Diana Peterfreund - Under the Rose

Pretty soon, the room emptied out as each of my fellow knights departed, task in hand. Lucky remained bent over the laptop. I approached gingerly, as one might a wild animal that might suddenly a) bolt, or b) snap your head off. My anger at what I assumed to be her betrayal paled in the face of our current issue—and more, in the wake of what I’d seen outside the coffee shop.

“Lucky—”

“I’m really busy right now,” she snapped. Apparently, we were going with option b.

“Fine. We can talk later.”

“I’d prefer if we didn’t talk at all.”

“Yeah, I’m getting that,” I said, becoming somewhat snappy myself. “And though you can be as difficult as you want out there in the barbarian world, inside we’re supposed to support one another. I just want to help you.”

“Do you even know what a firewall is?” she asked.

“You know what I mean.”

Her fingers stilled on the keyboard and then she slowly turned and faced me. “I don’t care who you think you are, Amy Haskel, or what you think you heard. If you want to pretend it’s different in here, then that’s your problem. I know I’m under the same judgment in here as I am outside. I’m not going to let myself be corrupted just because a bunch of silly men in robes tell me it’s okay. And I’m not going to pretend any of you have my best interests at heart just because you took an oath to a minor goddess that doesn’t exist.” And then she turned back to the computer, and commenced typing.

Damn. Why did she join at all if she despised us so much? I took a deep breath. “You know, I never really thought it had anything to do with gods or goddesses. I thought that silly wood engraving was a symbol of this thing we made, all one hundred and seventy-seven years of us.” Okay, that was the definition of graven image, but bear with me. “This isn’t my religion, Lucky, and no one is asking for it to be. No one is asking it of you, either. But when I make a promise to someone, on anything, it’s not about the thing I’m swearing by, it’s about me. I made a promise, and I’m going to keep it. So I do have your best interests at heart. I do because I promised I would.” I turned to walk away. “And you owe us two dollars for using my barbarian name.”

I was halfway to the door when she spoke. “Coffee.”

I turned around. “What?”

Lucky sat in a leather armchair three sizes too big for her and stared down at the end of her braid. “I, um…I spilled my coffee earlier. I could really use some caffeine. So if you wanted to, um, make us some coffee, I’ll be done here by the time you get back and we can talk.”

I laughed. “You chew me out and then ask me to fetch you coffee? Luck, if you think that would work on anyone who didn’t really like you and want to help, then you have a very odd grasp of the human spirit.” I headed to the kitchen.

Now, if I were Hale, where would I hide the coffee? I was crouching in front of the pantry, shoving aside bags of potatoes and onions, when I heard footsteps behind me.

“Wow.”

I stood and spun to see George standing in the doorway, jaw hanging open. Damn, where did he come from? I hadn’t heard him on the steps. He came toward me, his eyes glinting behind his glasses. “Turn around, ’boo.”

I furrowed my brow but did as he asked, slowly rotating until I faced him again. This time, his mouth was closed, and his face shone with appreciation.

“When,” he began in a teasing tone, “did you get that lovely bit of ink on your backside?”

My hand flew to the waist of my low-rise jeans. Oh, right. There, framed perfectly by the top of the fuchsia lace thong I’d donned for Brandon’s benefit, sat the tiny hexagon of my Rose & Grave tattoo. “Last spring,” I said. “With the other girls.”

“I love it,” he whispered. “More than the other girls.” And with that enigmatic statement, his hand slipped around my torso and he traced the spot with his thumb. “Why the hell have you been hiding it all fall?” He shifted and arched his head over my shoulder until he could see my back.

“I haven’t been hiding it,” I replied. “You just haven’t been looking in the right places.”

“I concur.” He spread out his palm, flat against my back. “I’ve been woefully ignorant of all your right places.” And there it was, just a tiny touch of pressure, and I listed forward against his chest. He buried his face in my hair. “You look amazing today, ’boo.”

Brandon hadn’t thought so. Oh, irony of ironies that now the clothes I wore for my ex enticed the man responsible for screwing up the relationship in the first place. But that and other thoughts soon fled. How did George manage to do this? He was barely touching me—just the one hand against the small of my back and his jaw against my cheek—but I felt dizzy with anticipation. My hands went out to grasp the shelves, and I felt the unmistakable ridged metal of a coffee can.

Right. Coffee. Oh, hell, who needed coffee when I could just stand here and drink in the pheromones of George Harrison Prescott? My skin burned. If he would just shift slightly, if he would just move the hand he had anchored against my back, if he would just make the slightest gesture at all, I’d be his in a flash.

But he stood there, holding me, breathing deeply, his body almost, but not quite, touching mine.

Your move, Amy.

“We shouldn’t do this here,” I said at last. Because I’m a chicken.

“Those things you said last night at your C.B.,” said Puck, as if I’d never spoken. And now his hand began to move, ever so slowly, down over my jeans-encased butt. “I sat there and listened to you talk about all those boys you were with—”

“All those?” I said on a breath. “You should talk.”

He chuckled against my skin, and it felt like lightning. “Fine. That moderate number of boys you were with. And you know what I thought?”

Tell me tell me tell me tell me tell me.

I heard boots on the steps.

“Caffeine withdrawal is not a pretty picture, Buga—” Jenny swung into the kitchen and stopped dead. “Miércoles.” Her expression flashed with shock, then resentment. “Excuse me.” And she turned and ran.

Crap. Crap crap crappity crap. I dropped my head back against the shelf as George pulled away from me. “I wish she hadn’t seen that.”

“Why? Might do her some good.”

I bit my lip. “No, you don’t get it. Earlier today I saw her arguing with her boyfriend.”

Puck raised an eyebrow. “Luck’s got a boyfriend? That’s impressive.”

“Not if you saw the boyfriend. He’s a slimeball. He was being a total jerk to her and I’d just broken down that little shell of hers and convinced her to let me talk to her about it when you…”

“When I what?” Puck asked. “She acts like I did something to her personally. Always has.”

“She doesn’t approve of you.”

“So? I don’t approve of her, but I’ve never been mean.” His jaw was doing that tight thing again and I wanted to kiss away the tension. “Whatever. I am who I am, and she’s not the first person who has decided to judge me for it. There are plenty of people who hate me just for being a Prescott. My name is on a building down the street, and there’s no way to escape that. People like Lucky will decide I’m evil for breathing their air, and there’s no way to escape that, either.”

“Don’t worry what she thinks. She disapproves of all of us, I’m pretty certain.”

“That wasn’t quite the ringing endorsement I was looking for,” he said, pouting.

“Sorry,” I said. “What would you prefer? ‘Why, Puck, how could anyone dislike you? You’re a veritable icon of sexual power!’? ”