I don't know what she wants from me when I sit down at the bar. I only know that everyone wants something, and that she looks at me too hard. So I look back until she drops her eyes.
When the news mentions "the mutant problem", her eyes dart over and lock on mine for a few moments. Great. Maybe she's one of those women I hate, the ones who think how interesting it would be to fuck the guy from the cage, or even better yet the mutant from the cage… But I can tell lust when I see [smell] it, and there's none coming from her. She confuses me, and I don't trust her.
"I saved your life," she calls.
"No you didn't."
Huh. Saved my life? From that little knife? I don't think so, sweetheart. I don't owe you the time of day.
I get in the cab. Pull the door shut. Look in the side view mirror as I turn the key. She's just standing there, looking after me. What the hell does she want from me? A ride, of course. But no, she wanted something before the ride. She wanted something back at the bar last night… but what?
I take my foot off the brake. The truck starts rolling. She's still standing there, just watching. She said she thought I would help her. What would have given her that crazy idea? Was it my cage fighting, my drinking, my welcoming personality, or maybe my claws that made her think I was the helpful type? Damn, I can usually read people pretty well - what's with this woman?
So. She didn't save my life, but she did *something*. Which is more than most people do for me. I don't know what her game is, but it actually makes me curious. Hell, I can at least drop her off at the next town instead of here in the middle of Dumbfuck, Alberta.
I sigh and take my foot off the gas.
"Does it hurt?" she asks.
Huh?
"When they come out," she says, looking at my hand on the steering wheel. "Does it hurt?"
Well, that's a question no one has asked in fifteen years. I glance at her face, wondering if she wants it to hurt. I mostly avoid women, as the ones that are interested in me generally fall into two types - those that want to get beat up, and those that want to watch someone else get beat up. Why is pain so fascinating to so many people?
"Every time," I say, and watch her reaction. She looks troubled. Jesus Christ, could it be that this is a genuine *good person* sitting in my passenger seat? I haven't run across many of those in the places I hang out.
She jerks her hands away from my approaching hand.
"I'm not gonna hurt ya, kid."
"It's just that when people touch my skin, something happens," she murmurs, putting on her gloves.
"Like what?"
"I don't know… they just… get hurt."
Well holy shit. There it is. Now I know what she's wanted from me since I sat down at the bar.
She just wanted to look another mutant in the eye and know that she wasn't alone.
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