The City Series (Book 1): Mordacious (55 page)

“I don’t believe kids hate you,” he says.

“Believe it.”

“Leo likes you, and he doesn’t like everyone.”

“There’s no accounting for taste.”

“Leo likes
me
,” he says.

“Which only goes to prove my point,” I say. He dips his hand in the tub of water and flicks it at me. I duck. “You walked right into that one.”

“I did. It feels good to be clean. I haven’t felt this clean in a dog’s age.” He leans back in his chair with his eyes closed. “This was a long day.”

“It was a crazy day.” I take the moment where he can’t see me to admire the way the last of the light accentuates his cheekbones.

His eyes pop open. “Yeah, it was pretty crazy, and you…”

My face is warm, and not only because he caught me watching. “You can say it—
I
was crazy. But I don’t like to be tricked, and I don’t like people stealing from me. Or from anyone, for that matter.”

He waits for me to say more. I’m aware it’s a therapist tactic, but my mouth opens itself nonetheless. “My mother used to steal my money. She’d sell my CDs to music shops and try to pawn anything that was worth something. I finally put my money in the bank account my grandma opened when I was a baby, but I didn’t know she could get to it. One day it was all gone.”

“That must’ve sucked. I’m sorry.”

I shrug and finish stacking the plates, although the memory of another thing Missing, Presumed Sold still smarts. Of the day my hard-earned money was gone and my mother said she deserved it for putting up with me. That my father had been the smart one because he left first.

I try for indifference. “It’s not the worst sob story in the universe. My point is that I know what it’s like to be stolen from, and it sucks.” I don’t think I nailed the indifference, so I try to lighten the mood. “Anyway, I’m sorry I threatened to murder you in your sleep and stuff.”

“I thought I was a goner for a minute there,” he says, playing along, though his eyes are full of compassion.

“Well, you did make the decision to stay without asking me what I thought. And then you told me to be quiet.”

“You’re right, I should’ve asked. And I’m sorry I told you to be quiet, although I still would’ve thought it.”

“I’m sure you think it a hundred times a day.” He zips his lips and tosses the imaginary key, and I flick water at him. “I don’t like when people take advantage of me or use their power indiscriminately, and I can’t keep my mouth shut when they do. And then, to top it all off, you used our word. That was unscrupulous. There’s only so much a girl can take.”

“All’s fair in love and word games.”

“You’re going to be sorry you said that,” I warn. Eric gives an overdone shudder. He’s making this too easy; it hasn’t been much of an apology thus far. “I am sorry. And you were right—I’m glad we stayed.”

“You wanted to but you didn’t want to give in to them. You could teach a mule a thing or two about stubbornness.”

“Where do you get these sayings? Goner, a dog’s age, stubborn as a mule, all in the course of three minutes. I think you might be a sixty-year-old man in a twenty-six-year-old’s body.”

“My dad was fond of them,” he says.

“I don’t think your dad was the only one who was fond of them.”

Eric laughs. I dump the remaining soapy water down the backyard drain, wipe out the bin with a dishtowel and set the dishes in to bring to the kitchen. He comes around the table to stand beside me. “Thanks. For telling me about your mom.”

I nod and busy myself drying my hands, surprised that he gets it. For most people, sharing those details would mean nothing, but for someone who plays everything close to the vest, it feels as though I gave away a part of myself. Cold air whistles through the small hole it left in my armor; a way in for a dagger. But Grace says this is how you do it—you hand them the dagger and trust they won’t use it.

“I guess we should go in,” I say.

We bend for the washtub at the same moment. I’m not sure if the crack of our heads bashing together is audible to the rest of the world, but it’s deafening in my skull. I curse. Eric clasps his forehead. “I knew you were hardheaded, but
damn
.”

“That was so your fault!”

“My fault?” Eric asks. “How was that
my
fault?”

“I can’t remember because I have amnesia now.”

“Think you’re funny, do you? Okay, I’m going to pick up the dishes. Don’t move.” He bends cautiously, grabs the bin and jumps back. He’s still grinning at his own antics on our way to the back door.

“You also seem to think you’re quite the comedian,” I say.

“Maybe we should take our act on the road.”

“I hear Madison Square Garden is a packed house.”

Eric sets the washtub on the kitchen counter and turns to me with creased cheeks and crinkly eyes. I can’t tell if he’s amused or thinks I’m out of my mind but, even if he is laughing at me, it’s not mean-spirited. I don’t think he has a mean-spirited bone in his body. He makes it very hard not to like him. I’m growing alarmed at how much I like him.

“We thought maybe you got kidnapped again,” Grace calls.

We enter the living room. They’ve put up the blackout shades and lit a lantern. Going to bed early is depressing, so we’ve been splurging on an hour or so of light. Good light—not windup lantern light.

Jorge looks up from the dominoes he shuffles on the coffee table. “You in? Grace wants to play.”

“Sure.”

“Why don’t you play?” Maria asks Eric. “I’ll watch.”

“I don’t know how.”

“None of you gringos know how,” Jorge says. “Especially this way. Sit down. Ladies against gentlemen.”

It’s easy enough in theory, but winning requires both strategy and luck. We take turns matching up our tiles—or, as Jorge calls them, bones. I can’t talk to Grace and have no idea what tiles she has, but how quickly or slowly she throws down a tile gives me hints. I watch Eric deliberate too long over a turn and on my next turn play a tile that forces him to pass. Grace and I cheer at his bad luck.

“So not cool,” Eric says.

The rounds only get more cutthroat from there. By the end of the game, Grace and I have whooped their asses. Maria leaps from the couch and does a little dance before she gives us both high fives. “That’s my girls!”

“All right, you won fair and square,” Jorge says.

“How does it feel to be beaten by a couple of
gringas
?” I ask him.

Jorge pounds his chest, which is just as broad but definitely more solid than it was. “I’m man enough to take it.”

“You forget that they’ve known each other for years,” Eric says. “They probably communicate psychically.”

Grace holds her forehead and squints at me. I nod and turn to Eric. “She said
, Don’t try to make excuses for sucking so bad you lost
.”

Maria hoots while Grace and I dissolve into laughter. “I also said it’s your job to clean up, as the big, fat losers of the game,” Grace adds.

Jorge and Eric return the tiles to the box while grumbling. “Just because the women are better than you is no reason to be a couple of sore losers,” Maria says.

“You should see Maria play,” I say to Eric. “She’ll school your ass.”

“Your ass is grass tomorrow,” Eric says. “Right, Jorge?”

“You kidding? You never have to ask me twice.”

Once everything is packed up, we get ready for bed. Eric walks down the hall with me and stops at the base of the stairs. “That was fun.”

“Except for the part where you lost,” I joke.

“Even the part where I lost.” He leans in with a smile. “Goodnight, Sylvie.”

I think I say goodnight, but it’s possible I move my lips and nothing comes out. All I can hear is the way he said my name—soft and fond, as if he likes to say it. Which is a ridiculous thought, but I can’t help thinking it.

I listen to his footsteps up the stairs and wonder what would happen if I followed him to his room. I haven’t forgotten the feel of his neck on my lips or the time I spent in the bakery with his arm around me, and it’s hard not to imagine how good he must smell now that he’s had a date with a pot of hot water. I drag myself from the door and get in bed with Grace.

“You and Eric seem like you’re getting along just fine,” she says after she’s switched off the flashlight.

“Why wouldn’t we? I
am
capable of being a civil human being.”

She makes a noise in her throat. “You’re so annoying when you do that. He spends half his time watching you and the other half talking to you whenever humanly possible. And you spend way too much time not watching him.”

The only reason I can ask my next question is because it’s dark. “He watches me?”

“Like you’re primetime television.”

My stomach leaps, but it’s quickly followed by a flood of trepidation. I can start things, and I win awards at ending things in an explosive fashion, but it’s the middle part—the hardest part, the most important part—at which I suck. Big time.

“He’s funny, he’s totally good-looking,” Grace says. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

“He’s funny and attractive. That doesn’t mean I want to sleep with him.”

“That always means you want to sleep with someone.”

“Thanks a lot,” I say. “Was that a thinly-veiled slut accusation?”

“That’s funny, it wasn’t supposed to be thinly-veiled.”

I elbow her. “Well, I don’t want to sleep with him.”

“Right.” Grace draws out the word.

“Okay, fine.” My face is on fire. Of course Grace knows. I might as well admit it. “But what would happen if I did, therapist lady?”

“You’d run in the other direction. Except there’s nowhere to run, so it’d be awkward and then you’d hardly speak to him.”

“Exactly. And I don’t want to never speak to him again.”

Grace is silent. Just when my sweatiness has subsided and I’m sure she’s asleep, she whispers, “Wow, you really like him, don’t you?”

“As a friend. Okay, session over. Goodnight.”

Grace giggles. “A friend you want to sleep with.”

“Shut up.”

“You want to do the nasty with that there friend. You want to get all up in your friend’s pa—”

“Shut. Up.”

The bed shakes with her laughter. “You want to engage in some gland to gland combat with that good fr—”

“Gland to gland combat?” I ask with a laugh. “Really? Where the hell did you hear that one?”

“Logan. That guy Brent at his work says it.”

“Is Brent the one who
accidentally
rubs his pelvis against women when he walks past?”

“Yup.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

Grace’s giggles turn to sniffles. She hasn’t mentioned Logan, so neither have I. Honestly, I’m not sure it’s better that way. She examines every zombie she sees, and I think it’s to make sure it isn’t Logan or her parents.

“I know you’re doing what you have to do to get by,” I say, “but it’s okay to have some hope.”

“Sylvia Rose Rossi, is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

She squeezes my hand before she flips on her side. There’s nothing more to say.

Chapter 70

The next day, everyone but Paul waits for India at the appointed house. Someone had to stay with Leo, and he watched us leave with hands tight by his sides. That’s another thing about kids: they cramp your style. Though I will admit Leo is sweet and says amusing things, both of which I attribute to his mother, since Paul has the personality of a rock. And I wish his mother were here, for Leo’s sake and Paul’s sake and even, possibly, my sake. I can’t help but think Paul would be nicer if she were. There has to be a reason Eric likes him.

Now that Grace has brought it to my attention, it’s obvious how Eric seeks me out to joke around and bother me twenty times a day about insignificant things. I can’t pretend I don’t want him to, not even to keep the peace with Paul. The only thing I can do is not rise to the bait Paul dangles in front of me, and that’s difficult enough.

The meeting house has exposed brick and modern furniture in the tradition of gentrifying yuppies everywhere. Maria turns from the window where she keeps watch. “They’re coming.”

Seven people trot down the block and up the stairs to the door. After they enter, India moves to Maria, hand out. “Hi, you must be Maria.” She smiles at me and Eric. “Thanks for coming.”

The five boys and Eli stand behind her. India introduces them, and Maria does the same. When she gets to me, Eli says, “Hey, Scotch-Brite.” The rest of the group titters.

“Long story,” I say to Maria’s curious look.

We lead them to Guillermo’s, where Eli kills the one zombie in our way with a strike that looks more like a knife sliding through butter than a hack into bone. I raise my eyebrows at Grace. She fans herself with a hand. Eli has the bone structure of a god, expressive lips, and eyes that are warm when they want to be but cool and pragmatic when not. Even his voice is smooth. Apparently, he was a lawyer, and I’d bet anything he was a good one.

When we reach Key Food, we wave to the sentries and hop the car wall. Guillermo has added more brick to the intersections farther down. They’ll have all of the park walled off soon. India’s charges take in the sights, laughing and shoving each other on our walk to the main house. The Jayden and Vinnie who pointed guns at us bear no resemblance to these grinning, goofy teenagers.

India mutters under her breath and stops short. After a deep inhalation, she turns to the boys. “Please, please don’t say anything stupid. Do you hear me?” They quit with the horseplay and stand at attention. She bows her head, hands in prayer position. “Thank you.”

“What’s up?” Guillermo asks, jogging down the stairs. “Why didn’t you come in?”

India steps forward before we can explain. “I’m India. Eric and Sylvie told us about you. That maybe you could help us out.”

Guillermo gives her his undivided attention. India doesn’t need makeup, but I’m pretty sure she’s applied mascara. Her dark eyes match the hair that frames her face in a halo of puffy curls, and she’s approachable yet sexy in her vintage brown leather coat and tight jeans.

Right off, she tells Guillermo where they live. “We’ve been okay, but I’m having a hard time keeping up. Sylvie said you were thinking of expanding.”