Authors: Kelly Meding
Because you don’t have anyone for him to get jealous over, and you hate that.
Maybe so.
“What did she like to order?” I asked.
His jaw muscle twitched. “House salad, no dressing.” Four simple words, said like a curse.
“What would she never order?”
He considered the question, starting to smile. “Double cheeseburger and seasoned fries, with a side of cole slaw.”
Sounded like heaven. “I’ll get that, then.”
“You don’t have—”
“The great thing about my powers is they keep my metabolism high,” I said. “I can eat pretty much anything I want.”
“Except shellfish.”
“Right.”
The waitress returned with my tea, and we both ordered
the double cheeseburgers. Instead of cole slaw, he asked for extra fries, and away she went again, still snapping her gum. Not something I usually saw in a restaurant, but Mallory’s seemed to run on its own rules.
“You looked out of breath when you got here,” Noah said. “Everything okay?”
“Yes and no, and I’m so sorry I’m late.” I squeezed a lemon slice into my tea.
“It’s okay, I only drank six cups of coffee waiting.”
My head jerked up. He was grinning. For the first time, I noticed he had tiny dimples in both cheeks. “Anything you can talk about?” he asked. “Something to do with Arnold Stark?”
“Very definitely about Arnold Stark.” I swirled my tea with the straw, unsure how much to tell Noah. We didn’t really have rules about discussing our cases, because we hadn’t had many. We also didn’t have many civilian friends.
“It’s okay if you can’t,” he said. “Talk about it, I mean.”
“I probably can, but it’s a long story. The long and short of it is that we know who we’re after now, both for the shooting and yesterday’s dead bodies. We just don’t know how to catch him. Or them or whatever.”
“Bodies? Plural?”
Oops. I told him about Stark, that he was found in his cell skinned, just like John Doe. I did, however, leave out the part about Officer Ortega. It seemed more along the lines of “need to know,” and Noah didn’t really need to know. Simon’s words about civilian panic were still too fresh in my mind. I also left out our morning visit to Weatherfield.
Noah followed along, nodding in all the right places. He didn’t press for details, respecting the boundaries without hesitation, which I appreciated.
“So how did you manage the afternoon off?” he asked.
“We’re waiting for new leads. I couldn’t do much sitting around the house or the hospital, so I thought lunch with our electrician would help pass the time nicely. It was either the pleasure of your company or helping Simon play catch-up all afternoon.”
“Simon?”
Double oops. “Um, Simon Hewitt, he’s an old friend of ours.”
“A Meta.”
“Yes, a Meta. He has abilities that might help us track down our killer. He and Tempest are working on it today. If we’re lucky, we’ll get a bead on this guy and get a serial killer off the street.”
“Serial killer?” Something in his tone rang of displeasure, annoyance.
“Three bodies and counting, Noah. It’s not a pretty term, but it seems accurate to me.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you, Dahlia.” He reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “I guess I don’t like the idea of you out there with people like that. I know it sounds like macho bullshit, or something.”
“Thank you, Noah, that’s sweet.” But if he wanted to be protective, he’d have to get in line.
We chatted nonsensically until the potato skins arrived, steamy and oozing with cheddar cheese and crispy bacon.
Little dishes of sour cream and guacamole were nestled on the plate in a bed of lettuce. Our waitress left a pair of small plates, and we dug in. I slathered my potato skin with sour cream until the orange cheese disappeared under a layer of white.
“So tell me something about you,” I said, blowing on my steaming appetizer. “You don’t talk too much about yourself, you know.”
“I find myself pretty boring,” he replied, applying equal amounts of guac and sour cream. “That’s why I keep asking you questions. What would you like to know?”
“Did you grow up here in Hollywood?” Even though we’d gone to the same high school, the cobbled-together school district still had three different elementary schools scattered around. Eventually, all three student bodies matriculated together at Parker High.
“Yep, my whole life. The shop’s been around for about four generations of Scotts, so we’ve been in the area in some form or another.” I bit into my potato skin. Hot grease dribbled down my chin. Noah reached out with a napkin and wiped it away. “My dad used to tell us stories about the Rangers, things he remembered from his childhood. Stories about . . . I guess they would have been your grandparents, and all the things they did.”
“Not my grandparents,” I said. “At least, not that I can figure. I don’t know a lot about my family history, so maybe there’s a Meta somewhere else down the bloodline. Teresa’s theory is that new Metas are waking up, ones without powers before. Kind of a cosmic balancing act, since so many died during the War.”
“You never knew you had powers before?” he asked, eyes widening a bit.
“Not until everyone got them back, no. I was a reporter, just trying to make my rent. Bonus points for me, though, because if I hadn’t had these powers, I probably would have burned down my apartment six months ago.” Even though my experience the night all Metas got their powers back was a little different from my friends’, the timing was the same.
“Thank God for small favors. What made you want to be a reporter?”
A short, uncomfortable laugh filled the long pause. “That’s a long story, actually. I wanted to do something to help people, but I wasn’t brave enough to even consider police work. Journalism seemed like the next best thing. Digging for the truth, keeping people informed. I was pretty good at it, too.”
“You’re wrong.”
I blinked. “What?”
He backpedaled quickly. “Not about being good at it, about being brave. Just seeing what you’ve gone through in the last twenty-four hours, you have more strength and courage than you give yourself credit for, Dahlia.”
Only sheer force of will prevented a puddle-of-goo moment. Heat flamed in my cheeks. The remnants of my potato skin held my complete attention. I watched a drop of yellow grease dribble down the side and plop onto the plate next to a bit of bacon.
“I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“It’s okay.” I looked up and returned his smile. “I just don’t get those kind of compliments very often.”
“I’ll have to make sure I compliment you as often as possible.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Try and stop me.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“Most definitely.”
I held his gaze for several long minutes, engaging in an unofficial stare-off. He stuck out his tongue and waggled his eyebrows, trying to distract me with funny faces. I pursed my lips and held on, determined to win. Unfortunately, our lunch arrived and we looked up at the same time, ending the battle in a draw.
The affection I’d seen in his eyes dangled in my memory for a long while as we ate.
During the consumption
of two greasy cheeseburgers topped with lettuce, tomato, and pickles and heaps of spicy fries, we covered every first-date topic imaginable. Favorite color (mine, orange; his, green); why we both preferred spring over fall (birth versus death); the best place to watch the sun set in Los Angeles (the Santa Monica Pier, if you dared to brave the trip to that side of town); our mutual love of the hokey pokey and inline roller skates; and perhaps most important of all: regular or extra-crispy.
I didn’t press about his family. He mentioned his two brothers a few times, but avoided parents. Hints came out in memories and story snippets as we chatted, but not enough to draw a clear picture. Not enough to know how or when
they died. He reciprocated by not asking about my father—whom I had not once mentioned—and by keeping topics light. Enough darkness surrounded my life. I needed this break.
We also discovered a mutual fondness for white-water rafting.
“Three times,” he said, proud that he’d bested my two trips. “Twice in North Carolina and once in Colorado. The first time was a family trip. Mom, Dad, and my brothers, we all went up on vacation. I think I was eleven. We were all so scrawny back then, and pale. So damned pale. We burned in a reflection of the sun.”
I giggled at the image of him, a sunburned, gangly youth with flaming skin that matched his auburn hair; freckles darkened by sunlight, mischievous green eyes that never stopped watching.
“We only had money for rafting or tubing,” he continued. “Mom and Jimmy wanted tubing because it was safer and more relaxing. Dad and I wanted rafting, of course. Which meant Aaron was the deciding vote.”
“How’d you get him to pick rafting?”
“I bribed him with a candy bar I stole from a convenience store.”
My mouth fell open, and I started laughing. “So you’re a thief, are you? I may have to do my civic duty and place you under a citizen’s arrest.”
He quirked one eyebrow, tilting his head to the side. “Citizen’s arrest? And what does that entail, exactly? Home confinement?”
“That could be arranged,” I played along, still grinning. “I don’t know if home confinement is a stiff enough penalty for such a crime. I mean, candy bar theft is serious business, Noah.”
Pretending to think it over, he said, “What’s your suggestion?”
“Confinement to one room seems fair.”
Both eyebrows rose into twin arches, broadcasting amusement. “Any room?”
“I was thinking the smallest and least-used room in the house.”
“Ah, yes, the bedroom.”
My heart jumped. Okay, not quite what I was thinking.
He continued, “Tell me, Citizen’s Arresting Officer Perkins, does house arrest allow visitors?”
“Only if you found a willing visitor.” I stumbled a little with the banter. “Have someone in mind?”
Emerald eyes stared at me, seemed to look right past my joking exterior to the woman hiding inside, too nervous to come out and play. “There’s just one person I’d ask,” he said, so serious from just a moment ago.
Breath hitched in my throat. I barely managed, “Anyone I know?”
His lips parted.
“Dessert?” The tinny, gum-smacking voice of our waitress broke the spell. She stood at the head of the table, pen poised over pad.
“We were just discussing dessert,” Noah said, frown clearly telegraphing his annoyance. “I think we’ve decided to have something at my place.”
My heart pitter-pattered. His place. Dessert. House arrest.
Oh boy.
Had I sent out the wrong signals without realizing? I was interested, sure, but we’d known each other a day.
“Enjoy.” She slapped our bill facedown on the table and sauntered off. In most places, I would have called her rude. I watched her go, in her short denim skirt, white blouse, and green apron. Nah, just the right kind of attitude for a place like this.
Noah snatched the bill before I could see the totals. He removed cash from a worn leather billfold and tossed it onto the center of the table between our plates.
“I have to say, Dahlia, I’m impressed.”
“By what?”
He pointed at my ketchup-smeared plate. “At your ability to pack away more food than me.” His own plate still sported half a dozen fries and two bites of burger.
“Lightweight.” I plucked a stray sandwich dill off the corner of his plate and popped it into my mouth, savoring the salty tang.
He stood and offered his arm. I tucked mine through it, and we walked outside into the afternoon sunshine. I spotted his van at the back of the lot; I’d been too harried before to notice it there.
“Do you want to follow me back?” he asked.
I stared, uncomprehending. Wait, his place. I tried to cover my flub by scratching a pretend itch on my ankle. I wasn’t ready for our date to end. I also wasn’t sure if I was ready for his place. It was an ideal distraction from the multiple
problems stressing me out. Someone wanted me dead. Pulling Noah into my crazy world only put him in danger. No. “Maybe that’s not a good idea.”
He blinked. Hard. “Dahlia, I’m not asking you home to have sex with me. We just met. Sort of. And I really do have dessert at home. Store-bought blueberry pie and canned whipped cream.”
“I didn’t mean to imply . . .” Okay, yeah, I had. “It’s just . . . people near me keep getting hurt.”
“You can’t blame yourself.”
“I can when the shooter was aiming for me.”
Anger simmered in his eyes—at me, at my intended killer, I didn’t know. “Just for pie,” he said quietly. “I don’t have a lot of friends. The, ah, shop keeps me pretty busy now that Mom and Dad are gone.”
I couldn’t help remembering the skimpily dressed Asian girl I’d seen at the shop, or from wondering how she fit into his schedule. Not that she was any of my business at this point. Noah and I had been on exactly one date. Personal histories and ex-girlfriends could wait.
Noah’s sincerity convinced me to follow him. “Yeah, okay, I’ll follow you. In case someone calls or something happens.”
Or in case you chicken out and run away like a startled pigeon.
“Okay.”
Noah’s cell rang. He fished it out of his pocket, frowned at the display, then answered. “Jimmy?”
I looked at the pavement, trying to not eavesdrop until Noah said, “Yeah, she’s right here, why?” I gave him a sharp
look. He held up his hand, and I barely kept silent long enough for him to finish the brief call. “Thanks, Jimmy, I’ll tell her.” He hung up.
“What?” I asked, nearly bursting with anxiety.
“Jimmy said your friend Onyx called the shop looking for you.”
Marco. Figured he would—wait. “He called the shop?” I patted myself down, seeking a familiar bulge. Well, hell, I’d left my com in the car. “Why?”
“He said to tell you Tempest and Psystorm were in an accident and to get home.”
If Noah added anything else, I didn’t hear it over the roar in my ears.
T
he moment rubber hit the road, I was on the phone, dialing the house. Noah had kindly offered to drive me. I think I mumbled an apology and thank-you before fleeing the parking lot. I drove with a white-knuckled grip, trying to keep a cap on my panic until I knew exactly what was happening. Marco said to go home, not to the hospital, which was a good sign. Unless they were dead, in which case the hospital was pointless.