Kiss of Death tmv-8 Read online

  “Wait a second—it’s our house! I live here, too!” Shane shot back. “You don’t get to drag his low-life ass in here and act as if nothing happened with him!”

  “He’s my brother! And he’s trying, Shane. God, you can be such a—”

  “It’s okay,” Claire said. Her hands were shaking, and she felt cold, but she also saw Jason lift his head, and for a second their eyes met. It was like a physical shock, and she wasn’t sure what she saw, or what he saw, but neither one of them could hold it for long. “It’s just dinner. It’s not a big deal.”

  Shane turned toward her, eyes wide, and put his hands on her shoulders. “Claire, he hurt you. Hell, he hurt me, too! Jason is not some stray mutt you can take in and feed, okay? He’s psycho. And she knows it better than anybody.” He glared at Eve, who frowned but didn’t glare back as she normally would have. “You expect us all to just play nice with him now that he figures out the bad guys aren’t winning, so he cranks out a quick apology? Because it’s not happening. It’s just not.”

  “Yeah, I figured it would go this way. Sorry I bothered you,” Jason said. His voice sounded faint and rusty, and he turned and walked away, toward the front door and out of their line of sight. Eve went after him, and she must have tried to stop him, because Claire heard his soft voice say, “No, he’s not wrong. I’ve got no right to be here. I did bad things, sis. This was a mistake.”

  Of all of them, only Michael hadn’t spoken—hadn’t moved, in fact. He was staring at the swinging door as it swayed back and forth, and finally he took a deep breath, set down his sports bottle, and went out into the hallway.

  Claire smacked at Shane’s arm. “What the hell was that, macho man? You have to come to my rescue all the time, even when nobody’s trying to hurt me?”

  He seemed honestly surprised. “I was just—”

  “I know what you were just doing. You don’t speak for me!”

  “I wasn’t trying to—”

  “Yes, you were. Look, I know Jason’s no saint, but he got himself together, and he stuck with Eve when all of us were—out of commission, when Bishop was in charge. He protected her.”

  “And he let his crazy buddy Dan grab you and almost kill you, and he didn’t do anything!”

  “He did,” Claire said flatly. “He left me to find help. I know because Richard Morrell told me later. Jason went to the cops and tried to tell them. They didn’t believe him or they’d have gotten help to me a lot earlier.” Earlier would have meant a lot less terror and pain and despair. It wasn’t Jason’s fault that they’d figured him for crazy.

  Shane was thrown, a little, but he came back swinging. “Yeah, well, what about those other girls? He didn’t help them, did he? I’m not friending up somebody like that.”

  “Nobody said you had to,” Claire shot back. “Jason’s done his time in jail. Sitting at the same table isn’t like swearing eternal brotherhood.”

  He opened his mouth, closed it, and then said, very tightly, “I just wanted to make sure he didn’t have a chance to hurt you again.”

  “Unless he uses a taco as a deadly weapon, he hasn’t got much of a shot. Having you, Michael, and Eve here is about the best protection I could want. Anyway, would you rather have him where you can see him, or where you can’t?”

  Some of the fire faded out of his eyes. “Oh. Yeah, okay.” He still looked uncomfortable, though. “You do crazy crap, you know. And it’s contagious.”

  “I know.” She put her hand on his cheek, and got a very small smile in return. “Thanks for wanting to keep me safe. But don’t overdo it, okay?”

  Shane made a sound of frustration deep in his throat, but he didn’t argue.

  The kitchen door swung open again. It was Michael, looking fully awake and very calm, as if bracing for a fight. “I talked to him,” he said. “He’s sincere enough. But if you don’t want him here, Shane—”

  “I damn sure don’t,” Shane said, then glanced at Claire and continued. “But if she’s willing to give it a shot, I will.”

  Michael blinked, then raised his eyebrows. “Huh,” he said. “The universe explodes, hell freezes, and Shane does something reasonable.”

  Shane silently offered him the finger. Michael grinned and backed out of the kitchen again.

  Claire handed Shane the biggest knife they had. “Chop brisket,” she said. “Take out your frustrations.”

  The brisket didn’t stand a chance.

  Jason didn’t say much at dinner. In fact, he was almost completely silent, though he ate four tacos as if he’d been starving for a month, and when Eve brought out ice cream for dessert, he ate a double helping of that, too.

  Shane was right. The brisket was delicious in the tacos.

  Eve, compensating for her brother, chattered like a magpie on crack the whole time—about dumb-asses at the coffee shop where she worked, Common Grounds; about Oliver, her vampire boss, who was a full-time jerk, as far as Claire was concerned, although apparently he was a surprisingly fair supervisor; gossip about people in town. Michael contributed some juicy stuff about the vampire side of town (Claire, for one, had never considered that vampires could fall in and out of love just like regular people—well, vampires other than Michael, and maybe Amelie.) Shane finally loosened up on his glares and brought up some embarrassing stories from Michael’s and Eve’s pasts. If there were embarrassing stories he knew about Jason, he didn’t get into telling them.

  It started out deeply uncomfortable, but by the time the ice cream bowls were empty, it felt kind of—normal. Not great—there was still a cautious tension around the table—but there was guarded acceptance.

  Jason finally said, “Thanks for the food.” They all stopped talking and looked at him, and he kept his own gaze down on the empty dessert bowl. “Shane’s right. I got no right to think I can just show up here and expect you not to hate my guts. You should.”

  “Damn straight,” Shane muttered. Claire and Eve both glared at him. “What? Just sayin’.”

  Jason didn’t seem to mind. “I needed to come and tell you that I’m sorry. It’s been—things got weird, man. Real weird. And I got real screwed up, in all kinds of ways. Until that thing happened with Claire ... Look, I never meant—she wasn’t part of it. That was all on him.” Him meant the other guy, the one none of them mentioned, ever. Claire felt her palms sweating and wiped them against her jeans. Her mouth felt dry. “But I’m guilty of other stuff, and I confessed to all of it to the cops, and I did time for it. I never killed anybody, though. I just—wanted to be somebody who got respect.”

  Michael said, “That’s how you think you get respect around here? As a killer?”

  Jason looked up, and it was eerie, seeing eyes exactly like Eve’s in such a different face, simmering with anger. “Yeah,” he said. “I did. I still do. And I don’t need a frigging vampire to set me straight about that, either. In Morganville, when you’re not one of the sheep, and you’re not one of the wolves, you’d better be one mean-ass junkyard dog.”

  Claire glanced over at Shane and was surprised to see that he wasn’t hopping on the angry train. In fact, he was looking at Jason as if he understood what he was saying. Maybe he did. Maybe it was a guy thing.

  Nobody spoke, and finally Jason said, “So anyway, I just wanted to say thanks for helping get me out of jail. I’d be dead by now if you hadn’t. I won’t forget.” He scraped his chair back and stood up. “Thanks for the tacos. Dinner was real good. I haven’t—I haven’t sat at a table with people for a really long time.”

  Then, without making eye contact with any of them, he walked away, down the hall. Eve jumped up and ran after him, but before she got to him, he was out the front door and slamming it behind him. She opened it and looked out, but didn’t follow. “Jason!” she called, but without any real hope he’d come back. Then, finally, hopelessly, she called again, “Be careful!”

  She slowly closed the door again, locked it, and came back to flop in her chair at the dinner table, staring at the rema
ins of their taco feast.

  “Hey,” Shane said. “Eve.”

  She looked up.

  “It took guts for him to come here and try to apologize. I respect that.”

  She looked surprised, and for a second she smiled. “Thanks. I know Jason’s never going to be ... well, a good guy in any kind of way, but he’s—I can’t just turn my back on him. He needs somebody to keep him from going off the rails.”

  Michael took a drink from his sports bottle. “He’s the train,” he said. “You’re on the tracks. Think about what’s going to happen, Eve.”

  Her smile faded. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that your brother is a junkie and one sick dude even if he’s feeling sentimental right now. That’s probably not really his fault, but he’s trouble, and now we sat down with him and he apologized and it’s all done, okay? He’s not coming back. He’s not family. Not in this house.”

  “But—”

  When Claire had first met Michael Glass, he’d been cold and kind of harsh to her, and now that Michael came out again.

  At Eve.

  “Eve, we’re not going to argue about it,” Michael said flatly, and he looked like an angry, angry angel, the smiting kind. “House rules. You don’t bring that kind of trouble in the door.”

  “Oh, please, Michael, don’t even think about pulling that crap. If that’s the rule, are you throwing Claire out now? Because I’m betting she is the most trouble that ever walked in here on two feet. You and Shane drag your own hassles in all the time. But I don’t get to have my own brother over for dinner?” Eve’s voice was shaking, she was so angry now, and she was trying not to cry, but Claire could see the tears welling up in her dark eyes. “Come on! You’re not my dad!”

  “No, I’m your landlord,” he said. “Bringing Jason in here puts everybody at risk. He’s going to go back to the dark side on us, if he ever left in the first place. I’m just trying to keep things sane around here.”

  “Then try talking to me instead of just ordering me around!” Eve shoved dishes off onto the floor, spilling the remains of tacos everywhere, and dashed for the stairs.

  Michael got there first, easily; he moved in a blur, vampire speed, and blocked her access. Eve came to a skidding halt, pale even underneath her rice-powder makeup. “So you’re proving your point by going all vamp on me?” she said. “Even if Jason was still here, you’d be the most dangerous thing in the room and you know it!”

  “I know,” Michael said. “Eve. What do you want? I’m trying, okay? I sat down with Jason. I’m just saying once was enough. Why am I the bad guy?”

  Shane muttered, loud enough for only Claire to hear, “Good question, bro.” She hissed at him to be quiet. This was private, and she was feeling bad for both Eve and Michael, having witnesses to all this. It was bad enough to be fighting and worse to have Shane making snarky comments from the sidelines.

  “I don’t know, Michael. Why are you the bad guy?” Eve shot back. “Maybe because you’re acting as if you own the world!”

  “You’re being a brat.”

  “A what?”

  “You’re going to dump crap all over the floor and walk away? What else do you call it?”

  Eve looked so shocked, it was as if he’d hit her. Claire winced in sympathy. “It’s okay; we’ll do it,” Claire said, and started picking up plates and piling them up. “It’s not a big deal.” Shane was still staring at their friends as if they were some kind of sideshow exhibit; she kicked him in the shin and shoved plates at him. “Kitchen,” she said. “Go.”

  He raised his eyebrows, but he went. She began cleaning up the mess on the floor. In Shane’s absence, it felt as if things changed, as if the balance shifted again. Claire kept herself small, quiet, and invisible as she worked at scraping up the spilled food into a pile with napkins.

  “Eve,” Michael said. He wasn’t angry anymore, Claire realized. His voice had gone soft and quiet. She glanced up and saw that Eve was silently crying now, tears dragging dirty trails of mascara down her cheeks, but she didn’t look away from him. “Eve, what is it? This isn’t about Jason. What?”

  She threw herself into him, wrapping her arms around him. Even with vampire reflexes, Michael was surprised enough to rock backward, but he recovered in just a second, holding her, stroking her back with one hand. Eve put her head down on his shoulder and cried like a lost little girl. “I don’t want to lose you,” she finally snuffled. “God, I really don’t. Please. Please don’t go.”

  “Go?” Michael sounded honestly baffled. “What? Where would I go?”

  “Anywhere. With anyone. Don’t—I love you, Michael. I really do.”

  He sighed and held her even more tightly. “I’m not going anywhere with anyone else,” he said. “I swear. And I love you, too. Okay?”

  “You mean it?”

  “Yeah, I mean it.” He seemed almost surprised and let out a slow breath as he hugged her tighter. “I mean it, Eve. I always have, even when you didn’t believe it.”

  Eve dabbed at her running mascara, hiccuping little breaths, and then looked past Michael to Claire, who was getting all the mess put onto one plate for disposal. Eve looked stricken. “Oh God,” she said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—Here, let me. I’ll get it.”

  And she pulled free of Michael and got down on her hands and knees to clean up the rest.

  And Michael got down there with her. Claire backed through the kitchen door with a load of stuff, and as it swung closed, she saw Michael lean over and kiss Eve. It looked sweet and hot and absolutely real.

  “Well?” Shane asked. “World War Fifteen over out there, or what?”

  “I think so,” she said, and hip-bumped him out of the way at the sink to dump her armload of plates. “You’re washing, right?”

  “I’ll play you for it.”

  “What?”

  “Best high score wins?”

  That was the same basic thing as doing it herself now and saving herself the humiliation, Claire thought. “No bet,” she said. “Wash, dish boy.”

  He flicked suds at her. She shrieked and laughed and flipped more at him. They splashed water. It felt ... breathlessly good, when Shane finally captured her in his soapy hands, pulled her close to his wet T-shirt, and kissed her.

  “And that’s World War Sixteen,” he said. “Officially over.”

  “I’m still not playing Dead Rising with you.”

  “You’re no fun.”

  She kissed him, long and sweet and slow, and whispered, “You sure?”

  “Well, I’m certainly changing my mind,” Shane said, straight-faced, at least until he licked his lips. His pupils were large and dark and completely fixed on hers, and she felt as if gravity had reversed, as if she could fall up into his eyes and just keep on going.

  “Dishes,” he reminded her. “Me dish boy. And I can’t believe I just said that, because that was lame.”

  She kissed him again, lightly this time. “That’s for later,” she said. “By the way? You look really hot with suds all over you.”

  The kitchen door opened, and Eve walked in, dumped a plateful of trash in the can, and practically danced her way over to the sink. She still had smeared mascara, and her tears weren’t even dry, but she was smiling, and there was a dreamy, distant look in her eyes.

  “Hey,” Shane said. “How about you? Want to play Dead Rising?”

  “Sure,” Eve said. “Fine. Absolutely.”

  She wandered out. Shane blinked. “That was not what I expected.”

  “She’s floating,” Claire said. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing. But she didn’t even insult me. That’s just wrong. It disturbs me.”

  “I’m taking advantage of all this calm,” Claire said. “Study time.”

  “Bring it downstairs,” Shane said. “I need a cheering section, because she is going to suck at zombie killing tonight. Just way too happy.”

  Claire laughed, but she dashed upstairs and grabbed her
book bag, which promptly ripped right down the seam, spilling about twenty pounds’ worth of texts, supplies, and junk all over the wooden floor. “Great,” she said with a sigh. “Just great.” She gathered up what she needed in an untidy armload and headed back downstairs.

  She was halfway down the stairs when someone knocked at the front door. They all stopped what they were doing—Michael, in the act of picking up his guitar; Shane and Eve, taking seats on the couch with game controllers. “Expecting anybody else?” Shane asked Eve. “Is your distant cousin Jack the Ripper dropping in for coffee?”

  “Screw you, Collins.”

  “Finally, the world is back to normal. Still not up to the usual Rosser Olympic-level insult standards, there, sunshine. Never mind. I’ll get it.”

  Michael didn’t say anything, but he put down the guitar and followed Shane to the end of the hall, watching. Claire descended the rest of the steps quickly, trying to keep her pile of stuff from tottering over, and dumped it on the dining table before hurrying over to Michael’s side.

  Shane checked the peephole, stepped back, and said, “Uh oh.”

  “What?”

  “Trouble?”

  Michael crossed the distance in a flash, looked out, and bared his teeth—all his teeth, including the vampiry ones, which didn’t exactly bode well. Claire sucked in a deep breath. Damn stupid book bag, picking a bad time to break; usually, she’d have brought all the stuff down, but she’d left her antivamp supplies upstairs in the ruined bag’s pocket.

  “It’s Morley,” Michael said. “I’d better go out and talk to him. Shane, stay here with them.”

  “Word of advice—stop telling me to stay with the girls,” Shane said, “or I will seriously bust you in the mouth one of these days. Seriously. I could break one of those shiny fangs.”

  “Today?”

  “Ah ... probably not.”

  “Then shut up.” Michael opened the door just wide enough to slide out, looked back, and said, “Lock it.”

  Shane nodded, and as soon as the wood thumped closed, he shot all the bolts and glued his eye to the peephole.

  Claire and Eve, by common silent decision, dashed to the living room window, which gave them an angled view of the porch—not perfect, but better than nothing.