Especially when the bus was full of German tourists in shorts so short that they required a Brazilian wax for the men as well as the women. There had been thighs as bountiful as baking bread, as wobbly as Jell-O, and as pitted as the surface of the moon. I still had flashbacks over that one, and all thanks to one of Zeke’s few attempts at taking the wheel.
Zeke with his dark copper hair pulled back into a short, three-inch braid; eyes that were the green of the first leaf to bloom in the Garden of Eden; a scar on his neck that looked like someone had tried to cut his throat and half succeeded . . . No, Zeke wasn’t right. Not that he was wrong . . . just different. It wasn’t his fault. No damn way it was his fault. Whoever had borne Zeke had done him serious damage. I think he knew right from wrong, but sometimes in doing right he went so far that wrong was just a kiss away. “Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time” was more than Zeke’s philosophy. It was his very reason for being. And if the punishment far outweighed the cause, well, that was Zeke. He saw individuals and their actions in black and white only; gray didn’t exist for him. He simply couldn’t feel it, and he certainly didn’t see a point to it.
And if he did slip into doing wrong while trying to do the opposite, he was sorry. Extremely sorry. Unlike most, he didn’t count himself exempt from his own code. So far Griffin had kept him from doing anything that would make him so sorry that he’d throw himself off a building. Then again, I didn’t know the story behind the scar on Zeke’s throat.