Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(59)

“Yeah, well,” Snow says, “I’m not sitting here and listening while you get yourself killed—or end up going on another date.”

“For Chomsky’s sake,” I say. “It wasn’t a date. ” It wasn’t.

“You went out for ice cream. ”

“So what? Lamb wasn’t even interested in me in that way.” He really wasn’t.

Simon stops pacing to roll his eyes at me. His tail is still lashing from side to side.

“He was trying to mentor me,” I say. “He could see I was clueless.”

Simon huffs. “He could see that you’re hot.”

I huff, too. “Well, I was actually there, and I didn’t get that vibe from him.”

“You didn’t get that vibe from me either, Baz. You’ve got no vibe …

check. ”

Simon starts pacing again. His tail swings towards my face, and I snatch it.

He spins around, grabbing his tail at the base. “Hey!”

I don’t let go. In fact, I give it a deliberate tug.

“Fuck,” he spits out. “You know that’s attached to my spinal cord.”

“Then you better come here,” I say, coiling his tail once around my wrist and tugging again.

He narrows his blue eyes and steps towards me slowly, like he’s doing it on his own time. I draw my fist back to my shoulder, steadily pulling him closer, until he’s kneeling between my legs, resting back on his heels.

He’s taller than me like this. I hook my free arm around his waist and sit up straight, so I can knock my forehead against his. “Do you want me to take you out for ice cream? Is that what this is about?”

He cuts his eyes away. “I don’t need ice cream.”

“That’s not what I asked…” I squeeze his tail. I’m holding the very end, near the spade. It doesn’t seem to hurt him, so I do it again, rubbing it between my thumb and forefinger. It’s warmer than you’d expect—maybe dragons are warm-blooded. And there’s a nap to it, like the texture of kid gloves.

I unloop his tail from around my arm, then slowly work my hand up the length of it, partly massaging it and partly just feeling it. Normally Snow would have pulled it away by now.

He isn’t pulling away. His cheeks are flushed, and he’s looking at the floor beside us.

“I want you to know,” I say, “that I didn’t consider staying in America.

With Lamb. Not for a single second.” I loosen my grip and draw my arm out, so that his tail slides through my fist.

Simon shivers. His wings spread out—reflexively, I think. “You should have considered it,” he says.

“Well, I didn’t, I haven’t … I won’t. ” I work my hand back up his tail, towards the base of his spine. “I’m sorry I put you through it that night.”

He’s still making a miserable face at the floor. “I would have understood, Baz—”

“Crowley, Snow, I need you to promise that you won’t keep bringing this up.” I let his tail slide through my palm again, more gently this time, lightly dragging my nails down it.

Simon flinches, and whips his tail out of my hand. “Stop. ”

“Sorry,” I say quickly. “Did that hurt?”

“No, it…” He looks uncomfortable. “I just don’t like that feeling. That, like, feathery feeling. Like, touch me or don’t—but don’t, like, whisper on me.”

I take hold of his tail again, firmly. “Is this better?”

He licks his bottom lip. He’s embarrassed. “Yeah. I mean, I don’t need you to do it at all.”

“That’s not what I asked.” I rub his tail again, pressing hard with my thumb.

“Yeah,” he says, blushing fiercely. “It’s better.” He brings his arms up around my neck, still looking reluctant, still not looking in my eyes. “Lamb was well fit.”

I shrug, working at his tail. It’s so warm. And it’s always moving. Like holding a current in a stream. If you’d asked me ahead of time, I would have said I wasn’t into tails. But I guess I’m into anything attached to Simon.

“Oh,” he says, finally looking up at me, “you didn’t notice he was fit?”

“I didn’t care,” I say. “A lot of people are fit.”

“Not like him.”

“Fuck, Snow, maybe I’m the one who should be jealous.”

Simon rolls his eyes.

I tighten my arm around his waist. “You’re all I want,” I say. It comes out softer than I mean it to, like my lungs are more insecure than my head.

Simon closes his eyes and drops his forehead against mine. He’s breathing hard through his nose. I keep rubbing his tail, reminding myself not to be gentle.

“Okay,” he says, “fine, I’ll stop bringing him up. It up. America.”

“It’s all right,” I say. “If you need me to keep saying all this out loud, I will.”

He shakes his head, like he’s irritated—possibly with me, possibly with himself. “You keep telling me everything is all right, that whatever I need is fine…”

I nod. “That’s correct. I’m glad you’re finally hearing me.”