Dark Taste of Rapture (Alien Huntress 6)

They’d rather be uncomfortable than touch her. Awesome. Well, she would rather they were uncomfortable and touching her. She dipped low in her seat, stretching out her legs, ensuring one of her knees wedged between Hector’s legs and the other wedged between Dallas’s.

They stiffened in unison, and she fought a smug grin.

“That’s bad for your posture, you know,” Hector said in that grumbling tone he just loved to use with her. “Sit up. Now.”

How cute he was, issuing commands as if he were her boss. “I don’t think I will. And if my back knots up,” she replied with the sugar-sweet tone she loved to use with her enemies so they’d never suspect her strike, “I’ll let you massage it better, so you can stop hinting that that’s what you want to do.”

He scowled at her. She smiled at him, a mere baring of her teeth—before flipping him off. Dallas watched the byplay through slitted lids. His mouth hovered between a fierce frown and a twist of abject terror.

What was his deal?

Well, she wouldn’t worry about him. Only the case mattered, she reminded herself. They’d dropped the witness at AIR before coming here, hoping he’d sober up and hurry through withdrawal so they could talk to him.

A harried waitress approached, a computerized notepad in hand, shifting impatiently from one sneakered foot to the other. She was older, with frizzy salt-and-pepper hair and ink stains on her hands. But she wore a necklace made from macaroni noodles, and Noelle’s heart gave a lurch.

She’d made a similar necklace for her mother long, long ago. Madame Tremain had pinched the thing between her fingers and grimaced. Grimaced, as if she were handling a rotting animal carcass.

“Mama wears diamonds, darling, not pasta,” she’d said. “Besides, we don’t want nasty insects getting into the house, now do we? No, we don’t. So throw this thing away, and we’ll go buy a real necklace.”

Noelle shoved the memory deep inside her, where a thousand others just like it resided.

“I’ll have coffee,” Dallas said. “Black, strong. Fine, just go ahead and bring me motor oil.” There was something wrong with his voice. Gone was the charmer entirely. In his place was a raging ass**le. “Oh, and about a thousand painkillers, if you’re serving them.”

“Only with the eggs. You?” One graying brow winged up as she focused on Hector.

“Just coffee for me.”

At long last, that stressed gaze landed on Noelle. She hadn’t even glanced at the menu glowing on the side wall, but she’d been to places very similar to this one and knew what they served. Except for one tiny yet important detail. “Do you have real meat or do you only use the syns and clones?”

“For God’s sake.” Hector, grumbling.

“Are you kidding me with this?” Dallas, snarling.

Noelle never removed her gaze from the waitress. “Well?”

“Syns and clones. You want real, you’ll have to go somewhere else.”

She heaved another sigh. Yeah, she’d figured that was the case; she was disappointed nonetheless.

During the war, things like water, animals, and, well, anything delicious had been contaminated, ruined, or almost completely wiped out. Now, to get the real thing, you had to pay—and pay out the ass. Only a few shops in this district catered to people like Noelle, who were more than willing to bend over.

“Oh, come on,” the waitress said, what little patience she’d had vanishing. “You want something or you don’t. Which is it?”

The attitude could use a tune-up, but its rust and lack of shine wouldn’t diminish her tip. In fact, she could mess up Noelle’s entire order, spit in her food, whatever, but the macaroni guaranteed her a hefty tip.

“I’ll have two eggs, over medium, with a side of hash browns, and don’t skimp on the butter or whatever variation you use. I want four strips of bacon, two sausage patties, and four hotcakes. I don’t care what kind of syrup you bring, just make sure it’s warm. Also, I want two pieces of toast, but don’t put any butter on those. And I want jelly, whatever you’ve got.”

An astonished, “That’s it?”

“For now.”

A hmph sounded as the waitress finished typing. She wandered off, and Noelle noticed that both Hector and Dallas were staring at her with equal measures of bewilderment.

“What? I’m hungry. I didn’t eat before, during, or after the wedding.”

“Yeah, but you just came from a gruesome murder scene,” Hector, Mr. Obvious, said.

“And that means I should starve for the rest of my life?”

“It means you shouldn’t eat something that looks like the dead guy’s chest,” Dallas snapped. “Now can the two of you stop flirting with each other? It’s annoying.”

Seriously, what was wrong with him? “How about this,” she told them both. “I’ll worry about my appetite and potential digestive problems, and you two worry about shutting your f**king mouths. Sound good? As for the flirting thing, your radar must be malfunctioning, Dallas. If you consider that flirting, I feel sorry for your girlfriends.”

No response was forthcoming, just more staring. Although Hector seemed to be battling a grin.

She snuggled deeper into her uncomfortable seat, the vinyl cracked and torn and catching in what was left of her savaged dress. She couldn’t wait to shower and change. Alone. Without Hector.

Avoid, avoid. Any topic was safer than the man across from her.

She cast her gaze through the smoke-hazed room. There were about twenty booths, nearly all of them stuffed with AIR agents, some in uniforms, some in street clothes. Conversations were loud, and laughter, when it came, was gruff.

There were two TVs posted in the far corners of the room, both playing the same game. Football. And there was Corban Blue in all his Arcadian glory, tall, strong, as pale as a moonbeam, making an astonishing pass, the ball whizzing through the air so quickly the camera couldn’t track it.

Lately, she just couldn’t escape him.

“What are you looking at with such an amazed expression?” Hector asked. He turned, saw the television, and grunted like the caveman he truly was. “I didn’t know you were into sports.”

“I’m not. I’m into the men. Uniforms are hot.”

Hector had removed his gloves on the drive over and hadn’t replaced them. Now he curled his fingers around the edge of the table, his knuckles quickly bleaching of color. What? Had her reply pissed him off? Made him jealous? Well, good. He deserved to stew.