Page 76 of The Darkest Note

The threat hangs between us, like the eye of a hurricane.

“Might want to be careful with your words, Brahms.”

“You might want to not be so paranoid, Dutch. It was a joke.”

It was not a joke.

If I’m getting their coffee every day, then you bet I’m going to slip a laxative in Dutch’s.

His eyes sharpen on me, but before he can say anything, footsteps clop down the corridor.

“What are you two doing out of class?” a teacher asks, hands on his hips.

“We were just about to head there now,” Dutch says. Taking my hand, he drags me in the opposite direction.

I stumble behind him. “My class isn’t in this direction.”

“We still haven’t gotten our coffee yet.” His voice is low and steady.

“Are you kidding me right now?”

“One thing you’re going to find out, Brahms. We don’t kid about coffee.”

We get to the cafeteria, which is empty because everyone is in class—as we should be. But I guess the Cross brothers play by their own set of rules.

Dutch leads me behind the counter where the food is kept in warming pans. I notice someone peeking through the window and wait, almost gleefully, for them to scold us.

Instead, the door bangs open and a hefty cafeteria woman barrels out, throws her arm around Dutch’s neck and kisses his cheek.

Dutch gives her a soft smile. “Maria, don’t tease me if you’re not going to leave your husband.”

She laughs and scrubs his jaw free of the lipstick stain. “Thank you for what you did for—”

He winks, cutting her off. “Don’t mention it. You got what I need?”

“Oh baby.” She does a hip roll. “I haveeverythingyou need, but you were late today. I can’t give you any extra love.”

“It’s okay.” He nods at me. “She’ll make the coffee herself.”

I bristle.

Maria’s eyes sparkle at me. “You have a little girlfriend, Dutchy?”

He leans close and whispers to her, “Maria, you know I only have eyes for you.”

The older woman swats him firm on the rump and laughs loudly. “Go make your coffee.”

Confused and a little disarmed, I follow Dutch into a small room. It’s got a counter, black and white frames on the wall, and sacks of premium coffee beans.

“What is this place?”

“Maria’s workroom. She makes all the coffee for Redwood Prep.” He arches an eyebrow. “Haven’t you tasted a cup yet?”

I refuse to tell him that I haven’t been able to afford anything outside of sandwiches, water and orange juice.

Instead, I shrug.

He points to the machine, unbothered. “I’ll watch.”

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