Page 11 of Feast

“You don’t believe in subtlety, do you?” he asked.

“Subtlety is for suckers,” she reminded him, watching his teeth sink into the sandwich right over where she’d bitten.

He grunted, which could have meant either agreement or dissent, and applied himself to his sandwich. Since her stomach was growling and her ham and cheese smelled delicious, she did the same.

Maddie let her gaze wander while she ate. There was no place like Vegas for people-watching, and her view of the casino floor gave her plenty to see.

She was watching a tall, statuesque blonde stalk by in a little black dress and fabulous shoes, wondering if it would be rude to run after her and ask her where she’d gotten them. Probably, she decided, but there was no rule against taking a picture.

She had her phone out and was trying to zoom in when 3A drawled, “Are you afraid she might kidnap, assault and/or murder you, too?”

“No, but I need those shoes.” She frowned at the image on her screen. Her phone was a couple of years old, and the camera just wasn’t up to the task—zooming in so far had blurred the photo too much. She held out a hand and wiggled her fingers. “Can I borrow your phone?”

He shook his head like he couldn’t believe she was asking, but pulled his phone out of his pocket, swiped his thumb to unlock it, and held it out.

Pleased to see he had the newest model, she opened up the camera and aimed. “Oh, this is nice,” she said when the shoes showed up on screen in crisp, clear detail. She snapped a couple of pictures, shifting around to capture them from various angles. “This is so clear I can see the stitching on the straps.”

“Are you done?” he asked.

“Almost.” She sent the pictures to herself, started to hand the phone back, then paused. “Can I look through your pictures?”

“Why?”

“Curiosity,” she said, studying his face. He was scowling again, but it looked less purposeful and more…habitual. Like that was just his normal expression.

He shrugged and popped the last of his sandwich in his mouth.

Taking that as agreement, she scrolled through his gallery. Aside from the three pictures she’d just taken, there were exactly ten other shots, and they were all of…

She squinted at the screen. “Are these car parts?”

“Motorcycle,” he mumbled around the bread.

She looked up at him. “How long have you had this phone?”

He finished chewing and swallowed. “Four months.”

“And there are only ten pictures on it?” She handed it back.

He tucked the phone away. “Those are the pictures I still need. I delete the rest.”

“Even pictures of your friends, your family?”

“Why do I need pictures of them? I know what they look like.”

“That’s…weird,” she decided.

“You’re the one taking pictures of a stranger’s shoes,” he pointed out.

She slurped up the rest of her Coke. “That’s practical. Now I can do an image search, find them, and make them mine.”

“They’ll hurt your feet.”

“Probably,” she agreed. “I’ll have to wear them someplace where I can sit for most of the night. Like dinner, or the theater, or—"

“Home?” he suggested.

“Ha.” She toyed with her straw, studying him. He’d finished eating and was kicked back in his chair, hands folded low on his belly as he watched her. He wasn’t scowling, but he wasn’t smiling either, and a lesser woman might have found being the focus of such an intense study unnerving.

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