by Stacey Jay
“You’re a distant cousin, my parents think you’re trash, and I’ve never met you in my life,” I say. “You’ve got a shady past that I’m guessing involves some jail time and I’ll be advising my friends not to walk alone with you after dark, or loan you money, or be that nice to you if they can help it.”
Tucker laughs. “Sounds perfect.” I roll my eyes and push off down the street. “Stay out of trouble, Red.”
“Suck it, Bubba,” I call over my shoulder. Tucker’s still laughing when I reach the end of the block and start past the junkyard.
I smile. Just a little. He’s a mess, but I have a soft spot for messes.
I have to. My self-image depends upon it.
The good news is that by the time I make it to the town square, the clock above the courthouse only reads five after nine. The bad news is that the street in front of Swallows has been torn to hell and is crawling with construction equipment. There’s no way I’m getting through it on my bike.
“Shit,” I curse and start around the block to the back entrance. I knew the city was breaking ground on the community center this week, but I didn’t think they’d be working on Saturday.
Father Reginald, our parish priest, finally convinced the city council that the citizens of Donaldsonville need something to do with their spare time if we hope to keep people off Breeze and lower the teen pregnancy rate—which is getting downright ridiculous. Not that I can’t understand that there’s nothing to do that’s as much fun as doing it, but we have a teen health center one block off the square and the social workers at Sweet Haven orphanage are proactive about advocating safety first.
So there’s really no excuse for the number of baby girls with baby bumps that I see around town. Of course, it could be that I’m simply noticing the bumps more than I did before. Ever since Cane suggested we start thinking about marriage and babies, pregnant women seem to be popping up everywhere.
Like evil, blood-thirsty clowns in a fun house. Or something scarier.
I really don’t get it. Why does Cane think I’d be a good mom? What have I ever done to lead him to believe such a ridiculous thing? I can barely keep my new sod from turning brown and my cat is probably going to get his bowels impacted and die if I don’t stop leaving my laundry on the floor.
Ugh. Cane. I can’t stop thinking about him. It doesn’t help that the building being gutted down the street from Swallows used to be his sister’s, Amity’s, bar.
Coop’s closed down a month ago when Amity was shipped off to the containment camp at Keesler. She was bitten by a fairy while out in the bayou scoring Breeze. She isn’t severely allergic, so she’ll live at least a few more years, but she’ll live them in what amounts to a posh concentration camp. She’ll have no autonomy, no privacy, very little contact with her family, and armed guards watching her every move to make sure they’re ready with the kill shot when the fairy venom finally destroys the part of her brain that keeps her from attacking people like a flesh-hungry zombie.
I feel so bad for Cane, his brother, Abe, and their mom. I’m not looking forward to my first Sunday lunch at the Cooper house without their sister in attendance. Amity hated my guts, but she’s vital to the Cooper family dynamic. Without her, things are going to be even more awkward. I know Cane’s mom thinks he can do better than a girl like me. I’m sure he could, too.
But for some reason I’m the one he wants. Sigh.
I skid to a stop halfway down Hammer Street, and hurry to lock up my bike at the rack. I’ll have to go down the alley behind Swallows to get to the restaurant, a fact Theresa’s been bitching about since the vote came through to widen the road and put in a roller rink in the basement of what used to be Coop’s. She swears food sales are going to drop if people have to walk past the Dumpster before coming inside. I recommended running more drink specials—especially on pitchers of Blue Moon, my new favorite, and Saturday morning Bloody Marys. Ah, Bloody Marys . . .
Too bad there will be no Bloody in my morning today.
Hitch is a big disapprover of my drinking, to the point that he likes to call my perfectly respectable habit an “addiction” and stage interventions on public sidewalks. Under normal circumstances, this would only make me inclined to order a pitcher with extra vodka and give him the proverbial finger with every sip, but today is not a normal day.
Today we’re going to talk about a dead man and the fact that whoever killed him will be after Hitch next if he learns Hitch is poking his nose where some crooked member of the FBI would prefer he didn’t. Hitch’s dead friend was part of the task force that shut down the Breeze houses surrounding Donaldsonville. While he was hunting fugitive addicts out in the bayou, he stumbled across a cave—which is plain weird considering our part of Louisiana isn’t cave-prone.
Even weirder, he spotted U.S. military–looking types going into the cave with captives and coming out alone. He took pictures and did some digging beyond his clearance level and found out that two of the military types used to work for the FBI in the development of chemical weapons. But they’re not working for the FBI anymore, and whoever they are working for is willing to kill to keep the cave a secret.
Hitch’s friend must have known he was in danger or he wouldn’t have sent Hitch copies of all the evidence he’d gathered, but still . . .
Did he suspect he was going to be murdered? Only a couple of days later? Logically, I know agreeing to help Hitch is dangerous, but I don’t think I’m going to die. But perhaps I should pause and consider that very real possibility.
I stop next to the Dumpster Theresa’s so worried about.
She’s right. It stinks. Rotten vegetables, old grease, and sour beer drift to my nose, and I suddenly have no interest in spicy sausage and fresh biscuits. Maybe I have no interest in being here at all.
Why am I doing this? When Hitch has made it perfectly clear he wouldn’t fault me for saying no? Justice is great and all, but I don’t have to dig that deep to know a hunger for righteousness has little to do with my presence here this morning. I’m here because of what Hitch said last night, that parting shot, that whisper that he “thinks about me all the time.”
What does that even mean? Is it good thinking or bad thinking or just general bland blah thinking that means nothing at—
“Slut! Wait up!” The shout comes from the end of the alley. I turn before I think better of it. “Ha! Made you look.” Fernando claps his hands and throws back his head as he laughs, showcasing shiny white teeth. Half of them are caps, but you wouldn’t know it from looking.
Just like you wouldn’t know his nose is courtesy of the best plastic surgeon in New Orleans or that this lean, mean, Latin lover with the beefy arms and the six-pack of steel used to be the skinniest kid at Sweet Haven. There was a time—not too terribly long ago—when I could have kicked his ass. Instead, I helped him hide from the boys who enjoyed beating him up, punishing him for being the only kid in a small-town orphanage brave enough to come out of the closet.
I was sixteen, he was eighteen, and we drank a lot of vodka in a lot of dark, cramped spaces. By the end of my first year, we knew each other better than we knew ourselves. It was damned hard to leave Fern when I went to college. He’s been my best, best friend forever.
“Don’t you own a bra?” He stops beside me, surveying my chest with a delicate scrunch of his nose. “The girls aren’t going to stay perky without elastic assistance, Lee. I’m already detecting significant sagging.”
He’s also constantly picking on me. Even more so lately than usual, which is bullshit. He’s the one who was dealing Breeze to his bed-and-breakfast customers and keeping it from his best friend. He’s also the one who would have spent quality time in prison if it weren’t for my mad sleuth skills. If anyone should be feeling betrayed and cranky, it’s me.
I have low standards and a high tolerance for other people’s bad habits, but even I can’t stomach peddling Breeze. It kills people, plain and simple. There’s no using Breeze in moderation. People start an
d they don’t stop until they’re out of their minds and too messed up to figure out how to get the money to buy more. It’s wrong to do that to another living thing. I thought Fern knew the way I felt about Breeze. What’s more, I thought he felt the same way.
Now . . . I’m not sure Fern is the gossip with a heart of gold that I’ve always believed him to be. Maybe his heart is more gold-grubbing than golden, and maybe he’s only been my best friend for so long because no one else will put up with his crap.
“Some of us would like to walk the streets without rogue mammary glands bouncing all over the place,” he adds with a disapproving click of his tongue.
“My mammary glands are not rogue,” I say. “They’re attached to my torso and they’re just fine.”
“No. Not fine. Especially with a scoop neck.”
“I don’t hear anyone else complaining.”
“You need to start wearing a bra. For reals.” He crosses his arms and lifts his freshly plucked eyebrows. “I say this out of love for you, Slut. Because I care about your continued ability to live up to your nickname.”
“That’s not my nickname,” I say. “And for your information, I was going to wear a bra, but Gimpy ate my last clean one.” I tug it out of my purse, showing him the shredded cup, but don’t join in his laughter. “So are we okay? Can my tits and I continue to exist in your general vicinity?”
“Wow.” He takes a wounded step back. “Somebody woke up on the crabby side of the bed.”
“I’m not crabby. I just need you to be a little . . . nicer to me.” And quit making me wonder if you’re one of the bad guys. I don’t want to think of Fern that way. I need him to be my smart-ass best friend who’s always got my back. I need something to stay the same while everything else I’ve counted on morphs at warp speed.
“Since when have I ever been nice?”
“You know what I mean.” I try to smile, but can’t. “Surely, not everything I do is cause for criticism.”
“Of course not. Only about ninety percent.” He softens the words with an arm around my shoulder. “But that’s why you have me. To keep you on track. And today, that means no Happy Saturday Bloody Mary.”
“I wasn’t planning on having one.”
“Oh, you can have one. Or two or three.” He turns back toward the entrance to the alley, pulling me along beside him. “You just can’t have them here.”
“Why?”
“Guess who is inside Swallows lurking in wait even as we speak?”
“Who?” I ask, though I have a feeling I know.
“Dr. Herbert Mitchell Asswipe Jerkface McSmuggy Rideau.”
I smile. I can’t help it. Lingering feelings for Hitch aside, there are times when Fern’s descriptions fit him to a T. “I know. He stopped by the house last night.” I don’t mention that it was while Fern was inside pouring more mojitos. If he knows I kept juicy news like this from him, he’ll kill me. “He asked me to meet him to talk about some FCC stuff,” I add, experiencing only a slight twinge of guilt as the lie slips out. I can’t tell Fern the real reason that I’m here.
Even if he were capable of keeping his mouth shut, I wouldn’t risk it. I don’t want to put him in danger, or endure the inevitable lecture about offering aid to the enemy. No matter what I decide, as far as Fern’s concerned, Hitch will always be the enemy. It took him a while to put two and two together, but he’s realized that Hitch is the reason I ended up back in Donalsonville a crankier, sadder, more jaded person than I was before. He’ll never forgive Hitch for that. Fernando is like a big brother that way. He picks on me relentlessly, but he’d die before he let anyone else hurt me.
Aaaannd now I feel awful for thinking shitty things about him.
I slip an arm around his waist. “But thanks for the warning. It would usually be muchly appreciated.”
“Fairy Containment and Control crap, huh?” He gives me a one-armed hug. “Aren’t you supposed to be suspended until next week?”
“Yeah. He’s just following up on the Breeze house stuff,” I bluff, resisting the temptation to elaborate. Vague is best. I’ll be less likely to contradict myself later.
“I think you should tell him to screw off and come back next week.”
“I could. But then I’d have to see him again.”
“Right.” He shudders. “Better to get it over with. Like a shot.”
I stiffen and pull away. I don’t want to think about shots or magic or how many things I’m keeping from my best friend. “I should get to it. We still on for supper?”
“Absolutely, but let’s do it at your house. I can bring everything over and cook on your sorry excuse for a stove.”
“But I thought you were going to ask some of the boys to eat with us.” I was looking forward to a tableful of whatever flamboyant guests happened to be staying at The First and Last Chance Flophouse. Nothing to keep your mind off your troubles like heated debates on fashion, politics, musical theater, and the latest gay porn.
“I was, but considering Hitch is one of my ‘boys’ for the next four days and three nights, I didn’t think—”
“He’s staying at your place?”
“Tell me about it.” He runs a dramatic hand through his hair. “I can’t remember the last time someone that straight slept under my roof. It’s bringing the fabulous levels in the house waaaay down. He left at five o’clock this morning to go jogging. Then he came back to shower and didn’t even bother putting any product in that springy clown hair of his. Just walked out frizzy as hell in saggy jeans and a grungy T-shirt. It was like the nineties came back to haunt me, and they were even uglier than I remembered.”
“I like the curls.” I also like those jeans and grungy T-shirts. They remind me of when Hitch and I would roam the French Quarter on Sunday mornings, hunting down coffee and beignets before going back to his place and gorging on pastry and each other.
Fern raises an eyebrow. “Uh-un. No, you don’t. No smiling, or fond remembering or whatever you’re doing right now. You don’t like anything about him. You don’t notice the way he looks like sex on a stick. He’s bad for you.”
“I know.”
“And practically married.”
“I know.”
“And going to be a daddy before Valentine’s Day.”
“I know!” I hold my hands in the air and try to look innocent. “I have to go, okay? I’m going to be late.”
“You’re already late.”
Hitch’s drawl. From right behind me.
Balls.
Fifteen minutes late,” he adds.
I spin with a smile, praying Hitch didn’t hear that he was the subject of discussion. The only thing worse than Fernando thinking I still have a thing for Hitch is Hitch thinking I still have a thing for Hitch. I shrug. “That’s practically on time.”
“If you’re you.” He steps into the alley, breathtaking in jeans so broken in I can feel how soft they are just looking at them and a threadbare blue T-shirt that shows the skin beneath in the really thin patches. His sun-streaked brown hair fuzzes in curls around his head and his face is shadowed with patchy whiskers. Like an adorable dog with a mild case of the mange.
Yum. I have no idea what Fern’s talking about. The nineties were a good decade. At least they look good on Hitch.
“But I’m not you,” he says, in his new, more-adult-than-thou-wilt-ever-be voice, the one that makes me remember why I was working up a healthy resentment of him a month back.
“Sorry for the wait,” I say. “I forgot about the construction and then Fern had some important things to tell me about food. I figured our FCC conversation could wait a few minutes while we decided on fish or steak for dinner.”
Hitch’s expression loses its irritated edge. I silently congratulate myself on passing the lateness buck onto Fern and the need to pretend Hitch and I aren’t up to anything of interest. “Of course.” He lifts a hand in Fern’s direction and smiles. “I’d go with steak. Nothing like a hunk of meat on the grill at the end of
a long day.”
“And Annabelle does like her a hunk of meat.”
I shoot Fern a dirty look, but he’s already backing away. “See you at seven,” he says. “Buy something red for supper. Cabernet or Syrah. No Merlot.”
“Merlot can be good.”
“So can cat shit,” he says. “If it’s buried in the dirt where I don’t have to smell it.” He waves and turns to walk away, a swagger in his step that wasn’t there before.
Fernando can’t resist putting on a show, even when he knows the audience isn’t interested. Hitch is as straight as a stick, and—if Fern’s stories are to be believed—not only in his sexual tastes. The old Hitch considered skinny dipping in the lake behind his house the only respectable form of exercise. Well, that, and other clothing-optional activities that work up a sweat . . .
Activities that I refuse think about.
I clear my throat. “Heard you were up at five to go jogging. Intense.”
The smile he put on for Fern slips. “I couldn’t sleep, and I had some other business to take care of. Thought I might as well do something productive. This whole thing is just . . .”
His eyes scrunch with worry and for the first time I notice the tiny wrinkles around his baby blues. He looks older, tired . . . scared. The only time I’ve seen Hitch scared was when he was seconds away from being torn apart by a swarm of fairies. He’s not immune. Even one bite would have killed him. Maybe instantly, the way fairy bites killed most of his highly allergic family during the initial emergence.
And now he’s scared again. It brings home the danger we’re facing in a meaningful way, but I’m still not as frightened as I should be. But then I don’t have a great job, a beautiful fiancée, or a baby on the way. I have less to lose, and magic on my side.
On our side.
That’s part of the reason I agreed to help Hitch. I know I have something to offer aside from the dumb luck of being immune to fairy bite. Too bad I can’t tell him anything about that. Tucker made it clear the FBI is at the top of the list of people who do not need to know about the Invisibles or the things I’m learning to do with my newfound magic. Not that Hitch would believe me, anyway. The old Hitch, who came from bayou people and grew up on folktales about fairy lights at midsummer and enchanted alligator men, might have at least considered it, but this new Hitch is all facts and logic.