by Tes Hilaire
Eyes that were currently, and implausibly, boring into mine.
And I still couldn’t look away. Something about his gaze held me pinned like a butterfly in a display frame. Which is what I probably looked like in my tie-dye t-shirt, high-tops, gopped on eyeliner, and frizzy hair.
Damn dress rehearsals. And damn me for not having insisted on going home to change before letting Carrie drag me to the mall.
I blushed, spinning forward again just as my phone vibrated. This time it was with great relief that I had something to do other than contemplate my complete and utter humiliation. I mean, yeah, he’d been staring—probably blindsided by my outfit—but I’d been staring right back and been totally enthralled by what I’d seen. I punched through the buttons, my fingers fumbling on the keys so it took me a while to pull up Carrie’s text.
Isn’t he 2 die 4?
Well yeah. If you meant die of a broken heart. He had untouchable written all over him. Way out of my league. You get passed up in favor of the big-boobed cheerleader enough and you learned. Carrie tended to be more optimistic than I, though, so I knew it was going to take some nipping in the bud to get her to knock it off.
“No, what is to die for is my outfit.” I plucked at the multi-colored T. “Killer, isn’t it?”
This received another glare and twenty seconds later, a buzz.
U r so annoying. He’s looking right @ u!
I snorted. “Yeah. He’s probably blindsided by all the colors.”
She rolled her eyes, leaning urgently across the table. “Stop it. You look awesome. Anyone with half a brain would get that you are practicing for the Footloose Musical. The posters are plastered all over town.” She waved her hand around to indicate the large food court we sat in. “Even here.”
I frowned down at my half-eaten fries. Maybe she was right. There were posters plastered all over the place. Carrie, along with the rest of the art department, had made sure of that. She’d been almost as proud as my mom when I got a part in the musical. Even if it was just a bit part. Still, posters aside, it didn’t do anything to negate the fact that Mr. Candy was obviously playing some sort of game. I wasn’t ugly. But nor was I beauty pageant material. More girl-next-door. If a guy like Mr. Candy was interested in me it was for one reason and one reason alone: Sex. Thank you, Kyle, for teaching me that.
As if I were some sort of masochist, I found myself glancing over my shoulder again, only he wasn’t there anymore. I tried to ignore the sinking feeling in my chest, the one that felt suspiciously like disappointment. Idiot.
I looked back across the table to say I told you so to Carrie and caught her wide grin. Oh crap. That wasn’t good. Carrie only smiled like that when she was up to something. Something bad.
Someone slid into the seat beside me.
“Can I join you?” A deep baritone voice drawled, even as a long tapered hand shot out to grab one of my fries. Like he already had rights to my fries. Jerk.
“No.” I snatched my container of fries up, shifting them to the other side of my tray. He may have been cute—all right, hot—but he obviously thought he was all that and more.
Carrie kicked my shin again. I yelped.
“Of course you can join us,” Carrie said, plastering on a beamy smile that was worthy of an Oscar. Huh, why hadn’t she tried out for the musical?
Carrie went on, her voice all sorts of bubbly and sweet. “My name is Carrie and this is my friend Eva.” She leaned in closer over the table towards Mr. Candy, lowering her voice into a conspirator’s whisper. “You’re going to have to excuse her. She didn’t want to come here after her dress rehearsal, but I dragged her along.”
My mouth dropped open, staring at the two-headed monster who’d replaced my best friend. Not only was she betraying me, but she was talking—coherently. I was the only one Carrie could talk to without stuttering. Well me and this really repressed guy who’d recently joined her art club. Carrie turned into Chatty Cathy whenever he was around. Something about flowers flourishing in the desert or something.
“My name is Raoul,” Mr. Candy said, his deep timber voice dragging the R and rolling the L in a way that was oh so French and oh so sexy.
I scoffed. Probably part of the charming act he used to get high-school virgins to give up the cherry-topped sundae.
He turned his gaze on me. “Eva. That’s a beautiful name. And very fitting.”
I didn’t really hear what he said. I was too busy staring. His eyes were blue. An icy-pale blue that made me think of a Siberian Husky, or a Caribbean sea frozen over. And they were pinned on me again. I rubbed my sweaty palms on my jeans, taking a hard swallow to void my mouth of pooling saliva. Crap. What was wrong with me? I really didn’t like my body’s betrayal. Raoul wasn’t doing anything and I was all but hyperventilating. Which meant, of course, that I had to say something snide.
“Raoul. Sounds French. And perfect for a French fry thief.” Okay, maybe not my wittiest comeback ever, but at least I let him know that I wasn’t going to do the gooey-eyed drooling thing over him.
He wasn’t fazed at all, continuing on in that lightning-strike accent of his. “You are right. It is French. I apologize for the theft of your fry. I’ll buy you some more if you wish.”
“Not necessary. I’m done.” I reached out, pushing my tray away. The fries were cold anyway and all of a sudden my appetite was gone. At least my appetite for fries.
Something snagged in my hair. Goosebumps rose over my exposed skin. I glanced over at him in shock, blinking at the fingers twirling in my teased and primped hair. It was only my friggin hair, for God’s sake.
“This dress rehearsal, was it perhaps for the musical that starts at Flagstaff High this weekend?” he asked.
I pulled my head back, thereby extracting my hair from his fingers. “No, I just like dressing up like a 80s’ film reject.”
His lips cracked up into a smile, dimples forming.
Ah, hell. Did he have to look so scrumptiously perfect?
“Ah. On you, I think I might like this 80s’ look. I certainly wouldn’t reject you.”
I shook my head, glaring at him. “Knock it off.”
He looked genuinely confused, his brow puzzling into a deep V as he tipped his head to the side. “Knock what off?”
“This.” I waved my hand between us.
“This what?”
“Bull—”
I got another smack to the shin, at the same time that my phone buzzed again. I glared down at it like it was a snake, knowing instinctively who it was from. Carrie had somehow managed to text me. I thought about ignoring it, but then a plan formed. I turned my back on our “guest” and went through the process of retrieving my text.
If U don’t knock it off, I’m going to knock U later.
Whatever. I leapt up, pressing a series of buttons to turn off my phone. No more phone, no more texts.
“Sorry. That was mom.” I looked over at Carrie. “I have to get home, and since you drove...” I shrugged my shoulders in a helpless little “what can I do about it?” gesture.
It was Carrie’s turn to sit there with her jaw on her lap. Yup, today was a day of firsts. Carrie had managed to converse in a complete coherent sentence and I, goody-two-shoes that I was, had managed to lie without blinking. Go drama club. Mom did know what she was talking about when she’d needled and nagged me into joining.
I turned to Raoul, giving him a dismissive nod. “It was nice to meet you.”
He stood up. “It’s getting late. Let me escort you ladies to your car.”
I shook my head. “That’s okay. We’re right near the entrance. Parked right under a lamppost. We’ll be fine. But thanks.”
I grabbed up Carrie’s bag of purchases off the floor, held it out to her. “Come on, Carrie. You know how mom gets if I don’t answer her immediate summons.”
Still looking a bit flabbergasted, she mechanically got up and took the bag. Figuring she might baulk I linked my arm through hers, and with a last carefree w
ave for Mr. Too Good to Be True, herded her through the aisles of bolted-down tables.
We were a good twenty feet away before Carrie seemed to come back to herself and twisted in my grip, looking back over her shoulder at the seats we’d just vacated.
“He’s still there.” She leaned in closer. “And he’s still watching you.”
I didn’t respond.
Carrie stopped, yanking her arm out of my grip. Her small feet planted down on the tile floor with the kind of stubborn stomp that I’d learned to dread.
“Carrie!” I hissed at her, jerking my head to the south entrance to indicate where we needed to go. Now.
She shook her head. “We should go back. I mean, how many chances like this do we get?”
Good point, but, “No way.”
Her jet-black bob swung in a stubborn chin jut. “Fine. If you don’t want him, maybe I’ll just…”
As if. Carrie could barely talk to anyone but me without her cell-phone. That little bit earlier was most likely a fluke. And if it wasn’t? Well, I wasn’t about to let her learn the ultimate eff-me life lesson with Mr. Candy. He was a player. Just like Kyle. I was sure of it.
I grabbed Carrie’s arm back up, steering her toward the nearby exit.
She gave me a deadly glare which I ignored, then tried to jerk her arm from my grip. Good thing she was as much of a lightweight as I.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she exclaimed indignantly.
As if it wasn’t obvious. “Leading you away from temptation, aka, saving your life.”
“My life?” she screeched.
I nodded, dragging her out the door and toward her beat up Hyundai. I didn’t know much about this Raoul guy, but I knew one thing. He was deadly—least to a girl’s heart.
9.
“I’m telling you guys, this crazy bitch saved my life.”
I duck my head, my cheeks burning as I reach for the spoon to slop another heap of the pudding that is being passed down the table. Pudding. How long ago has it been since I last enjoyed the treat? Can’t remember. Seems like my belly’s been hollow forever, and when that happens all I crave is meat. It’s full now though. I’d practically gorged on that zombie. It may have been skinny, may have been half-way to its grave, but I’m a small thing and zombies don’t die from a little bit of blood loss. Nope, takes draining them, or a bullet in the brain.
“No, really. This chick is effing amazing. We’re all just standing there, mouths like this, down to our belt-buckles, you know?” Blaine demonstrates by dropping his mouth open to his collar bone. A young Asian-African American, he’s one of the survivors from Rodriguez’s team. Probably my age. My real age, not my perpetual seventeen.
He’s also, like more than half the men down here, big, bulky, and comes complete with a macho scar running from the temple of his shaved scalp toward the outer corner of his big, brown, teddy-bear eyes. It’s the eyes that have me putting up with this round of poetic waxing. That and the pudding. Chocolate pudding. Instant. Lumps included. And just like dad used to make.
I’m such a sap.
Blaine goes on. “I mean, she’s sucking the life out of the zombie right in front of us, man. All of a sudden her head snaps up and she goes loco-motive. Running right toward us. I’m thinking she’s about to bite me or something, but then John here yells out ‘behind you!’ So I spin around and, holy shit, there they are. Must have been two, three-dozen zombies coming out of the side-street. One was this effing close.” He stretched his arms out wide. “I looked at those blank eyes, saw its chin, already dripping with blood, and all I could think is, huh, must be one of the ones that stopped to feed on the others these guys killed.”
He pauses, letting the danger of the moment sink in. Everyone’s attention is completely captured. No one is eating, but me. I can’t get enough of the pudding. Ah, to enjoy pudding again.
Blaine shakes his head. “I froze. Effing froze. Never froze like that before. Just too much, you know?”
There are some murmurs of agreement. A long two day mission, a controlled crash landing, three teammates down, the hours trapped inside a pitch-black building before breaking out and sprinting through zombie infested streets. Yeah, anyone would agree it was too much.
“Then it’s gone. Well, not gone, you know, but down, writhing on the ground, blood gushing out of this gash on its throat that goes all the way back to its spine. Bitch about lopped the thing’s head off with that puny little knife of hers. Well, the sight of all that blood rouses me. I pop one off into its temple and get busy helping take the rest down. Not that they needed me.” He slaps me on the back. “This chick is a one woman army. Like a bitchin’ whirlwind of destruction, she blew through them with her blade like they were nothing but an overgrown lawn in need of mowing.”
Numerous sets of eyes, some not so amazed, swing back to me.
“It was nothing,” I mumble around a mouthful of pudding. Really it was nothing. At least nothing I could do again anytime soon. Sure, I am naturally faster and stronger than any human, but to pull off what I’d done earlier this morning, I’d need to have just fed again. I’d been in the throes of blood lust. Not that I am going to tell them this. Especially not with Brian the Vampire Slayer watching me like a hawk from the other end of the table. I shudder.
Blaine shakes his head, the mess hall lights glinting off the dark skin of his shaved head. “Hell no, that wasn’t nothing. That was something else, for sure.”
“It was something,” a deep voice rumbles from across the room.
I blink, looking down the table toward the previously silent Rodriguez. Like Brian, he’s been studying me with a sort of quiet consideration since my little display. I’m not sure if this is good or bad. On the one hand, I did show them both that even taken by the blood, I still played for our team. On the other, I’ve also just shown them how lethal I can be.
Rodriguez went on, his gaze holding mine. “And if Brice is stupid enough to kick you off his team, know that you have a place on mine.”
I manage to choke out a, “Thank you, sir,” and turn my attention back to my pudding. I really don’t know how to take all this praise. I’d wanted to be respected, yes. Accepted, check. And dare I say liked? But this almost hero worship prompts the shy, bookish teenager in me to want to jump up and run to the library.
No library here.
I glance across the table at John, not sure why I’m going to him as a lifeline, but even though that is my instinct, I’m unnerved to find him sitting forward on the bench, elbows on the puckered Formica as he fiddles with his spoon—watching me. I arch a brow. He shrugs and stretches his arm across the table, dipping his spoon into my pudding.
“How’s the pudding?” he asks, even as he deposits the glob of chocolate into his mouth. “Hmm. Good.” His Adam apple bobs as he swallows it. He dips the spoon back in again, sliding the chocolate covered spoon into his mouth for another taste. “Really good.”
I snap out a pitiful “uh” of astonishment, encircling my arms around my bowl and pulling it closer. “And mine.”
The corners of his mouth twitch up and he sets down the spoon. “Far be it for me to deny a woman her meal.”
My heart does a heavy thud in my chest. First, he called me a woman. And second, it’s because of him that I’m sitting here comfortably amongst the rest of the men as I eat this bowl of pudding. If he hadn’t shot out that zombie’s knees, someone else would doubtlessly have taken it down before I could get to it.
I relax my grip on my bowl. “Thanks, by the way. For keeping your word.”
“Not a problem.” He pushes up from the table, the muscles in his thighs bunching as he lifts his legs over the bench seat. “I’m heading to the training room. Want to come?”
I blink up at him, honestly surprised at the invite. Yeah, he’s been cool about the whole vampire thing, even helped ease my transition in as new girl, but an invite to hang out, beyond the parameters of teammates, seems a bit friendlier than I am comfortable with
. And since we’ve already done the interrogation routine, makes me wonder what his angle is. I shrug as I slouch out of my seat. Only one way to find out.
We make our way through the halls, passing other soldiers as we go. Mid-morning is a busy time. I wish it weren’t. The sidelong stares I’m getting are about as comfortable as the hero worship had been. Though at least there is less hostility behind them this time.
Now that I’m less fearful of getting a stake in the back, I notice something else that slipped my attention before. John is a popular guy. I may be stared at, but he’s greeted with head-nods, waves, and more than one fist thump.
“How long have you been here?” I ask after one such manly welcome.
“A little over a year,” John says as he returns another enthusiastic wave with a slight nod. Another thing of note. John nods after the others do their thing. I’m not sure what disturbs me more: the fact that I’m still being all but ignored or that “average” John is much higher on the totem pole than I’d given him credit for. I hate underestimating people. Probably because everyone always underestimates me.
“Did Mar—uh, Commander Derwood recruit you then?”
John shakes his head. “More like I stumbled into the fold.”
“Interesting way of putting it.”
“It was an interesting encounter.”
So had mine been. I suspect Marine specializes in them.
I wait, thinking John will offer more, but am sadly disappointed. I’m still waiting, and now annoyed, when we arrive at the door to the first training room. Which is stupid. We’re teammates, not friends and confidants.
I start to reach for the handle but John stops me, pointing down the hall to a lone door at the very end. “Let’s use that one. Not as busy.”
