Crazy in the Blood (Latter-Day Olympians)

by Diver, Lucienne

  “Isn’t this place great?” Christie gushed. “I mean, did you see her complexion? What a great endorsement. I’d about kill for pores like that.”

  “Um, yeah. Totally.” I’d never noticed another person’s pores in my life and wasn’t about to start now.

  Christie propped the menu up before her so that no one else could see her lips move and stage-whispered, “So, what do we do now?”

  “We order,” I stage-whispered back.

  “Oh, right.”

  The look of the waiter who came to take our order didn’t say Ken-doll so much as beanpole, which was a bit of a relief. I wasn’t normally an insecure person—because first I’d have to care—but being surrounded by so many perfect people was starting to give me hives. I ordered a mineral water to fit in. Christie ordered an unsweetened ice tea.

  “We have a full bar,” he said, seemingly disappointed we weren’t inflating the price of our bill and thus the size of his tip with booze.

  “Really?” I asked. “That doesn’t seem in keeping with the spirit of this place.”

  He grinned—all teeth. “Grapes are organic. So are barley, hops, potatoes…”

  I laughed. “You’ve got me there.”

  “Besides, there are a ton of antioxidants and other health benefits to red wine, for example.”

  “Sold!” I said. “I’ll have a glass of Merlot.” I needed a drink after that drive.

  “Great. And you?” He turned to Christie.

  “Ack, no. Stains your teeth. I’m good with my tea.”

  “Coming right up.” He vanished off to the bar.

  “What’re you having?” Christie asked.

  Steak, I thought. Medium rare with still enough blood flowing to sop my bread in. To my surprise, it was actually on the menu.

  The waiter returned, a half-full glass of deep garnet wine for me, and a tawny tea for Christie. Between the wine and the red meat, I ought to replace all the blood Thanatos had slashed out of me in pretty short order. I just hoped I’d get to keep it this time.

  “Ready to order?” Beanpole…uh, Martin, as he informed us…asked.

  “I have a quick question first,” I said. “How organic is your food? I’ve heard stories about salmonella in sprouts and E. coli coming from natural fertilizer. I know organic is supposed to be good for you. My friend here swears by it, but…I’m not so sure.” Christie and I had decided on the way over that I’d be the PITA (aka Pain in the Ass), since it came so naturally to me.

  “Toni,” Christie said, twisting my name and putting just the right note of exasperation into her voice.

  Martin turned a beatific smile on her. “No, it’s okay. We get that sometimes. The biotech food people do their best to drum up the hysteria about organics.” To me, he said, “All of our distributors are accredited, and we wash our fruits and vegetables carefully. We’ve never had a problem.”

  “See, I told you it was perfectly safe,” Christie jumped in.

  “Are you interested in organic?” Martin asked, laser-like in his sudden focus.

  “Absolutely,” she breathed. “Our body is our temple, right?”

  They beamed at each other, and I kept my eyes from rolling in their sockets.

  “We’ll talk later,” he said with a wink.

  We placed our orders and off he went.

  “Our body is our temple?” I asked wryly.

  “Sure, don’t you believe that?” she asked, doing wide-eyed for me. Unless it wasn’t an act. With Christie, it was hard to be sure.

  “Of course I do. I believe all men should worship at my altar.”

  “I thought Armani was already taking care of that.”

  Oh crap, Armani. I’d promised to call him when we got in.

  “Excuse me,” I said, rising to take myself and my phone outside.

  “What did I say?”

  “Nothing. I have to make a call.”

  “Gotcha, I’ll hold down the fort.”

  I stepped outside the restaurant in deference to the other customers, turning my face up to the sun to catch the meager rays still remaining. There was some famous Mark Twain quote about the city—something about the coldest winter he ever experienced was the summer he spent in San Francisco. It did have that reputation. If Chicago was “The Windy City” because of all the bombast, San Fran came by it more naturally. But you wouldn’t know it by tonight. There was a breeze, but it was lovely. Cool, but not cold. Refreshing even. The same hot snap that had hit L.A. seemed to have touched down here as well.

  Demeter gloating, as Yiayia had said? Glowing was more like it. Beaming even. I was in the wrong spot to see the sun go down, but the sky was a gorgeous golden-amber. The traditional clouds mere wisps enflamed by the setting sun so that they looked like some dragon’s fiery breath blazing across the sky.

  I sighed, just as Armani picked up the call. “That for me?” he asked.

  “Yes. The sunset is gorgeous. Wish you were here.”

  “Stopping to admire the sunset? That doesn’t sound like you.”

  “Worse, I was just thinking poetical thoughts about the blazing sky.”

  “Do I have to worry about losing you to another city?”

  “I don’t know…maybe,” I teased.

  “Just remember, we have smog and riots and record-breaking temperatures. Everything you could want, right here at home.”

  “Um, you do want me back, right?”

  We’d sparred like this before we’d dated. Old habits were hard to break, like the whole last name thing.

  “Is this a trick question?”

  All of the sudden, my stomach gave a flutter-kick of insecurity. We hadn’t exactly parted with romantic declarations—puppies and kittens and chocolate covered kisses. We’d parted with me hiding something and him knowing it. Stupid cop instincts. I should tell him. Secrets were relationship poison. But…I didn’t have the time or patience for an intervention. I was sure that was all there was to it. Really. It was not just an addict’s rationalization.

  “Straight answer, please,” I said. “None of your cop tricks, answering one question with another.”

  “Of course I want you back.” His voice was all low and sexy and gave me a little thrill. Then he ruined it by saying, “Why else would I leave my favorite toothbrush at your place?”

  “Wait, you have a favorite toothbrush?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “I have a toothbrush. One. By default I suppose it’s my favorite.”

  “Well, then, you see?”

  I didn’t. “That was another question, you realize that, right?”

  “Here’s another—I guess you haven’t been to the morgue yet?”

  That put a damper on things. “We got in too late.”

  “Call me when you do, whatever the outcome.”

  “I will.”

  “And if you need me, just say the word. Captain doesn’t have me doing anything they can’t spare me from. I’m pretty certain I can get the time off.”

  “I think you’re going to need that vacation time for my cousin Tina’s wedding.”

  There was a pause during which I held my breath.

  “You haven’t asked me yet.”

  “I thought I just did.”

  “Lord, Tori, a man likes to be asked. Women don’t let us get away with that kind of crap.”

  “I’m not most women. I’m liberated. Hence the fact that I just asked you out on a date.”

  “Oh, was there a question in there?”

  I huffed. At what point did we get past the banter and into the deeper stuff? Not that I was particularly good at that or any less at fault than Armani. Nick. But…

  “Will you? Save me from my nutty family and the singles table at the wedding?”

  “Well, since you put it so romantically… I’d be thrilled to escort you. But, fair warning, I don’t chicken dance.”

  The very visual surprised a laugh out of me. “Duly noted.”

  When we rang off I felt like I’d j
ust been through a kickboxing match. I wondered who had won. At least I had a date for the wedding. Now all I had to do was find a dress and the stand-in father of the bride.

  I turned to go back in and nearly jumped as the phone rang in my hand. I checked the display and saw that it was Jesus. It was well after five, which meant it was either a personal call (unusual) or something big had kept him at the office after hours (even more so).

  “Chica, what the hell is going on?” he asked as soon as I picked up.

  Since the potential answer covered a lot of ground, I really needed more specificity. “What?”

  “I’m still at the office,” he said, answering that question. “Do you know why?”

  Gods save me from men who asked more questions than they answered. It was like an epidemic. “No, why?”

  “Because a Godzilla-sized dog…I’m talking a Hound of the Baskervilles, huge black beast, dripping drool and menace…parked outside the door and wouldn’t let me leave. I had the phone in my hand to call animal control when his trainer or whatever came calling.”

  “Trainer?” I said stupidly.

  “Tall, dark and deadly. Wild black hair, skin pale as any New Englander, six foot five or so, shoulders out to here.” I could only imagine. “Looked like he could melt me with his eyes. And not in the good way.”

  “Doesn’t sound like anyone I know,” I said honestly. “What did he want?”

  “You. And again, not in the good way. It sounded more like he wanted to murder, not hire you.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Gone. I wouldn’t tell him where you were, but that dog of his—I couldn’t stop him from sniffing around. I think he left with one of your gym shoes. I don’t think he can track you all the way to San Fran, but…I had to warn you.”

  “But you’re okay? He didn’t hurt you?” It was on the tip of my tongue to ask how many heads the dog had, but I supposed Jesus, drama queen that he was, would have mentioned a little thing like a couple of extra heads.

  “My nerves aren’t all that are shot. I could use a spa day.”

  I ignored the hint. For now. Christmas bonuses were still a good many months away, and the deductible on the damage Poseidon had done to our offices weeks before had wiped out any budgetary frills.

  “Did he leave a name or number?”

  Jesus sighed again when I didn’t pick up the hint. “Both. His name is Hadrian Boss, and—”

  Hades. Had to be.

  Jesus read off the number, but I had to make him repeat it twice to commit it to memory. I wondered if they’d finally installed cell towers in Hell or whether Hades was going to be topside for a time.

  “Jesus, I doubt this will ever come up but just in case…don’t go anywhere with this guy and don’t eat anything he might offer you.”

  I could practically hear Jesus rolling his eyes. “Right, no candy from strangers and never get into their car. I learned all that when I was five.”

  “I’m dead serious.”

  “So am I,” he answered, and for once he sounded it. “You don’t grow up on my side of the tracks and not know a thing or two. Don’t worry, I had my nine mil pointed at his cojones the whole time. He never even knew it.”

  “Great,” I said faintly. I wondered what kind of bullets worked on the god of the dead and his mutant hell hound. I doubted they came over the counter.

  “Chica, you’re starting to scare me with all this concern for my wellbeing.”

  “You should be scared. Look, maybe it would be best to close up the office for a few days…”

  “No ultra-butch white boy is going to turn me out of a job, don’t you worry.”

  I’d never been very good at taking orders, but Jesus was even worse. If I pushed the issue, I knew, he’d just dig in. The boy could out-stubborn me, and the last thing I wanted to do was go back to the office to find that my keyboard had been remapped and all my high octane coffee replaced with decaf.

  “Fine, just watch yourself.”

  “Coming and going,” he promised. It was probably true. I’d never seen anyone else so in love with his own image.

  I hurried back in to Christie after hanging up, hoping I hadn’t been away as long as it’d seemed and that our food wouldn’t be both there and cold. I could see immediately that I was beyond hope on the first part.

  Christie looked up from playing with the condensation on her glass of unsweetened ice tea as I approached. She forced a smile onto her face, but I could tell that leaving her alone with her thoughts, probably of Jack-ass, had been a bad idea. There was a suspicious moisture gathered at the corners of her eyes, which along with her nose, looked just a bit pink.

  “Another minute and I’d have started without you,” she said. “Doesn’t this look great?”

  The food did look amazing. The colors were all so bright, the smells…a sudden wave of want and need nearly swept my legs out from under me. I knew I was hungry, but I shouldn’t have been anywhere near that desperate. Something was wrong.

  “You okay?” Christie asked.

  I hated that question.

  “Fine,” I said, dropping into my chair a little too hard. “Just famished. You’re right. This does look good.”

  My hand shook slightly as I picked up the fork, headed straight for a potato wedge, since it was already pre-cut for speed and ease of consumption.

  Christie watched me worriedly as I put it into my mouth before reaching for her own knife and fork.

  The flavor burst over my tongue—butter and salt, and something else. Something wonderful. Rosemary? Strength and health, satisfaction and warmth flooded through me. I could taste the earth where the potato had grown. Good, mineral-rich soil. The feeling of well-being grew in me like Jack’s beanstalk—huge and overpowering. It was like ambrosia…

  I smacked Christie’s fork out of her hand as it would have reached her mouth, and it went pinwheeling, the piece of Portobello mushroom she’d speared flying off the end and landing in her tea. The fork itself clattered to the floor.

  Christie gasped and stared at me like I’d just grown a second head. “What the hell?”

  “Don’t eat that,” I hissed.

  Her eyes widened, and she leaned in close to whisper. “Why, do you think it’s poisoned?”

  Martin came bustling up with a fresh glass of iced tea and a replacement fork in hand. I certainly couldn’t fault the service, even if I was horrified by their special ingredients. No wonder The Rustic Potato was such a hot spot. They weren’t just drawing loyal customers, they were creating addicts.

  “Is everything okay?” Martin asked, blocking onlookers’ views of our table. Because, oh yes, we had apparently drawn an audience.

  Christie and her improvisational skills came to the rescue. She crooked a finger, encouraging Martin to lean in for a secret. “My friend has a sort of impulse control problem. Usually the meds take care of it,” she breathed in his ear, “but sometimes… Maybe we’d just better get all of this to go. And—” she shot a worried glance at me “—quickly?”

  “Why don’t I meet you at your car?” he asked, clearly anxious to get rid of us before we could put anyone off their feed.

  “That would be wonderful.” She reached into her wallet and came out with a few bills she tucked discreetly into his hand.

  He straightened and smiled down at her. “Right away.”

  Martin ran off to get take-away boxes, and I couldn’t decide whether to give Christie a glare or a standing ovation for her performance. I’d probably go with the latter. It wasn’t like I had any shame.

  “I can’t take you anywhere,” she said to me.

  “I brought you.”

  “Whatever. Let’s get out of here.”

  She came around to my side of the table and pretended to help me out of there like I was some kind of invalid.

  At the Camaro I shook her off and started for the driver’s side, but Christie stopped me with a look. Cursing under my breath, I dropped the keys into her outstre
tched hand. Probably people with “impulse control problems” shouldn’t operate heavy machinery. I hoped I was doing the right thing. Christie, having learned late how to drive, was hell on wheels. Things like lanes and speed limits were mere suggestions; shoulders were for driving on, and corners were to be cut.

  She was checking her makeup in the rearview mirror while making adjustments when Martin appeared with a large paper sack bearing The Rustic Potato sun logo on the side. I guessed a lump of starchy tuber just wouldn’t have done it. She stepped out of the car to take the bag from him rather than roll down her window for him to pass it through. Given the size of the bag, it might have been tricky.

  “I brought the food,” he said with a smile. “And your change.”

  “Keep it,” she said. Then, with her tinkling laugh, added, “The tip, I mean, not the food. I’m looking forward to that.”

  His smile got even bigger. “Thank you! I’ve included our take-out menu and,” he blushed, “my number, in case you want to talk more about the holistic lifestyle. We have a seminar tomorrow afternoon you might be interested in.”

  With free munchies, I’d bet, the better to brainwash you with, my dear.

  “Oh,” she said brightly. “That sounds great. I’m only here for a few days, but I might just give you a call.”

  She’d made his night. That was clear enough. I gave them a moment, looking away toward the hacienda-style building illuminated on the outside by small white lights that twinkled like stars and—and froze at what I saw. Coming around the building and getting into a white van half-blocking the exit out of the parking lot was my office attacker. Or someone who looked an awful lot like him.

  “Christie,” I called, flinging out a hand to hit my window and making them both jump. “We’ve gotta go.”

  The van started to roll out.

  Christie said a quick good-bye and closed the door between them, hefting the bag into the back seat. Martin continued to stare after her, ignoring his other customers inside.

  “Where to?” she asked.

  “Follow that van,” I said.

  “What van?”

  Darn it, the vehicle had already disappeared down the hilly drive. “Straight ahead. Just drive!”