Under the Gun (21 page)

“No, I love living in the city.” I frowned. “Sometimes I just wish it weren’t so .
. . volatile.”

Alex seemed to consider, then cocked his head at me, giving one of those
Father Knows Best
expressions. “Lawson, you know that wherever you go—”

“Stop,” I said. “I don’t want to hear it. Please indulge me in my non-demonic, non-everyone-wanting-to-kill-me
fantasy of a suburban life, complete with white picket fences, kids’ soccer games,
and a big shaggy dog.”

“No minivan?”

“Volvo. Two-point-five kids. Laughable mortgage. One of those plastic ducks out front
that you dress with the seasons.”

Alex grinned at me. “Seasonal duck dressing? Sheesh, Lawson, I figured you might want
a break, but I never pegged you for the Donna Reed type.”

I narrowed my eyes, feeling indignant. “I can be the Donna Reed type. Why? Don’t you
think I could be the Donna Reed type?”

Alex crunched on a particularly cheesy breadstick and spoke with his mouth full. “That’s
right. Never question the homemaking prowess of a woman who can shoot a pot roast
seventy-five feet.” He grinned and I felt my cheeks redden.

“That was one time. And, if I recall correctly, I was—”

“Three sheets to the wind?”

“I was going to say imbibing excessively, but we’ll go with yours, sure.”

“Okay.” Alex leaned back in his chair, wiping his greasy hands on a napkin. “So you’re
living in suburbia with your shaggy dog and your two and a half—”

“Two-point-five,” I corrected.

“Two-point-five kids.” He blinked out at the starlit city. “Is there a guy in all
of this Norman Rockwell goodness?”

My heart did a little neurotic patter. Was he saying he wanted to be a part of my
future? I turned to look at Alex, who continued to study the skyline. His profile
was perfect—a thick head of run-your-fingers-through chocolate brown curls, dark brows
that, when cocked, could make a girl lose her inhibitions—and possibly her panties.
A strong, straight nose. Pronounced chin with just the right amount of stubble. I
felt the flutter in my stomach but mustered my courage anyway. First I batted my eyelashes
in that sexy way that Nina did so effortlessly. Then I prayed to God that the majority
of the cheese and marinara sauce in my appetizer had made it into my mouth. Then I
lowered my voice into what I hoped with a sexy octave.

“Why do you ask?”

Alex’s head lolled toward me and he laughed. “Nice, Lawson.”

I rolled my eyes but eyed him. “Do you ever dream of running away?”

“To the suburbs?” He shook his head. “No.”

“Where would you go? You know, if you could?”

It was fleeting, and if I hadn’t been looking at Alex so hard I would have missed
it—the hint of sadness that darkened his eyes and flitted across his face. He pursed
his lips and the muscle in his jaw jumped and I had to look away, feeling a lump growing
in my own throat.

“Sorry.”

The longer an earthbound angel walked the earth, the more he started to remember about
his previous life. To us it would seem welcome, but to someone who will never again
be able to touch a loved one or share a memory with a friend, it grew nothing short
of hellish after hundreds of years. Alex had been earthbound for a while now, and
I knew from the darkness that marred his handsome features now and again that the
memories were pouring back, and they were strong, powerful—and hurtful.

I took a deep breath and squeezed Alex’s hand. “So, about the other night . . .”

“Now, what can I get you two?” The perky blond waitress bounded between us and the
spell was broken. Alex broke his hand away from mine to pick up his menu, and I took
an enormous glug of water, my stomach knotting. I blinked at Alex as he spoke to the
waitress and lost all my nerve. After she took our orders and left, Alex leaned toward
me again. “What were you saying?”

I smiled and chewed on my bottom lip, scanning the restaurant. “Um . . . check out
that guy, three p.m.”

Alex looked to his right, his gaze blanketing the slow-moving traffic. “I don’t see
anyone.”

“Your other three p.m.,” I hissed, jutting my chin.

“Okay, my right is your left. And your three p.m. is roughly nine-twenty.”

“Way to be precise. Do you see him?”

“Who? Nineteen-ninety-six?”

The man in question was clean cut, his bouffant at least three inches from his scalp
and so stiff it moved in one giant mass in the light breeze. He was sitting by himself
at one of the tiny patio tables, his rayon color-block shirt buttoned up to his neck.
I felt my mouth drop open when he scooched back from the table and crossed his long
legs.

“Shut up,” I whispered.

“What now?”

“Z. Cavariccis.”

Alex’s expression was blank. “I’m sorry?”

“Z. Cavariccis. The pants? Don’t tell me you don’t know what Z. Cavariccis are.”

Alex just shrugged and I gaped. “They’re pants. Really ugly pants, but like, the quintessential
ugly pants of the nineties.”

“Oh,” Alex said, his mouth full of cheesy garlic bread. “Forgive me for misplacing
that little nugget of Americana.”

I pointed at him with my own piece of bread. “You should know this shit if you don’t
want to be found out as, you know . . . angelic.”

“Z. Cavariccis. Right.” He tapped a finger to his head. “Locked away. Have you seen
our waiter?”

“He has a girlfriend!”

The woman who took the seat across from Nineteen-ninety-six was petite and elegant,
wearing a silky one-shouldered sundress straight out of Paris fashion week.

“How did Fashion Forward end up with Ninety-six?”

“Who had the penne?” our waitress asked.

Alex raised his hand and shot me a triumphant grin. “I guess we’ll never know.”

I buried my fork into five inches of pasta-cheese, cheese-pasta perfection, but I
couldn’t keep my eyes from wandering back to the fashion time machine going on behind
Alex. There was something off about the couple.

I dipped my hand in my purse. “Can you excuse me for a minute?”

“Must be serious if you’re leaving lasagna.”

“I’ll be right back.”

I passed Fashion Forward and Ninety-Six with my cell phone pressed to my ear. Nina
picked up on the second ring and I slipped behind a potted plant, where two pub-crawl
zombies were groping each other lovingly. They scattered when they saw me.

“What’s up, buttercup?” Nina asked.

“Fashion question.”

“Ooh, my favorite kind. If I have to be cooped up in this hell hole, at least I can
give fashion advice to make your world more beautiful.”

“Color-blocked rayon shirt and Z. Cavariccis.”

I could practically hear the horror etching into Nina’s face across the phone line.
“What did you say to me?” Nina whispered.

“You heard me. A color-blocked rayon shirt and Z. Cavariccis. And he’s got one of
those Jordan Knight bubbly bouffants.”

“Does he have an earring?”

I chanced a glance around the palm and narrowed my eyes. “Yeah.”

“Ah, just as I suspected. He’s new.”

“New?”

“Old.”

“Old?”

“Stop repeating everything I say. He’s dead, Soph, dead. No one steps out in rayon,
Z. Cavariccis, and a single stud. It’s the dead man’s triumvirate. He’s newly made,
newly out, and he’s probably on the prowl.”

I rolled up on my tiptoes when a waiter blocked my view. Ninety-six laced his long,
thin fingers through Fashion Forward’s and she gazed into his eyes, batting her thick,
over-mascarraed lashes. The adoration oozed off her.

“His nails are probably all broken from digging out of the coffin—check for dirt,
too.”

I squinted, and although I could see the shape of their linked fingers, I wasn’t close
enough to see the telltale graveyard dirt or broken nails.

“I can’t tell if his hands are dirty. What else you got?”

“Well, once awakened, he’d be thirsty. Confused, but mostly thirsty. He’d be looking
for easy prey.”

I bit my thumbnail. “Would he take his prey to dinner?”

“No, he would eat his prey
for
dinner. What’s going on out there?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Thanks for the tips.” I clicked my phone shut
and arced around the potted palm, then nonchalantly brushed Ninety-six’s outstretched
arm as I went back to my table.

“Everything okay?” Alex asked, his plate of pasta half empty.

“He’s warm.”

Alex quirked an eyebrow. “I know I shouldn’t be surprised, but seriously? Your lasagna’s
a he?”

I rolled my eyes. “Not my pasta. Ninety-six.”

“What were you expecting?”

I scooted my chair closer to Alex’s and dropped my voice. “If a guy walks out dressed
like that”—I angled my brows—“then he likely doesn’t know how far behind he is. You
know, fashionably.”

“And that means . . . ?”

“God, Alex, do I have to spell everything out for you?”

“Yes. Please.”

“He’s dead. At least I thought he was.”

“But he’s warm, so horror of all horrors, he’s a live guy in twenty-year-old fashion?
That never happens.” He popped another bite of penne into his mouth.

I cut into my lasagna and chewed thoughtfully. “I don’t buy it. In this town?”

Alex put down his fork and knife. “Now that’s one thing I truly love about you, Lawson.”
He blinked at me, his eyes catching the sparkle of the twinkle lights strung in the
trees, his loose curls lazily licking the tops of his ears. I knew I was supposed
to be flummoxed and mercurial and angered about his and my recent string of romantic
follies, but when his voice dropped into that spun-sugar sweetness and the cornflower
blue of his eyes pulled me in, I was a kitten, purring. The sexy softness of his voice
dripped through me and I put down my own knife and fork, knitted my hands in my lap,
and waited.

“What do you love about me, Alex?” I drew out my words, each one hanging on the soft
night air.

“I love that if there’s a seemingly simple solution to an issue, say, a gentleman
preps for a date by pulling out his best date duds—”

“Circa twenty years ago.”

“Circa twenty years ago, he can’t possibly just be a victim of fashion circumstance.
He has to be newly risen from the dead.”

I smiled sweetly. “The simplest solution is often the best solution.”

“And rising from the dead is simple for you, eh?”

I picked up my wineglass and leaned back in my chair. “I call ’em as I see ’em. Hey,
where’d he go?”

“Looks like his date didn’t mind his fashion flaws as much as you did. They’re leaving.”

“We should follow them.”

Alex blew out an exasperated sigh but threw down a few bills anyway. “Fine.”

I reached for his arm, but when I turned around, I was eye-to-glassy-eye with a pub
crawl zombie. He dropped open his mouth and gurgled, little bursts of beer-soaked
air bubbling in my face. “Ew!” I tried to edge around Beer Zombie, but there was another
behind him and two more behind her. Nineteen-ninety-six and Fashion Forward had disappeared
among the stiff, moaning crowd.

“I guess we’re not chasing bad pants tonight,” Alex said with far too easy a smile.

A little nervous zeal wound through me. Was I sending a woman to her blood-sucking,
badly fashioned doom?

“You’re overreacting, Lawson. You work for a company that
detects
guys like that. Any new vamps?”

I bit my lip, considering. “No. But—”

“You’re jumping to conclusions.”

I scowled. “Well, he’s Cabbage Patch-ing to them.”

Alex cocked his head, silent, but challenging. I blew out a defeated sigh. “It is
possible that I may have rushed to judgment as I have, on occasion—”

“Jumped to a conclusion or two?”

I cocked what I hoped was a menacing brow. “Not jumped. Hopped. Frolicked toward.”

Alex swung his head. “You’re impossible.”

We edged our way between the beer-soaked zombies and beer-buying zombie sympathizers,
and then zigzagged into a slip of a store selling gelato and delicate, hot-off-the-iron
pizzelles. The fog had finally blanketed the hot evening and I shivered, rubbing my
palms up my arms.

“Cold?” Alex asked once I had my gelato-slash-pizzelle spoils.

“A little.”

He shimmied out of the button-down shirt he was wearing over his fitted tee, and I
tried to convince myself that the my immediate salivation was due to the proximity
of my dark chocolate pinot noir gelato, rather than the sweet hunk of ice creamy goodness
flexing his muscles in front of me. Either way, I was engulfed in jaw-dropping, panty-melting
pleasure with a spoonful of gelato in my mouth and Alex’s gentle touch as he settled
his shirt on my naked shoulders. His fingers trailed the tiniest bit across my collarbone,
leaving a trail of electrical sparks that shot licks of fire directly to my belly.
I clamped my legs together and pleaded with my intellect to remember that I was in
the throes of a moral issue, caught between two men I really cared for. Then Alex
gently cupped my chin and rubbed his thumb carefully over my bottom lip.

“You have a little bit of chocolate sauce there.”

I couldn’t take my eyes off his sly smile, the drip of chocolate on his thumb as he
brought his hand to his mouth, parted those perfect lips, and licked.

The heat that roiled low in my belly starburst and was everywhere now; the angel on
my shoulder reminding me of my morals had been solidly sucker punched by a red-leather-wearing
demon who told me to pounce when ready.

I stopped and stepped in front of Alex. “About last night.”