table until
his palm covers my knee.
"You nervous?"
I shrug. "I haven't done this
much."
"What, had a pizza?"
I roll my eyes. "Dated."
He joggles my knee a little before
letting go. "So you're finally admitting that's what we're
doing?"
I shake my head, and he
grins.
"Veggie all right with you?"
"Fine," I say.
The waitress jots down our orders and
leaves us. All alone. That knee wants to bounce again, and it takes
all my energy to keep it still.
He props one elbow on the table. "So,
your mom didn't come to the tournament? How come?"
I run one finger across the tabletop in
front of us. "She doesn't approve."
"Of martial arts?"
And so much more. But he isn't supposed
to know about vamps or Chasers. "Of fighting."
He covers my fidgety hand on the
tabletop. "Then I'm guessing you didn't tell her about Sunday
afternoon?"
I shake my head a little, eyes on his
hand clasping mine. His thumb idly slides across the back of my
hand.
How can one touch send thrills all the
way through me?
"Have you talked to anybody about it?
About taking out those... guys?"
I hear the hesitation in that last
word. He knows something, but he can’t have guessed the truth. I
avoid his gaze, staring at the worn wooden tabletop
instead.
"What's to talk about? They were v—" I
cut myself off, shock sending my eyes up. Shock that I almost told
him.
"They were trying to kill us," I finish
lamely.
He holds my gaze. "You can trust me,
you know."
I'm learning that. But it isn't just me
with the secret. It's my whole family, our legacy.
"Have you talked to your cousin or your
uncle?"
I shake my head.
"No one?"
Another shake.
He squeezes my hand.
"Nightmares?"
How does he always know so much about
my feelings? Good guesses? Or intuition?
"A few." The worst was re-imagining
that moment when the vamp had Brett pinned, fangs inches from his
jugular. Only in my dream, I hadn't gotten Erick's knife in time to
save Brett's life.
"If you want to have a sleepover, I'm
your guy."
He waggles his eyebrows suggestively,
and that, along with his outlandish statement makes me laugh. The
painful nightmare recedes.
Our pie arrives, steaming hot and piled
high with veggies.
"How do you do that?" I ask as he lets
go of me to dish slices onto our plates. He gives me mine
first.
"Do what?" he’s distracted by the food
and only half paying attention.
"Make me feel better." I haven't
forgotten that moment at my house where his goofiness helped
relieve my pent-up tension.
"I know you." He lifts his pizza slice
and takes a bite, closing his eyes momentarily, in apparent
bliss.
He wipes his mouth, then starts again.
"We were friends, before..." He trails off.
"Before my dad died."
He nods and takes another bite. Is
there a pink tinge to his cheeks? Is he blushing?
"What?" I prod. I bite into the pizza,
and it's as good as the expression on his face implied. Heavenly,
with oozing cheese and just the right amount of sauce. And though
I’m thoroughly enjoying the pizza, I don’t tear my eyes from his
face. Waiting for an answer.
He hesitates, and now I'm intensely
curious, because Brett isn't one to hold back. He usually just says
it like it is.
"I...well, I liked you back then. And I
never stopped."
Seriously? "Is that why you threw the
fight? You had to know that giving up like that would piss me
off.”
He sighs. Exasperated? "I didn't throw
the fight. I—"
Now it's his turn to stop
himself.
His eyes flick around the room, like
maybe he's looking for a way out.
I get the same sensation I had before
when we talked at the dojo. Is he hiding something?
"I'll tell you," he says finally. "But
not here. Somewhere more private."
My curiosity explodes. What kind of
secret could be that big?
A guy I recognize from school walks up
to our table and addresses Brett, only glancing briefly at me.
"What's up man?" He and Brett bump fists. "Heard the news you
rocked your match. Congrats."
"Thanks. Do you know Emily
Santos?"
The guy’s eyebrows
Dave Grossman, Leo Frankowski