At least I’ll be out of this dress in like an hour.
Waiting Tables
7
Grabbing a bite on the way home has an altogether different meaning for me these days.
Pickings are kinda slim at a little after two in the morning, but I wind up ambushing a guy in the parking lot of a bar not far from downtown Seattle. One whiff of his breath makes me change my mind. If I feed off this guy, I might not be able to fly in a straight line. After commanding him to take an Uber instead of driving, I head around to the back of the building and wait by an employee door, figuring the people who work here won’t be tanked.
A few minutes later, a guy in a black shirt and apron walks out with two huge trash bags. My sudden appearance startles him into jumping back against the wall, a hand over his chest.
“Jesus, kid. Don’t sneak up on people like that.” He recovers his composure and gives me the up-and-down glance. “You runnin’ away from home?”
Guess the T-shirt and sweatpants thing makes me look like a teen who didn’t put a lot of planning into their great escape.
“Nah, I’m on my way home actually.” I stare into his eyes, and blank his consciousness.
For the few minutes it takes me to latch on and drink, he stands there staring into space. After sealing the bite wound, I leave him dazed and zip into the air. He’ll snap out of it in a moment, and won’t remember even seeing me.
I return home and grab a fresh set of pajamas that ooze the awesome smell of fabric softener. It’s so tempting to burrito myself in bed and pray to the gods of warm. It’s like sixty degrees outside, and flying in a thin T-shirt made it way colder.
It’s only three, so I have a few hours before my body will even allow me to sleep. I feed an hour or so to the internet, answering a couple messages from people I went to high school with still asking crap like ‘OMG you’re not dead?’ Eventually, the lure of bed drags me out of the chair and I curl up.
In the quiet non-darkness of my windowless room, I find myself thinking about Glim. His Transference had to be terrifying. I can’t even imagine being attacked like that and then the guy who made him expecting him to stick around and be pals. If Dalton had randomly grabbed me, I’d be pretty effing pissed at him, and that’s without waking up as a walking corpse. Okay, it’s not like Dalton asked me if I wanted to be a vampire, but he didn’t exactly have the time to do that, and if he didn’t, I’d be nothing more than a memory in my family’s heads and a brief ‘local girl murdered by asshole ex-boyfriend with serious anger issues’ headline. Well, maybe that wouldn’t be their exact wording, but yeah.
I grab Mr. Snow, my teddy bear, and cling to him like a six-year-old, crying at the overwhelming weight of thinking about my family going on in the wake of my death. No matter how much I try to switch the channel in my brain, the emotional storm keeps on. Before long, I’m weepy about never talking to Hunter in the four years we passed each other in the hallways at school. As clear as day, I remember him trying to approach me a month into our freshman year, but he was too nervous and walked away without speaking a word.
How many tiny moments like that do people miss that could alter their life so much? If he’d said even ‘hello’ to me, I might not have ever dated Scott and wound up a vampire. What sort of small decision put Glim on that street that night? How did his sire pick him out of the whole group of soldiers?
Like five minutes after I start bawling my eyes out, I wind up furious at Scott. That turns into being angry at Walter and Kevin for giving Hunter a hard time at the carnival. Grr. Now I want to go track down that man who knocked the cookies out of Sophia’s hand. What kind of jerk can be that mean to a hyper-cute ten-year-old?
And… a wave of happiness crashes into me. This bed is awesome. My house is awesome. I love my family. Becoming a vampire is the most awesome thing ever.
“What the hell is wrong with me?” I ask the ceiling.
I’m going through moods like I’m either pregnant or in menopause, and neither one of those options is remotely possible. Still, being content and happy is a good mood to hold on to, so I do my best.
Hmm. I snuggle deeper into my pillow. Wonder if I’ll see Glim again.
I wake a little after two the next afternoon and wander upstairs to find a note from the parents that they’ve taken the sibs to the Pacific Science Center. Okay, cool. House to myself. I grab a shower, enjoying the rarity of not having to rush. After, I retreat to my room to avoid daylight. No sense dealing with that if I’m alone.
Hunter replies to my ‘what’s up?’ text with: ‹at work›
‹Oh. When r u out?›
He doesn’t reply, so I figure he’s either busy or got yelled at. I toss the phone on my desk and hop on the computer. Maybe I should get like online classes or something to fill this serious amount of time I have on my hands. Learning something would be more productive than vegging out on video games. I could wind up studying multiple languages or some stuff like that. Maybe French to understand Aurélie whenever she gets excited.
My phone chirps. ‹Out at ten›
Oof. Guess he just started. ‹Ouch. Okay. Wanna hang out later?›
‹You know it.›
Cool. I send back, ‹Where do you work again? I’ll meet you there.›
‹Mi Tierra. Know where it is?›
Oh, do I. Two weeks plus a few days ago, I walked by the place naked. My face burns with blush. Holy crap. I hope he didn’t see me. ‹Yeah. I know where it is. See you tonight.›
‹Cool. Can’t wait.›
“No way he saw me,” I mutter. “He definitely would not have been able to keep that thought out of his brain in front of me.”
Huh. Maybe I somehow made people not notice me. I wonder if I can even do that? If I ever run into Glim again, maybe I should ask him since he seems to be pretty good at it.
Right, so that whole learning thing didn’t quite happen. Not that I didn’t look. Really, I did. But I don’t have a credit card, nor do I have $600 a pop for online courses. So, I’ll wait for school to start at the end of the summer. The ’rents are still willing to cover tuition, so I might as well do it. They’d probably think the electronic courses are a good idea, but I’m getting my lazy on today.
I binge-watched random movies on Netflix until thundering feet overhead announced the family’s return from their trip to the science center a little after six. Eager to escape my isolation cell, I ran upstairs to help cook, had people food with them to embrace the feeling of normality, and passed the rest of the day with a mix of board games, video games, and general horsing around with my siblings.
At 9:30, I inform the parents about my date to a great deal of “Oohing” from Sophia. After getting dressed―any day where I can wear pajamas until after nine at night is a good day―I head out the door and duck around the side of the house so I can take off without being too obvious. After last night, I’m wearing a hoodie over my T-shirt. That makes flying much less frigid.
A few minutes later, I cruise over the Woodgate Mall, which shares a parking lot with Mi Tierra. Unfortunately, I know the area well, since the little graveyard I spent a night trapped in is like two blocks away. It’s also the only decent spot for me to land in, due to trees that’ll hide me. Also, there aren’t exactly a lot of people hanging out in the cemetery.
I glide in for a quick landing, hop the wrought iron fence, and dart across 132nd Ave straight into the parking lot of the shopping center. Hands stuffed in my hoodie’s pockets, I head past the nail salon to the end of a little alley where two dumpsters stand up against a chain link fence separating it from the next lot. No one pays me much attention as I hop the fence and keep walking. I’m shocked. Imagine that. Walking around fully dressed actually prevents everyone from staring at me.
The restaurant is lit up bright and looks like it’s doing well. About half the outdoor tables are in use. When I head in the main door, a woman a little older than me looks up from a podium with a ‘seriously?’ expression. I can
’t say I’ve had a lot of Mexican food in my life, but whatever’s in the air here smells so damn good I experience a twinge of actual hunger. Like for food, not blood.
“We’re about to close,” says the woman. “Sorry. It’s almost ten.”
“I know.” I walk up to the podium, hands still in my sweatshirt pockets. “Not here to eat, though it smells wonderful. I’m looking for Hunter Lawrence.”
“Oh.” The girl jabs her thumb to the side at a little area with chairs. “You can wait for him.”
“Thanks.”
I walk a few steps over, spin, and flop down to sit.
A few minutes later, Hunter emerges from a pair of flapping doors, carrying a big tray. If looks could kill, his eyes would be knocking down walls. Guess he got a big party ten minutes away from closing time.
“Your girlfriend’s here,” says the hostess. “Little young for you, huh?”
Hunter disregards the comment and keeps walking into the seating area.
Of course, I can’t let it go. The woman eyes me as I stand and walk over.
“He’s still working, hon. You’ll have to keep waiting.”
“Yeah, I know. Couldn’t help but overhear you. I’m eighteen, just like him. We were in the same class.”
“Yeah, sure,” says the hostess.
Okay, so I look young due to my particular strain of vampire-ness. Even Mom said I went back to sixteen. I’m about to continue protesting when a raised female voice grabs my attention from the seating area. This fortyish bottle-blonde is going off on Hunter about cilantro.
“Wow, she really hates cilantro,” I say.
“Huh?” asks the hostess. “Sorry, kid. Wasn’t paying attention.”
“Did you know that something like seventeen percent of white people think cilantro tastes like soap?”
Her eyebrows furrow. “No, I didn’t.”
“Well, now you do.”
She stares at me for a moment while the woman continues giving Hunter a hard time, wanting her entire plate replaced and comped.
I pull out my license and hold it up. “I’m not a kid, Charlotte.”
The woman blinks and stares at me, glances at the license, and looks me in the eye. “I never told you my name.”
“It’s on your nametag.” I smile.
Charlotte pats her blank shirt, adjusting the nametag that isn’t actually there, and heaves a sigh of relief. “Oh.”
Hunter pours a bucket of apologies over the woman’s head and comes rushing back with a single plate in his hand and the big empty tray tucked under his left arm. He glances at me with a pained grimace.
“No problem,” I say. “I have all night.”
My micro-war with the hostess done, I plop back in the seat to wait, occupying myself with the iPhone. People head out in groups, the restaurant gradually emptying. A manager type guy approaches the hostess, asking her why there’s a kid in the waiting area two minutes from closing. Her explanation that I’m here for Hunter placates him, and he hurries off to politely shoo people out the door.
Cilantro woman goes by on her way to the bathroom.
Damn, sitting here smelling all this food has made me hungry.
I follow her into the ladies’ room and barge into the stall with her before she can get the door all the way shut.
“Gah! What are you doing!?” shouts the woman. “You…”
She’s mine as soon as we make eye contact. I ease the stall door shut behind me and lean in close. The woman stands there zombie-like as my fangs puncture the side of her neck. I guess I’ve had Mexican food on the brain since walking into the place, since her blood tastes like liquid tacos. She wobbles backward and winds up sitting on the toilet tank while I suckle at the side of her neck. Once I’ve had enough, I seal the wound and clean up a few stray drops.
“Thanks. Oh, by the way… you were a real bitch to your waiter. Mistakes happen. No reason to bite his head off for what the cook did. You should apologize to him and leave a nice tip.”
“Okay,” says the woman in a spacey voice.
I let myself out of the stall and push the door closed. Ugh. Feeding kicked things in motion deep inside me. I hop a few stalls over and get rid of the dinner I had with the family. Mrs. Cilantro finishes before me, and by the time I’m back in the waiting room, she’s at her table, all smiles at Hunter.
Eventually, the place empties out and Hunter drags himself over to me at quarter after ten. “Sorry about that. They came in at exactly the worst time.”
“Not your fault, and like I said, I have all night.”
He winces. “I don’t. Gotta be back here for the opening shift. Can’t stay up too late.”
“Okay. Why don’t we just hang out at your place?”
“Your place too crazy?”
I shrug. “Sibs will be in bed now, plus you’d have to drive home. I can get myself home so you can go right to sleep.”
He scratches behind his ear, then shrugs. “Okay.”
Something’s bugging him, but not enough that he says anything about it. We head outside and over to his Buick war wagon. He spends the whole ride talking about Mrs. Cilantro. Mostly about his theory she must’ve had some kind of ‘transcendent’ experience in the bathroom since her attitude completely changed. Guess that’s a guy thing to somehow relate everything back to bodily functions.
I figure we’re still in Woodinville considering the relatively short ride. We cruise along beautiful tree-lined roads until he eventually turns right down 51st Ave, then pulls another right through a hedge gate.
The house is huge, though it kinda looks like it survived meeting a tornado with a pissy attitude. I think a small section of the roof is basically nothing but blue tarp. The decaying remnants of a boat, falling to pieces upon a trailer with two flat tires stands to the right. He parks beside an older van painted in beige and rust.
“Sorry, the place isn’t much to look at.” He flicks his thumbs at the steering wheel.
Shame wafts off him so thick I can practically see it as vapor. “It’s okay. It doesn’t bother me.”
“My parents don’t make the same kinda money yours do.”
“That’s not your fault, and it’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”
Hunter looks at me too fast to hide the shock in his eyes. A second later, he grins. “All right. C’mon in.”
The creaking doors scare a stray orange tabby out from under the van, which goes zooming off around the dead boat. Hunter fumbles with keys on the way to the porch. When I go in, the air punches me square in the nose with a mixture of wet dog, cleaning products, beer fumes, and ashtray.
Ugh. I do my best to keep a straight face, though I maybe squint a little while following him down a hall to a stairway covered in thick brown carpet. The upstairs eases back on the smell of wet hair, and the ashtray fragrance emanates from the left side, opposite of where we go.
Hunter’s room is at the far end of the hall on the left. I get a glimpse into a bathroom that looks more like a storage closet for random pieces of laundry and Tupperware. The toilet seat is one of those oversized foam ones all cracked to hell and looks so small my little brother would struggle to fit on it. I’m trying really hard not to be too judgmental, but this place is in dire need of someone giving a damn about cleaning it. I don’t say a word though. His parents are probably both busting their asses at two jobs apiece. Assuming, of course, he has both parents.
Yeah, okay. I feel guilty that mine are doing okay.
He pushes a plain white door open for me, and follows after I scoot past him. His room’s full of comic book character posters and models of spaceships. A shelf on the right has a veritable library of novels that all seem to have the word ‘sword’ in their titles. It smells like ‘boy’ in here more than anything, which is a definite improvement over the rest of the house. Pretty sure he cleans his own space.
“So, umm, welcome to my lair.” He grins and pulls off his Mi Tierra polo shirt, which he trades for a plain white one.
/>
I sit on the end of the bed, looking around at the posters, a desk with an old computer, and mounds of clothes. The décor matches him perfectly. Scruffy around the edges, but charming if not a little awkward.
“Sorry about the posters,” he mutters.
“Why are you sorry about them?”
He shrugs, eyeing the bed next to me. “Just they’re comics and all. Most people think it’s kid stuff.” Hunter spins the desk chair around and sits on it.
“You can sit here if you want.” I pat the bed beside me. “And I don’t think comics are for little kids. My dad’s into that stuff too.”
“Oh, umm.” He fidgets, then leaps out of the chair and flops on the bed, making me bounce. “That’s cool.”
“If one of us should say sorry, it’s probably me for not talking to you years ago.”
“Not your fault.” He scratches his arm. “I never really tried to talk to you or anything.”
I poke him in the arm. “You did. Freshman year. I think it was maybe the third week of school, you walked up to me in the hallway when I was getting crap out of my locker.”
“Wow, you remember that?” His cheeks redden. “I, uhh, didn’t think you even knew who I was.”
“I admit I didn’t really think about that moment at all until like a day or two ago.” I lean against him. “No, I wasn’t laughing at you. It’s really kinda flattering that my mere presence left you speechless.”
He shakes his head, chuckling. “Yeah you did. I thought about trying to talk to you again, but I kept feeling like an idiot for not being able to talk to you, and choked. I didn’t want to look like an idiot again.”
“That’s kind of adorable. A bit sad too.”
Hunter looks up at me.
As soon as our eyes meet, I catch a flood of thoughts from him. Not like I intended to go diving in, but his brain’s on overdrive. Bits and pieces of thousands of moments flash by in his memory, all the times he tried to work up the nerve to talk to me and chickened out. A clear image of a red notebook forms, in which he wrote me letters and even drew pictures of me in class.
A Beginner's Guide to Fangs (Vampire Innocent Book 2) Page 8
