“I like America.”
“You have to be bored out of your mind.”
“I’m not. I have good friends there.”
“Like Benjamin Vecchio?”
“Yes.”
She could feel him smile against her back. “Then why didn’t you simply call him your friend?”
“I did.”
“You didn’t.”
Was he trying to irritate her?
“Kiss me,” she said. “Or I’ll fly back to the house.”
Cheng shook with silent laughter, but he kissed her. His lips were firm on her back. Tenzin turned her face to take his mouth and she could feel the scrape of his beard on her skin.
Lovely.
Tenzin forgot about everything while she kissed him. The rough texture of his beard against her mouth grounded her. Her mind was anchored in her body. She felt every nerve ending. Every stretch of her muscle and bone, bending for him. Moving in concert with Cheng’s body.
This was what she’d been missing.
Too often, her mind broke free. Too often, she felt the black night dissolve her from the inside out, as if she had lost the substance of herself and existed only in her element.
“Be with me here,” Cheng whispered. “In this moment. Are you with me, cricket?”
“Yes.”
She closed her eyes and let her body exist in his hands. For just a little while, she could be his.
Tenzin was soaked to the skin when she returned to the house. Her face was flushed. From what, he didn’t choose to think about.
Ben took one look at her and stood. “I wanted to apologize for losing my temper.”
Her eyes held nothing. He didn’t know what he was waiting for. Some kind of acknowledgement. Some acceptance. Something?
Nothing.
Well, he’d tried.
“Good night,” Ben said, turning to walk back to his room.
“Ben.”
He stopped, but didn’t turn. “What?”
“I accept your apology and offer one of my own. You are correct. You are not a child.”
He turned. “No, I’m not.”
Tenzin cocked her head. “To be fair, I have never thought of you as one, even when I probably should have.”
“When was that? When I was sixteen? I was already driving, paying bills, and killing people when I was sixteen.”
“I suspect you were no more of a child at sixteen than I was.”
What had her life been? Ben wondered if anyone knew. Did Cheng know? Had she confided in Stephen, her dead mate? Giovanni or Beatrice? Was there anyone who understood the wells of darkness behind her eyes?
Tenzin stepped closer, and Ben’s eyes scanned the darkness of the courtyard behind her.
“He’s not here,” she said. “He went back to the city.”
“Nice visit?”
“A necessary one.”
All sorts of sarcastic retorts rang in his head, but he kept his mouth shut. It was none of his business.
He looked away. “If we don’t need to go anywhere tonight, I should go to sleep. I’m still catching up.”
Tenzin took a step closer. From the corner of his eye he watched her. Saw her eyes fall to his neck, where the marks she’d healed were still an angry red.
“Do you want to be my friend or my lover, Benjamin?”
He blinked. “What—“
“When I introduce you to Cheng’s people tomorrow,” she said, as cool grey eyes met his own. “When we are traveling together. You do not want to be known as my human, which is acceptable, but leaves you in an unknown role. So, friend or lover?”
He knew she would lie to suit herself. Knew it was only a question of how he wanted to be presented in her world. It didn’t mean anything. Not really. Still…
“Friend,” he said in a low voice. “Always your friend.”
She nodded and moved to walk by him. Ben caught her wrist, bothered that the last time he’d touched her had been in anger.
“Come here,” he said, pulling her closer.
“Ben—”
“For me. Come here.”
She only came up to his chest, but he leaned down and wrapped his arms around her, not caring about the damp clothes or her soaking-wet hair. He just needed her to know.
“Your friend. Always.”
She didn’t raise her arms. Didn’t return the hug. It was okay, Ben told himself. It wasn’t about that. He held her for a few more moments and felt a single beat from her heart before he let go. He stepped back, brushed a thumb over her cheek, and tried to ignore the blank expression on her face.
“Good night, Tenzin.”
When he woke the next afternoon, the sun still slanted through the windows of his room. Ben took a moment to open his blinds, lean out the window, and enjoy the view.
This, he thought, was the China of postcards and kung fu movies.
Sloping tile rooftops and willows hanging over the water. Boats filled the canal below his window, their pilots calling and laughing to each other as everything moved through the water. Fruits and vegetables. Bags of fish. One boat full of what looked like piles of laundry.
Then there were the tourists. So many tourists. Mostly Chinese. The now-familiar sounds of Mandarin echoed through the air. Ben thought he was starting to recognize a few of the different accents; the native population of the lively water town was easy to understand.
Zhujiajiao was one of the few river towns that had lasted into the twenty-first century. Graceful stone bridges arched over the main canals that ran through the town. It still got by without cars or motorbikes, mostly because of the patronage of the many tourists who visited from Shanghai. There were a few streets he’d visited the night before that hawked the regular tourist junk, but they were clustered near the main bridge. It was easy to lose the crowds on quieter streets like the one where Jinpa’s house was located.