes from the truck to my side of the
duplex the moment we got there. Misty rain compromised the front
steps and Zander stumbled twice, the second time nearly planting
his face in my porch.

I waited until he put down his box inside the house before
trying to let him off the hook. "Why don't you take a break? I can get
the last two."

"I'm perfectly able to do it myself," he as good as
growled.

"Fine. Do it." Sheesh. I eyed the living room, which now had
six boxes and the TV piled up in it. We'd put the rest in the bedroom
and kitchen. "I'll see if I can dig up some dinner."

Zander said nothing as he headed out the door again. I
edged over to the window and peeked between the mini-blinds to
see how he was doing. What I saw was him, standing by the bed of
his truck, with his hands gripping the chrome railing. He rested his
forehead on them and scuffed gravel with his shoe while he caught
his breath. At least, that's what I assumed he was doing.

My heart wrenched. More than anything, I wanted to offer
sympathy, but the guy clearly had his pride, and I needed to respect
it. So I went to the kitchen instead and popped a couple of TV
dinners into the oven. While they heated, I unloaded his food box,
careful to keep his things separate from mine until I knew if we
would be sharing. I soon heard the front door shut and the click of
the new lock that told me he'd made his last trip outside. Good.