person’s point of view, she’d always said.
Ha. He couldn’t possibly see from the point of view of a vamp.
Juma removed items from her backpack one by one. Lipstick. Tacky leopard-print wallet. Tampons. A package of bubble gum. “Where is that scrunchy?”
Jack finished the cup of coffee and poured another. “I thought you didn’t like doing hair.”
“I love doing hair! That doesn’t mean I want to be a hairdresser.”
“What do you want to be?” He looked intently at her. A mistake. Usually he managed to suppress the hard stare that was the legacy of the short time he’d known ConstantineDufray. He tried to tell himself Rose had knocked him off-kilter, but it was another unacceptable excuse.
“Not a hairdresser.” Juma stabbed the purple pick at him. “Leave me alone.”
Gladly. If he didn’t figure Rose out, he wouldn’t know where the balance stood between them. First she’d gotten mad for no apparent reason. A common enough female trait, and vamps were prone to tantrums. Then she’d bombarded him with allure, rendering him all but helpless, and gloated at her triumph. And yet, she’d said she was sorry, and now that he could think instead of reacting, he knew that she’d meant it.
Get real. Vamps don’t apologize. That was courtesy of his dad, who’d had a string of vamps over the years. Jack’s head began to throb.
Juma scrounged in another pocket of her bag: a book light, battered trigonometry and world-history textbooks, purple nail polish, and a paperback of Renaissance poetry.
Jack reached forward, but Juma snatched the book away. “It’s mine!”
“Of course it’s yours,” Jack said irritably. “You like poetry?”
She stuffed the book into a pocket of her oversized jacket. “Got a problem with that?”
Jack sighed. “Juma, I don’t care what you do with your life, and I care even less about your taste in poetry, but I promised to help you, so I need some information. Not only your full name and address, but I need to know why your grandmother is so set on you becoming a hairdresser. Don’t your parents have a say?”
“My mother died of an overdose when I was a baby, and my father’s still a druggie. He’s useless. I gave up on him years ago.” Juma turned the backpack upside down and shook out a rain of debris, including a wad of used chewing gum coated with lint. “Grandma thinks if I’m a hairdresser, I’ll stay inthe boonies forever. Not going to happen.” She pounced on a tiger-print scrunchy. “There it is! It’ll look great in Rose’s hair.” She laid the hair elastic beside the purple pick.
Jack watched Rose out front, yammering at Gil, while he idly inventoried Juma’s collection of junk. Zit cream, fake tattoos, SweeTarts, a transmitter…
This time his grab was fast and sure. “You see this?” He waved the transmitter in Juma’s face. “This is how Stevie found you.”
“What?”
“If you ever cleaned out your bag, you would have seen it. It’s a transmitter. He’s been tracking you. Which means he knows where you are right now.”
Juma drained white. “What am I going to do?” She reached for the transmitter, but Jack had already pocketed it. “Give it to me!”
“Calm down, Juma. Let’s think rationally. Make a plan.”
“Turn it off, you shit!” Juma yelled. “Smash it to bits!” She grabbed the pick and lunged in his direction. “You’re just like all the others! You want them to find me and take me away!”
“Cool it.” He flipped the pick out of her hand and put it back on the table.
The trucker who’d objected to Jack’s language must have been waiting for an opener. He clomped over. Cindy hurried in their direction as well.
“Harassing the ladies again, dude? You need to be taught a lesson.”
Jack put on the most inoffensive face he could dig up and read the trucker’s name tag. “Nice to meet you, too, Walt.” He held up the transmitter. “You know what this is?”
“GPS transmitter. What of
Ha. He couldn’t possibly see from the point of view of a vamp.
Juma removed items from her backpack one by one. Lipstick. Tacky leopard-print wallet. Tampons. A package of bubble gum. “Where is that scrunchy?”
Jack finished the cup of coffee and poured another. “I thought you didn’t like doing hair.”
“I love doing hair! That doesn’t mean I want to be a hairdresser.”
“What do you want to be?” He looked intently at her. A mistake. Usually he managed to suppress the hard stare that was the legacy of the short time he’d known ConstantineDufray. He tried to tell himself Rose had knocked him off-kilter, but it was another unacceptable excuse.
“Not a hairdresser.” Juma stabbed the purple pick at him. “Leave me alone.”
Gladly. If he didn’t figure Rose out, he wouldn’t know where the balance stood between them. First she’d gotten mad for no apparent reason. A common enough female trait, and vamps were prone to tantrums. Then she’d bombarded him with allure, rendering him all but helpless, and gloated at her triumph. And yet, she’d said she was sorry, and now that he could think instead of reacting, he knew that she’d meant it.
Get real. Vamps don’t apologize. That was courtesy of his dad, who’d had a string of vamps over the years. Jack’s head began to throb.
Juma scrounged in another pocket of her bag: a book light, battered trigonometry and world-history textbooks, purple nail polish, and a paperback of Renaissance poetry.
Jack reached forward, but Juma snatched the book away. “It’s mine!”
“Of course it’s yours,” Jack said irritably. “You like poetry?”
She stuffed the book into a pocket of her oversized jacket. “Got a problem with that?”
Jack sighed. “Juma, I don’t care what you do with your life, and I care even less about your taste in poetry, but I promised to help you, so I need some information. Not only your full name and address, but I need to know why your grandmother is so set on you becoming a hairdresser. Don’t your parents have a say?”
“My mother died of an overdose when I was a baby, and my father’s still a druggie. He’s useless. I gave up on him years ago.” Juma turned the backpack upside down and shook out a rain of debris, including a wad of used chewing gum coated with lint. “Grandma thinks if I’m a hairdresser, I’ll stay inthe boonies forever. Not going to happen.” She pounced on a tiger-print scrunchy. “There it is! It’ll look great in Rose’s hair.” She laid the hair elastic beside the purple pick.
Jack watched Rose out front, yammering at Gil, while he idly inventoried Juma’s collection of junk. Zit cream, fake tattoos, SweeTarts, a transmitter…
This time his grab was fast and sure. “You see this?” He waved the transmitter in Juma’s face. “This is how Stevie found you.”
“What?”
“If you ever cleaned out your bag, you would have seen it. It’s a transmitter. He’s been tracking you. Which means he knows where you are right now.”
Juma drained white. “What am I going to do?” She reached for the transmitter, but Jack had already pocketed it. “Give it to me!”
“Calm down, Juma. Let’s think rationally. Make a plan.”
“Turn it off, you shit!” Juma yelled. “Smash it to bits!” She grabbed the pick and lunged in his direction. “You’re just like all the others! You want them to find me and take me away!”
“Cool it.” He flipped the pick out of her hand and put it back on the table.
The trucker who’d objected to Jack’s language must have been waiting for an opener. He clomped over. Cindy hurried in their direction as well.
“Harassing the ladies again, dude? You need to be taught a lesson.”
Jack put on the most inoffensive face he could dig up and read the trucker’s name tag. “Nice to meet you, too, Walt.” He held up the transmitter. “You know what this is?”
“GPS transmitter. What of
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