Tantalize (9 page)

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, hellfire, I, I sure am thirsty.”

Digging into my purse, I slipped him a five.

“God 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 crap.”

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 —”

“God, 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 “Bitch Sucks” spray-painted in red on my assigned locker. I could only hope the implication was sucking
blood.
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 class equivalent of Fox News.

“I’m going to get a janitor,” Kieren said.

“Wait, we’ve got class, 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 pass Quandra Perez — tall, dark, zowie, the kind of girl even straight girls lusted 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 pricked 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 hit industrial tile.

I shut my locker door, Econ text and Frank in hand, before turning to face Vice Principal “Hard-ass” 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 principal 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-ass 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 circumstances.”

Uh-huh.

“I took the liberty of reviewing your records this morning, and I noticed that you’ve elected to go half days and take work-study credit.”

Uh-huh.

“Given your need to recover and this morning’s unfortunate incident, I thought you might prefer to complete your requirements for graduation via a homeschool arrangement.”

What? I blinked. Half days were one thing, but this would mean good-bye to school as of immediately.

“Your uncle . . . I thought the two of you might be able to work out an acceptable academic regimen. Took the liberty of calling him just before you arrived, and he seemed open to my suggestion.”

Really? I thought, baffled. “I can handle classes,” I said. “I’m a good student.” Not top-ten like Kieren, but honor roll.

“Think it over,” Harding replied, glancing at his ax. “Talk to your uncle. Let me know when you change your mind.”

I
t should’ve felt like work, not a date. I blamed the atmosphere, the fang shui. Brad had gone so far as to dim the overheads and turn on both the tiny candle-style lamp on my table as well as the wall sconce above the booth. He’d also activated the sound system, playing instrumental jazz. He’d even opened a bottle of Cabernet.

“How was your morning?” Brad asked, ladling minestrone into my bowl. “Pencils, books, dirty looks?”

“Typical first day song and dance.” After school, I used to taste-test for Vaggio and clue him in on my latest news. But I didn’t know Brad well enough to confide.

“And do you have a sweetheart there? A puppy love?”

Suddenly, I lost my appetite.

“You don’t like it?” Gesturing to the soup, Brad slid into the black leather bench opposite mine. “How can you not like it? You haven’t even tasted it yet.”

I slipped the crimson napkin to my overalls lap, grateful to be focusing on food rather than my personal life. “It’s minestrone.”

Brad met my eyes, raised a questioning brow. He’d put in the red contacts, as promised. They looked good with the fangs, which he’d persisted in wearing. He’d also traded in his ’kicker apparel for a solid royal blue oxford and khakis. Brown leather belt, brown leather shoes, brown leather watchbands. The kind of vampire a nice girl could bring home to her parents, if she had parents.

Mama and Daddy had been Kieren’s godparents, I recalled. They adored him. Daddy used to tease that we’d get married one day.

Focus,
I thought.
Food.
As Vaggio had often pointed out, many a dive did booming business because the food was to die for. Sanguini’s could settle for no less.

I dipped my spoon into the bowl, opened my mouth, and . . . good. The minestrone? Scrumptious, savory heaven. Hot enough to scintillate without scorching, taut onions, sinful bacon bits, chopped celery, fresh spaghetti, plump red beans, a touch of kale . . .

“Well done,” I said. “Or not well done. But . . . Well. Done. And, bonus, Italian.” I tried another spoonful.
Blessed Mother of Minestrone.
I took the moment to stir. “But Pasta Perfecto serves minestrone. So does The Olive Garden. The people at Campbell’s sell it in a can.”

“But my minestrone is better —”

“So was Vaggio’s,” I replied, swallowing hard, “and we still lost out to the competition.” I flipped to a blank page in Frank, which lay open on the table, and picked up my pen. “What else are you thinking for the menu?”

One of Brad’s loafers nudged my right foot, and I moved it back. “We need a soup, I think. I also make a good chowder, by the way. Or there’s a stew, a mushroom stew I could try for an entrée.” Brad reached for the wine bottle and filled my glass.

“I’ll just have water,” I said.

“The guests will be having the dishes with wine,” he countered.

That made sense, I guessed, trying it. This glass tasted better than the one I’d had the other day. I supposed I preferred the Cab to the Zin. It also somehow made a terrible day seem instantly not so bad.

“Despite the bones,” Brad went on, “Texas quail could be interesting. For now, I’ve got a corn conchiglie salad and tiramisù, which you’ll have to excuse me to —”

“Hang on. Vampires, remember?” Either Brad didn’t get the concept of crawly creepies or he was suffering from a mental block. I gave the room another perusal. It could’ve been any high-end restaurant dining area. It was the suggestion of the vampire that heightened its intrigue. “I’m not complaining about the quality of your cooking, but atmosphere alone isn’t going to cut it. We need to submerge people, even with the menu, like —”

“A scary movie?”

I dabbed my lips with my napkin, tried the wine again. “More expensive. And interactive, like —”

“A ritzy tourist trap?”

“Ritzy role-playing game,” I replied. “Sanguini’s is providing the menu and venue, but the guests will be participants, not passive audience members.” I shifted in the booth, and my foot grazed his ankle that time. Accidentally. “You need to create some sense of drama, I guess. Take it up a notch or three.”

“I did do some research for this job,” Brad countered, “and your idea of vampires seems pretty stereotypical for —”

“It’s what the guests will expect,” I replied.

Something banged in the kitchen, and I flinched.

“Easy,” Brad soothed. “That’s your uncle and Ruby.” He lowered his voice. “Davidson seems swell, but what you said the other day about her —”

The stainless kitchen door swung open, and, as if on cue, Ruby sashayed across the midnight blue carpet. Today’s ensemble was a shiny black leather bodysuit with spaghetti straps over a long-sleeve, black lace shirt, with ankle-high shoes, lace-up, and a black velvet ribbon fastened at the collarbone. Her trademark scent preceded her, a cinnamon musk. “Hello, kids,” she began, clapping once like a less-than-thrilled theater fan. “My, isn’t this cozy. Quincie, Quincie, Quincie, I thought you already had a boyfriend.”

“We’re working,” I put in. “Working on the menu.”

I didn’t get what they saw in each other, my uncle and Ruby. Flower Child meets Child of the Night and all that. Their twisted world of black daisies, bloody peace signs, and fang-dipped smiley faces. Not something to dwell on, but the sex must’ve been spectacular.

“Hate to say so,” Ruby replied, hovering over the booth, outlined lips at full pout, “but Sanguini’s ‘vampire chef’ could double as a JCPenney model.” She made a show of considering. “The clothes, anyway.”

The average blind man saw more beauty in a day than Ruby did in a lifetime. Maybe that was my uncle’s attraction to her. The yin-yang. Her darkness, his light.

“Go away,” I said, giving up on politeness.

“I’m just saying,” Ruby went on, “he could be the death of this operation.”

She was rooting for Brad’s makeover to bomb, I realized. Uncle D must’ve talked to her about playing master vampire, and — big surprise — she’d loved the idea.

Too bad. Brad had already agreed to go shopping with me the next day.

“Ruby,” Uncle Davidson called, sticking his head in the room, “let’s let these two get to know each other.” It was like he was the set-up guy, hustling her away from our blind date. And there was that word again. “Date.”

Ruby licked her lips as though she could read my mind, and before I knew it, bent to kiss me, kiss
me
on the lips. Warm, wet, smiling. Pulling back, her upturned green eyes peered into mine.

It was possible, I thought, that in time I might grow to hate her.

Good kisser, though.

“You should learn to listen,” Ruby suggested, sashaying away. “Ta.”

Uncle Davidson called “See ya,” apparently without having noticed my drinking, and for a while, Brad and I let the jazz take over the room. I finished my soup. He poured himself a glass of wine. The quiet was clunky.