Linda Robertson - Vicious Circle

I moved one stick, then the other, and held the chopsticks up for inspection. “No.” He put his chopsticks down. Reaching across the table, he took my hand in his before I could protest. Gently, deftly, his warm hands repositioned the sticks and molded my fingers into position. “There. Now try it. Pinch.”

I did, and actually got a bite. The vegetables needed half a minute in the microwave, but to warm them up, I’d have to set the chopsticks down. Then he’d have another chance to “help” me position them properly. I decided to eat the food just as it was and avoid further hand-holding. “Oh,” I said, chewing. “So that’s how you do it.”

“I thought you already knew how to do it,” Johnny said brightly, as if there was no innuendo in the statement at all. “Next time, we’ll try French. Or Thai. Some Thai can be really hot. I like it hot.”

Next time?

“Oh?” Nana said conversationally. “What about Greek?”

Johnny grinned and, despite the Wedjat tattoos, it was mischievous in a very little-boy way. Nothing scary there at all—until his smile decreased and he focused hard on me while he answered her, “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything Greek. But I’d love to.”

I’m not accustomed to being mildly flirted with, let alone blatantly flirted with. A little is one thing; it lets you know somebody’s interested. It’s flattering. But Johnny never did anything on a small scale. The sexual-tension thing—which he clearly thrived on—rose to an overwhelming peak for me with Nana sitting there, her old ears hearing every word and not catching a single innuendo. I was scared that she’d catch on. Scared she’d start cussing and go all indignant on us. Scared she’d laugh like a banshee and proceed to bring him up in conversation every morning at the breakfast table.

He had to stop.

When we were all nearly finished, I asked Johnny, “What’s that you’re having?”

“Bo Lo Gai Pan. It’s chicken and water chestnuts, pea-pods, mushrooms, vegetables, and pineapple.” He lowered his tone and continued. “On your tongue the pineapple just—”

I cleared my throat loudly and interrupted him. “You picked up the package?” I didn’t want to know what the pineapple did on his tongue. I just knew it’d be another innuendo.

Clearly amused but unoffended, he said, “Of course.”

I asked, “Briefcase?”

“More like a little overnight duffel. It’s on my bike.” He pushed his plate away.

Except for a few grains of rice clinging to a patch of sauce, the plate was empty. The man knew how to pinch with his sticks. There was a joke there, and I was glad I hadn’t voiced my thought aloud.

“That manager. She a friend of yours?” Johnny asked.

Nana stood up and cleared our plates away. I stared after her as she carried them to the sink. I don’t think she would have helped if it had just been the two of us for dinner. Clearing the table and doing the dishes had been my chores since age eight. But I was the roomie in her home then. Now, despite the situational reversal, I had to wonder what she was up to.

“More like an acquaintance. How’d she react?”

“She was cool.” He sounded disappointed.

“What about the customers?”

“The place was empty except for a little girl sleeping in the corner.”

I muttered, “Damn her,” my voice barely above a whisper.

“Her kid?”

“No. You didn’t recognize her?”

“Should I have?”

“It was Lorrie’s daughter, Beverley.”

“Beverley! Oh, she was facing away. If I’d known…” He paused. “What’s she doing there?”

“Lorrie knew that manager, made her Beverley’s guardian in her will, so Child Services has given her temporary custody.”

“I can’t believe what happened,” he said. “Heard about any arrangements yet?”

“I don’t think anything can be done until they release the body. I’m sure Celia will stay on top of it and let us know.”

Nana came over and patted Johnny on the shoulder. “Thanks for dinner.”

“So where’s this pup of yours, Demeter?”

“In the garage. Would you like to meet him?”

“Sure.”

The two of them went out, and a swirl of cooler air wafted in as they left. The cool air helped refocus my thoughts. Vivian was simply not up to parenting a grieving child. I doubted Vivian would abuse her physically, but Beverley needed mental support and understanding, not the rejection clear in Vivian’s tone and actions. In an effort to calm my instincts, I reasoned that I shouldn’t get involved in Beverley’s care. I was already way too involved in settling up with her mother’s killer. Social Services would check up on Beverley—

Shit. No they wouldn’t. Her mother had been a wærewolf. Though Beverley was clear of the virus, they’d conveniently lose her file and forget she was out there. Damn it, wasn’t there anyone else who cared?

“Yes. You do,” Nana said, opening the door to the garage.

My eyes widened at the thought that she’d suddenly become a mind reader.

“You have as much right to voice an opinion as anyone else,” she continued, over her shoulder to Johnny. “And, actually, I agree with you. I think ‘Ares’ is much better than ‘Poopsie.’”

I was relieved: at least Nana wasn’t a mind reader. “Ares?” I asked.

“Johnny said he thought it suited him better. So ‘Ares’ it is.”

The pup yipped happily from the garage.

Mystified by her agreeableness to Johnny, I went and stood beside her as she leaned on the door frame, fondly smiling out the door she hadn’t shut. After checking her face, I had the distinct impression that she was admiring our guest’s backside. Johnny and Ares were playing tug-of-war with a big rope toy I’d bought in the hope that it would save my couch. Both were growling merrily.

Nana turned and shuffled a few steps away, then stopped and faced me. “If you were smart, you’d make a mess of yourself and let him clean you up.” She disappeared into the hall.

My mouth was still hanging open when Johnny suddenly let the pup have the rope. He took his cell phone from its belt clip and opened it. “Hello?”

I was surprised he could get a signal out here.

“Yeah…shit. How bad? Do they know? I’m on my way.” He shut the phone. “Sorry, Red, I gotta go.” He leapt up the steps to the landing and passed me in a rush, headed for the front door. I grabbed his leather jacket from the chair and followed.

“What’s going on?”

He didn’t pause; he just opened the door and went out, talking as he walked. “Theo’s in the ICU. Car accident.”

“Johnny wait—” I was jogging to keep up.

“When they find out she’s got the virus, they’ll pull the plug! I gotta go.” He slipped a leg over the motorcycle. He took the jacket from me and slipped it on.

“You mean Theodora Hennessey, right?”

He nodded tersely; his face had hardened. He started the bike.

“I’m coming with you.” Awkwardly, I threw a leg over the seat behind him. It’d been a long time since I’d ridden on a motorcycle. Hands on the big black saddlebags, I situated myself so I wasn’t right up against him. He looked over his shoulder at me, curious. His mouth opened; then he clamped it shut and shrugged out of his coat. “Put this on.”

I did.

“I’m getting there ASAP, so hold on tight,” he said, and for once I didn’t think he was just being smug.

After about ten stoic minutes, I gave in and wrapped my arms tight around Johnny’s waist and let my body nestle against his. Without a helmet or goggles or even sunglasses, my eyes were forced shut. All I could do was feel…. Feel Johnny’s hard, lean body, tense with urgency, muscles moving with the bike as he swerved around, and I believe on a few instances between, cars. It was like dancing to the rev and hum of the engine, swaying together, except we didn’t use our feet.