“Well, mostly serial killers. There is one where he helps track down a terrorist.” Justin pulls a face. “I don’t love that one. There’s a lot of casual racism in the way the characters are portrayed. It’s pretty gross, actually.”
“You don’t think these might be a little, uh, inappropriate? For the Staff Picks display, I mean.”
Justin glances meaningfully at my own picks for the week, a smile curving his lips. “Minemight be a little inappropriate?”
I follow his gaze to one of my own recommendations,Held Captive by the Merman. The cover features a shirtless, finned man, clutching a barely clothed woman to his scaly chest. Her back is arched, arm thrown back dramatically.
I clear my throat. “You might have a point,” I concede.
“Honestly, they’re not as bad as you might think. You should try one of them. I bet you’d like them.” His enthusiasm is disarming. “They’re really fun.”
“I don’t know…”
“Come on, when’s the last time you read something new?” he asks. “Just give it a try!”
It’s amazing, really. He’s almost as convincing as his sister. I wonder if it’s genetic.
“Fine.”But not this one, I think, setting the book back in its place on his display. “Which one should I start with?”
By the time Justin has finished, I have three Blake Callahan novels stashed behind the counter for later. And after skimming the first few pages of one, I have to admit, Justin was right.
They are really fun.
11
VIPER
Fire.
I slide my tongue over my teeth as I stare at the woman before me, with hair the color of flames. Her eyes are fierce and angry. A spark, ready to ignite a bonfire.
No. That’s not the right word, is it? It hits the ear wrong. Discordant.
A spark, ready to ignite…
“An inferno,” I say with a grin. That’s the word.
She raises an eyebrow at me. Not scared but apprehensive. Cautious. I smile a little wider, wanting to show her my teeth, wanting to see how she reacts to a predator.
“Excuse me?” she asks, arms crossed. When I don’t answer, she huffs, tapping her finger against her arm in annoyance. “Look, buddy, you’re going to need to order something or get out of line. I don’t have all day.”
She gestures toward the menu behind her, but it’s all nonsense to me. What the fuck do I know about the difference between a latte and a cappuccino?
“Coffee,” I order, ignoring the board. “Black.”
“Size?” she asks impatiently.
I grin. “Big.”
So fierce, this little spark. Even with me towering above her, even with most people on the street actively avoiding my eyes, trying so desperately not to look at my scars, she manages to glare at me, irritation written all over her face.
As she pours my drink, I stare into the glass case next to the register, full of buttery-looking treats.
Lavender bunny macarons, says the sign next to a line of lilac-colored cookies shaped like cartoon rabbit heads. The eyes are grotesque, a caricature of innocence and joy.
I haven’t eaten since the private jet that dropped me back in Fortune City this morning. Daryl’s wife and children are safe and sound—as safe as any of us are in this world—stashed in a city where the weather fluctuates between hot and hotter. Somewhere they’ll never be found. It hits me suddenly how hungry I am.
“Give me two of those,” I tell her, tapping on the glass. She slips a little glove over her hand before she reaches into the case for them. Her gloves aren’t anything like the ones Doc makes me wear. Hers are clear and loose, the plastic paper-thin.
