by J. R. Ward
Trez looked down at his hands as his mood shifted away from any levity. But at least it didn’t go back into the rage. “So my grid doesn’t look good, huh. Don’t know why I have to even ask. I’m living it.”
“I don’t want you to do something stupid. That’s all.”
“You know what’s crazy… even with all this? With everything that happened after my Selena died? I have no regrets about being with her. Even though she’s gone and it hurts like hell… and there’s no end in sight? I do not regret a thing.”
Rehv came over and sat down on the sofa. “Listen, I don’t know how else to help. That’s the reason I came. I don’t want you to think it’s a failure if you go on some meds, either. Look at me. I’m the poster boy for better living through chemistry.”
Trez shook his head back and forth. “I just don’t care. About anything really.”
Rehv reached out and Trez felt the male’s heavy hand land on his shoulder. “But I care. And that’s why I’m here.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Three prime ribs of beef. Full cuts, not the princess stuff. Two plates of the osso buco. A plate of pork pappardelle and an order of the chicken scarpariello. Seven different sides including rollatini, risotto, and the polenta—as well as a single, desultory dish of peas that the male had explained was for the fiber.
Although on that theory, Therese decided as she tallied up the check, the little side bowl was a drop in a bucket, nothing that was going to make any difference to the guy’s colon.
Standing at the automated cash register, she realized she hadn’t done the appetizers. Okay, so the male had had the minestrone soup. A caprese salad—more fiber there, actually. The antipasto assortment and the crostini. Wait, also the bruschetta. Was that everything? She was fairly sure. And what about dessert? He’d had the tiramisu, the cannoli, the tartufo, and profiteroles.
“I think I’ve got it,” she said to herself. “Now, she had—”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Therese jumped and glanced over her shoulder. When she saw who it was, she nearly dropped her order pad.
“Oh, Chef.” She inclined her head. Then bowed fully. “I’m sorry, Chef.”
She had no idea what the hell she was apologizing for. But she had been late, and she needed this job, and even though the head of the house managed the waitstaff—when a storm wasn’t sending him home at the start of the shift—this was the big boss, the male in charge. iAm, blooded brother of Trez.
The male smiled a little, but the expression didn’t last more than a heartbeat on his handsome dark face. She had the feeling that he didn’t like her, but he was never mean, and she wasn’t even sure it was personal. He was a silent presence in the kitchen, unlike the stereotypical master-chef types who thundered around, red-faced and yelling—and somehow, the quiet was more powerful, more intimidating.
“They’re comp’d,” he said as he nodded out to the dining room, to the couple Therese had been waiting on for the two hours it took the hellren to be part of the clean plate(s) club.
With a quick surge of composure, she hid her disappointment, that tip she had been looking forward to going poof. “Of course. Certainly, Chef.”
“You can leave after they’re done.”
“Oh. Okay. Thank you, Chef.”
iAm paused, and she braced herself for a command not to come in the next night or any night thereafter. Because she had been late two times. And because… whatever else she’d done wrong on any shift she had ever been on in any position she had ever held, going back to the moment of her birth.
Not that she was catastrophizing. At all.
“Listen,” he said. “About my brother.”
Therese was aware of her heart stopping and her breath stalling in her throat. “Yes?”
“He’s…”
“He’s what?”
For some reason, she wanted to know whatever was next with a single-minded focus that bordered on addiction.
Except iAm shook his head. “Never mind. You just finish up here and head home.”
Before she could stop herself, she reached out and touched his arm. “You can tell me. Whatever it is.”
“It’s not my story, and that’s only part of the problem.”
iAm turned and went back toward the kitchen. And as she watched him go, she wanted to chase after him and make him talk to her. But that wasn’t her place, and not because she was only a waitress. You didn’t get between siblings. She used to live that firsthand with her own brother.
To keep from sliding down that slope of regret and recrimination, she canceled the transaction out of the register, tucked her order folder into her half apron, and headed over to the only occupied table. She wasn’t sure where Emile was. The couple he had been waiting on were long gone, which was what happened when you just ate an app, an entrée, and a dessert. As opposed to four apps, seventeen entrées and the entire dessert menu.
As she came up to the table, the blond male and the human-ish female looked up at her with expectation.
“Chef is pleased to comp your meal,” Therese said. “With his best regards.”
The male shook his head. “iAm doesn’t have to do that. Where is he?”
“I believe Chef is in the kitchen. Would you like me to get him for you?”
“Nah, it’s cool. He’s probably working.”
“Is there anything else I can get you both?”
“We are so full. Even him.” The female smiled, and tilted her head. “Tell me, where are you from?”
“Michigan.”
“So you’re used to the long, cold winters,” the male said.
“I am.”
“And what brought you to Caldwell?” the shellan asked.
Therese shrugged through the lancing pain that went through her chest. “I just felt like a relocation.”
“Caldwell is a wonderful place to live.” The female smiled. “Do you know anyone here?”
“Not really. But it’s okay. I’m just getting settled.”
“Well, remember to be kind to yourself. Transitions are hard even when they’re exciting.”
It was as she stared down into the female’s eyes that she understood the male’s attraction. She totally got it. There was something incredibly wise and kind about the shellan, a depth of knowledge and understanding that transcended the physical and made her resplendent.
“I do what I can,” Therese heard herself mumble. “Anyway, be careful out in that storm even if you aren’t driving.”
“Thank you. You, too.”
The male indicated the table with his broad palm. “And thank you for working so hard for us.”
“My pleasure. Take care.”
Therese left the pair feeling defeated. Her hourly wages were low, as was to be expected. Tips were where the money was at. But her suddenly sad mood was about more than the lack of tip. The idea of going back to that rooming house made her want to cry, although that was her own fault, wasn’t it. She’d had another option. Just waiting for her.
Except she’d turned that down. Out of pride. And out of the fact that anything that had to do with Trez was complicated even if it looked simple.
Her attraction was the problem.
Taking cover behind the water station, she figured she’d wait for the couple to leave, clear their coffee cups and water glasses, and then drag herself back to the hellhole. Yay. Excitement.
She passed a little time getting out some pitchers from the cabinets under the water dispenser, mopping around the countertop, wiping down the cash register surface. The quiet of the restaurant seemed to surround her, follow her, stick close by, a stalker that kept to the shadows. And with her instincts firing for absolutely no reason, her eyes made rounds of the empty bar behind her, the empty hostess stand, the other, completely empty dining room.
Restless. So restless and anxious for no justification she could think of.
Did she want to go back to the rooming house? No. Did she wish she could be n
ormal around that Shadow? Yes. Did she wonder what Trez’s brother had been going to say? Absolutely.
But none of that explained her nagging sense of worry—
“Chef said I could go now.”
Therese tried to hide her jump of surprise. “Oh, Emile. Yes, me, too. Well, as soon as they leave.”
She leaned out from the water station. The couple was still there. The male had reached across the table and taken his shellan’s hand. He was staring into her eyes, his face rapt, a soft smile on his perfect lips.
“They’re really in love,” Emile said.
“They are.” Therese rubbed a sore spot in the center of her chest, over her heart. “It’s nice to see.”
Actually, it wasn’t. The two of them reminded her of her parents, and that was not anything she wanted to think about. But her brain refused to be sidetracked, memories of her mahmen and father holding hands, sitting close, speaking quietly, weaving into her mind and taking over. They had been so present for their children, so involved, but there had always been the sense that they had a special, private relationship—and that that connection was the true basis of the family.
Therese had felt so secure in the compass points that the four of them had formed: hellren, shellan, son, and daughter.
And then all of that had changed.
The bonds that she had assumed were concrete had turned out to be no more substantial than confetti. At least for her. The other three were fine, but then none of their identities had been deliberately hidden from them; none of their foundations had cracks in them.
Trust was the basis for love. Without it, you had nothing but an illusion—a pleasant illusion, it was true, an illusion that felt nice and steady. But when you thought that the lie was the real thing? Finding out the two-dimensional nature of your existence was shattering.
“—Therese?”
Shaking herself back into focus, she looked at Emile. “I’m sorry? What?”
“May I give you a ride home?”
Therese pictured Liza stamping around and demanding everything which Emile refused to provide. “Oh, that’s not necessary. Thank you, though.”
“So you have a ride?” Emile hesitated. “Not that I’m trying to pry.”
“I’m just going to dema—” She stopped herself. Nope, not talking about ghosting out. Had she forgotten the guy was a human? “Yes, I’m going to get a ride.”
“Okay, sure.” He nodded and then looked at her with expectation. “Of course.”
“It’s just my brother.” The lie hurt. Because picking her up on a snowy night was exactly the kind of thing Gareth would do. “He’s like that.”
She rubbed the center of her chest again. As loneliness came over her like a shroud, she took a deep breath. She had always been an independent sort, finding her own way with school, work, life, but the thing was, she had not appreciated how much her family had mattered to her, how much of a grounding it had been, what kind of a harbor those other three had offered her.
“Actually,” she heard herself say, “I would like a ride.”
Emile beamed. “Well. Fantastic.”
As she realized she had made, yet again, a snap decision she should have thought through more, she swallowed a curse. “Except, wait, I didn’t even ask where you lived. I’m downtown. Maybe that is really out of your—”
“No, it’s perfect. It’s just perfect.”
The image of him driving her home past Liza’s wherever, and the other waitress running out into the street and flagging them down so she could throw a chair through the windshield, was not a welcome thought. And then there was the hope in Emile’s eyes. He was trying to be cool, but the answer he’d gotten had thrilled him. Meanwhile, he was only a Band-Aid for her sadness, for all the things she was missing… and so much less complicating than the Shadow who commanded all of her senses whenever he was in a hundred-foot radius of her.
Checking on her couple again, she was infinitely relieved that they had left. “I’m just going to bus my table—”
“Here, let me help—”
“No.” She smiled to take the sting out of her voice. “I’m going to do it quickly, and then I’ll meet you in the locker room?”
“Sure. I’ll put our tickets in.”
“Thank you.”
She snagged one of the trays and its pop-up stand and strode across to the table. As she passed by all the empty place settings, the glasses turned rim down to the tablecloths, the napkins covering the chargers, the silverware so precisely arranged, her feeling of sadness became so overwhelming that her eyes teared up.
It had to be the storm. Something in the shift of the barometer reading, the atmospheric pressure, the wind, affecting her mood, dragging her down. Yup. That was what was happening.
Flipping the stand out, she put the tray on top and started to clear the—
With a frown, she leaned down to the plate the tiramisu had been on. It was tilted to one side, like a napkin had been put under it.
Except what she found beneath the thing was not damask.
“Oh… my God,” she breathed.
No, it was not a napkin. It was a wad of cash, folded in half. Picking the bundle up, she fanned out the hundred-dollar bills. Ten of them.
Her head whipped up, and she looked around. Then she jogged across the empty dining room to the front entrance. Pulling things open, she went down the stairs of the ante-hall and through the outer door. The fury of the storm tore at her body with ice-cold claws, and she had to catch her balance by throwing out a hand to one of the awning’s supports.
There was no hope of finding them. The couple was long gone.
Returning to the warmth and the quiet of the restaurant, she looked down at the cash in her hand. If you added up how much the couple had eaten, a thousand dollars was probably pretty close to what the bill had been, if you included tax and a tip of about 25 or 30 percent.
The couple had been comp’d and they had given her what they would have spent anyway.
A Christmas miracle from perfect strangers.
With this cash? She could make the security deposit on her own.
This was a gift the likes of which that couple couldn’t possibly comprehend, and tears of gratitude entered her eyes, threatening to spill over.
It was a while before she could backtrack and reenter the restaurant.
* * *
Emile’s car had four-wheel drive. It was also pretty close to the beater category, but the Subaru Outback seemed to back up its maker’s assertions that an odometer with a hundred thousand miles on it was not only dog-approved, it was no big deal.
Therese passed the time looking out her window and staring at the businesses they were passing. It had been a while since she’d been in any kind of vehicle, and she had forgotten how much she enjoyed just sitting back and watching whatever was at the side of the road. Gareth had liked to go for drives, and she had been her brother’s regular companion.
Although… the last time she had been in a car had been with Trez. His BMW. After he had briefly lost consciousness and had to be taken to get checked out.
On mutual agreement, they had abandoned that mission, and she had never asked him whether he was okay. She had just assumed so—
And he had kissed her, then.
“Are you warm enough?”
Startled by the voice next to her, she glanced at Emile. “Oh, yes, thank you.”
“Here are the controls.” He pointed to the… well, controls. “In case you want to change anything.”
“Thank you.”
Determined to stop thinking about that Shadow, she tried to find something to say. Funny how when you changed the environment, you changed the vibe. She had never had a hard time talking to Emile when they were at work. Now, outside of the restaurant and alone with him, things were awkward.
“The snow is stopping,” she said as she leaned in to the windshield. “It’s about time.”
“Yes, it is.”
Great,
they were covering the weather. Next up—sports? Yeah, that was the last thing she wanted to talk about. During NCAA basketball season, she and Gareth had always been glued to the TV, watching the Spartans play. Never doubt the Izzo, they had always said.
She hadn’t turned even one game on since she’d left.
“So,” Emile said, “what kind of music do you—”
The sound of his cell phone ringing spared her from making that kind of small talk. Although as he reached into his coat and took out his phone, she figured she might as well get an answer ready.
“Liza—” He stopped as he got cut off. “Wait, I can’t hear you over the noise. What?”
Therese looked over. The sound of the woman’s voice was squawking out of the phone, all kinds of syllables racing into one another, to the point that even Therese’s vampire hearing couldn’t decipher the rush.
“Okay, okay…” Emile held up his hand as if the woman could see him. “Slow down. I’m not—no, I just left work. I’m giving—” He hesitated and looked at Therese.
Yeah, there was only one response to that. She shook her head.
“I’m giving Therese a ride home,” he muttered.
Three, two… one. Boom!
Both the volume and speed of the words tripled and Therese put her head in her hands. Meanwhile, Emile was battling against a much stronger current than he could ever keep from drowning in.
“But that was in the middle of my shift, Liza. You decided to leave on your own, and I need the…”
When there was finally a pause on the other end, Emile jumped in with, “I don’t think this is a productive conversation. You’re drunk, and I’m hanging up—” He fell silent again, but now he frowned and straightened in the seat. “I’m sorry… what did you just say? Who was this? He did what?”
Therese frowned, and tried to hear what was being said. She was pretty sure the woman was weeping, but it seemed like the drunken kind of crying job, more alcohol than honest emotion.
“I’m coming right now,” Emile said as he hit the gas harder. “Stay where you are. No, I’m going to go. No, I want to have both hands on the wheel. The roads are slick. I want to be safe.”