C.E. Murphy - Coyote Dreams

The apology left his expression, curiosity and interest replacing it in a lip-parted half smile. Mark had a very expressive mouth. I thought I could get used to watching it. “Can you?”

“Can I wh—oh.” I breathed a laugh and shifted my shoulders, discomfort creeping up and down my spine. “See, I can’t answer that. Anything I say, one of us has to be crazy to believe it.”

“So.” Mark picked up his water glass, swirling ice around, and put it down without sipping. “So you’re telling me you’re into this thing that you don’t expect other people to believe in, and you’d reject them based on their belief?”

I rolled my eyes up, considering that, then shrugged my eyebrows. “Yeah, pretty much. The only reason I believe it is I can’t get away from it. I don’t expect rational people to buy into the concept of magic going on around them. It’s the kind of topic you smile and humor people on, and later go ’Woo, she was a kook, huh?’ about.”

He tilted his head. “Is that what you do to yourself?”

Maybe I didn’t want to get used to watching him after all. I was not accustomed to feeling this much conflict over a guy. I told myself that, and very firmly did not let myself start thinking about my boss. Instead I stared at Mark, then exhaled heavily. “Yeah, basically.”

“Huh.” Mark quirked an eyebrow. “It must be a difficult dichotomy to be you.”

“Sometimes.” I shrugged one shoulder. “On the other hand, once in a great while it lands me dates with guys who use dichotomy in casual conversation, so it can’t be all bad.”

“Careful,” he said with a quick grin. “I’ve been known to throw even bigger words around without warning. They misspelled brulée , by the way. They’ve only got one “e” and no accent. You’re buying dessert.”

“How’d you—I haven’t even gotten to the dessert menu yet! No fair!” I went back to perusing the menu, fully aware that Mark had changed the subject deliberately and gracefully to let me off the hook, and grateful for the reprieve.

A lot of good food and several hours later, it proved that Phoebe was right. No one seemed to care that I was more of a twitchy, spasmodic marionette than a dancer. Impossibly loud music crashing into my bones made me stop caring, too, and consequently there were a couple of times when the woman in the mirror looked like she might know what she was doing out there on the dance floor.

Mark, on the other hand, really did know what he was doing, enough so that I accused him of being gay, which was wildly un-PC of me. He compounded the lack of political correctness by spending the next twenty minutes swishing around the dance floor, until Phoebe and I were leaning on each other and snorting with undignified laughter. I was actually having a fantastically good time when Barbara Bragg showed up.

For one horrible moment I was afraid she’d have Morrison in tow. There were things my constitution could stand, and things it couldn’t. My boss at a dance club was one of the latter. In fact, my own presence at a club was almost more than it could take, so compounding it with Morrison’s arrival would’ve just laid me out flat, shattered like so much windshield glass. Mark, blissfully unaware of my mental gymnastics, waved his sister down through a series of complicated hand gestures—which is to say, he pointed at us, then himself—suggested he was with Phoebe and me.

Barbara looked us both up and down, then turned to Mark with a grin. I could hear her over the music, which lent me respect for her lung power, if nothing else, as she bellowed, “You don’t get all the cute girls, Mark!”

I figured she had to be talking about someone else. I was too tall to be cute, and while Phoebe had great bone structure, I thought the near-unibrow might preclude cuteness. Regardless, Barbara slid an arm around Phoebe’s waist, fitting next to her like the proverbial peas in a pod, and grinned broadly at me as she pulled her farther away.

Phoebe looked about a thousand times more relaxed dancing with another woman than I could imagine being with anyone. My reflection was still having fun, but I felt a little thrill of envy spark through me. Barbara Bragg was physically adorable, with a pert, turned-up nose and pixiecut hair, her big blue eyes full of laughter. I was pretty sure her hair grew out of her head that particular shade of red, too, which I found totally unfair, and I’d never even wanted to be a redhead. It was the principle of the thing. And maybe the way she filled out the frilly sundress she wore, with curves in all the right places. She also had a butterfly tattoo on her left shoulder, matching Mark’s in size, color and newness. I didn’t know her, but it seemed to suit her: full of life and vibrancy, just like her brother. It wasn’t exactly hard to figure out what attracted Morrison to her.

I suddenly felt like a particularly tall and bony stick, and noticed the woman in the mirror didn’t look like she was having so much fun anymore. I gave Mark a meaningless smile and shouted, “Agua,” before elbowing my way off the dance floor. Being tall and broad-shouldered was good for that, anyway.

I ordered a shot of whiskey before remembering I was driving, then swore and gave it to the guy standing next to me while I flagged down the bartender a second time to get water. The guy looked surprised, then gave me a once-over and a smile that made me feel a little better about being a stick on legs.

A Walking stick. Hah. I was so funny. I said “Shit” under my breath and tightened my fingers around the cold glass the bartender slid at me. A peek over my shoulder told me Phoebe looked very butch dancing with Barb, though really, Phoebe looked butch a lot of the time. I didn’t normally think women several inches shorter than me could kick my butt, but I never doubted Phoebe’s ability to do so.

“What’s up?” Mark said from behind my other shoulder. I startled and almost tipped my glass over, and Mark followed my gaze to Phoebe and Barb. “Oops,” he said, the word almost a question. “You and Phoebe?”

The whole world had more faith in my ability to attract romantic partners than I did. I said, “No,” and slammed my water as if it was vodka. An ice cube hit me in the tooth. Ow. Mark touched my arm.

“So what’s the deal?”

I hate your sister seemed a little extreme as far as answers went. I had no reason at all to hate Mark’s sister. Certainly no reason I was willing to listen to myself about, anyway. I swirled ice cubes in the bottom of my glass, put on a deliberate smile and looked over my shoulder at Mark. “Nothing. Nothing,” I said more firmly. “Just needed some water. C’mon.” I caught his arm and pulled him back onto the dance floor, doing my best to let the music pick me up and sweep me away. Mark slid his arms around me from behind and the soft silk of his shirt brushed my spine, sending an unexpectedly enticing shiver over my skin. I nestled in his arms, closed my eyes and, half a moment later, somebody collided into my chest, completely ruining the moment. I opened my eyes, about to yell, but my objection was cut short as Phoebe gave me a ridiculously abject smile of apology. I rolled my eyes and shouted, “Careful, or I’ll take it out on you next time we fence.”

“Oh,” she yelled back, “so you’re planning on coming back to practice?” There was too much noise to carry on a real conversation, so she turned away as she asked, putting her back against me. The top of her head was just above my chin. Barb was in front of her, making a sandwich of the two of us in the middle. I smiled a bit and shook my head, then let my eyes close again. Mark did get all the cute girls, even if one of them was his sister. Ew.