The Walls of Jericho

Studying

I grab a paper towel and wet it, then rush over to him.

Channing stares at it dumbly. Those weird short-circuit sparks start up my arm as soon as I take hold of his. I dab gently, wiping away at the blood, looking for the wound. Unless he was up to something nefarious before he started following me, there’s only one place this came from. “You got this on the fire escape. When was the last time you had a tetanus booster?”

“I thought you were studying informatics or something computer-y.”

That one throws me. My eyes pop up and lock on his deep blue ones. “How do you know that? Are you stalking me?”

“Nope.” Channing grins. “I only stalk supermodels. I overheard you telling Mr. Chancy when you were helping him with his new Chromebook at the diner one day.”

The sparks between us feel different. I peer at him through narrowed eyes. “You’re such a bullshitter.”

“Am I?” He replies with steadfast earnestness, beaming an inscrutable smile.

He picks the bloodstained paper towel out of my hand. In the kitchen, he rinses his hands and the wound in the sink. He puts soap from the dispenser on the paper towel and washes carefully with it.

I’ve never gotten electric signals from a person before. But there’s no doubt every time I touch him, that’s what’s happening. What are you? I wonder, staring at him.

He dries his hands on the towel on the rack, then lights the burner under the frozen meatballs. He faces me, throwing the wet paper towel in the trash. “I wasn’t lying when I said I was handy in the kitchen. I think I can handle spaghetti and meatballs.”

“No way. I can’t trust you any further than I can throw you. You probably lick the spoon.”

He grins and I can almost feel the short-circuit sparks even though we’re not touching. They’re faint, but they feel the same as when I first touched him. That’s when it hits me—they’re different when he’s telling me lies.

“Every chance I get.” Channing fixes me with a direct stare. “But I’ll lick anything you ask me to, Jericho.”

Now the short-circuit is in my head. I swallow hard, then my face screws up in mortification and I shudder. “Ungh. Fine,” I concede, pointing a slim finger at him. “But I’m watching you.”

“Well in that case.”

Channing reaches over his head with both hands and grabs the shoulders of his hoodie. As he’s tugging it over his head, the t-shirt he has on under it rides up. Visible beneath are his godlike abs. My train of thought completely derails. Holy s**t, he’s beautiful.

I sink into the chair he’d occupied at the table, staring at him like a feral cat eyes a mouse.

"Where's a pan for the noodles?" he asks, pulling his arms from the sleeves and resettling his t-shirt over him.I’m still a little awestruck as Channing takes the rest of my items from the shopping bag. He sets them on Mr. Adriani’s scratched and stain-mottled countertop of once bright-green Formica. I vault out of my seat and go stand beside him.

“You need something?”

I blink up at him. There’s only so much I can say. Anything I might say can’t be what was previously going on in my head. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I can’t really sit over there and do nothing while you’re in here—.”

“Doing all the work?” Channing grins, then does something I’m not expecting.

I gasp as he takes advantage of our proximity. He runs his large hand down the slightly bumpy ridge of my spine to the rise of my bottom. That grin of his has curled into a seductive smirk as he stares down at me.

“You can just say, you know,” he purrs.

I swear, I have no idea what he means. “Say what?”

“That you really wanted to be near me.”

That shocks my brain into functioning. Especially since it’s pretty close to the truth. Smug bastard. “Is that what you were hoping?”

Channing drags his hand in a slow caress across my lower back that makes me see stars, then laughs. “You are so hard on my fragile ego.”

“Yeah. Sorry.” I hope the sarcasm dripping in my voice makes it loud and clear I’m not at all sorry, but I’m smiling back at him. God, is he ever gorgeous! “I didn’t know that was a condition of feeding you dinner as a thank you.”

“Of course it is.”

As if to punish me, he watches me struggle to try open the jarred pasta sauce. I bang the lid a few times on the chipped counter and try again.

Beside me, Channing laces his fingers together, turns them inside out and cracks them. “Need some help there, Tiger?”

I stop what I’m doing immediately. At least he didn’t make me ask. I slump and sigh in resignation, then hand him the jar.

The lid twists open easily. For him.

To his credit, Channing hands both pieces back to me without a word, even if he is wearing a smug grin. Rustling in a utensil drawer beside the stove with one hand, I upend the jar over the pan of meatballs with the other. With a spatula, I scrape out the jar.

“You sure we can eat all this?”

I set the spatula on the stainless steel spoon rack next to the stove. Putting the lid on the jar, I cut behind him to throw it in the trash. Just because it presents such a temptation, I whack him lightly on that fine bottom of his with my free hand. “If it were just me and Mr. Adriani, no. We don’t eat this much food in a week.”

“Which explains why you’re so thin. You need to eat more.”

Still standing beside the trash, I glance down my body. Under my skin, the electric connection begins again. When I look up, he’s raking his eyes over me. “For a guy who’s taken every opportunity presented to put his hands on me, that seems like a stupid thing to say.”

“Crap.”

At least he has the decency to look chagrined. “Yeah.”

He tips his head in a humbled bow. “Noted. Apologies extended.”

I chuckle. “Apologies accepted.” I retrieve another pan from the cupboard, filling it with water. “I’ve always been small-framed. Take after my mom.”

“Was she as pretty as you?”

“Ungh. If you can’t behave, I’m calling one of your arm-candy girls to come pick you up.”

Channing holds up his hands in surrender. “Where are your parents? How come you live with Mr. Adriani?”

“They’re dead.” It comes out short even though I don’t mean it to.

Well, I mean it a little. After all, if I’m right and he’s part of Avernus, he’s responsible for their deaths.

“They died in one of the bombings when I was little.” I set the pan full of water on the stove, then light the burner under it. I push against him with my hip and Channing slides aside so I can get to the cupboard for salt.

“How did you wind up here?”

I toss a pinch of salt in the pasta water, then cover the pot with a lid before answering. “Dumb luck. I was dumped in the foster care system. Every time I got beat up, or starved, or threatened, I’d run away. So the social workers would find me another home and the same bullshit would start all over.”

“Jesus, Jericho. I’m so sorry.”

I don’t even want to look at him because I can hear the pity in his voice. “Yeah, whatever. I was sixteen the last time I ran away. When they found me, they offered me the situation here. Some new social program. Free room and board in exchange for taking care of a harmless but half-crazy old man. It’s been a good gig.”

“He can definitely use your care. And you’re good with him. I have to hand it to you, I’m impressed.”

I flick a glance his direction, happy to see he’s not pitying me anymore. I prop my hands on the kitchen counter and relax my weight onto one hip. “He was a lot more lucid when I first took the arrangement, but we do okay.”

Channing takes the opportunity to sidle up closer. He covers one of my hands completely with his.

He’s so warm. I just want to climb under his clothes and snuggle against him. Well, I want that for a different reason now too. The strange sparks are happening again. When I look at him, he’s peering at our touching hands. His brows are pulled together, almost as if he can feel it too and is trying to understand what’s happening.

Oh s**t. I jerk my hand out from under his. The pot of water on the stove is boiling now. I grab the box of pasta and shove it at him. “Noodles, beefcake. It’s late and I have studying to do.”

**

It’s all too—well, domestic.

I don’t mind talking to customers at the diner—even the regulars like Jimmy and Mr. Chancy who tend to get a little fresh sometimes. I admit, sometimes it’s a little lonely. Mr. Adriani’s not much of a conversationalist since you never know what’s coming out of his mouth next. And Esteban’s got a real future as a troll living under a bridge somewhere and trying to eat the three Billygoats Gruff.

Nothing like Channing, who’s warm with an infectious laugh, quick-witted and a lot nosy. He’s also inscrutable. It takes me the whole time we’re eating dinner to realize he’s managed to dodge everything I’ve asked him.

If it weren’t for the weird sparky-thing, I wouldn’t know much about him.

Mr. Adriani always eats in the living room on a TV tray, but Channing says he’d rather eat at the kitchen table. That suits me. I’m pretty sure he’d didn’t want to watch the Weather Channel wearing swim fins and trying to eat wearing purple kitchen gloves.

By the time I get Mr. Adriani fed, then hustle him upstairs to get him in bed, downstairs Channing has cleaned up the kitchen. He collected all the dishes, rinsed them in the sink and even took the trash out to the dumpster in the alley behind the house. The only thing he hadn’t done was put the dishes in the dishwasher.

“I didn’t know how you like to load the dishwasher,” he tells me, standing at the sink beside his neat stack.

I peer at him and he stares back.

“You know, how couples load the dishwasher is an important factor in how long they stay together,” he explains, even though I didn’t ask. “I want to get it right.”

I give him a dour look. “We’re not a couple.”

The dishwasher door springs aren’t the best anymore and as soon as I unlatch it, the door falls open in a slam. It matches my response to that ‘couple’ comment of his. “Does this crap actually work on your bobblehead girlfriends?”

Channing backs away, watching as I stuff dishes in the dishwasher. I can tell by the mischievous grin he’s going to pop off some cheesy comment.

“I don’t know. This is the first time I’ve tried it. How’s it working?”

And, there it is.

I shake my head and reiterate, “We’re not a couple.”

When the last dish is loaded, I close the thing up. I wash my hands in the sink, then as I’m drying them inform him, “In fact, since dinner’s over, you’re going home—or to whichever of your girlfriend’s houses— and I’m going to study.”

He turns easily when I push him towards the front door but doesn’t actually budge that direction. “I don’t have a girlfriend, Jericho. I told you, people around here think they know me, so it’s protective for them to be seen with me.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “People don’t know you, huh?”

“There’s a few who know me. Damien. Ferdi. But not a girl. You know more about me after our conversation during dinner than any of them.”

I genuinely have no idea what to do with this situation.

I can’t decide what I think about what he’s said. It’s true that it doesn’t fit with everything I’ve put together about him in my head. But he makes a valid point that most of that is entirely based on assumption.

Gah! It doesn’t matter! There’s no part of my future plan that involves A) staying in Crossroads or B) getting involved with a notorious gang leader here.

I give myself a mental shake. “That’s fascinating.”

Since I can’t push him, I make my way through the kitchen door around him. Holding it open, I wave him towards me. “Listen, thanks again for, well, you know, saving my life and all. Be careful going home out there. I really have to get to studying.”

Channing’s face splits into another of those country boy grins. “I can help you study.”

“Yeah, no. I’m not studying medicine. I’m studying informatics.”

“Medicine?” I have to hand it to him, he looks genuinely confused.

I arch my brows as he tries to play dumb. “Anatomy. Don’t try to tell me you didn’t have that in mind.”

His grin gets wider. “Maybe eventually. When we’re both ready.”

“Gah!” I cover my ears with my hands and storm into the living room. I hope he’ll follow and try to quash the fluttering that starts up every time he gives me one of his lines. “I really have to study, Channing.”

He emerges from the kitchen and casts an interested eye around the living room. “This is a nice place. I like it here.”

At first, I think he’s kidding, then I realize he’s sincere. I glance around too.

I’m sure forty years ago when Mr. Adriani bought the place, it was awesome. After Mrs. Adriani was killed in one of the gang bombings, it’s gone downhill like everything else in the Crossroads. 

Still, it’s heaps better than sleeping with Eric the park bench.

When I look around, what I see is stained and faded wallpaper, threadbare furniture and rugs. “I don’t believe for a minute that your place isn’t nicer than this.”

“I live with Ferdi. He’s like a drill sergeant.” Channing wanders into the living room, but not towards the front door. Leaning against the rail, he peers up the stairs. “Keeps everything sparse and clean and so military precise he can bounce a quarter off his made bed.”

“Eeuuww.” My lips pull back as I grimace.

“Yeah. So Mr. Adriani’s room’s on the second floor. Where do you sleep?”

“How did you know that?”

He c***s a thumb over one shoulder towards the kitchen. “I could hear you thumping around while you put him to bed. Is there a second bedroom up there?”

The fluttering is back. Only it’s brought a buddy: caution. Channing’s expressing far too much interest in the layout of this house. “There’s a guest room and my room,” I answer, trying to keep it vague.

He lifts an eyebrow. “The walled fortress of Jericho. This I have to see.”

With incredible athleticism, he rests one hand on the stair railing and bounds over. Which explains how he was able to get us on the second story fire escape. He’s part kangaroo.

He’s also disappearing up the stairs, looking for my bedroom. Panic hits me. “Hey! Wait! I really need to study!”

“Making this the perfect time for me to see your bedroom. You’re harmless.”

Back when I first started living here, Mr. Adriani’s son still used to come to visit. As a kid, he’d had the other bedroom on the second story.  That’s why I took the third s********m.

Mr. Adriani’s son never used to miss a holiday. He visited regularly back then. He and his dad would sit on opposite sides of the coffee table. They’d play chess or other board games together. They’d talk and laugh and bond. He was helpful too. He’d make small repairs on the house. Repaint every now and then.

As his dad’s mental condition deteriorated, he came less and less. I think he doesn’t know how to deal with his dad’s delirious moments and it makes him uncomfortable.  

He got married a couple years ago. He brought his wife to visit then. Just once. After that, he stopped coming at all.

I could move into his bedroom, but I’m fond of my third-s********m. It’s the only room in the house with natural lighting since the multi-story condos went in on either side.

The third-story bedroom Channing is headed into as I dash up the stairs after him.

He’s standing beside my bed looking around when I get there. His blue eyes skim over the hodge-podge of discarded antiques relegated up here over the years. My oak dresser. Then the walnut framed standing mirror. The elegant antique secretary desk with its tarnished silver-leaf accents.

As I stand panting in the doorframe, I realize it's a horribly intimate invasion.

He backs up against the side of my cherry four-poster as he looks up at the skylights, then gives me a lazy half smile. Lifting that scarred brow, he picks my discarded bra out of the rumpled blankets on my bed.

It’s black and lacy, and I blush furiously.

He grins, dangling it eye level to study it. Then he lays it gently on the cedar trunk at the foot of my bed.

I blush again as his eyes drop to my chest. It feels like he has x-ray vision.

I cross my arms over the B-cups that pass for my breasts. Suddenly I’m hot.

“For as no-nonsense as you are everywhere else, this is pretty girly, Jericho.”

I nearly choke as he hoists himself into the middle of my bed and lays back. “Oh no. No, you don’t. This is not happening, Channing. I need to study. You need to go.” I rush to the side of the bed and grabbing one of his humongous hands with both mine, tug ineffectually at him.

His eyes drift shut and he lets me yank on his arm for a few long seconds.

“Look, Jericho. Either get in here with me or get your study materials and let’s get to work.” He closes that massive paw about my wrist and with a hard jerk, pulls me on top of him.

Catching myself with my hands on his chest, I blanch.

Then flush.

So hot I think I’m on fire.

There’s not an ounce to spare on him. Beneath my body, I can feel the hardness of his. Every taut muscle ripples and bulges in a beautiful, synchronized masterpiece as he tucks a hand behind his neck to support it. He flexes some more and looks at me, his eyes completely focused.

“Oh God.” It slips out before I can clap my hand over my mouth to stop it. I roll to the side, burying my face in the bedclothes, utterly mortified. I can feel Channing chuckling in soft vibrations through the mattress.

“Just get your study materials, Jinks,” he tells me.

**

It take me a few minutes to recover. Then I drag one arm up like a dying man crawling across a parched desert. I flap it on top of the tablet I use to study and for homework. Sliding it onto the bed, I lift and smack it lightly onto Channing’s chest. 

I’m not doing myself any favors laying this close to him. It’s not helped at all that it’s in my own bed. Or that he’s gorgeous. The difference in our weighs draws me closer to him.

“How do I do this?” he asks, holding the tablet over his chest.

I enter my fingerprint ID. Using the touchscreen, I open my study guide.

Channing scrolls through the guide. “A hundred questions!?”

“You act like that’s a big number or something. Just quiz me on random questions.”

He gives me a peevish glance, then demands, “How am I supposed to know if you have the answers right, Jericho? You don’t have any answers on the study guide.”

I huff in frustration, then open my electronic textbook. Once it’s open, I put the study guide window back on top for him. “Okay, go.” I lay back and close my eyes.

Using the touchscreen, Channing scrolls through the pages of the study guide. He randomly picks a question and stops the scrolling. Then he reads. “Why is it difficult to integrate information from all departments or areas of a network into a single data warehouse?”

Before I give my answer, I send the command to the tablet. Then into the textbook. As I begin to answer him, the textbook flips to the foreground.

I can feel Channing stiffen. He watches as the tablet selects the correct chapter. It scrolls through the pages. Then the answer he needs to check me pops up, the text highlighted.

“Um, Jericho?”

I stifle my smile, then open my eyes. “What? Did I get it wrong?”

He tips the tablet so I can see it. I squint at the highlighted text. When I skim it, I know it’s the right answer. I look at him confused. “I got it right. What?”

“God, you’re cute.” He grins.

I huff in frustration. “Channing! You said you were here to help me study.

“Okay, okay! I can’t help it. Just hear me out, alright?”

“Fine. What?”

“You’re cute.” He rolls to the side facing me. “You’ve got this porcelain smooth skin.” With a long finger, he traces across my cheek.

“This little constellation of golden freckles across the bridge of your nose.” His finger slides down my nose, then traces over my lips. “And this infinitely kissable mouth I can’t peel my eyes off of.”

“Save the loverboy s**t for your arm-candy girls.”

“You’re killing my ego, Jericho.” He laughs. “Fine. Did you do this with the book? I don’t know how it picked this answer. How am I supposed to know if it’s right?”

“Oh.” My eyes flick from his face to the tablet. I hadn’t expected to have to lie. “I don’t know how it does it either. Some kind of SmartText the university uses. I’ve never looked at the coding but it’s always done that. What’s my next question?”

It takes another hour and a half to go through all of the questions. Channing reading them aloud and me answering. I make sure the text gives him the right answer to check me every time and after awhile he stops thinking it’s strange.

It’s towards the end of the study session I start feeling through the tablet that he’s playing around with it.

He closes the textbook, then asks me a question. As if he just wants to see if it works every time.

He opens a different textbook, then asks me a question.

It’s when he accidentally repeats the same question that I start to get suspicious.

I reach over and rest my hand on him so my fingers brush the tablet. Then I open a connection to the technology.

There’s someone else in it. Someone who’s remoted in and watching in the background. In order for them to have done that, they have to request the user’s permission. Which means someone is working with Channing.

All this time, he’s been testing me.

Oh God.

My heart starts to pound.

I already know he’s stronger than me. There’s no doubt he’s faster too. And if someone’s been remoted into the tablet, they could see me giving it technopathic commands.

I roll onto my side and tuck one arm under my head as a pillow. Channing reads another question, but I don’t answer. I just wait for him to meet my eyes.

“Jericho? Are you alright?”

His body’s relaxed, and nothing about him seems dangerous. The little short-circuit shocks are busy tingling away. “Why are you here, Channing? Why did you follow me home from work?”

He heaves a big sigh, then rolls to his side to face me. “Can I be honest?”

“I don’t know. Can you?”

“You need protection.”

I huff, but the tingling doesn’t change like it did before when he lied. “From what? You?”

Channing flashes me his glamor-boy smile. “No. You’ll always be safe with me.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s questionable, I think. You’re dodging. What do I need protection from?”

“Jesus, Jericho. Isn’t it obvious?” He peers at me like I’m stupid. “You would have been killed tonight. The south side is crawling with gangs. They’re worse now than ever and you’re walking home by yourself after dark.”

“I’ve always walked home by myself after dark. You know what I find strange? It’s the first time I’ve been followed by you. And it’s the first time I’ve been followed by another gang.”

He looks crestfallen. “Are you implying I put you in danger?”

“Well, if the shoe fits.”

Now he looks hurt. “You’ve been followed by gang members many times. Ferdi and I noticed it a few years ago. After we had a late dinner at Esteban’s one night. We didn’t want to scare you, but one of us follows you home every night.”

My mouth falls open with shock. “What—what do you care—if something happens to me?” I stutter. “You have girls fawning over you day and night.”

He arches his brows. “Just because they like me doesn’t mean I like them. I told you. I just try to make sure they get home safe. Except with you.”

The expression pulls the scar tighter, makes it stand out. It doesn’t change that he’s handsome, but it does make me wonder how he got it. In fact, I’m wondering a lot more things about him.