The Z Word by Lindsay King-Miller

Author:Lindsay King-Miller [King-Miller, Lindsay]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Quirk Books
Published: 2024-05-07T00:00:00+00:00

I wake from a dream of drowning in a swamp, dragged down by bony fingers around my ankle as I gasp and strain for air. Flailing awake in a strange bed, I still feel swamp sludge clinging to my skin. Then I realize it’s just my clothes from last night, heavy and stuck to my body with July sweat. The sun is barely up on the other side of the blinds. Leah’s still asleep, as far from me as possible on the opposite edge of the bed. I can smell the familiar humidity of her body, and despite everything, desire rings through me like a bell. I want to lick the sweat from behind her ear.

Instead, I roll out of bed, landing with an awkward thump that somehow doesn’t disturb Leah. After sniffing myself, I strip off my sweaty crop top and leave it on the foot of the bed.

In the bathroom at the end of the hall, I find a stack of faded blue washcloths in the linen closet, and use one to wash my face and under my arms with cool water. This is the second morning in a row I’ve had to half-ass morning ablutions in someone else’s bathroom; at least that part of Pride is living up to my hopes.

Slightly cleaner, wearing my mermaid leggings and black lace bra from last night, I walk down the hall and find Beau in the kitchen.

“Looking good,” she says, but there’s no lechery in it.

I look down at my sweaty cleavage and can’t summon the energy to feel embarrassed. “Sorry for the indecency, but I sweated through my shirt in the night.”

“Is that why you’re up so early?”

“I guess so. Just got too hot to sleep anymore. You too, huh?”

“Turns out broken ribs are very stimulating,” she says with a grimace. “Wish I’d known about this in my twenties. Coffee?” She points to a full pot on the counter. “There are mugs on that shelf. Can you get one for me?”

I don’t normally drink hot coffee in the summer, but if I’m going to be awake I need all the help I can get. I grab two mugs and fill them, then, at Beau’s direction, find the carton of half-and-half in the refrigerator and a bag of sugar in the pantry. I go through the motions of fixing both of our coffees in silence, a small peaceful ritual in the buttery morning sunlight.

Beau takes a long drink and savors it with her eyes closed. I follow her lead, letting the coffee sit on my tongue, just shy of scalding. It feels good as it burns a path down my throat, like being cleansed inside.

After a minute or two of quiet, Beau says, “So what are we going to do?” It sounds like the continuation of an ongoing conversation, maybe one she’s been having with herself.

“Do about what?” I ask. I know what she means, but I’m stalling because I have no idea how to answer her question.

“About people going fucking crazy,” she says.

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