Page 76 of Tested
Hoping that he’s not too bummed that I’m sidestepping spreadsheets, I stay put. “Connor asked if I could go with him to interview the DelMarcos again and I said I would.”
“Oh.” He manages to hide any and all emotion behind a mask of vampire calm. Neat.
“I’ll be back in an hour or two and I’ll take a look at it then.” It’s not even midnight yet. I’ve got all night – and potentially the rest of my life – to evaluate his restaurant plans.
Before he can mount more of an argument, I head for the stairs. I leave by the back door and circle around the house to the street.
A couple of cops notice me attempting to sneak through the side yard. They holler and then a woman in street clothes jogs over to intercept me. “Are you one of the residents in the house?”
Shit. “Yeah, I’ve been living there for the last couple months.”
“I’m Detective Lawrence, and we’ll need you to give us a statement before you go anywhere.” She’s wearing the kind of slacks that never lose their crease in the front, a blazer that came from a different suit, and a couple weeks grow-out of silver at her hairline.
“I’ll give you a statement before morning, but right now Connor MacPherson has asked me to go with him to interview a suspect.” Might be a slight exaggeration, but I was pretty sure Connor would back me up.
Her skeptical look gives the impression that Connor’s going to need to get involved. “I don’t know who that person is and I’m not sure why someone who looks like he’s just out of diapers would be much help with a suspect.”
Aw, man, to be able to shift just my hand right now. I poke at my wolf, who side-eyes me and sends out a burst of heat. It’s not enough to do more than give me hope, so I straighten to my full five-foot-whatever inches and give her as much alpha attitude as I can muster. “Because when the suspects are supernatural, it helps to have a werewolf there for the interview.”
She blinks, real quick, the only tell that I’ve made an impression.
“Connor’s working with Detective Smith. Let me text them both and they’ll vouch for me.”
“Text Smith. I don’t know or care about the other guy.”
I do, shooting off a quick variation of Will you tell this person I’ll give a statement in the morning. I think about addingplease, but skip it. Smith responds by asking for the detective’s name and within a minute of my answer, she reaches for the phone in her pocket.
“All right.” Her expression has warmed up about zero percent. “Smith says he’ll be able to find you in case you skip out.”
Not exactly the reinforcement I’d hoped for, but if it gets me on the road to the Whisky a Go Go, I’d take it. Giving her a semi-serious salute – that might be interpreted as mocking if you look at it from the right perspective – I head for the street. Moving at either a very fast walk or a light jog, I wind down the hill, aiming for the Sunset Strip.
The Whisky sits on the corner of a block, the neon sign and reader-board making it impossible to miss. I don’t recognize any of the bands they’re advertising, but I gotta love the thudding bass and the smell of sweat rolling through the open front door. A parade of sweet rides cruises past: a pretty little convertible Mercedes, a vintage Camaro tricked out with neon running lights, a black Escalade that makes me think of Trajan.
And a beige Ford Taurus.
There’s too much traffic and too little curb space for Connor to stop, but he slows to a crawl. The car behind him honks its displeasure, but I manage to get the door open and my butt in the seat while the Taurus is still moving.
“I have got to get you a proper set of wheels,” I say, scrambling to get the seat belt buckled so the thing will stop beeping.
“I’ve been thinking about that.” Connor’s glance is shy, as if he’s not sure what to expect from me. I can’t blame him. I went from sucking him to sleep to screaming at him without a whole lot of explanation.
“Tell me your thoughts,” I say, making an effort to be Normal David instead of Freaking-Out David.
“What about a Mini Cooper?”
“What about one?”
“Well, they’re small and easy on the fuel costs, and I’m pretty sure they make an electric model.”
I make a sour apple face, but between the circles under his eyes and the fact that his beard’s almost as long as that hipster thing he had when we met, I keep my snark to myself.
“You can come with me and pick out the ballsiest one in the showroom.”
I slide into a grin that might resemble the Grinch when he has a terrible, awful idea. “I’d be happy to.”
Connor shakes his head and fights our way through the late evening traffic, and I exhale. Things aren’t altogether normal, but they’re close. It takes us twenty minutes to get from Sunset to the freeway, but once we’re there, traffic eases up and we make decent time. We don’t talk much. Connor periodically spits out bits of information and I try to help him connect the dots. Other than that I drift along, supported by the road noise and his whiskey and leather scent.
No matter how I redirect my brain, I keep coming back to the same thought: If Connor and Trajan break up, I’m going to be so fucked. It feels selfish to admit that, although I don’t mean the pretend pack thing. I care about both of them, probably more than I should, and if either of them leave our little triad, it’s going to hurt. Bad.
