“Nothing so dramatic. This surprise is just for fun. Fun—remember the concept? I guarantee this person will cheer you right up.” She and Adam exchanged knowing glances.
“Come on, tell me!”
“Sorry. No can do. Patience, young lady. And try to lighten your mood, will you? You’re as much fun as a root canal.” Lyric’s round shoulders moved in time to the sliding trombone solo of “Mood Indigo,” rising from below.
Contrasting with the gray of November, Lyric wore her trademark loud color, this time electric yellow. The blue tips she used to have on the ends of her hair had been extended to the roots; now her whole head seemed to glow blue, a stark contrast to the vivid yellow and the deep red of her pants, the thick black work boots that laced up the front, the chunky red and yellow bracelets. Adam, though, seemed to fade into the surroundings. Scoot ’n Blues’s dim interior accentuated the contrast between his skin and his black hair and clothes so that at times his hands and face appeared disembodied.
Cameryn felt a pang of guilt because the two of them were trying so hard to help her and she’d repaid them by being a total witch. She had to pull it together. She had to make an effort.
“You’re smiling. What are you smiling at?” Lyric wanted to know.
“Nothing. Just an observation.”
“What is it? Come on, spill!”
“It’s just, you know, with that red-and-yellow outfit of yours along with that blue-green hair, I’m thinking your look says ‘traffic light.’”
“That’s harsh,” Adam said, but Lyric laughed.
“Yeah,” she agreed. “Well, John Denver called and said he wants his look back from you.”
“John Denver is dead—”
“So’s his fashion, flannel-girl,” Lyric fired back.
“I’m not wearing flannel.”
“But you own it, don’t you? I’ve seen it in your closet. Admitting your problem is the first step, Cammie.”
Adam’s pale eyes widened. He didn’t understand the way they teased, didn’t know that joking was the way the two of them got their rhythm back. Cameryn felt her insides unkink as she sipped her water, deciding that her father had been right after all. She needed this, to be back among the living. The music, the explosion of laughter from an adjoining table, even the wafting smoke rising like incense, all were the siren song of the undead.
The server brought their drinks, putting them down carefully on paper coasters, then setting a place next to Cameryn for the nonexistent guest. When he was gone, Lyric raised her iced tea to the ceiling and cleared her throat. Her face became serious, her tone more solemn, as she said, “One of the reasons I wanted to come to Scoot ’n Blues is because I remember the way Mr. Oakes loved jazz and blues. So I thought we should raise a glass and remember the man. To Mr. Oakes,” she said, lifting the tea higher. “May he rest in peace.”
“To Mr. Oakes,” Adam and Cameryn echoed. They clinked their sweating glasses together and drank, while Cameryn added a silent prayer of her own.
“What about me?” someone behind her said. “Don’t I get to toast?”
Cameryn whirled in her seat to see a familiar face. Kyle O’Neil, wearing jeans and a green-and-gold CSU sweatshirt, stood right behind her. “Sorry I couldn’t get here earlier,” he apologized. “I came as soon as I could. Do you mind, Cameryn?”
Not waiting for a reply, he slid into the booth next to Cameryn, so close his thigh touched hers. She could feel the hardness of his muscle beneath the denim, could smell the spice of his deodorant as his arm raised and lowered when he settled in close to her. Scooting over, she noticed that his blond hair looked like honey in the light. A stubble had appeared above his upper lip and on his chin, but of deep amber, more the color of his lashes.
“What are you doing here?” Cameryn asked.
“I met up with Lyric at the Steamin’ Bean earlier today, and we started
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