by Alyssa Day
Stupid tiger shifters and their stupid sexy voices.
I told my lady parts to calm the heck down, locked the door behind us, and we went to Beau's.
"I'm driving," I told him, heading over to my beautiful new Mustang. "No arguments."
He grinned and held up his hands. "None here."
"Good."
On the way to Beau's, Dead End's only sit-in restaurant, Jack texted Eleanor for an update.
"He's doing fine, but his energy bottomed out, and he's sleeping now," Jack reported.
I rolled my eyes. "Are you going to get tired of butt jokes any time soon?"
"I doubt it, but I'll let you know." He leaned over to turn on the radio, glanced at me, and hastily let his hand drop.
"You're not funny," I told him.
"I'm a little bit funny."
"Did Dave tell you anything else? What the guy wanted? More about what happened?"
"No." Jack's jaw tightened. "He wouldn’t tell me much. I got the feeling he was trying to protect me from going after the people who hurt him. And I didn't see anything at Dave's office. No note labeled CLUE or anything."
"Dave wanted to protect you."
Jack growled, deep in his throat. "He's pure human, and he has a kid. It's my job to protect him."
Okaaaay. Time to change the subject.
"Are you going to tell me about Cleveland on our … date?" Which was only two days away. Argh. I hadn't thought about it being Thursday when I'd said Saturday.
"I can't. Sacred clown trust, remember?"
"You're so annoying, you do realize that, right?" I slowed to a stop at the crosswalk in front of the bank to let Sally DeSario push her wagon of toddlers to the park. The wagon was painted bright red, with DEAD END DAYCARE written on the side in block letters.
Sally wasn't much taller than the wagon; maybe four feet tall at the most. Her chestnut brown skin gleamed in the sun, and her long, brown braid was tied with bright red ribbons. She smiled at something one of the children said, waved to me, and headed on toward the park in the center of town.
"There were eight children in that wagon," Jack said slowly. "And only one person to supervise them?"
"She's a Brownie." I put on my turn signal to turn into the parking space.
"What does her name matter?"
I glanced at him, but he wasn't kidding. "Oh. You don't know. I forget sometimes how long you've been gone. Sally's name isn't Brownie, it's DeSario. She is a Brownie. She could handle twice that number of kids at the park. They listen to everything she says, because they all adore her."
Jack's eyes narrowed. "Brownies are terrific for cleaning houses and doing the mending, but watching kids?"
"I don’t know about all Brownies, but she certainly is. We don't stereotype based on species here, Jack. This is Dead End. You should know that by now. We knew supernatural beings existed since long before they came out to the general public back in 2006."
"What happens when her natural inclination to cause mischief takes over?"
"Mischief?" I grinned at him. "Did you really just say mischief?"
"It's in the Basic Handbook of Creatures Formerly Known as Mythical we gave all incoming rebel soldiers," he muttered. "Chapter 37."
Of course he knew the chapter number.
"And what did the basic handbook say about tiger shifters?"
Jack's smile suddenly had much sharper teeth. "One word: Beware."
I started laughing, and we got out of the car. "Should have been two words: Giant Ego."
When we were out of the car, though, my momentary good mood fled. I turned and faced Jack over the hood.
"My father said he'd be at Uncle Mike's. Am I being a coward? Should I go see what he wants now and get it over with?"
Jack walked around the car and took my hand. "Why would you possibly rush to see him, after he's made you wait all this time? To hell with him. Let's have a nice lunch and figure out our next steps."
Just then, the Peterson brothers walked out of Beau's, on their way back to Dead End Hardware, no doubt, and the scent of fried onions wafted out, convincing my empty stomach that this was the best plan.
"Deal."
"Hello, young man," one of the Misters Peterson (I could never tell them apart; they both had gray hair, gray beards, and a wardrobe that consisted of overalls, overalls, overalls, and flannel shirts) said to Jack. "How is that floor refinishing coming along?"
"Not bad, sir," Jack said, nodding. "That sander you rented me works like a charm. I'm glad I didn't buy the cheaper version."
"Quality always tells," the other brother proclaimed, grasping the straps of his overalls and rocking back on the heels of his scuffed work boots.
"Quality does, quality does," his brother echoed. Their attention turned to me. "You've done a good job carrying on after we lost Jeremiah, young lady. You ever need any business advice, you come to us, you hear? We've been running a store since Christ was a corporal, and we'd be glad to help out."
Suddenly, my throat was tight. My own father may abandoned me, but my Dead End neighbors were always ready to lend a hand. I loved my town. Taken by an impulse I didn't stop to analyze, I leaned in and kissed both brothers on their cheeks.
"That's very kind of you. I will definitely take you up on that. Thank you."
Their faces turned red clear to the tips of their ears, and they made some fierce, throat-clearing sounds, before mumbling goodbyes and escaping.
Jack watched them walk off and then turned to me. "Tess, I swear you could charm the birds out of the trees."
"What would I do with a bunch of birds? Smelly things, bird poo all over the place. Come on, let's eat. I'm starved."
Beau's Diner was the social center of Dead End, and hostess/waitress/bouncer Lorraine was the social center of Beau's. She was in her seventies and maybe five feet tall in her orthopedic shoes, but it was five feet of pure command. She spotted us in the doorway and headed straight toward us.
"It's about time you two came to visit me. I haven't seen you in forever."
"We were here three days ago," I said dryly.
Jack hugged her. "But I've missed you like it was forever ago, ma'am."
She swatted his arm with the order pad she never used and grinned up at him.
Way, way up, considering the top of her head hit him mid-chest.
"Come on, I'll put you by the window. And be prepared, I'm going to tap both of you to help with hurricane prep later this month."
"We'd be glad to," I told her. Hurricane season in Florida was no joke. It was always all hands on deck, so to speak, in Dead End.
Jack nodded but then glanced around, and his smile vanished. "Sure. And actually, we'd like to be seated over there, next to the mayor."
Lorraine studied Jack's face, shrugged, and then led us over to an empty table against the wall, right next to the mayor's table.
I grabbed Jack's arm and spoke too quietly to be heard over the sounds of forks hitting plates and cheerful lunchtime conversations. "Since when are you interested in politics?"
He leaned down to murmur in my ear. "Since our illustrious Mayor Ratbottom began entertaining the Irish mob."
"I'm surprised you'd let me anywhere near them," I blurted out without thinking.
He sighed. "I've given up. You have the astonishing ability to land yourself in the middle of trouble—or a herd of alligators—unless I keep an eye on you at all times."
"Hey!" I poked him in the arm. "Those alligators were your fault. You and your swamp commandos. And if that video ever shows up on YouTube, you're a dead man."
"I humbly apologize. And I promise you, the video was deleted. Just after I watched it seven or thirty times."
To his credit, he didn't start laughing right there and then, but I could tell he wanted to, so forget about the credit. He was in demerit territory.
We sat down and ordered. Lemonade with extra ice for Jack, plus seven of the chicken-fried steak specials, with extra pie. Coffee and meatloaf for me
, with double mashed potatoes instead of the peas.
"I know, you hate cooked peas," Lorraine said, not writing anything down, as usual. "You'll have a side of apple sauce to make up for the lack of vegetables. And pie?"
I took a deep breath and tried to measure how much my jeans' waistband cut into my stomach. "Maybe no pie this time. I'll have a bite of his."
"Hey!" Jack paused in stacking the sugar packets he'd dumped out of their ceramic box. "I barely ordered enough for me."
"You'll survive. Now, what's up?" I attempted a surreptitious side-eyed glance at the mayor and his three guests, and Jack kicked me under the table.
"Ouch! What?"
He leaned across the table. "Stop looking. Also, you really do look constipated. Did you take some of that medicine from the clown?"
I narrowed my eyes. "I was trying to be stealthy. And, hey, keep it up with the romantic talk about bowels. It's a great mood-setter for our date."
Lorraine dropped off our drinks, and when I turned to thank her, I realized that one of the guys at the mayor's table was staring at me. Caught off guard, I nodded at him, and he flinched and turned to the man at his right, elbowing him in the ribs.
Then they both stared at me.
This was weird.
"Jack," I hissed. "They're staring at me. What should I do?"
Jack's face hardened, all amusement draining away until he was one hundred percent lethal soldier. I hated that so many situations in Dead End had forced him into battle mode since he'd been back, but I'd been right there with him—and would continue to be—anytime he needed me.
Also, I'd been practicing shooting with the rifle Uncle Mike gave me. I wasn't a dead shot yet, by any means, but I now reliably hit what I aimed at more than 90% of the time from up to twenty-five yards away.
I'd had more than enough reasons, recently, to want to be a better shot.
Now, the Irish mob was in town.
Yes, I'd be doing more target shooting in my near future.
Jack turned in his chair until he was facing the mayor's table. "O'Sullivan. What's scum like you doing in my town?"
The oldest of the three, the one sitting directly across from the mayor and nearest to Jack, barked out a harsh laugh. He was a big man, probably six feet tall and very broad. His thinning reddish hair covered a sunburned scalp, and his wide nose had the look of years of sun, drink, and maybe a bar fight or three.
Noses were not supposed to turn to the left like that.
"Your town, boyo? Last I heard, Ratbottom here was the mayor of this shithole."
"Hey! Dead End is a great town," I said, glaring at him. "Why don't you go back to New York, if you don't like it here?"
O'Sullivan turned his reptilian gaze to me. "How do you know I'm from New York? Did you use your special power?"
"No, I listened to your accent." I rolled my eyes in a show of nonchalance, but inside I was not happy. How did he know who I was? My 'special power' had been in the news, but that had been a long time ago. I didn't like the idea that Mr. Mob Boss was singling me out.
"Now, gentlemen. Er, and lady," Mayor Ratbottom bluffed, holding his hands out in a conciliatory gesture. "Let's just eat our lunch and discuss—"
"Shut it, Ronald," O'Sullivan said, his eyes still on me. "We discuss what I want to discuss when I want to discuss it. Why don't you be a good boy and go back to your office?"
The mayor made a blustering noise or two but then scuttled off like the weasel he was. There had been rumors of election fraud when he'd run for mayor, and I was starting to believe them.
"Why are you in town?" Jack's voice was sharp enough to cut glass. "And what do you know about any special activities in town this morning?"
O'Sullivan waved a hand dismissively, but the two with him each moved a hand toward their suit jackets. Lorraine and a helper picked that moment to walk between our tables and drop off our mountain of food—tigers eat a lot—and then she turned around, whipped a pistol out of her apron pocket, and aimed it at O'Sullivan's head.
"I'd tell your friends that they want to think again about going for those guns," she drawled, part Steel Magnolia and part Wild West gunslinger. "If you look around, you'll see that we don't take kindly to strangers threatening our own in our town."
We all looked around. I could feel an enormous smile practically split my face in half when I saw that almost every person at every table in the place was aiming a weapon at the mob guys. Mrs. Frost even had her miniature crossbow out and drawn.
"I love this town," I called out. "You are all awesome."
The two thugs started sweating, very slowly and carefully moved their hands away from their pockets, and raised them into the air.
O'Sullivan never took his eyes off me. "No problem. We're done here, anyway. Have a nice lunch, now."
They stood. O'Sullivan tossed money on the table and then turned back to me. "I know about you."
I was done being threatened, even indirectly. "Yeah? Why don't you shake my hand, then?"
I held out my hand, and O'Sullivan showed a hint of fear that hadn't been on his face or in his eyes when every gun in the place was pointed at him.
"Not me." He pointed to one of his minions. "You. Shake the girl's hand."
The man's eyebrows drew together, but he shrugged, not looking the least bit nervous. So, he didn't know about me, then. He walked over and held out his hand, but I yanked mine back.
I had no desire to know how this man was going to die. Especially since, considering the company he kept, it would probably be violent.
"Do it," O'Sullivan suddenly spat out, and the man darted forward and grabbed my hand. A fraction of a second later, he was dangling in the air, held up by a large, claw-tipped hand around his neck, and I was fighting to stay upright. Some visions smashed into me with more force others.
But I would not show weakness in front of these people.
Jack's face was granite. "If you ever touch her again, you will die. If you even look at her, you will die. Do you understand me?"
The man made choking noises but must have managed to convey his agreement, because Jack released him, and he crumpled to the ground with a thud of his polished shoes, barely managing to stay upright.
Somehow, while this was happening, I managed to grit my teeth and keep from passing out from the vision, but it was touch-and-go for a few moments. Then I flashed my most brilliant smile up at O'Sullivan.
"Happy?
He scowled. "No. What did you see?"
The diner was silent. Everybody in town knew about me.
"You're going to live a long and happy life and die surrounded by family and friends," I told the thug who'd grabbed my hand.
Anybody who knew anything about me knew that I see absolutely zero about how people live their lives. I only see their deaths. I was betting these men hadn't researched me that closely, though. I was just the town oddity, after all.
I blew out a breath. Enough with the bitterness and self-pity.
The man I'd just given a fake prediction, though—who was still clutching his neck and making choking noises—whipped his head around to stare at his boss. "This is her? You made me shake her hand?"
"And you got good news. You should be happy. We're out of here," O'Sullivan snapped.
"We're going to have a conversation if I run into you again," Jack said. "Do you know who I am?"
The man he'd grabbed by the neck nodded frantically and backed away. O'Sullivan only smiled. "But do you live up to your reputation? I wonder," he said softly, poison underscoring every syllable.
"If you know what's good for you, you'll leave town now and never come back."
O'Sullivan simply shrugged, but then he turned and walked away, the non-choking member of his group following closely behind, but darting glances over his shoulder at Jack and me. The man who'd grabbed my hand was behind the other two, so when he turned to follow them out of the diner, I held up a hand to stop him. "Look. I don't … I lied. Just stay out of the mi
ddle of any roads, okay?"
His eyes widened until I could see the whites all the way around his pupils. "What? I can't drive?"
"No. Just don’t stand in any roads. Ever. Okay?"
He gulped, nodded, and then ran out the door.
Jack crouched down in the aisle in front of me and took my hands. "Are you all right?"
I took a long, deep, shaky breath. "Yeah. I don't know why I lied. I just didn't want that horrible O'Sullivan to get any satisfaction out of forcing me to have a vision like that."
"He's not going to die of old age, is he?" Jack squeezed my hands and stood, watching the mob guys through the window.
I shook my head, feeling acid rising up my throat. "No. No, he's going to get hit—"
"By the Dead End Dairy truck?"
"What? How—"
The squeal of brakes and a loud thud interrupted whatever I'd been about to ask, and I shoved back my chair to stand and look out the front window.
The dairy truck was stopped at a crazy angle in the middle of the street, and the man whose death I'd foreseen lay in a crumpled heap on the road ten feet away.
My knees went weak, and I caught myself with a hand on the table before I fell.
"Nope," I whispered. "Nope, nope, nope."
"Tess?" Jack's strong arm was around me, supporting me.
"I would very much like to go home now," I said, knowing he'd hear me even over the din of everybody in the diner who'd seen the accident. "I've had enough of today."
When we left the diner, everyone who wasn't staring at the accident scene stared at me.
Like I'd had something to do with it.
"I only see them, I don't cause them," I said loudly into the sudden silence, my voice shaky. "You know that, right?"
"Of course we know that," Lorraine said, glaring around the room. Most people found something else to look at, fast.
She patted my arm, which was fine, because I'd first touched Lorraine's hand long ago and discovered she was one of the people, thankfully, whose death I did not see. "I'll pack up your lunches and send them along," she told us. "Your house, Tess?"
Jack looked at me for the decision.
"Yes. I'm just done for the day. If—when—Susan wants to hear about our conversation with those men, have her call me or come over."