Date: Mon, 12 Sep 2016 05:37:11 -0500
From: Kody Boye <boyekody@gmail.com>
Subject: His Touch of Ice - Part 24

DISCLAIMER:

This is a work of fiction, and contains scenes of graphic violence and
explicit male/male sex. If you are not of the legal age to read this, or
are uncomfortable with this sort of content, please turn back now.

HIS TOUCH OF ICE (The Ice Men, Book 1) is copyright © Kody Boye. All
Rights are reserved.

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We knew we would have to leave sooner rather than later. With the knowledge
that cops could come busting down our door at any moment, Guy decreed that
it would be best if someone went out and got us a day's worth of supplies
in preparation for our likely hike to the park—particularly me, since my
picture had yet to hit the news stream.

You'll be fine, Guy said as I walked out the door to our room, quick to
console my ever-worrisome conscience. Besides—what's the worst that
could happen?

I didn't bother to elaborate.

Instead, I bid him goodbye, said I'd bring back something for lunch, and
headed downstairs, all the while hoping, praying and swearing to God up and
down that nothing would go wrong.

My search landed me at the nearest convenience store, located no more than
one or two blocks at the corner down the road. Inside, I ignored the
speculation and stares of people taking notice of my arm. I'd decided to
forego a T-shirt in lieu of the weather and instead wore a tank that fully
exposed the ornate, tattoo-like scar running down from my left
shoulder. Most were quick to compliment it and say nothing else, while
fewer were interested in even approaching me. It was the dichotomy of
interest—like asking a larger woman how far along she was when she
didn't happen to be pregnant at all.

I thought I was out of the clear until I was approached by a young woman
who couldn't have been out of her teens.

"Woah," she said, instantly startling me but simultaneously getting my
attention. "That's wicked cool, dude. Who's your artist?"

"Sorry?" I frowned.

"Your henna. Who did it?"

"Oh. That." I bowed my head by reflex, but also to avoid making direct eye
contact with her. "No one. It's a scar. I got struck by lightning when I
was a kid."

"Shit," she said, fingers flushing, eyes wide and filled with either awe or
overwhelming effects of marijuana. "And you're cool? Nothing more than a
scar?"

"Nothing more," I smiled, biting the inside of my cheek when she reached
forward, as if to touch me. I shrugged away from her advance and took a
step back, adjusting the basket in my hand. "Sorry—I gotta get going."

"No worries," she said. "Nice meeting you."

"You too," I said.

I turned and watched her leave through the reflection in the sunglass rack
mirror before I stepped into the store to peruse their wares.

That had been close—really close. Any further contact might've resulted
in a lasting impression, something neither Guy nor myself needed.

With the knowledge that my lack of foresight might draw attention, I
quickened my pace throughout the aisles and tried to pick out the
nonperishables I thought would be most useful. Bags of potato chips,
pretzels, satchels of nuts and chocolates that likely contained less
nutrients than advertised but would still offer the necessary sugars,
peanut butter for protein, homemade tortillas that appeared to have gone
through Hell and back—I even bought a backpack, and while I initially
thought buying a first-aid kit at a different location might have been the
safest, I realized they would find me wherever I went.

Security cameras were everywhere. There was no escaping that.

I kept my head down right up until I hit the front of the checkout line.

"Going camping?" the clerk asked, showing little interest as she scanned
the items in my cart, her head bobbing to the music playing in her one ear
bud.

"Something like that," I replied.

"Better be careful. People've been getting spooked off the sites because of
something that's been up there."

"Pardon?"

She finished bagging my items and snatched the receipt off the
roller. "Have a nice day," she said.

The burning question on the tip of my tongue was extinguished as another
customer came forward.

After taking my bag and walking out the door, I turned and was just about
to start down the road when I caught sight of the woman who'd been so
interested in my scar directly across the road.

"Lemme go!" she said, kicking up as a female officer attempted to wrestle
her into cuffs. "I didn't do nothing!"

"Now now, Missy Sue," the officer said, as if she'd dealt with this woman
before. "Let's not do this the hard way."

"But I was just talkin' to him!" she moaned. "Come on, Officer Maria. Cut
me some slack!"

The lull in traffic that had provided such a natural scapegoat ended when
the light turned green and the cars began to roll down the road.

The girl's head shot across the street, eyes centering on me. "Hey!" she
cried. "Hey!"

"Missy Sue," the Hispanic officer said. "I thought I said we had to be
quiet or else—"

"That's him! That's the guy with the funny tattoo!"

The policewoman's eyes centered directly on me.

I swallowed, her hawkish gaze freezing me in place.

She merely shook her head, finished securing the young girl into the cuffs,
and dragged her toward the cruiser where another man was speaking into a
radio and looking directly at me.

I turned and started back toward the bed and breakfast.

There was no denying it.

I'd just been noticed—and by someone who would remember me.
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If you enjoyed this installment of HIS TOUCH OF ICE, consider emailing the
author with your thoughts or donating to him via Paypal at
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www.kodyboye.com.