Tantalize Part 5
I grabbed it from inside the desk drawer. "My day planner."
"You named named your day planner?" your day planner?"
"It's a Franklin Day Planner," I said. A leather-clad Christmas gift from Kieren, who knew me too well. "'Frank' is the natural diminutive."
"Like 'Frankenstein'?"
The monster maker, though this meeting was more about a make over. over.
Johnson was watching me, how I turned to the address pages, held my pen. It made me self-conscious about my scars.
As he rattled off an address, I copied it into Frank.
We'd have to start with the bio Uncle D wanted to adhere to the inside of the menu covers. A compelling ident.i.ty for the vampire chef.
In real life, Henry Johnson hailed from Kansas City (Kansas City, Missouri; not Kansas City, Kansas), moved after graduating from high school to Paris (Paris, Texas; not Paris, France), attended the Southwest Culinary Arts Inst.i.tute, and then worked one year as sous sous-chef and two as head chef at Chat Lunatique, also of Paris, Texas.
Johnson had just moved to Austin, he explained, when he came across Uncle D's help-wanted ad. "My last weekend in Paris was the same one my predecessor died. It's awkward, taking over under these circ.u.mstances. I'm sorry about your loss."
"Thanks," I replied. It was nice of him to say. Really, I appreciated it. But I couldn't talk about Vaggio right now without tearing up, and that wouldn't help anything. Uncle D had asked me to work with Johnson, and that's what I was going to do. Bio first. "About your stage name, do you have any suggestions?"
Johnson fidgeted in the chair across from the desk, too small for his frame. "How about 'Henry'?"
I rolled the wine on my tongue, trying to look neutral.
"'Hank'?" he asked.
"Welcome to the Million Bubba March."
"'Brad'?"
"Eh." It wasn't tragic.
He rubbed his chin. "How about 'Bradley Sanguini'?"
"'Bradley'?" I asked, raising my gla.s.s again.
"My mom's maiden name," he replied, brightening. "Or how about 'Brad, the Impaler'? As in 'Vlad,' like the Prince of Transylvania, except with -"
"'Bradley Sanguini' sounds fine."
"You know," Johnson said as I copied down the name, "we've been talking a lot about me, and I'm wondering . . . Not to pry, but what're you doing at this joint? Shouldn't you be putting off your homework and looking for the ultimate zit cream and obsessing over who's taking you to the homecoming dance?"
"Lots of my cla.s.smates have afterschool and weekend jobs," I replied, hoping that he was referring to hypothetical zits. "This place means a lot to me, so I decided to do work-study in the afternoons, help out my uncle."
"Won't there be plenty of time for that later?" he asked.
I shrugged. "Who wants to be forever young? You can't do this, can't do that."
"So you don't have enough power?" Johnson asked. "Is that what you're saying?"
I fiddled with the zipper on Frank, embarra.s.sed by the intensity of his attention.
"But adulthood," continued the barely twentysomething, "doesn't give you power over what matters most. It doesn't protect you from pain, loss, fate. That's part of being human."
Still . . . "I prefer to be in control."
"Isn't that about fear?" Johnson asked, swirling the liquid in his gla.s.s. "What are you so afraid . . . ?" Beats me what my face did, but he backed off. Quick. Far. Decisively. "I'm just trying to understand. Control of everyone? Everything?"
"I want to take care of myself, my own." That had been succinct. Adultlike. I was ready for a change of subject.
Johnson leaned forward. "Being the chef at your family's restaurant, would that make me me your own?" your own?"
What a flirt! "An employee," I clarified. "Not a slave. Besides, my uncle runs the place, and he's more mellow than I am. Some free will is tolerated."
He laughed out loud at that, and I felt tension ease from my shoulders. The alcohol was helping with my stress level. A good call on the part of the new chef.
It wasn't his fault he wasn't Vaggio.
Johnson, no, that wouldn't do. From now on, I'd call him "Brad," short for "Bradley Sanguini." With my help, Brad would work out fine.
A knock sounded at the door.
As Brad reached for it, I said, "Wait," and then, louder, "Uncle Davidson?"
I thought he'd already left.
"Uh, it's Travis," a boy's voice sounded.
"And Clyde," another pitched in, brisker.
Kieren's friends. "How'd you get in?" I asked.
Clyde answered, "The back door was unlocked."
My stomach clenched as I wondered how Uncle D could forget.
Brad looked at me, and when I didn't object, he opened the door.
Standing before us were two guys, soph.o.m.ores at my school.
Travis was maybe five foot four and stocky. He hopped back at my evaluating stare. Clyde stood a couple of inches shorter, his body slight. Each had a p.r.o.nounced nose, though Clyde's came to a sharper point. Clyde also had black hair, going very early gray, mucho mucho body hair on his arms and legs, and a smart-a.s.s smile that showed too many tiny teeth. He broke the silence. "We're here to talk to your uncle about jobs." body hair on his arms and legs, and a smart-a.s.s smile that showed too many tiny teeth. He broke the silence. "We're here to talk to your uncle about jobs."
Neither boy carried the kind of muscle that Kieren and his mama had inspired me to a.s.sociate with Wolves, but I could always tell that neither Travis nor Clyde was a human being. I finished my gla.s.s, wishing Brad had brought back a full bottle.
I had every intention of walking to school. I'd resolved to do so every day after selling my temperamental Honda last May. It was a ten- to twelve-minute walk. No big deal. But then Monday morning came. It was already hot, and the rising sun made my eyes water. Fortunately, just as I'd walked out the door, Kieren pulled up curbside. had every intention of walking to school. I'd resolved to do so every day after selling my temperamental Honda last May. It was a ten- to twelve-minute walk. No big deal. But then Monday morning came. It was already hot, and the rising sun made my eyes water. Fortunately, just as I'd walked out the door, Kieren pulled up curbside.
We hadn't talked about the possibility of his leaving for a pack since Sat.u.r.day.
But I could feel it between us, crackling in the heat.
"You sure about this?" he asked, slowing his truck. "Working late, school in the morning. You're already dead on your feet."
My juggling work and school was nothing new. I yawned, shifting the seat belt.
Kieren took the hint. "Check it out," he said.
I opened my eyes to see Mitch at the corner. His sign read:
I lowered the window. "You're up early."
Mitch stepped into the street. "Miss Quincie! Hardly ever seen you before nine either. Not all summer anyway. Not since Mitch don't know when. Not since, shoot, h.e.l.lfire, I, I sure am thirsty."
Digging into my purse, I slipped him a five.
"G.o.d bless, bless you. Gotta tell you, though. You gotta know. Cops talked to me, had lots of questions. So many. Too, too many. Asked about you and asked about you, too. I, I told 'em I didn't know nothing, not a thing, but that you was good kids."
Kieren and I exchanged a look.
"They're just doing their jobs," I told Mitch.
"Gotta go," Kieren pitched in. "Light." It'd just changed to green.
"Watch, watch. . . . Take good care, care for her," Mitch replied, backing away as traffic shifted into gear. "Bye-bye."
As we entered the intersection, Kieren said, "You don't think they suspect Mitch?"
"The cops? Why would they? It sounds like it's you and me that -"
"It's a high-profile case. There's a lot of pressure to get it solved, to bring in somebody and charge them. Mitch would make an easy scapegoat."
So would Kieren. Especially if it got out that he was part Wolf.
Kieren hadn't wanted to talk about his interview with APD, had dodged the question when I'd asked if the detective had demanded to know where he was born. But he did mention that werepeople and probably hybrids didn't have the same legal rights as humans. I studied his strong, brown hands on the steering wheel.
Moments later, Kieren pulled into the school parking lot and found a spot under a shade tree, several rows from the nearest car. Kieren shut off the engine and patted the dashboard, like the truck was Brazos. Some kind of territory thing, I guessed. "I have to ask," he began. "Have you given any more thought to -"
"No." I reached over to turn the key so the air would come back on. I'd been able to tell from his tone where the conversation was headed.
"I'm asking you to talk to your uncle about making one adjustment. He can still retool the restaurant theme. Maybe the remodel is enough without the vampire c.r.a.p."
I unbuckled my seat belt, reached for the door handle. "He's married to the idea," I snapped. "If Ruby loves it, he loves it."
"Quince -"
"G.o.d, can we just have a normal day?"
Kieren's touch was tentative on my forearm. "Normal sounds nice."
I knew my day would be lousy, though, when I saw the words "b.i.t.c.h Sucks" spray-painted in red on my a.s.signed locker. I could only hope the implication was sucking blood. blood. Which, in itself . . . Christ. Which, in itself . . . Christ.
Kieren was behind me, and I could feel him seethe.
Winnie Gerhard had bent over the nearest water fountain as an excuse to linger. Just great, I thought. The girl was the senior cla.s.s equivalent of Fox News.
"I'm going to get a janitor," Kieren said.
"Wait, we've got cla.s.s, and it's no big deal." Nothing everyone hadn't seen or heard about already.
"I know. But you shouldn't have to look at it."
I nodded, raising my hand to spin the combination, put away my backpack. "I've got Econ first period."
"See you in English," he replied, marching off down the hall.
I watched him pa.s.s Quandra Perez - tall, dark, zowie, the kind of girl even straight girls l.u.s.ted after - without so much as a glance. Kieren might not have ever acted on his feelings, but so far as I knew he'd always been loyal to me.
Quandra herself neared, casting a shocked look at my locker door, but she didn't say anything.
I used to have more friends, but in fifth grade, Sumi, my best friend who was a girl (as opposed to Kieren, my best friend who was a guy) had moved with her family back to India. A few cards, letters, then we lost touch. And the other girls, the ones from Sunday school and soccer . . . They hadn't known what to say to me, how to act after my parents died. At the time, I'd felt deserted, angry because they seemed to think that being an orphan was somehow contagious. But then I'd had Vaggio, Kieren and his family, Uncle D. My life had seemed full enough between them and Fat Lorenzo's, and I'd lost interest in making new friends.
Tears p.r.i.c.ked my eyes as I realized that soon it would just be me and my uncle.
And, of course, Sanguini's.
The bell rang, and I was alone in the hallway.
"Miss Morris," a man's voice called as heavy footsteps. .h.i.t industrial tile.
I shut my locker door, Econ text and Frank in hand, before turning to face Vice Princ.i.p.al "Hard-a.s.s" Harding. "Sorry I'm running late," I said. "I had a problem with my locker this morning."
"About that. Why don't you follow me?"
I could pick up Econ notes later. Resigned, I took a few seconds to open my locker again, shove my text into it, and shut the door harder than necessary. Then, hugging Frank to my chest, I followed the vice princ.i.p.al to his office, figuring he wanted to quiz me on likely locker vandals. Not that I had lead one.
It was a drag having to go through the motions, but I didn't have much choice. Not with Harding on the case. He was really something. Freshmen whispered of foster-care kids who got hauled into his office and were never seen again. Even varsity defensive linemen were all "yes, sir," "no, sir," "whatever you say, sir" to the VP.
Personally, I thought Harding got off on it, his hard-a.s.s rep, which at least would explain the medieval ax hanging on the wall of his otherwise blah administrative office.
Rounding his desk to sit across from me, he began, "Now, Miss Morris, everyone here is sympathetic to your unusual circ.u.mstances."
Uh-huh.