Romancing the Dark in the City of Light by Ann Jacobus Read Free Book Online Page A

his face. The others laugh.
    Adrenaline courses through her veins, as she fleetingly wishes she were her old weight. Never corner something that’s meaner than you are, her dad used to say.
    A half dozen guys inch closer. She probably can’t vanquish them all but she could do some damage. She’s threatened people numerous times, but has only come to blows twice. The possibility of sexual violence distracts her. Six on one. But surely not here on the sidewalk in front of the M é tro entrance in broad daylight. Although pedestrians are now keeping clear of them.
    She steps toward him, watching herself move in slow motion. Every detail of the scene assaults her senses—garlic and grilled onions from a nearby restaurant, diffuse gray light reflecting off the chrome of a parked Honda, the guy’s hi-def patchy facial hair, his flickering eye movements.
    “In that case, don’t forget to FOOK your MAMAN .” She pronounces maman with her best accent so he is sure to understand. He does, and snarling, fumbles to grab at something in his jacket. Fortunately, it’s extremely unlikely to be a gun here. And she has a Swiss Army knife in her pocket. She can slash them with the corkscrew. Plus her flask is in an inner coat pocket over her heart, so at least if they stab her there, they’ll bounce back.
    Summer assumes her tae kwon do fighting stance.

THIRTEEN
    “Summer!”
    “Moony!” Summer cries. He’s at the top of M é tro stairs. “These turkeys are annoyed that I’m not covered up with one of those … long black things !” She fails to smooth the shake in her voice. “Oh yeah, I did clash them and their moms.” Clasher is a slang French verb she picked up.
    The gang collectively observes Moony’s limp and posture like the pack dogs they are. If they try anything with him, she vows to pop their eyes out.
    Moony rattles off something in Arabic. They frown and look back at her. Summer holds her stance and lifts her chin. Moony pats his coat pocket and keeps talking, now in French that flies over her head. They look alarmed, exchange glances, and slink away.
    Summer lets her breath out. “What did you say?” she demands when he reaches her side.
    He scowls at her. “You mean ‘Thanks for saving my butt.’”
    “I was doing fine.”
    “Think so?” His right arm hangs, but he’s shaking his left hand in her face. “Outta your mind?”
    “They started it. They wouldn’t leave me alone.”
    “You really can’t back down,” he states.
    “Look, it’s my training. Sell chicken, don’t be one.”
    “What?”
    “My family is—was—in the chicken business.”
    He shakes his head. “Oh. Right. Explains stupidity.”
    “I don’t need someone to protect me!”
    Moony looks at her like that’s the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. “Everyone needs someone to watch their back.”
    She blinks. “Whatever. So what did you tell them?” She is kind of drained.
    “You’re my violently insane cousin. Have your medication here.” He pats his pocket and the left corner of his upper lip pulls suspiciously toward a smile.
    Her mouth drops open. Then she laughs, and pulls out her flask. She offers it to Moony. “Just a splash? To calm our nerves.”
    “No, thanks.”
    “Don’t mind if I do.” She takes two sips then puts it away. “And, um, thank you.” She does totally appreciate that he had her back. Plus it’s just nice to be near him.
    Moony says, “‘Black things’ Muslim women wear, for modesty, are abayas . Men cover their heads and wear long thobes, too. In the Gulf.”
    “I know why they wear them. I just didn’t know what they’re called.”
    He herds her in the direction of the freeway overpass. The flea markets start on the other side of the freeway, la P é riph é rique. His eyes have dark circles, and his face is pale and pinched. At the risk of another fight, she asks, “Are you okay?”
    He sighs, but doesn’t get mad. “Yeah. Rough night.”
    “I know what you mean. Post-party