Midnight Bites (33 page)

That was an easy one. “No.” Hell no.

He was still smiling, all grandfatherly and very slightly amused. “Because strong men don't do such things, yes?”

No shit, Sherlock.

“What if I told you that being honest with her, deeply honest, would make her love you even more?”

That was utter crap. If Claire knew me, really knew me, knew all the toxic muck that was sludged up inside me, she'd get the hell away from me, no question about it. I shook my head, not even meaning to do it.

Goldman sighed. “Very well, then,” he said. “Baby steps. At least you've admitted it to me. We have at least another two months left together. I consider this a very fine start.” He glanced down at his watch. “And I believe that it's time for my next appointment. Very good work, Mr. Collins.”

I shot out of the couch like it had an ejection seat, and had my hand on the doorknob when he said, “One more thing, if you don't mind: I'd like to assign you some homework.”

“Yeah, 'cause that never gets old,” I said, but I was already resigned to doing a searching moral inventory, or whatever psychobabble crap he was about to pull out of his dusty immortal bag of tricks.

He surprised me. “I'd like you to try, for the next twenty-four hours, to solve any problem that arises without allowing your anger free rein. If you're presented with an opportunity to fight, I'd like you to back down. If someone tries to verbally engage you, defuse the situation. If you're insulted, walk away. Just for twenty-four hours. Then you can engage in fisticuffs to your heart's content.”

I turned and stared at him. “I have actually gone a whole day without punching somebody, you know. Sometimes even two days.”

“Yes, but you channel your anger in other ways, smaller ones you may not even realize. Perhaps by thinking hard about it, you may realize how much you allow it to drive your actions and shape the world around you.” He nodded then. “That's all. Just try it, for one full day. I'll be interested to hear how it feels.”

I shrugged and opened the door. “Sure, Doc. No problem.”

•   •   •

I didn't even make it out of the building before my first challenge came up. It was a big one.

Physically, Monica Morrell was a pretty girl—not as beautiful as she thought she was, but on a scale of ten she was at least a seven, and that was when she wasn't really trying. Today, she was definitely working for an eight point five, and was probably getting it. She had on a short pink dress and looked . . . glossy, I guess. Girls would probably be able to tell you all the technical details of that, but the bottom line was, she turned heads.

And my first impulse, my very first, was to punch her right in the pink lip gloss.

That was so familiar to me that it honestly kind of surprised me when I considered it, in light of Goldman's homework assignment. She hadn't even seen me yet, hadn't smirked or made a snarky, cold comment; she hadn't reminded me of my dead family, or dissed my girlfriend, or done any of a thousand things she was bound to pull out to trip my triggers. It was just a reflex, me wanting to hurt her, and I was pretty sure that most people didn't have that kind of wiring.

I took a deep breath, and as she looked up and saw me getting off the elevator, I held the door for her. I didn't smile—it probably would have looked like I wanted to bite her—but I nodded politely and said,
“Morning,” just like she was a real person and not a skanky murderous bitch who didn't deserve to breathe.

She faltered, just a little strange flinch as if she couldn't quite figure out what my game was. If I hadn't been looking for it, I never would have seen the odd expression that flashed across her face, and even then, it took me a few more seconds to realize what it meant.

She was afraid.

The flash of fear vanished, and she tossed her shiny hair back and walked past me into the elevator. “Collins,” she said. “So, did you rig it to explode?” She said it like she was unimpressed, and stabbed a perfectly manicured finger out at one of the floor buttons. “Or are you just going to throw paint on me before the doors shut?”

I considered saying a lot of things—maybe about how she deserved to die in fire—and then I let go of the door, stepped back, and said, “Have a nice day, Monica.”

She was still staring at me with the best, most utterly confused expression when I turned and walked away, hands in my pockets.

Frustrating? Yeah, a little. But oddly fun.
At least I can keep her guessing,
I thought. And it felt like a little victory, just because I hadn't done the first thing that popped into my head.

Walking toward home, I nodded to people I knew, which was pretty much everybody. I didn't hit anybody. I didn't even say anything snide. It was kind of a miracle.

I decided to test my luck a little, and stopped in at Common Grounds.

If I'd been relatively unpopular around Morganville before, I'd taken things to a whole new level. Down a level. I walked into the coffee shop like I had a thousand times before, and this time, conversation pretty much stopped dead. The college students ignored me, as they always did; I was a townie, unimportant to their own little insulated world. It was the Morganville natives who were reacting like
Typhoid Mary had just sailed in the door. Some got real interested in their lattes and mochas; others whispered, heads together, darting looks at me.

Word was out that I was on probation with the Founder. Somewhere, some enterprising young buck was taking bets on whether I'd survive the week, and the odds were not going to be in my favor.

My housemate Eve was behind the counter, and she leaned over it and waved at me. She'd put some temporary blue streaks in her coal black hair, which gave her some interesting style, particularly when paired with the livid blue eye shadow and matching, very shiny shirt. Over her outfit, which was probably more cracked out than usual, she wore the tie-dyed Common Grounds apron. “Hey, sunshine,” she said. “What's your poison?”

Knowing Eve, she meant that literally. “Coffee,” I said. “Just plain, none of that foo-foo stuff.”

She widened her eyes, and leaned over to stage-whisper, “Honestly, men do sometimes have cream in their coffee. I've seen it on the news. Try a latte sometime—it's not going to reduce your testosterone level or anything.”

“B—” I was about to automatically say
Bite me
, which would have been right and proper and comfortable between the two of us; it wasn't an angry response, just the usual thing I said when Eve snarked on me. I loved her, but this was how we talked. Probably wasn't covered by Goldman's rules, but I thought that maybe, just maybe, I'd try to change it up. “Okay,” I said.

That got me a blank stare. “I'm sorry?”

“Okay,” I repeated. “I'll try a latte, if you think they're good.”

“You'll—” Eve cocked her head slowly to one side, her blunt-cut hair brushing her shoulder. “Wait, did you just say you want me to make you a drink that isn't something you get at a truck stop?”

“Is that a problem?”

“No. No, not at all,” she said, but she was frowning a little. “You feeling okay?”

“Yeah, good,” I said. “Just trying something different today.”

“Huh.” Eve studied me for a few long seconds, and then smiled. “It's kind of working for you, boy.” She winked at me and got busy doing complicated things with espresso and steamed milk, and I turned to look at the crowd sitting around the tables. A few local business types, cheating a few minutes away from the office; the college kids with their backpacks, headphones, and stacks of textbooks; a few pale, anemic people sitting in the darker part of the room, away from the windows.

One of them rose and walked toward me. Oliver, owner of the place, who redefined the term “hippie freak”—he had tied his long graying hair back in a ponytail, and was wearing a Common Grounds apron that made him look all nice and cuddly. He wasn't, and I was one of those who knew just how very dangerous he really was.

He also wasn't my biggest fan. Ever, I mean, but especially now.

“Collins,” he greeted me, not sounding too thrilled to be taking my money for caffeine. “I thought you were due for therapy.” He didn't bother to lower his voice, and I saw Eve, who'd overheard, wince and keep her attention strictly on the drink she was mixing.

“Already been,” I said. I couldn't sound cheerful, but I didn't sound angry, either. Kind of an achievement. “You can check with the doc if you want.”

“Oh, I will,” he said. “This needless charity toward you is not my idea, and if you fail to meet the conditions of your parole . . .”

“I'll be in jail,” I said.

Oliver smiled, and it was a scary thing. “Perhaps,” he said. “But I wouldn't count on it. You've had too many chances. Amelie's patience may be unlimited, but I promise you, mine is not.”

“Back—” 
. . .
off, man. I'm not impressed with the size of your
 
. . .
Yeah,
that wasn't playing by Theo's rules so much. I bit my tongue, tasted blood, and really wanted to toss off a few incendiary rounds in his direction. Instead, I took a breath, counted to five, and said, “I know I don't deserve the break. I'll do my best to earn it.”

His eyebrows rose sharply, but his eyes remained cold. “It was given over my objections. Again. You needn't waste your sudden change of heart on me.”

Well, I'd tried.

Eve cleared her throat, loudly, and pushed my drink at me. “Here,” she said. “Hey, is Claire meeting you?”

“No, she's got classes. Thanks for this.” I passed over a five, and she made change. Oliver watched the transaction without commentary, thankfully; I'd just about used up my entire reserve of polite vampire-appropriate conversation that didn't involve the words
drop deader
.

I carried the drink over to an open table and sat down. I had a good view of the street, so I people-watched and surfed my phone. The latte, surprisingly, wasn't bad. I saw Eve watching me, and gave her a thumbs-up. She did a silent cheer.
Score so far: Shane three, temper zero,
I thought, and was feeling kind of smug about it when a shadow fell across me. I looked up to see three Texas Prairie University jocks—which wasn't saying much, in the great athletic world—looming over me. They were big dudes, but not that much bigger than I was. I automatically did the precalculations. . . . Three to one, the one in the middle was the ringleader, and he had a mean look. Sidekick one was vacant-looking, but he had a multiply broken nose and was no stranger to mixing it up. Sidekick two was unmarked, which meant either he wasn't much of a fighter or he was ridiculously good.

Eh, I'd had lots worse matchups. At least none of them had fangs.

“You're at our table,” the center one said. He was wearing a Morganville High cutoff muscle tee, with the school mascot—a viper; go
figure—and I finally placed him. He was a native son, and he'd been just starting to get a rep as a decent defensive lineman before I'd left town. He'd been a bully back then, too. “Move it, loser.”

“Oh, hey, Billy, how's it going?” I asked, without actually moving an inch. “Haven't seen you around.”

He wasn't prepped for chitchat, and I got a blank look from him, then a scowl. “Did you hear me, Collins? Move it. Not going to tell you again.”

“No?” I looked up at him and sipped my latte. “Common Grounds, dude. You really going to start some shit here, with him staring right at us?” I nodded toward Oliver, who had his arms crossed and was watching us with so much intensity I was surprised some of us weren't catching fire. I sipped my latte, and waited. This nonviolence thing was kind of fun, because I got to see Billy squirm without breaking a sweat.

Only problem was, Billy wasn't all that smart, and he punched me in the face. Just like that, a sucker punch to the jaw.

I dropped my latte and came up out of my chair in a single surge of muscle, my fist clenching even before the news of the pain hit my brain like a sledgehammer. Counterattack was instinctive, and it was necessary, because nobody, nobody got to hit me like that and not have a comeback.

I was pulling back for a real serious hit when I heard Theo Goldman's voice say, clear as a bell,
Twenty-four hours
.

Hell.

I gulped back my anger, opened my fist, and blocked Billy's next punch. “You owe me a latte,” I said, which was something I hadn't exactly expected to say, ever. The table was a mess, spilled coffee and milk dribbling off the edges of it. My heart was pounding, and I wanted to punch all of these guys until they were too stupid to move.
This time, holding back didn't feel good; it felt like losing. It felt like cowardice. And I hated it.

But I sacked up and walked away. The table was theirs. Now they had to clean up their own mess.

Outside, the air felt sharp and raw on my skin, and I leaned against the bricks and breathed deeply, several times, until the red mist that still clouded my vision started to clear up. My fight-or-flight reaction had just one setting, I was starting to realize; that wasn't smart. It was fun, but it wasn't smart.

Eve came running out, still in her apron. She saw me standing there and skidded to a stop. “Hey!” she blurted. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” I said. “He's too wimpy to break anything except his own hand. Doesn't throw from the shoulder.”

“No, I mean—Jesus, Shane, you just . . .” Eve stared at me for a second, and I thought she was going to say something that would make me feel a hell of a lot worse, but then she threw her arms around me and hugged me hard. “You just did something totally classy. Good for you.”

Huh.

She was gone before I could explain that it wasn't really my choice.

Classy? Girls are weird. There's nothing classy about getting sucker punched and walking away.