The Space Between (The Book of Phoenix) Read Online Free Page A

from my time spent with wannabe professionals that big tits got in the way when dancing and narrow hips made better lines, whatever that meant. They could have their boy bodies. I’d take the curves on this one any day.
    I shook myself out of it—again—ran to grab my carry-on and, ignoring the model, sprinted after the girl who’d really captured my interest. And much more, if I dared to admit it.
    After several steps of matching her pace, I finally got her to stop and talk to me. As soon as those green eyes were on me again, I faltered, once more losing my mind. I forced my brain to focus.
    “Please let me replace your coffee,” I insisted. “You don’t have to sit with me if you don’t want to, but let me do this.”
    She hesitated as her gaze swept all points around us as if avoiding my face, then finally it returned to me. She nodded and followed me to the café down the terminal. I bought her a cannoli to go along with her cappuccino—last chance for a true Italian one, I told her. After paying for our order, I found a small table with two spindly chairs and barely enough room for our carry-on bags. I was admittedly surprised when she sat down with me.
    “So what do I call you? I’ve been thinking goldie-locks in my head, but those curls are really caramel colored.”
    She blushed again, and I could literally feel the heat from her skin. The girl would drive me insane.
    “L-E-N-I,” she signed.
    “As in L-E-N-N-Y K-R-A-V-I-T-Z or as in—” I made the sign for lay and pointed at my knee.
    Her mouth opened in a broad smile and by the way her body shook slightly, I knew she was laughing. She told me it was the latter.
    “I’m J-E-R-I-C,” I shared before we both dug into the creamy goodness in front of us.
    The cannoli might have been a mistake. I had one hour with her, only sixty minutes, but it was impossible to sign with ricotta-covered fingers. Watching her suck the sweet cheese off, though, made it worth it, although it also made me hard.
    “How do you know the difference in sounds?” she asked when she was finished. She must have seen the confusion in my eyes. “Like how to say my name.”
    Ah. She was perceptive.
    “I haven’t always been deaf,” I replied. “I was in an accident eight years ago. I was fourteen, so plenty old enough to remember sounds.”
    Her face darkened. “I’m sorry. That loss must have been difficult.”
    I didn’t tell her what else I had lost—so much more than my hearing. We had an hour, and I wasn’t about to make it a mopey hour of depression.
    So I shrugged and made light of it. “I gained some superpowers, so it’s all good.”
    She laughed again. “And what would those be?”
    I tapped my temple with a finger. “I can read minds.”
    “Oh, I see. And you did such a good job with the bartender a few minutes ago.”
    I smiled, trying to think fast. “I hear thoughts, but can’t speak my own.”
    She tilted her head again in that way she does, a gleam in her eyes. “So what am I thinking right now?”
    I lifted an eyebrow. “Do you really want me to say?”
    Her skin flushed even deeper. As if to distract herself—or me—she picked up her coffee cup and tilted her head back to finish the last drops. What was she thinking?
    “You’re thinking you’d like more cappuccino,” I signed.
    She laughed. I wished I could hear it. “Nice guess, but I’m good. I’m hoping to sleep on the plane, not bounce around it on a caffeine high.”
    Another reminder she was leaving. We both were. Life was a bitch. This girl fascinated me. Not only did she affect me like no other female had in my extensive foray with them, but she was literally the girl of my dreams. I’d been sketching her for years, and here she was in the flesh. I licked my lips. I couldn’t help but wonder what that flesh tasted like.
    Her hands moved again, returning me to reality.
    “Why Italy?” she asked.
    Heh. Good question. I studied her face as I debated how much to tell her about