Echols, Jennifer (9 page)

My Chemical Romance, "The Ghost of You."

I put my feet up on the dashboard.

A sickly sweet Phil Collins song from a Disney movie.

The seat wouldn't recline. The metal grate that separated the front seat from the criminal seat was in the way. I lay my head against the door and closed my eyes.

Mariah Carey, "Touch My Body."

I leaned forward and turned up the volume as high as I could stand it, just for spite. It was loud enough to wake the neighborhood, but I was tired enough to sleep through anything. I settled back and closed my eyes again.

"God damn it." John jerked open his door and turned the radio off, then sat down and cranked the engine. The detective's car was parked in front of us. I wondered if I'd gotten John in trouble. I didn't really care.

I took my feet off the dashboard.

A few minutes later, he pulled in at Eggstra! Eggstra! Excellent, we could share a meal in this mood. Good for the digestion.

I was further irked when he hung his leather cop jacket on the coatrack by the door, like he owned the place. I suppose that's what we had the coatrack there for. I'd just never seen anyone use it. Then he headed for the windmill table, like last night.

"Hold on, there, Officer," I said to his back. "I suffered through the windmill table when I thought you were forty years old. Now that I know you're nineteen, I'm putting my foot down."

He looked around the diner. "The what? Oh, you mean the windmill salt and pepper shakers."

"My mother collects salt and pepper shakers. My parents are easily amused." I gestured toward the corner. "I can't sit at the windmill table. It makes me claustrophobic. I always sit at the unicorn table by the window."

"I can't sit by the window. Too exposed." He meant
too vulnerable.

"Let's split the difference," he said. We sat down at the Elvis table. Purcell poured us both coffee, thank God.

"You really thought I was forty years old?" John asked. “What made you think that? My manly physique?"

His dark eyes challenged me. They were weapons that could hurt me. Here was the worst thing about them: I could tell that if Johnafter loved you, his dark eyes would be beautiful and friendly and warm. So every time he cut me down with a look that was cold and unfriendly and ugly, it was a double insult, a reminder of what I could never have. I found myself avoiding his dark eyes when I could.

"I think it's the hair," I said.

He touched the nape of his neck and just managed to stop himself from running his fingers through his growing-out military cut. "So." He slid one of the little Elvis busts toward him. Salt spilled out the King's nose. "You seem to get along really well with my friends."

That was
the cause of the Sullen Malarkey? "For a full-time city employee, you sure are immature. When's your birthday?"

He spun Elvis so the salt flew in all directions. "December."

"You see? I'm one and a half years younger than you. Since boys are two years behind girls in maturity level, I'm really six months older than you."

He slid Elvis back in place, next to the sugar, and looked up at me. "That's for high school boys. I'm nineteen."

"Wow,
nineteen.
You probably haven't even finished growing yet."

He straightened in his seat and stretched his arms over his head. "So? I'm one of the tallest people on the force."

I almost laughed at the idea of our small-town police as a Force. "I don't think you should be hired as a cop until you've reached your full adult height. It seems barbaric. I've never heard of a nineteen-year-old cop."

"You have to be twenty-one most places, but there are a few where you can be nineteen. Montgomery Police. Florida Highway Patrol."

"Seems like they'd have another cop riding with you. I mean, come on. You've only been
driving for
three years."

"They did. Leroy rode with me until last month. But they were in a hurry to get me in my own vehicle because it took someone else off graveyard shift." He yawned.

"Graveyard shift or not, it sounds like a huge compliment. If they put you on patrol by yourself, they trust you with their lives. Or at least their squad car."

"I guess. They also threatened me. They told me that I'd better not screw up, or.. .Have you seen
Braveheart?"

"No."

"They cut off Mel Gibson's—Well. We're about to eat." He gave me a wan smile to go with the unhappy picture.

Even with a wan smile, his dimples showed.

"Now you look nineteen." I tried not to say it tenderly. "What'd you do between graduating from high school and starting this job? Party hearty?"

"No, I went to the
police academy"

"Right, the
police academy.
Please tell me you at least went out and got good and soused on your nineteenth birthday."

"No. I came in to work. It was my first day on the job. Night, I should say." He shifted to his authoritarian voice, calm on the surface with a threat underneath. "Most adults do not take any available opportunity to drink themselves into a stupor. You've been around Eric too long. Eric's not going to make it to thirty."

"Oh, good God. He's harmless."

"I wouldn't be too sure. Especially when he's around you. You never can tell with domestics. They're completely unpredictable."

"Domestic! We're not a domestic. We're not married. Ew." I squirmed at the thought. Which was probably what John wanted.

"That's what we call it." he said. "Domestic."

"That's what you call
what?
We're not living together. We're not serious at all."

"You're having sex."

Not for over a week, I thought to myself. But I was able to stop myself from saying it. I realized just in time how lame it would sound.

"Then you're a domestic," John said.

I didn't owe John an explanation. And I didn't think this crush I had on him would ever be anything but. Still, it bothered me that he considered me whore-like.

"The thing is," I said, "I really didn't want to with
him.
I wanted to in
general."

This explanation probably did not reduce my whore-like profile.

"Anyway," I blathered on stupidly, "now I'm sort of sorry I did it, because he's nuts." John nodded. "Domestic."

Chapter 9

John held me with the dark look. Part of me wanted to embrace the dark look, chase it wherever it went, on the off chance I could convert it to my side. The rest of me wanted to dodge the dark look. I glanced around at the empty booths: butterfly table, cowboy boot table, Liberace table. I wished I could see the grill from here. I wondered how close our food was to being ready. Anything to distract him. And me.

"He's not your type," John said.

I looked back at John. "Of course he's my type. I won't make it to thirty, either."

He stared at me for a few seconds more, then blinked. "Not Eric. I meant Will."

"Will! Billingsley? Where are you getting this? McDonald's?"

He breathed deeply. Deeply enough that I thought he might have been holding his breath while he waited for my response. His shoulders lowered, and he seemed to relax a little. "Okay, maybe there wasn't anything going on between you two at McDonald's—"

"He pulled my hair, John."

"—but I wanted to make sure you knew what a nice guy he is."

"And therefore not my type, huh?" God, how whore-like did John think I was? "I could try an experiment with a nice guy. I could teach him a thing or two."

His shoulders tensed again. "He's a nice guy, and he would fall in love with you, and you would break his heart."

I leaned forward until my boobs sat on the table like a set of oversize salt and pepper shakers. The tit table. "Just as well. I prefer boys to teach me rather than the other way around."

His dark look flicked to my boobs ever so briefly. Then his eyes met mine again. "It's spring break. School's out." He sipped his coffee like an adult.

I sipped my own coffee and studied him. The stubborn set to his jaw. The way he glanced toward the windows every few seconds to check for danger.

I knew what he was thinking. He wasn't really jealous, but it came out that way. We were a boy and a girl riding around at night together, and he didn't have any other distractions. He didn't want to date me. He was just interested in me, for lack of anything better to do. Because he was lonely. And because I'd given him a jump start the first night at the bridge by reminding him of the dead girl. There ought to be a Hallmark card for this.

"I would never date Will, even if he wasn't a nice guy," I said truthfully. "It was fun to flirt with him, but everyone knows he's like that with everybody. He makes people feel good about themselves. He's also one of those drama club types who says very funny things very loudly with large gestures, like he wants people to look at him."

John's brow knitted. "You're describing yourself."

"What?"

"That's why you don't like him."

"I'm not describing myself."

He smiled. "Don't tell me you don't want people to look at you. And you probably have lots of friends. You're charismatic."

"Charismatic," I acknowledged, "and kind of a bitch. I don't have any friends because I've pissed them all off. I stand people up."

His brow knitted again. "Why?"

"Oh.. .Boys ask me on dates, or girls ask me on girl outings. And it sounds like fun, and I want to go. But then, when it comes right down to it, I can't go through with it. I hate plans. I feel..." I searched for the word. "Handcuffed." I shuddered.

"Handcuffed to the plan?"

"To the other person."

"How do you date Eric, then?"

"We don't date."

"Right." John nodded. "You just screw." Okay, that was too far. "John—" He opened his hands on the table. "How are you ever going to have a relationship?" "I guess I'll be alone."

I could almost see the wheels turning behind his dark eyes, processing this information, looking for a hole in the theory. "You've shown up in time for my shift both nights so far," he pointed out.

"Yeah, and it's taken a couple of years off my life."

"You planned to go to Miami for spring break."

I smiled sweetly at him. "Thanks for bringing
that
up. Yeah, I planned to go, which involved meeting the bus at a certain time. But I didn't plan to hang out with a certain person or do a certain thing once I got there. I was wide open."

He forgot and rubbed his hand on the short hair at the back of his head. Then he remembered and put his hand down. "You're friends with Tiffany."

And thanks for bringing
her
up. "Not really."

"Weren't you talking with her on the phone last night? In the vehicle?"

"She's the only person I knew who was awake then." This was inaccurate, since even Tiffany and the paramedics had been asleep when I called. "But I'll let you in on one plan I've already made. I'm going to Rashad's party Saturday night."

He bit his bottom lip.

"And while I'm there, maybe you could ride around on patrol with Tiffany. You seem to get along really well with
her."

We both backed away from the table as Purcell reached between us with tattooed arms, setting down our plates. I hadn't realized how far forward we'd both been leaning.

"Tiffany is cute," John called from the other side of the booth, which seemed like yelling across the Grand Canyon in comparison with how we'd talked before. "She's nice. Not sexy, if that's what you're insinuating."

I wanted to inform Officer After that I was not insinuating a damn thing about Tiffany. I was fishing for information about myself alone.

And now I wondered if he was insinuating that I was
not
cute, that I was
not nice.
Which I had gathered. Or that I
was
sexy.

Oh hell, what was the matter with me? He wasn't even looking at me. He was wolfing down his lunch.

I picked up my fork. "Why don't you ask for the night off so
you
can go to the party?"

He glanced up from his food. "I can't ask off to go to a college party."

"Why not?"

"People ask off to go to their wife's high school reunion or their son's wedding. They don't ask off to go to a college party."

"They're not nineteen years old. Everyone should be able to ask off for what's important to them." I gestured to his plate. "Whatcha got there? Steak and eggs with steamed vegetables? Very healthy. Protein and vitamins, a runner's meal. All it needs is a smoke. Too bad you've already had your nightly cigarette."

He half smiled at me, showing one dimple. "What have
you
got?"

"The Meg Special."

"Eggs?"

"Sort of a Tex-Mex omelet. The Meg Special is different every day." I took a bite, chewed, and desperately needed to spit it out. I swallowed it and washed it down with coffee, which didn't really help.

"Tasty?" John asked. "A little hot," I croaked. "Need some water?"

"I can't ask for water," I whispered. "I have to be careful how I fix this. If I piss Purcell off, God knows what he'll serve to people for the rest of the night." I motioned to Purcell, and he walked over from the grill. I smiled. "How much cayenne you using?"

"A half."

My Lord, half a teaspoon of cayenne pepper in two eggs. No wonder. "I like it, but it may be too spicy for the clientele. Let's try an eighth."

Purcell nodded curtly and started to turn away.

"Water, please," John called. He muttered to me, "Thirsty tonight."

Purcell brought John a glass of water. When Purcell went back to the grill, John nodded to the glass.

Watching Purcell out of the corner of my eye, I drank half the glass and slid it back to John. "Thanks," I breathed.

"Experimenting on the customers?"

"I told him an eighth before I left. He just forgot."

"Why don't you write it down?"

"He can't read." I took a huge bite of egg to get rid of it more quickly, then a swig of coffee and another long drink of John's water. "I try to work with him because he's a good employee. Shows up. My parents don't understand this."

"Are you going to stay here after high school and run the restaurant with them?' John took a bite of his blessedly mild food.

I laughed. "Hell no. I'm gone the night of June seventh, after graduation. I'm not even staying around for the party. And that's saying a lot, for me to pass up a party."

He swallowed. "You know this town so well. Better than
I do,
even. This place is yours. That's a really good reason to stay."

Funny, I'd never felt claustrophobic at the Elvis table before. I looked around the diner. Maybe it was the jukebox, humming low as it did when no one put in a quarter for a song. Maybe the low hum made me nervous.

But my gaze came to rest on John, and I knew
he
was making me nervous. Chatting to me like he was talking to a dead girl. Trying to trap me here.

I said quickly, "It's a better reason to leave."

"You don't feel any loyalty to your parents? Don't you want to stay here and help them out?"

"I've helped them out plenty. They make me work here, and they don't pay me. It's basically slave labor. Kind of like following
you
around."

He went back to eating like my snark didn't concern him. But he looked hurt. Those worry lines appeared between his eyebrows. I couldn't resist him when a little bit of boy showed through the tough exterior.

I lowered my voice. "They don't need my help. They just pretend to need my help so they can keep me close. They're overprotective. It'll drive you crazy. It honestly will."

"Overprotective, why?" he asked without looking up from his plate. "Only child?"

"Beats me. Anyway, they say they need me, but they don't. They'll hire somebody, just like they hired people to fill in this week while they're out of town." I took my last hell-bite.

"What if you leave and they go out of business? Won't you feel like it's your fault? Oh." He put down his fork. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"It's the pepper, John." I drained his water, then sniffed and dabbed at my eyes with a paper napkin from the holder. "Of course I won't feel like it's my fault. It's the biggest kindness I can do them. If they can't run a restaurant by themselves, they need to go back to selling vinyl siding. I can't do it for them. We'd always be dependent on each other and always unhappy, feeling pressured and letting each other down."

"Mmph. What are you going to do when you grow up, then?"

I glared at him. "Nice. I got a tuition scholarship to UAB."

He put his fork down again. "
You?
Got a
scholarship?

"It's not a scholarship for good grades," I assured him. "It's a scholarship for having two loser parents who can hardly keep a diner out of bankruptcy."

"For a needs-based scholarship, you still have to make good grades." He sat back and stared at me like he'd never seen a blue-haired girl before. "Don't worry. I won't tell anyone."

"Ha."

"Rut how are you going to pay for the rest of it? Room and board?"

"I'll find a job. Rent a cheap apartment on the Southside with a roommate or two."

He nodded. "Tiffany."

"I hadn't thought about it," I said. "That would involve planning and commitment."

"Right." He continued to look at me very seriously. "What are you going to major in?"

"Management, so I can run hotels and restaurants."

He laughed.

"What the hell's so funny? I enjoy doing this. I just don't want to do it
here."

He laughed harder. "I'm sorry. I just can't imagine you managing anything." He kept laughing until he looked up and saw my face. "What."

“I’ve been keeping the books for this place since I was eleven years old." With a few months off when I was thirteen.

"Well, how was I supposed to know—"

"I just sat here and told you I got a scholarship to the university, and you act like I'm At Risk."

"If you would just tell me this stuff in the first place—"

"Why should I? I never intended to wow you with my credentials. You're the one who set out on this quest to save the children."

He drew himself up in his seat to look more threatening. "You would think someone in your position, in as much trouble as you're in, would try to make a better impression on the police."

"You would think." I couldn't remember why I'd had a crush on this ass. "In fact, I managed just fine until you showed up at that bridge."

He gaped at me in disbelief. I felt myself cringe under that dark, hard gaze. "Meg, you were drunk, stoned, letting Eric Wexler feel you up, and five minutes from getting hit by a train."

I rolled my eyes. "I suppose I should point out to you yet again that I did
not get
hit by a train. I made a mistake. If I turn in my proposal to the Powers That Be, everything will work out fine. I think you're scared to live life, and you're putting that on
me."