Diana Peterfreund - Under the Rose

Oops, bad topic. Poe had lost his own patriarch-bestowed internship at the White House after (eventually and reluctantly) siding with me and the other active Diggers in our battle last spring. I wasn’t sure what he’d been up to this summer. (Though whatever it was, judging from his arms, he’d gotten a tan. Looked good on him, actually.)

“So, how’s…law school?” Last I heard, Poe had been scheduled to start as a 1L at Eli Law this fall, which meant this campus was stuck with him for three more years. Bummer.

“Fine.”

The conversation was going swimmingly. We stood in silence for a second or so, and then Poe, in a misguided attempt to jump-start the exchange, said, “Lil’ Demon asked me to play the Reaper tonight. Guess she couldn’t find anyone in the current class she liked enough to take on the role.”

Yeah, because insulting my club would definitely warm me up. “Or maybe she thought no one else had the requisite air of depression and desperation.” I smiled. “Planning on drowning anyone this evening?”

He matched my grim smile, and this time it wasn’t the makeup. “Only if you get close enough, Bugaboo.”

Asshole. I opened my mouth to respond, but Angel interrupted me. “Bugaboo, your turn in the chair,” she called, and I shot Poe one last, withering glare and departed.

“Who was that?” she asked me as the makeup artist started in with the airbrush. “I couldn’t tell under the goop.”

“Poe. Remember?”

She looked back at him. “Really? Jeez, what did he do over the summer? Take up bodybuilding?”

“Don’t know, don’t care. He should have spent the time getting a personality.”

“He’s got a personality,” Thorndike interrupted from the chair next to mine. Her artist gave her a warning glance and gestured dangerously with the palette knife. “It’s just not a pleasant one.”

The girls all laughed, and I noted Poe shrugging into his robe in the opposite corner of the kitchen, back turned. He hunched his shoulders at the sound. Oh, damn.

Whatever, Amy. He’s a jerk. Save your sympathy for someone else.

Lucky dropped by as I was tying the hood on my robe. “Hey, Bugaboo, I already talked to Soze, but I wanted to tell you that my—um, friend…he didn’t mean what he said at the bazaar. It just came out wrong.” She looked down at her hands. “He sometimes doesn’t realize how it sounds. I hope you don’t think I—”

I put my hand over hers, my earlier annoyance for her lack of commitment vanishing. “Of course I don’t. You’re one of us. I trust you. And we can talk about it more if you want.” I checked the swiftly emptying kitchen. “After the initiation.” She was always so much friendlier inside the tomb than when I saw her in the barbarian world. Better take advantage of it while I could.

Half an hour later, we were at “places,” waiting for the show to start, which meant I was back to crouching in a dusty corner with my bag o’ glitter, wishing I’d done more thigh workouts at the gym.

“Yo, ’boo,” Puck whispered across the way. “See anything yet?” He’d had been given the role of Quetzalcoatl in the festivities, proving perhaps that Lil’ Demon’s true talent lay in casting choices, because the shirtless-loincloth outfit was an excellent look for the boy. Feathered headdress, scale makeup, and all.

“No,” I whispered back.

“Good.” He slithered over to my side of the hallway (and I say that literally, as those FX guys had somehow applied a long tail to his outfit—which was, no, still not a turnoff) and slid down the wall next to me, crossing his legs beneath him. I spotted gym shorts beneath the loincloth. Damn. “About last night—”

Oh, no, please don’t ask about Brandon! “Yeah?”

“I wanted to apologize.”

Huh?

“For my mom. She’s not usually like that.” He fiddled with some of the beading on his ceremonial bracelets.

“Oh. That’s okay.” I cocked my head to one side. Was that the chanting in the Firefly Room starting up?

“We got some news.” He took a deep breath. “My dad’s pregnant. I mean, his wife. They’re having a baby. And let’s just say he’s known for a lot longer than he’s been acting like it where my mom’s concerned.”

I couldn’t even work up a token expression of surprise. Disdain, however, was available in surplus.

“Romantic, huh?” Puck said.

“Depends on your definition of romance.”

“I try not to have one.” He leaned into me, and let his voice drop to a low, husky timbre. “I find it’s better for everyone involved if I keep myself open to…new interpretations.”

“How magnanimous,” I said. “And kind of kinky.” Which would have sounded a lot smoother if my hands hadn’t gotten all clammy at the thought and dropped the bag of phosphorescent dust.

He looked down at the glitter scattered across the floor, then at me. “Slick move, Amy.”

“Ooh, best stick with ’boo, at least in the tomb. That will be two dollars.”

“Stupid fines,” he whispered against my hood.

I shifted my face ever so slightly toward his. “Tell you what, I’ll say ‘George’ and then we’ll be even.” But then neither of us said much of anything, what with the fact that our mouths were busy and all.

Now, you’d think cold tomb floors are not the most pleasant place to lie, but if you’ve got George Harrison Prescott—I mean, Puck—on top of you, you’d be wrong. Even with the random jabs and pokes from the quills on his costume, I was chock full of pleasure. Every time I kiss him (which has been twice now) I’m struck by the puerile nature of all the silly games men and women play. Why the coy drama? I want him and he wants me; who needs subtext?

Everything was going along beautifully in the first base department, and we were blithely and completely irresponsibly (considering the timing) headed to second when the explosion happened.

We froze at the din, and stared at each other as the floor of the tomb shuddered beneath us. Puck bit his lip. “’Boo, your face—”

“Get up,” I said, yanking my robe out from underneath him. “Get up now!”

Together, we rushed toward the balcony and looked down to see billows of smoke emanating from the Firefly Room. Several figures stumbled out, coughing, and Keyser Soze rushed down the hall, wielding a fire extinguisher. “Outta my way! Outta my way, folks! The last thing we need is the fire department up in here.”

“What happened?” Puck shouted down as we rounded the stairs. From what little I could see of the room, there appeared to be no raging inferno inside, but that had been one hell of a bang.

“Pyrotech issue,” Lil’ Demon gasped. “It’s okay, it’s okay. The grips got it out.”

“Bugaboo,” Thorndike said, pointing her pitchfork at me. “What’s all over your face?”

“Whatever it is,” Lucky said, waving her hand around to clear the smoke out of the air, “it’s the same stuff on Puck’s chest.”

I looked at Puck, whose body was smeared all over with phosphorescent dust. It was streaked on my robe and my hands as well, an obvious testament to my backstage activities.

Thorndike raised an eyebrow in my direction, and her disapproving expression was helped enormously by her devil costume. Playa, she mouthed in warning.

“Move it, girly,” Hale cried, shoving Thorndike aside to join Soze on extinguisher duty.

“Dear Lord,” came a voice through the haze. “What kind of show are you people running here?” I saw a curly head emerge from the smoky darkness. “I’d never expect the Diggers to be so sloppy!” Mara Taserati surveyed Lucky, Lil’ Demon, Thorndike, and me clustered at the foot of the stairs. “So the rumors are true,” she said.