Page 2 of Bad Seed
He’s seen me seeing him!
“Whoa!” I cry out and spin back to the bar, nearly upending my half-finished drink. My skin burns as if I can feel him watching the weirdo who was spying on him across the bar.
Gah! An ache to either tear off my flesh and flee into the night or crunch down until I cease to exist causes me to claw at my throat. I have to look absolutely insane, but I can’t stop. Everything’s itching my dry throat. Forcing down my saliva, I struggle to ignore the pain and reach for more of the dip.
My friends are watching, their eyes brimming with questions of how insane I am. I put on a big smile and dip my last pita in. “This is really good hummus.”
“Sadie,” Lucy says as I chew it down, hoping food will cure my rising embarrassment. “This isn’t hummus.”
“Huh?” I stare at the dip that’s been obliterated on my side, then into her face. It’s getting hard to focus, my eyes stinging like they’re on fire. With both hands, I simultaneously scratch my arm and neck.
Lucy picks up the plate beside me. “It’s baba ganoush.”
What?!
I rear back like the dip I’ve been eating all night is poison. Because it is.To me!They ordered baba ganoush? Why didn’t I notice? That’s eggplant. So much eggplant!
“It…” I yelp, finally realizing my throat is closing on me.
In a blind panic, I spin off of my stool and land on my feet. But not for long. The itchiness becomes a charring fire, and I’m fighting for air in the scentless smoke. “Please,” I mumble, pointing for my purse.
The Taphouse has gone quiet, everyone watching as my body shakes from my immune system punching me inside and out. The rash has gotten worse, stretching clear up my body. Hives build on not only my arms but spread across my tongue.
“It’s…” I moan and reach for the Epipen in my purse. My leg buckles and I fall. My knee hits the footrest of my stool and my chin strikes the seat sending it flying backward. Screaming in pain, and growing more delirious by the second, I plummet to the sticky floor.
“Help her!” Ann shouts. “She’s allergic!”
Yes. In my purse. Grab my Epipen, and I can fix it. This has happened before.
I moan, trying to roll myself back onto my feet. My skeleton is on fire. I gasp, fighting for the next and last breath of air.
Hands cup me, one under my head, the other running up my leg.
Brown eyes haloed in light stare down at me, judging my sins of eating baba ganoush without checking. “It’s okay,” god says from above. His holy palm curls up my thigh, and I gulp at god getting fresh.
A flash of orange and yellow presses into my thigh. “I’ve given you epinephrine,” he says, holding the injector tight to my skin. White light fades to shockingly handsome tan.
The immediate panic that I’m going to die begins to evaporate as my throat clears and my lungs order my mouth to gawp like a fish. All the while, Mr. Handsome gazes down at me like I’m a wounded bird in his enormous palm. My face is beet red, swollen, and I’m gasping for air—I’m the ideal choice for a man who’s into raspberry women.
“Someone call nine-one-one,” he shouts.
Feet shuffle around us, people trying to crowd around to watch as I fight to come back from nearly dying by the hands of eggplant. He keeps them away, resting me across his arm as he crouches down. “It’s going to be okay,” he assures me.
I’ve been down this road before. There will be another Epipen in twenty minutes, followed by a hospital visit. I know I’m going to be fine.
But the way he says it, his brown eyes piercing into mine, assures me down to my marrow. I will live…thanks to him. As he holds me tight, he cups his hand over my thigh, and my heart pounds faster than a jackhammer.
It could be love.
But it’s probably the epinephrine.
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CHAPTER TWO
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NO LIGHTS SAVE the glow from the control panel on the fridge shine in the kitchen. Still, a shadow moves across the counter—silent as a dead man’s heartbeat. I brace myself, sensing without seeing. The shadow is cautious, pausing just outside my range.
