“Some call it coffee.”
“From the Starbucks?”
The look he gave me.
“What kind of coffee?”
“I’m assuming the kind made out of roasted coffee beans and hot water.”
“No, seriously, what did you order for me? How do you even have money anyway? You spit in this, didn’t you?”
“I’m beginning to wish I had. It’s a vanilla latte, Delaney. I told the barista to give me what she thought Chief Reed would want and she gave me this. If you don’t like it, dump it out.”
He wasn’t angry. As a matter of fact he was grinning pretty widely, and had pushed into my space a couple more inches like he just couldn’t get enough of me right now.
I couldn’t tell if he just loved getting a rise out of me, or just loved getting a rise out of everyone.
“What did you pay her with?”
“She comped it because she appreciates the law, or maybe just wanted to thank you for getting rid of the gray-haired screaming rumblers.”
Good name for a rock band.
“They didn’t have gray hair.”
“I like your attention to the details that don’t matter.”
“I like you getting out of my space.”
“And your spunk.”
“You’re about to find out if you like my fist, my knee, and my can of mace.”
“What, no TASER?”
“Why waste the charge?”
“Ouch. Still, that’s a lot of effort you’re promising.”
“No effort at all. I feel like punching something right about now.”
“Isn’t that grand? I’m right here.” He waited, daring me.
My phone rang. “Step back. Now.”
He paused, then stepped back and slurped at his drink. The store, the sounds of shoppers, beeps of the checkouts, smell of coffee and maple glaze and rotisserie chicken all surrounded me again. I hadn’t realized it had all faded away, hadn’t realized all my attention and every sense I owned had been tuned to one thing only.
Bathin.
Why? I didn’t even like him. Was it a soul thing? A demon thing? Was he making me see only him? Or was it just because he had my soul tucked away somewhere I couldn’t feel it anymore and I wanted it back that I couldn’t look away?
My phone rang again. I glanced at the screen. Ryder.
I swiped my thumb across his image–a picture I’d snapped of him with the face paint mask he’d worn at the Cake and Skate. He didn’t look like a business owner, or a reserve officer, or a secret agent for the DoPP or a lackey for a god in that picture. He looked like a guy who had gone a little nuts and let his considerable artistic talent go wild with a fine point brush and a box of carnival paint.
He looked happy, alive.
“Ryder?”
