old.”
“She’s a hungry Biter, and the truck cab smells like meat.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “She’s riding in the back.”
Okay, so I might have pushed things a little too far by using a dead man’s own instincts against him. I’d made him angry—really angry—and now I had to give a little. I nodded slowly. “She’ll ride in the back.”
15.
We dropped Andrea off at the Mitchell residence, and I picked up my check: fifteen hundred dollars written out in crisp black ink. They’d pay for my expenses too. My mother might not be much for fieldwork, but when it comes to debt collection, she’s an expert.
From Indian Village, we went straight to the diner. D.S. might have enjoyed his steak, but both of us could use some real food to take the edge off.
There are plenty of fantastic diners in Detroit—we call them Coney Islands—but The Randy Goose is not one of them. It’s a hole in the wall around the corner from the office. I waited tables there for an entire summer during high school before the owner fired me over creative differences.
One of the customers got fresh and I stabbed him with a fork.
Sliding into a booth near the door, I waved at the large man behind the counter. “The regular,” I said. “Two of them, some loaded potatoes, and coffee.” There was a slight pause. “Fresh coffee.”
“Hell, Gemma,” Jack swore. “You trying to put me out of business?”
The Randy Goose’s wayward owner was tall and muscular. Ten years earlier he’d been a professional hockey player—he’d made it four whole games before having his knee broken by an enemy enforcer—and hometown hero. These days, he spent most of his time reading paperbacks from the stack near the register and avoiding any kind of real work.
“Next thing you’ll be asking for clean plates and lemon in your water,” he grumbled before putting his book down and lumbering off towards the kitchen.
The booths at the Randy Goose were narrow. When I stretched out my legs, I could feel the warn denim of D.S.’s jeans brushing against my bare knees. Too close, but there wasn’t a heck of a lot of options.
The Biter was glaring at me. The same ominous expression he’d been wearing since we nabbed Andrea.
“Did I do something wrong?” I asked.
“That trick with the steak back there. It was cute. Really cute.” His grass green gaze narrowed slightly, focusing on the vein throbbing on the side of my neck. “You try something like that again, and we’re over.” He leaned forward slightly, the motion bringing us even closer. I could smell the blood on his breath and the tangy citrus scent of his shampoo.
“Being a Biter—living with humans—it takes more self-control than you can imagine, and you… you test me every time you smile. I just want to reach across this table and grab you. I want to taste you. All of you. I need—” D.S.’s hand slammed into the table, hard enough to shake the linoleum covered board. “Don’t ever pull a stunt like that again. Understand?”
For a long moment, the only sound came from the back of the diner where Jack was messing about with the pots and pans. He was whistling. A moment later he whisked his way through the cramped space with a tray in one hand. He slammed two chipped cups down on the table in front of me and poured from a metal carafe.
“Coffee,” Jack said. Not seeming to notice the tension in the air. “Fresh. Mostly. Your food will be up in a couple of minutes. Want to come inspect the plates?”
Neither of us said a word. What could I say? I’d known D.S. was pissed, but I hadn’t realized exactly how much trouble I could have gotten myself into. If he had a little less self-control…
When Jack finally wandered off, I nodded at D.S. “I understand.”
“Good,” D.S. said, but his expression didn’t soften. “Now that this little side-job is over, we can focus on what’s important. George D. Fitzgerald. He definitely wasn’t
“She’s a hungry Biter, and the truck cab smells like meat.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “She’s riding in the back.”
Okay, so I might have pushed things a little too far by using a dead man’s own instincts against him. I’d made him angry—really angry—and now I had to give a little. I nodded slowly. “She’ll ride in the back.”
15.
We dropped Andrea off at the Mitchell residence, and I picked up my check: fifteen hundred dollars written out in crisp black ink. They’d pay for my expenses too. My mother might not be much for fieldwork, but when it comes to debt collection, she’s an expert.
From Indian Village, we went straight to the diner. D.S. might have enjoyed his steak, but both of us could use some real food to take the edge off.
There are plenty of fantastic diners in Detroit—we call them Coney Islands—but The Randy Goose is not one of them. It’s a hole in the wall around the corner from the office. I waited tables there for an entire summer during high school before the owner fired me over creative differences.
One of the customers got fresh and I stabbed him with a fork.
Sliding into a booth near the door, I waved at the large man behind the counter. “The regular,” I said. “Two of them, some loaded potatoes, and coffee.” There was a slight pause. “Fresh coffee.”
“Hell, Gemma,” Jack swore. “You trying to put me out of business?”
The Randy Goose’s wayward owner was tall and muscular. Ten years earlier he’d been a professional hockey player—he’d made it four whole games before having his knee broken by an enemy enforcer—and hometown hero. These days, he spent most of his time reading paperbacks from the stack near the register and avoiding any kind of real work.
“Next thing you’ll be asking for clean plates and lemon in your water,” he grumbled before putting his book down and lumbering off towards the kitchen.
The booths at the Randy Goose were narrow. When I stretched out my legs, I could feel the warn denim of D.S.’s jeans brushing against my bare knees. Too close, but there wasn’t a heck of a lot of options.
The Biter was glaring at me. The same ominous expression he’d been wearing since we nabbed Andrea.
“Did I do something wrong?” I asked.
“That trick with the steak back there. It was cute. Really cute.” His grass green gaze narrowed slightly, focusing on the vein throbbing on the side of my neck. “You try something like that again, and we’re over.” He leaned forward slightly, the motion bringing us even closer. I could smell the blood on his breath and the tangy citrus scent of his shampoo.
“Being a Biter—living with humans—it takes more self-control than you can imagine, and you… you test me every time you smile. I just want to reach across this table and grab you. I want to taste you. All of you. I need—” D.S.’s hand slammed into the table, hard enough to shake the linoleum covered board. “Don’t ever pull a stunt like that again. Understand?”
For a long moment, the only sound came from the back of the diner where Jack was messing about with the pots and pans. He was whistling. A moment later he whisked his way through the cramped space with a tray in one hand. He slammed two chipped cups down on the table in front of me and poured from a metal carafe.
“Coffee,” Jack said. Not seeming to notice the tension in the air. “Fresh. Mostly. Your food will be up in a couple of minutes. Want to come inspect the plates?”
Neither of us said a word. What could I say? I’d known D.S. was pissed, but I hadn’t realized exactly how much trouble I could have gotten myself into. If he had a little less self-control…
When Jack finally wandered off, I nodded at D.S. “I understand.”
“Good,” D.S. said, but his expression didn’t soften. “Now that this little side-job is over, we can focus on what’s important. George D. Fitzgerald. He definitely wasn’t
Similar Books
