“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.”