Poison Fruit
Page 4“Are you?”
“Sure,” I said. “It’s my job. I’ve been doing it all along.”
He nodded, too, and held out his hand. “Anytime, partner.”
I gave him a look. “Jesus, Cody! A handshake? Really?”
Cody grabbed my hand and yanked me in for a hug, hard and fast enough that I stumbled into the embrace. I wrapped my arms around him, feeling his lean, muscled strength, my fingertips digging into his shoulder blades. I inhaled his scent of pine needles, musk, and a trace of Ralph Lauren’s Polo mixed with laundry detergent from his shirt. He pressed his cheek against my hair, then let me go.
“Take care, Daise,” he murmured.
I blinked back tears. “You, too.”
On that note, Cody made his exit. I waited until the sound of his footsteps had receded to let my tears fall. If he’d just stuck with the unsuitable-mate speech, it would have been easier. Somehow, the fact that he’d admitted to developing feelings for me made it worse. Mogwai wound around my ankles and purred, trying to console me.
“Dammit, Mog,” I whispered. “It’s not fair.”
He purred louder in agreement.
I got up and put Billie Holiday on the stereo to sing about heartache, then ate one of the cinnamon rolls. Neither did a whole lot to make me feel better, so I grabbed my phone and called my friend Jen.
Two
Everyone should be lucky enough to have a BFF. Jennifer Cassopolis has been mine since we were in high school. We knew each other’s histories and secrets, hopes and fears and dreams. When you need to get good and drunk, that’s the kind of person you want keeping pace with you.
“Okay, girlfriend,” she announced as I opened the door. “I’ve got a bottle of Cuervo, a bag of limes, and a carton of Breyers cookies and cream, just in case. So go get your saltshaker and—” She cocked her head at my stereo. “Oh, hell no!”
“What?”
Jen thrust a shopping bag at me. “Put the ice cream in the freezer and cut some limes. I’m putting on some music from this century.”
“Okay, okay!” I went into the kitchen. In the living room, the plaintive strains of Billie Holiday’s voice gave way to the stomp-and-clap cheerleading beats of Gwen Stefani’s “Hollaback Girl.” “Hey, that’s not our old high school playlist, is it?”
“Yeah. I plugged my phone into your stereo.” Jen came into the kitchen. “Remember when you and I’d have our own dance parties in your mom’s trailer?”
“Yeah.” I smiled. “Good times.”
“Uh-huh.” Jen hopped up to perch on the counter beside my cutting board. Her dark, lustrous eyes were shrewd. “So, what’s the damage, Daisy? Officer Down-low or the hot ghoul?”
I finished slicing a lime into wedges and fetched a pair of shot glasses from the cupboard. “Cody.”
I sighed. “Let’s move into the living room.”
Over the course of a couple of tequila shots, I laid out my tale of woe. Of course, Jen knew the background.
“Damn,” she said sympathetically when I’d finished. “I’m sorry, Daise. That’s harsh.”
I shrugged. “Like I said to Cody, it is what it is. I mean, it’s not his fault. It’s no one’s fault.”
“Yeah, but . . .” Jen licked the web of skin between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand and shook a judicious amount of salt onto it. “He didn’t have to tell you that he was basically starting to fall for you. That just makes it harder, doesn’t it?”
I salted my own left hand. “I know, right? It totally does! Do you think he did it to make himself feel better? Or me?”
By the time we’d finished giving my conversation with Cody the sort of thorough analysis and dissection that it deserved, the level in the bottle of Cuervo had dropped noticeably, and both of us were feeling the effects. Not exactly drunk yet, but sober was definitely in the rearview mirror. On the stereo, Outkast was telling us to shake it like a Polaroid picture, and after one more tequila shot, it seemed obvious that the thing to do was order a pizza, dance around the living room, and flirt with the blushing delivery boy when the pizza arrived.
Okay, maybe we were more than a little drunk.
One medium sausage-and-mushroom pizza, two beers I’d found in my refrigerator, and at least another tequila shot later, we were definitely drunk.
“Okay, Daise.” Jen set down her empty shot glass with an emphatic thud. “What about the hot ghoul? Are we gonna talk about the hot ghoul?”
She blinked at me. “You want to put it on repeat?”
I blinked back at her. “What?”
“Outkast?”
Oh, right. “Not the band,” I clarified. “I mean Stefan’s kind of Outcast.”
To be fair, I can’t blame Jen for using the term ghoul. Everyone does it. I haven’t entirely broken the habit myself, though I try to be respectful.
“Outcast, right. Sorry.” Jen paused. “Did you ever find out what he did to get . . . Outcast?”
Here’s the thing about the Outcast. The name, which is the name they call themselves, refers to the fact that they’re formerly mortal human beings who’ve been cast out of heaven and hell alike and condemned to an eternal existence on the mortal plane, forced to subsist on the emotions of other humans.