Chapter 4

Chapter Four:
In the morning after my alarm went off for work, I took to my usual routine. I slipped on a little black Jersey dress (also, coincidentally, a boobage bearing article of clothing), paired it with five inch platforms of death, and added a heart shaped pendant to top it all of. Simple, but sweet. Good sometimes, like a breath of fresh air. Or Frosted Flakes instead of Reeses Puffs.
When I was ready to go, I set off for work, blatantly avoiding the house when I passed it. It seemed like every time I went anywhere near that place something horrible happened, so I needed to just keep away. I doubted the resolution would last, but it made me feel good for the time being.
Heading into the shop and going straight for my apron, I noticed that there was a whole crowd waiting for me. Reba and Kennedy were seated on one side of the counter talking quietly to each other, while in the far corner Dante and his friend sat watching the house. For a brief moment I wondered what their connection to it was, but it passed.
I headed straight for Reba and Kennedy, but Dante never gave me the chance to get to them. He sauntered up to the counter and leaned on it, giving me the elevator eyes. They lingered on my high heels, bare legs, and low top. Typical male.
“Awful lot of trouble to go to for a fake boyfriend,” he said simply.
I froze up for a moment before I could answer. “What would you know about it?”
He grinned at me, the same grin that dazzled me the first time we met. “I have incredible hearing.”
I could feel the heat rising to my cheeks. Oh no. What did I say yesterday? Not anything bad, did I? I wanted to think that I didn't, but something told me he had heard more than a little he wasn't supposed to. “Well. Even if he is fake, maybe I already like him better than you.”
He raised an eyebrow, still smirking. “Is that so?”
I bit my lip and shook my head. “Are you always this irritating?”
He chuckled as I struggled with my frustration, obviously amused. What was it with guys and thinking girls were cute when they were angry, anyway? The point in being angry isn't cuteness, it's being FREAKING PISSED OFF.
“Why don't you just go away?” I said.
He shrugged. “All quiet on the western front. Nothing better to do, so why not bother you?”
I just now noticed that his friend had followed him over from the table and was talking to Reba, watching her draw.
“That's Gabriel, by the way,” Dante said in a blasé manner. I spared him a glance before I wandered over to Reba and Gabriel. I couldn't quite see what she was drawing at first, but as my mind put it together my stomach knotted. It was Gabriel, over and over. A whole crowd of Gabriels, standing in neat little rows. Even if he didn't get what she was saying, I did.
“You're very good, you know,” he told her with a smile. “I'm flattered.”
“You shouldn't be,” she muttered, not looking up from her work.
“Excuse me?”
“You shouldn't be,” she said louder, finally looking up at him with an intense gleam in her eye. “Because guess what? I don't like conformists.” She went back to her work. “You look just like the guy next to you. The hair, the suit, the sunglasses. All things that society has told you will make you attractive and successful. All lies to mask your identity.”
I watched, stunned. Go, Reba, go.
There was a long silence where no one knew what to say, and finally Kennedy broke it. “That's her way of saying she's just not that into you,” she translated. Gabriel gave her a blank expression in return, and she avoided his gaze by checking her nails, painted pink with smiley face appliqués on them.
“Anyway,” I concluded the strange little tangent, and turned back to Dante. “I think you should go away now.”
He shrugged. “Can't. I have to be here. Besides, I want a Cappuccino.”
I rolled my eyes, then rung him up and threw together a coffee. But, just to make things interesting, I added a little special ingredient. Nutmeg. LOTS of nutmeg. Enough that no living being could ever want to drink that coffee.
“Here you go,” I said, walking around the corner to stand close to him and handing over the coffee with a sweet smile. As I did, an older woman walked in and stood looking at the menu that hung behind the counter.
He looked at me suspiciously; where had the hard to get act gone? As he took a sip of the hot coffee, his eyes widened and he realized the fact of the matter. He grabbed a napkin and spit the coffee into it, grimacing all the while. “What the hell are you trying to do?? Poison me?”
With that, the customer widened her eyes and hurried out of the shop.
Still, I sat with a smug smile on my face. “Oh, you know. Just spicing things up.” It was a cheesy line if I'd ever given one, but it had its merits.
He advanced on me until we were inches apart. “Don't worry,” he said softly. “I'll get payback for that.”
“Something wrong, babe?” a familiar voice said from the door. We all looked. It was Vincent to the rescue.
I grinned as he walked over and slipped his hand around my waist and planted a kiss on my cheek. Just marking his territory.
Dante glared daggers at him. “It's no use. I know you're just a fake.”
Vincent's eyebrows shot up and he straightened his posture. “Fake? You're certainly one to talk with that dye job of yours...”
I saw Dante exchange an exasperated glance with Gabriel before looking back at Vincent. He began to retort, but Vincent cut him off.
“You know what? I think you should leave,” he said, unyielding in his eye contact with Dante, a conceited tone showing through in his voice.
Dante clenched his hand on the silver top of his cane, as if he was going to beat Vincent with it, but he made no move. Suddenly Gabriel was there, putting his hand on Dante's shoulder.
“He's right, Dante,” Gabriel said. “Let's just go.”
Dante muttered something in another language before turning and walking toward their table in the corner.
“Thanks,” I offered to Vincent as he respectfully backed away.
“No problem,” he responded with a wide grin. “It was fun.”
I smiled and shook my head. “So, just out of curiosity, why do you hang around this place so much?”
He shrugged and continued talking to me as another customer came in and ordered. “No particular reason. I like the atmosphere. I recently moved here and decided to hold off on getting the job for a while; I don't really need the money, and it's good having some time to adjust and get to know the city.”
I nodded to him as I handed the customer his coffee. “I can see that. But I guess for me it's been just the opposite. Working here is what has helped me get to know the city.”
I thought back to my life in Seattle for a moment. I generally tried to avoid reminiscing, because it just made me sad and it did no good to dwell on the past, but I couldn't help myself. I had loved Seattle, and always would. Salt Lake had a great vibe, too, but it was different. And I missed the ocean.
Back in Seattle, I had been a completely different person: straight A student, plain fashion sense, star dancer of the dance company. There I had always felt left out and lonely, like I never quite fit in. I had only ever had one friend who stuck with me always. Amelia Monzani had been the only person who understood who I was under all the pretenses; probably because she was like me, a loner. She never quite fit in. For me, it was because I could only pretend to be like everyone else for so long before I wanted to rip my heart out. With her, though, I had never figured out what it was that had set her apart.
When I came back to reality a few moments later, I could see that Vincent was silently watching me while my friends chatted on the stools at the counter.
“You miss it a lot, don't you?” he said quietly.
I shrugged. “Sometimes. But I'm better off here. There I was always trying to be something I wasn't. Here I know who I am. And I have friends, even if they're all insane.”
He smiled. “That's good to hear. Just remember that.” He lingered for a moment, then turned and walked to his table and pulled out the book he'd been working on. As he tilted the book up slightly to catch the light, I caught what it was that he was reading and allowed myself a giggle. Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri. Of course.
I looked over at my friends and found them watching me. I quirked a questioning eyebrow and Kennedy responded by beckoning me over with a single finger.
“Spill it,” she said. Reba gave her support with the unrelenting gaze she gave me. It was reminiscent what I imagined a vulture would look like if it were given a human face.
“Um.” I chewed my lip, not sure how they were going to take it. Still, I launched into the entire story, all through Dante's leaving me fifty bucks to kissing on the front porch to recruiting Vincent as my fake boyfriend. I decided to leave the whole pepper spray incident out for the time being, seeing as it wasn't quite on need to know status. When I finished, Kennedy was grinning and giving me some slow applause, while Reba looked concerned.
“Bravo! Honey, you know how to tease,” Kennedy congratulated.
Reba, on the other hand, wasn't nearly as thrilled. She gave Kennedy a doubtful glance and added her two cents. “I don't know, Cleo. It sounds like this could get really messy really fast.”
“That's where all the fun is, duh!” Kennedy's eyebrows jumped up and down.
Two customers came in at the same time: one was a businessman engaged with someone on his cell phone, and the other was a regular- Paul, a fellow with a handlebar mustache and a British accent. As I started the order for the first customer, Kennedy glanced at her cell phone to check on the time. “Listen, I need to get going. I have a hot date with this stud-monster from my kick boxing class today. But why don't we all get together later? None of us have to work tomorrow.”
Reba shrugged, and the light bulb flickered on in my head. “Yeah, that's perfect. My mom's going out of town for the weekend to visit a friend of hers in Mesquite. We can have it at my place.”
Kennedy snapped her fingers. “Sounds like a plan. See you chickadees later.” Without waiting for a word of parting, she breezed effortlessly out the door. No matter how proud I was of my new look since moving to Salt Lake, I could never keep up with Kennedy. She was Venus incarnate.
Reba didn't say anything, but kept working. She and I chatted a little after I finished with my customers, and as it got closer to time for a late lunch, she bid me farewell and headed home to whip up a shredded carrot and peanut butter sandwich. A couple hours later, I was off. When I got home, rather than doing anything productive, I decided to take a nap. After I woke up I saw that I still had some time to burn before Kennedy and Reba headed over, so I watched a kids' movie and critiqued its artistic and conceptual qualities.
When Kennedy and Reba showed up, the party began. We dug through my movie collection for the sappiest, most girlie movies we could find, turned them on, then broke out the snacks. We started with popcorn, then graduated to home blended Oreo milkshakes, as fattening as could be.
“You know, that redhead could be a superhero,” Kennedy said, taking a long sip of Oreo milkshake goodness. “Like the one who fell into a vat of radioactive chemicals and became super strong and super sexy and for some reason his hair got changed color. And his friend could be his partner in fighting crime- maybe he's even secretly gay. Maybe they're both secretly gay.”
Reba and I laughed our heads off, high on a sugar rush.
“No, no,” Reba corrected as she caught her breath. “It would be the dark one who would be the superhero. The dark ones are always the superheroes, and the quirky ones are always the side kicks. Like Batman.”
“Whatever, yo!” Kennedy protested loudly. “Batman is NOT even a superhero. I mean, come on! He doesn't even have any powers! He's just a super sexy ninja!”
I raised my eyebrows. “Are you saying that being a super sexy ninja is not a super power in and of itself?”
Kennedy snorted and stuffed a hand full of popcorn in her mouth. “Okay, okay,” she nodded exaggeratedly as she spoke, barely comprehensible behind the mouthful of popcorn. “That's true.”
Reba raised her plastic cup of Oreo milkshake. “Here's to super sexy ninjas and their quirky sidekicks!” she toasted. Kennedy and I were enthusiastic to join. After a moment I decided to give up on the straw and instead gulped the milkshake down directly from the cup. Reba and Kennedy liked this idea and followed suit.
Kennedy gave a loud sigh of satisfaction and Reba started digging through the beaded bag she'd brought with her.
“Now then,” she said as she produced a tube of old lipstick and twisted it open to reveal a stick that was almost completely used up. She used it to draw a line on each of her cheeks, then raised her arms as if engaged in a druidic chant. “Tonight is the new moon,” she said, struggling to stay serious. “The time of month when wishes come true. So ladies,” she handed the lipstick to each of us in turn, who mimicked her war paint. “Let's give a little praise to the moon.”

Ten minutes later, we were running around outside in our skimpy pajamas of shorts and tank tops and fuzzy slippers, yelling and beating on pots with spoons. In any other neighborhood someone might have called the cops or the men in the white coats, but not here. It was the most mellow neighborhood I had ever known. People just didn't care- possibly because they had seen it all before.
We ran down the middle of the street, half dancing, drunken with the rush we felt. We ran all the way out of my neighborhood to the larger street that ran between the coffee shop and the house which then continued all across the city. It was six lanes wide, and completely dead this time of night. We spun around in circles and made loud Indian calls, competing to create the weirdest noises we could.
In the middle of the revelry, Kennedy stopped and extended her arms straight out with her face directed up toward the sky. “Oh, great god of the moon!” she yelled out into the chilly air, struggling to contain her giggles, “Grant us gorgeous guys and years of acne-free faces! Give us youth and happiness forever!” She twirled, beat on her pot, then stopped and resumed the same position. “And in return...” she paused, and peeked down at us. “What should I offer?” she stage whispered, giggling.
“Your favorite pair of pink socks?” I supplied with a wide grin.
She gave me a nasty look and stretched out again toward the black sky. “And in return, I offer myself!”
She yelled out another light, trilling Indian call and beat rapidly on her pot. Reba and I were in stitches, doubling over in the middle of the dead street.
“Yourself, huh?” I gasped as we started to recover.
“Way I figure it,” she explained, “Any god has gotta be very bloody sexy.”
I giggled and took in a deep breath of the crisp night air. It was cold outside, so much so that I could see my breath. But I didn't feel cold. I felt alive and brimming with energy, and the cold air only helped to intensify that feeling. We continued dancing and yelling down the street, all the way down to the house, where we taunted its scariness. Kennedy threw her spoon at it, and we laughed hysterically as she tiptoed across the haunted lawn to retrieve it from the bushes in front of the porch.
“Ow ow ow! Freaking ow!” she whined as she ran on her tippy toes back to us. “The bush scratched my thigh!”
I cackled. “That's what you get for throwing your spoon at it!”
She used the contaminated spoon to thwack me on the head, then Reba pointed hers like a general's bayonet toward my neighborhood. “Onward, my soldiers! Return to the barracks!”
“Oh good,” Kennedy huffed out. “I want to put a wet rag on my thigh so it doesn't swell up.”
I agreed with the decision as well. It had been fun that I would remember for years to come, but it was late, and the high was wearing off. And I was starting to actually feel cold. So we ran full throttle all the way back to my house and collapsed on the floor. An hour later we had cleaned ourselves up and fallen asleep.

Chapter 3

Chapter Three:
The next morning was my day off. So naturally, I slept until noon and took my time getting dressed. I was painfully slow in the shower and choosing my clothes, and by the time I was done, I was pretty proud of myself. Today I was sporting my same favorite pair of jeans paired with a black spaghetti strap top sprinkled with neat rows of little green stars. More important than the stars was the fact that this shirt showed off no small amount of boobage. It was clothes like these that made me proud of the lumps o' lard that made me a shapely female. Naturally, I wasn't quite as gifted as girls like Kennedy, but I wasn't hopeless, either.
With a few embellishments where they really mattered, like a cutesy green bracelet that jingled a little when I moved, my classic old sneakers, and a black tiered necklace that attracted attention in just the right places, I was ready to go.
Now was the hard part. I had known ever since yesterday that I was going back to that house one way or another, this time with my camera (and my pepper spray), and no crazies were going to stand in my way. Not any real fake vampires, not any smokin' hot redheads... although a good cup of coffee from the shop might.
I set out at a motivated pace, my small leather backpack of a purse slung over one shoulder. In one spacious pocket of my jeans was my little monster of a digital camera that really only seemed to work when it wanted to (which I prayed was today), and in the other pocket was my pepper spray, ready for attack. I wasn't planning on seeing the dressed up wacko again, but, well, just in case...
Twenty minutes later, I was standing in front of the house, engaged in a staring contest with the boarded up windows that flanked the door on the wraparound porch. I was losing. The place still gave me the heebie jeebies, but this time there was merit behind it. There was potentially a well costumed psychopath living inside. That was good reason to be freaked out, wasn't it?
With a sigh of determination, I stepped forward and crossed the distance to the front door. As I put my hand on the cold door handle, I vaguely hoped that it would be locked. But again, I was wrong. The door swung open easily, and I found myself facing the big, scary house.
Once again caught and intrigued by the many treasures that lined the walls and decorated the foyer, I stepped inside and powered up my camera. Luckily, it looked like it was going to cooperate today. I immediately started snapping away, with one pleasant little beep following right after another. Pictures of the pictures, pictures of the dried flowers and beautiful wooden tables, pictures of the piano that stood silent in the corner. And it wasn't until it popped up on my little LCD screen that I realized one of my pictures had caught none other than the psychopath I had encountered on my last visit. This time he had come from a doorway a few feet from the front door, opposite the staircase. I stared at his picture on the LCD for several heartbeats before I dared to look up at him. When we made eye contact, my stomach writhed with fear.
“You again,” he said quietly, in the same deep, rich voice I remembered from last time.
What could I say? Sure, I'm just a magnet for trouble?
“Yeah.” It was lame, but it would work.
He started to advance on me, running his hand along the wall as he went. Glancing toward the hand, I noticed gaunt, long fingers that ended in pointed, yellow fingernails. The kind that could really make you cringe if they got near a chalkboard. An involuntary shudder ran down my spine with the mental image, and suddenly I realized that he was only a couple of feet away. Far too close. I caught the vague scent of rich spices on him, but it wasn't something I was going to dwell on.
Instead, my mind finally shifted into gear and I brought my pepper spray out of my pocket, putting my camera in the other pocket in the same quick motion. “Stay back!” I threatened, shoving the nozzle at his face. I needed to make sure he got a good view of it. Maybe where he came from they didn't have fangled things like pepper spray.
When I registered the expression on his face, I felt confused. Even with the scarf over his face, I could see that he was smiling at the self-defense spray can. Why was he smiling at it? I dared to glance at the can, and realized with horror that the leather cover was still buttoned over the top. I couldn't even press the nozzle without the cover unbuttoned. It was like waving a gun in a hardened criminal's face without turning the safety off.
Furrowing my brow, I quickly snapped the cover off. There, that would show him. But he was still just smiling. I watched his amused gaze wander from the canister to my face, where it lingered, before straying lower to the rest of my body. I suddenly regretted wearing my cleavage shirt today.
“My name is Djibaaji. And your name is Cleo, am I correct?”
I shuffled slightly backwards from him. That just took the amount of creepy this was to a whole new level. “How do you know that?”
He glanced away from me as I waited for an answer, as though he didn't want to tell me. I understood his point of view. I probably wouldn't want to tell me either. But that didn't mean I was sympathetic toward him.
It was then, watching his face and expecting his reply, that I noticed for the first time the color of his eyes. As the leaves on one of the trees outside shifted and sunlight filtered through the open doorway, it struck his irises and gave off a tiny glint of gold. I leaned forward, trying to catch the sight again, and his eyes flicked back to me, watching as I stared into his eyes with a newfound fascination.
“Djibaaji, what's going on?” I heard someone say from behind me. I started with the unexpected intrusion, turned, and my finger clenched down on the nozzle. Unfortunately, it had drenched my hand and permeated the air around us before I realized that I was holding the canister backwards. Coughing and gagging as the gas filled my lungs and burned the inside of my body, I collapsed to the ground. Only a few moments later, I passed out entirely.

When I woke up, I was at home in bed, and I could have sworn that it was all a dream. It had to be. After all, how else would I have gotten home? However, when I pulled myself out of bed, I saw myself in the mirror and the realization that it had to have been real struck me like a pile of bricks. My hair was relatively unscathed, but my eyes were red and felt tired, my makeup was a complete disaster, and my face was covered in dried tears and snot. The hand that had taken most of the spray, my left, was red and itchy, and burned when I touched most things. Note to self- pepper spray equals ouch. Next time I plan on using it, I should probably make sure I'm pointing it the right direction first.
Disgusted with the sight of myself, I washed off my face and reapplied my make up. It was a quick job, but it did the trick and hid most of the irritation in my eyes. There wasn't much I could do about my hand, but I figured it would be better overnight. I adjusted everything else; bra, boob shirt, necklace, bracelet, hair, shoes. Okay. Most mortifying moment of my life successfully recovered from.
I timidly went downstairs, knowing that today was also my mom's day off and she was probably home. In fact, she probably had some idea of what happened.
“Mom?” I asked, coming into the living room. I was completely unprepared for what I found.
Sitting across from my mom drinking iced tea from one of our small green glasses was the guy who had walked in on me and Djibaaji. He looked like a punk teenager, hardly older than me, with the baggy jeans and chains and t shirt, but the shirt was white instead of black, and the jeans were a light blue instead of dark. Even his high tops were white. He was wearing a chain necklace and wore studs in his ears. His face seemed very pleasant and friendly, and if I weren't so inclined to dislike him simply for the fact that he made me spray that stupid pepper spray, I'd probably want to get to know him. His hair was bleach blond and worn in gel spikes, completing the punk-lite look. As I stopped dumbfounded in the doorway and my mom gave me a smile in greeting, he turned and waved. “Hello, Cleo. How are you feeling?”
I couldn't find words, so I just shook my head. Of all the things to see after waking up from that nightmare, this was the weirdest.
“Do you want some tea?” my mom asked. I shook my head, and she continued. “Felix was just telling me about how your can of pepper spray malfunctioned down by the shop. That's too bad, we'll have to see if we can get you another one.” I didn't have to look at Felix to see that it was taking all his effort to hold back a chuckle.
“I'm, uh, going to stop by work. I think I left my lipstick there yesterday.” Without waiting for an answer, I ran up the stairs to grab my purse and bolted out the door. Ugh. Way too awkward.
Twenty minutes later, with the sun low in the afternoon sky, I was pulling the door open to the shop and walking toward my regular table. However, I saw Dante and his friend sitting in the same corner they had claimed yesterday and turned right back around toward the door.
Well, shoot. If I sat down alone, Dante would know I was fibbing about having a boyfriend. But if I went home, there was the weird Dracula's friend Punky McPunkster waiting for me. Great.
I turned back around and chewed on my lip as I looked over the current crowd. Pickings were slim. Everyone was too old, too young, too skinny, too fat, or just plain the wrong gender. There was really only one possible candidate, a guy who had started coming into the shop a few weeks ago and who, as far as I could see, mostly kept to himself.
Inwardly cringing, but highly aware of Dante's eyes following my every move, I sauntered over to the stranger's table and sat down. “Hi,” I greeted with a friendly smile.
He was at the stage of life where he had developed a well structured body at a pleasant height with plenty of muscle to spare. His face was chiseled and strong, punctuated by a firm jawline and framing smart eyes. Those eyes were a beautiful dark blue, the color of an old pair of jeans. His hair was cut at a medium length, not quite heavy enough to lay down flat on his head; instead it stood free, stylishly tousled, but not as deliberately so as Dante's Mediterranean friend. As I sat down and greeted him, he looked up from his book with a furrowed brow and puzzled expression. “What are you-?”
“Just go with it,”I pleaded, my smile fading. “It's sort of... um, well. I just need you to pretend you're my boyfriend, okay?”
His hard brow line softened to a blank stare. “Are you insane?”
“Yeah, kinda.” Biting my lip, I remembered the ridiculous tip Dante had left me the day before. “If you do it, I'll pay you fifty bucks.”
His eyes dropped back down to his book. “I'm not an escort.”
I felt like stomping my feet and having a hissy fit. It sort of matched the mood I had been in ever since waking up. “Believe me, whatever you want, as long as it's reasonable, I'll give it to you.”
His gaze slid back up toward my face, where it lingered for a long moment. Then he looked away, out the window, considering his options. Under the table, I crossed my fingers.
“Alright,” he said, finally looking back at me. “I want a date.”
I straightened myself out in my chair. “What?”
He shrugged. “Maybe boyfriend is a little presumptuous at this point, but I could settle for dating.” A smile grew across his face and eased a bit of the tension I felt in the pit of my stomach.
I glanced toward Dante, who was still watching my every move and smirking smugly to himself. “Okay,” I agreed, looking back at my new fake boyfriend. “It's a deal.”
“I'm Vincent. You're Cleo, right?”
I jumped backward in my chair. “What? How do you know that?” I asked, my voice higher and more frantic than usual.
He gestured toward the counter where Kara was serving up coffee. “Your apron has a name tag when you're working.”
I felt my shoulders relax and slump a little. “Right.”
“So, tell me about it. Why are you so desperately in need of a boyfriend?”
I sighed and grimaced, not really wanting to divulge the story, but figuring I'd better.
“It's the redhead in the corner back there,” I said, caving against my better judgment. “Last night he... well, he made a move on me and I told him I had a boyfriend. And I know he didn't believe me, so now I'm just trying to back it up.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Right. Because that... makes perfect sense.”
I bit my lip. “Yeah, I know. Bad.”
“You must really dislike him.”
“Actually...”
“You like him.”
“Pretty much.”
He nodded. I could tell that my skewed logic was way beyond his power to comprehend. Funny, because it made perfect sense to me. In a weird, non-logical way.
“Well, first thing's first, then,” he said, standing up. I watched him, puzzled, as he walked around the table to stand behind me. I felt his hand slip onto my shoulders and he bent down to whisper in my ear. “We'd better make him jealous.”
I couldn't help but smile. Strange as it seemed, I felt like it was going to be very fun watching Dante fume across the shop. Vincent's hands dug into my shoulders to give me a fantastic, mind-numbing massage, while his mouth advanced from my ear to place a kiss on my cheek. Glancing over at Dante, he was no longer smirking. In fact, he looked thoroughly pissed.
“Excellent,” I muttered as Vincent migrated lower, tracing my skin down to my jawline and place a kiss on my neck. With that I gasped and my skin contracted into goosebumps. His massaging hands paused and he pulled away from my neck.
“Did I do something wrong?”
Blushing, I shook my head. “My neck's a very sensitive spot,” I confessed.
Vincent grinned and planted one more kiss, this time on my forehead. “I'll remember that for later.”
He straightened up to move back to his seat and, watching Dante across the room, I could tell that they exchanged a glance. Success! Dante was thoroughly fuming. I could almost see the steam coming out of his ears.
Someone cleared their throat behind me and I saw Vincent glance up at them. “Cleo?” the person asked. I turned, and lo and behold, it was none other than Felix the white-haired wonder.
I groaned. “Hi, Felix. Enjoy having tea with my mother?”
He grinned and moved to stand beside our table. “It was very good tea.”
In my aversion to looking him in the eye, I glanced in Dante's direction. Both he and his friend were at strict attention, watching my interaction with Felix. Maybe they knew each other?
When I didn't answer, Felix cleared his throat again and pulled something out of his pocket. “Anyway, I thought I'd return your pepper spray. You dropped it on the floor when you, uh...” he glanced at Vincent, then finished. “Passed out.”
I could feel the blood rushing to my head. “Don't remind me.”
Felix set the canister on the table, looked around the shop, and caught sight of Dante. “...Anyway... I should probably get going,” he said, still looking at Dante. Dante was giving him a heated glare. I probably wouldn't stick around either.
“Bye,” was all I offered.
Felix did his best to offer a smile, then turned and hurried out the door toward the house.
“Who was that?” Vincent asked with an eyebrow raised.
I winced, then once again gave into telling him about it. “He startled me today and I accidentally sprayed myself with the pepper spray. I think he took me home. All I really know is that I woke up in my own bed, and when I came downstairs, he was drinking iced tea with my mom.”
Vincent grinned and shook his head. “Who are you?”
I ran a hand through my hair, no longer caring what it looked like. “I wish I knew.”
It was then, only a couple of minutes after Felix left, that Dante and his groupie headed out the door, canes in hand, walking purposefully toward the house across the street. I watched them cross the street in the dim glow of the street light, then they disappeared into the house behind Felix. Great. They knew each other.
“Well, I should probably get going,” I told Vincent. “Nice meeting you.”
He smiled and watched me stand up. “You too. Need me to walk you home?”
I nearly cringed at the offer. “No thanks,” I responded as politely as possible. I'd decided that guys walking me home was too dangerous. You never knew when we might end up making out on the front porch.
I left Vincent reading his book once again, and I walked home in the fading sunlight of twilight. But I was in the middle of the city, and there were plenty of street lights, so it wasn't as though it was dark. Besides, I was armed with pepper spray once more, even if I would probably never dare pull the trigger again. The only thing I really hated on the walk home was how chilly it got in the evening; I even found myself wishing I had Dante's coat again. But I was too proud to admit that to myself, so I resolved that it really wasn't all that cold and set off at an even more brisk pace.

Chapter 2

Chapter Two:
My manager, Jeff Wall, watched me lay motionless on the table. “Hey, Cleo, you okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.”
There were a lot of things I could have said to him in that moment, but instead I chose one thing that was worth a thousand words. I gave him the middle finger.
“Okay. I won't ask,” he said defensively.
I sat with my head on the table for several moments, taking the time to slow my breathing and straighten out my thoughts. But it was sort of pointless. My thoughts were so tangled all the time anyway that when something really shook them up, there was no hope of working them into a comprehensible pattern. So instead of dealing with my sudden fright now, I decided to put it off until after work. Yes, that was good. Work made everything clearer- or so I liked to tell myself. Procrastination was my key to life.
I forced myself off of the table and went behind the counter, depositing my purse in a cupboard and trading it for the Bad Ass Coffee apron. Jeff covered the counter with me for the next half an hour, then his shift ended and I was running the place alone. But that wasn't a problem. We didn't get a ton of customers, so it was easy to work alone.
Work was at a meandering pace, especially this time of day. There were a few customers that I suspected were here on late lunch breaks, and the rest of them were either unemployed or punk kids too rebellious to be in school. Of course, I should be in school too, I reasoned. But I had moved here so late in the school year that we'd decided to just skip my last quarter of junior year and register for the next year. I'd have to make up a few credits for graduation, but I'd deal with that later.
For the most part, I spent my shift wandering through the shop wiping down tables and picking up trash, or staring out the window into space. Except today it wasn't space. It was that house across the street. It was probably my own personal punishment from God that the house just happened to be directly in my line of sight whenever I looked out the bank of windows that fronted the shop.
It was during one of these long moments of spacing off that two of the strangest customers I'd ever seen came into the shop. They were both wearing expensive, custom-tailored suits that made them look like they had to be weighty businessmen, but they were young, twenty or twenty-one at the oldest. One was well groomed, with his suit buttoned and tie neatly knotted. His skin was dark, from the looks of which I ventured to guess he was from the Mediterranean area of Europe. His black hair was gelled into a spiky, sexy mess that even the best looking movie stars would be jealous of. Even though it was tousled, not a hair looked out of place.
The other man, though he too had the expensive suit, was a stark contrast. His shirt was untucked under his open jacket, with a few of the top buttons undone. There was no evidence of where his tie might have gotten to. His skin was lighter, suggesting that he was of a Caucasian racial background, and his hair- by far his most striking feature- was an unnatural neon red. It was pulled back into a pony tail longer than even most girls could claim, hanging down the length of his back. The strands were razor straight, clean and well groomed. It was, if not attractive, interesting.
Both of them, besides their matching suits, were wearing dark, slender sunglasses and holding plain, silver topped canes. That above anything else made them look like pompous jerks, and I was resolved to be less than friendly. That was the great thing about working here- my boss figured that if I had reason to be rude to a customer, they probably deserved it.
They approached the counter as I tried to look busy, scrubbing away at a coffee stain on the counter that had been there since the dawn of time and wasn't about to yield to the likes of pathetic little me. They finished up their conversation before ordering, which, I noted with curiosity, was in another language- probably something European. Maybe the Mediterranean guy didn't speak English.
“Two tall Cappuccinos,” the dark skinned one ordered. Well, so much for not speaking English. Not only did he speak it, he had no trace of an accent.
I glanced up at them before moving to start the order; they were both watching me, but I couldn't make eye-contact thanks to the dark shades. It made me feel uncomfortable.
Sticking with my plan to be mean to them because they were snobs, I was slow making their order. More than slow, I was glacial. I meandered around the kitchen, dropping things, pretending I didn't know where stuff was.
“By all means, go as slow as possible,” the redhead said quietly. The remark was aimed at his companion, but I doubted he had gone to much effort to hide it from me.
I stopped in the middle of pouring milk into the coffees and turned to him, leaning on the counter and resting my elbows behind me. It helped me to puff out my chest, and feel kinda tough and awesome. “What's your rush, hotrod? Got a date with your right hand?” Both of them froze with this comment, so I smirked and went back to the coffees. “You keep goading me, you'll be using your left.”
I snapped lids on the drinks and turned back to them with a wide grin on my face, but was startled by what I saw when I strode toward the counter. The redhead had taken off his sunglasses and was grinning a brilliant, gorgeous smile at me. His eyes, now exposed from their previous cover, were a cool, icy blue, and they made me feel hot in the head and short of breath.
He took the two drinks from me and muttered something in the foreign language to his partner, who was looking at him warily. “Thank you,” he told me in a deep, smoldering tone. He finished up by tossing me a wink and stuffing a bill into the tip jar. Then the two walked away to find a seat in the far corner of the shop, and I found myself clutching at the counter for support. WHEW! No wonder he kept those shades on. If he went around giving looks like that to every girl he saw, they'd be dropping like leaves in his wake.
And he was still a pompous jerk.
They stayed in the shop for several hours after that. Even though I was suddenly enthralled with the strange redhead, I avoided looking at him too much. It seemed like every time I glanced in his direction, he was already watching me, and we made eye contact. His companion didn't seem too enthusiastic with his preoccupation, but there didn't seem to be much he could do. At first I heard him speaking harshly to the redhead in the foreign language, but after a while of having no effect, he gave up and spent most of his time staring out the window in the direction of the house.
An hour after the two strangers showed up, a familiar face appeared at the door. “Reba!” I huffed out with relief, glad to have a taste of normalcy today. She answered with a quiet smile and took a seat at one of the stools at the counter, immediately pulling out her sketchbook and drawing pencils. From the filthy state of her hands, I figured she had started a drawing before coming here and was looking to continue work. And that was fine with me. I just wanted the company.
Reba was the first friend I had made upon coming to Salt Lake and starting work at BAC. We weren't exactly alike, but we'd just been attracted to each other as friends without really knowing why. One day she'd come in and sat at the counter, we'd started talking, and it had stuck.
She was one of those interesting people that have a lot more beyond the surface than you could ever guess. For starters, she was Russian. Her full name was Reba Igorevna (because her father's name was Igor) Denisova, and she had lived most of her life in Russia. It was only a few years ago that her family had migrated to America. Despite this, she only had a trace of an accent, and spoke fluent English, as well as retaining fluency in her native Russian.
As far as physical looks went, she was the sort of person that some might be afraid to approach. Once upon a time, she had been a brunette with pretty, long, dark hair. But then she and her boyfriend had gotten in an argument, and in her anger, she had shaved it all off. This was about a week after I met her. Her ears had small gauges in them, framing her sharp, angular face. She wore her make up even heavier than me; she, like me, had the heavy eye make up that blanketed her deep set eyes, but she also had traces of blush and dark lipstick. Today she was wearing a black t-shirt and gladiator sandals that complimented her print skirt, which was decorated with Celtic knot work in black, white, and shades of yellow and green.
“New project?” I asked her as she started working.
“The tree across from my house,” she answered, showing me a picture she had snapped with the Polaroid she carried around with her.
“Looks good,” I encouraged.
She furrowed her brow and looked up at me. “What's going on? Is something wrong?”
I was, as always, stunned by her incredible perception. I sighed, then launched my story of the day. “I went into that house across the street finally,” I started; she stopped working and stared the half-finished tree on her sketch pad. “It was fantastic. Beautiful. All sorts of old, wonderful things. You'd love it.” I hesitated, then continued. “But there was someone else there. I don't know if he lived there or was just there the same time as me, but he was... weird. Like he was in a Dracula costume or something, but it didn't look like a costume. I didn't really stick around to find out. I bolted out of there as fast as I could go, and came here.”
She could hear the reluctance in my voice, and tentatively asked, “There's more?”
“There's more.”
She grimaced, then nodded for me to continue.
“The two guys in the far corner showed up a while after that. I've never seen them before, but I get the same vibe from them as the guy in the house. They're weird. Like they don't belong, somehow.”
I glanced at the table with the two strangers, and saw Reba turn to look as well. The redhead was looking out the window, like his companion, and saying something that I couldn't hear. He stopped talking as he glanced in my direction and saw both me and Reba looking at him. His companion turned to look at us too. I looked away immediately after the redhead saw us, already feeling my face start to burn. Reba kept looking. She was more unyielding than I was. After a few moments, she turned back and stared at her tree. “Huh.”
At this very moment of awkwardness, the door opened again and another familiar face appeared. “STOP THE PRESSES!” Kennedy, the newcomer, proclaimed loudly. Several sets of eyes around the shop shifted to look at her. “I am here.” She strode toward us, her hips swaying as though she were on the catwalk, and most of the people who had been distracted turned back to their own things.
“Hey Kenny,” I greeted her with a grin.
Kennedy Jackson was a striking contrast to both me and Reba. Her style was similar to mine, but had been translated from hot gothic rocker chick to Rainbow Brite. Today she was wearing a purple fishnet undershirt beneath an acid green python tank top. This was paired with a denim mini-skirt trimmed with sunshine yellow ruffles. A teasing amount of bare thigh skin was exposed before giving way to white school-girl knee high socks with pink and white tennis shoes. Matching her outfit (which was exactly the sort of thing she wore every day), she had a thick mane of bleach blonde hair, accented by streaks of bubblegum pink. Right now she wore it in a ponytail type style that mimicked the shape of of a mohawk. Naturally, it all looked gorgeous with her healthy tinted skin, heart shaped face, pouty lips, and big, round brown eyes.
Kennedy waited a moment for a hello from Reba, but it never came. “Don't I even get a hi?”
“Hi,” Reba muttered, engrossed in her work.
“Ugh. Your coolness points just dropped ten points.”
“Considering the last time we discussed my 'coolness points' they went up 'a gazillion', I think I'm okay.”
Kennedy's lips puckered to one side of her face, like she was sucking on something sour. “Yeah, but when I said ten, I mean ten gazillion. It's like when they say one and really mean one million.”
Reba furrowed her brow and looked up at Kennedy. “When does that-”
“Shh!” Kennedy suddenly interrupted Reba.
“What?”
“... Embrace the silence.”
We all sat still for a moment before cracking grins. Classic Kennedy moment.
My friends stayed with me for several hours, keeping me company when business was slow. At some point during this time (though I was a little disappointed, I pretended to be proud of myself that I didn't notice) the two suits abandoned their table and left the shop. A while after I noticed, Kennedy and Reba decided to leave, since the sun was getting low in the sky and they had things to do. Finally, at seven o'clock, my shift was over. I handed the shop down to Kara, one of my co-workers, exchanged my apron for my purse, and went to collect my tips for the day. A lot of it was change, but there were a few one dollar bills in there. I straightened out the crumpled ones and slipped them into my wallet, and almost passed out when I found a fifty in the pile.
Suddenly my mind flashed back to when the redhead had collected their drinks from me, and how he had slipped a bill into the tip jar. It had to have been him. None of our other patrons looked nearly rich enough to be giving out those kinds of tips at coffee shops. I was astounded that no one had tried to pocket it out of the tip jar, but maybe people weren't as bad as I gave them credit for.
Shaking my head, I stuffed the rest of the tips into my wallet and headed out the door, ready for the twenty minute walk home.
“Chilly night,” someone said as I rubbed my arms that were bare save the fishnet undershirt. I was waiting for the light to change so that I could cross the street. Mildly curious about the speaker, I turned and my heart jumped through hoops as my brain registered that it was the redhead from earlier.
“Uh... yeah,” I answered lamely.
He shrugged gracefully out of his jacket and offered it to me. The rational part of my brain told me not to take it, but I was really cold, so I slipped my arms into the sleeves. “Thanks.”
“No problem. You always walk home alone?”
The light changed and the signal to walk flashed across the street, so I started on my way. He followed. I glanced back toward the shop, but there was no sign of his companion from earlier today.
“No. I mean, sometimes my friends come with me.”
He smiled as we meandered across the street, swinging his silver topped cane. “The friends who visited you earlier today.”
“Yeah.”
“Interesting friends.”
I didn't reply to that, because the looks of them was only the beginning. After a beat of silence he realized I wasn't going to answer, and he changed the subject. “My name is Dante.”
“That's a funny name.”
“Yeah, it is. Let's compare.”
I smiled a little and thought about it. Really, he was a stranger who was probably pretty wealthy and powerful and I shouldn't get involved. But I liked him, so I figured that counted for double points on the side of getting involved. “My name's Cleo.”
“Cleo,” he repeated. “I like it.”
I shrugged, not sure how to respond. We turned into my neighborhood. There were several more minutes of silence, then we were at my house. I paused at the front walk, then continued to the door. He stuck with me the whole time. There was more awkward silence as I paused at the door, then I suddenly remembered his coat and took it off. He took it from me and draped it over his arm, not bothering to put it back on.
“So, um... goodnight, I guess,” I said quietly, turning toward the door.
I felt his hand warm on my arm as he pulled me back toward him, then before I knew it he had backed me up against the wall of my porch, his body only inches from mine.
I opened my mouth to protest, but couldn't find the words as I stared into his burning eyes. Then he kissed me, and before I knew what was happening, my lips parted to let him in. A gush of warmth flooded across my body, and I felt him press himself against me, sandwiching me with the wall. His hand that wasn't preoccupied with the cane and jacket gently slid around my waist to rest at the small of my back. Though I didn't register the mental command, somehow my arms were around his shoulders, cupping his head.
Then that pesky little strand of rationalization popped into my head. Here I was, making out with a stranger whose name I had only learned a few minutes ago? Come on. I was better than that. Trying to convince myself I was angry and offended, I pushed him off of me and once again retreated to the door. “I... uh... have a boyfriend,” was the only thing I gave him before going inside. My last view of Dante was him standing there, not quite sure what had happened. As if he had never been rejected by a girl before. Not surprising.
I had a boyfriend? Stupid. Stupid stupid STUPID. He would see through that in a moment, and now I was stuck wondering how I was ever going to back up that little fib.

Chapter 1

Chapter One:
At eleven AM, my alarm forcefully jolted me awake. For a moment I shoved my head deeper into my pillow, but alas, I knew there wasn't much choice. In two hours I had to be to work, which left me an hour and a half to shower, style my hair, find some clothes, put on some make up, and scrounge up a little food.
As I got into the shower and let the hot water run over my skin to wake up a little, I found myself muttering a famous old war tune.
“Oh, how I hate to get in the morning... oh, how I long to remain in bed...”
Ten minutes later, the song was still in my head while I used the blow dryer on my hair.
“Someday I'm going to murder the bugler... someday they're going to find him dead. I'll amputate his reveille and step upon it heavily and spend the rest of my life in bed...”
While the lyrics were very specific to an army bugler, I had thoughts geared more toward my alarm clock. It was ugly anyway. I needed a new one. Maybe one that had kittens on it? Yes. Kittens made everything better.
Another ten minutes, and my hair was nearly dry and on its way to being styled. I worked on it with precise care. Freshly dyed black and cut in layers from the chin up, I was still in the phase of actually caring what it looked like. In another two months when my ugly brown regrowth really started to show and I couldn't get the mane as a whole to cooperate, I wouldn't be going to so much trouble. Dried and shaped, I added some greasy product to make it look piecey and gorgeous and threw in a cutesy little red bow for the hell of it. It looked weird with my numerous ear piercings, but I liked freaking out the conservative old people anyway.
Next up were clothes. Easy. I threw on a wide fishnet undershirt over my black bra, then added a black tank lined with studs along the neckline. The Gothic red lettering on the front spelled out “Devil Doll”, a little touch I had added in tribute to a retro-style Jazz singer. After the top was ready to go, I wriggled into a pair of old jeans torn up at the knee and slipped on a pair of black sneakers.
Make up. Luckily, I had plenty of time for this one. It took me about twenty to thirty minutes to put on make up, but only because I did the whole shebang. Foundation (no blush, though, because I kind of liked the pale-as-the-driven-snow look), eye shadow (the dark, smokin' look), eyeliner (again, heavy and dark), mascara, and a touch of coral lipstick to add some color. I went so far as to spray on a tangy hint of perfume, but I'd never confess to it. I was too hardcore for anything as feminine as perfume. There. All done. The awesomeness of my dark eye makeup almost justified my boring brown eyes. I would've given anything to have a cool color, like blue... or purple.
With about twenty minutes left for food before I had to leave, things were looking swell. But I really didn't have much of an appetite. I attributed my lack of hunger to the fact that I had just woken up, so instead of breakfast, I nicked a chocolate bar from the fridge and headed to work almost an hour early. The way I saw it, I'd have plenty of time to get work, and could hang out with some of the new friends I'd made before I actually had to start helping people.
I was new to Salt Lake City, as of two months ago. As soon as my mom and I had gotten here (my dad remained in Seattle after the divorce), my mom insisted that I go out and find a job. She said it would give me something productive to do over the summer before my Senior year of high school started. So I had set out, and after weeks of searching, gotten the perfect position. Lo and behold, I was a barista at a little local joint named Bad Ass Coffee. It was fantastic.
It took me about twenty minutes to walk out of my subdivision down the block to work, which was on the corner of an intersection not too far from downtown SLC. The shop itself was pushed up right against the street, with a tiny patio that hosted outdoor seating standing between the shop and the sidewalk. It was a prime spot for business, really, and with the quality of coffee we served, the only thing standing between us and success was the massive percentage of Mormons inhabiting our territory. But considering their history, there was always the chance that they would get persecuted by America or Mexico or sharks with surgically attached land legs and decide to move somewhere far away. Maybe Alaska. Yeah, Alaska could use a few more Mormons.
Surrounding the shop was a combination of old houses and small businesses inhabiting what used to be houses. The shop was really one of the only new buildings in the neighborhood. The houses were small, cozy, and charming, and the ones that were a little larger with more leg room were, for the most part, divided up into three or four separate apartments. My subdivision was a little newer, so my house didn't quite match the aesthetic that dominated the rest of the block.
There were only a few things that really stuck out from the area; one was my subdivision, and another was the shop. The last was the creepy old house that inhabited the corner across from the shop. It was big, overgrown, and unkempt. Where the rest of the houses had been made-over several times through the decades to keep up with fashion, this one house had been abandoned and neglected. In contrast to well groomed lawns and landscaping, fresh layers of paint and dainty curtains hung in windows, it had rampant, uncut grass littered with weeds, and boarded up windows. The trees didn't even seem to hold any kinship to the others along the block; they were wild and domineering, growing twisted and without regard to anything that stood in their paths. They were so large and untamed that they blocked out the sun- the house stood in shadow almost the entire day. The entire place gave me the heebie jeebies, and I loved it. It was thrilling and fascinating, and I found myself enamored of the place every time I passed it on my way to or from work.
As I passed it today, I stopped and regarded it for a long time. I knew people had to think I was crazy as they passed me thoughtfully eating my candy bar, but I had learned not to care for what others thought a long time ago. What really mattered was that I still had plenty of time before I needed to be in to work, and the place was practically beckoning me. It WANTED me to come inside.
Suffice to say, I deposited the candy wrapper into my spacious pocket and strode up the path to the front door. It was probably locked, I told myself as I clasped the cold brass handle. Except... it wasn't. The door swung open with surprising ease as soon as I pressed on the clasp release, and I found myself facing a wide foyer flanked by twin staircases that curved up to meet at the second story. Upstairs, even with the large candelabra that hung from the ceiling and had been wired for electric lighting, was a bridge that spanned across the top of the first floor and disappeared off to either side with the promise of more breathtaking house.
I was shocked by the amount of lavish furnishing that remained. How was it that no one had stolen any of this? Matching the rich candelabra on the ceiling were light brackets on the walls, also wired for bulbs (though I couldn't see if there were any on them; they were covered by beautiful glass lampshades). Flanking the light fixtures were assorted pictures in frames. I didn't give them much thought at first, until I took a second look and realized that all of the pictures were from different time periods. Some of them were even so old to be paintings... or tiny copies of paintings. And there were more recent ones. I recognized the clothing of one to be blatantly 1980's, while another sported the popular bouffant of the 1960's. Set against the walls were richly carved and painted wooden end tables, decorated with dried flowers in precious vases; plush chairs covered with rich, worn velvet; there was even an upright piano in the corner that looked like it could have been from the turn of the century era of ragtime. I squinted to see what lay beyond in the large, empty room past the stairs and passage under the bridge, but all that I could really make out were outlines of the dense, heavy curtains that covered the two story floor to ceiling windows. With none of the lights working (or at least on) and all of the windows completely covered up, it was impossible to see anything clearly beyond a few feet.
I turned away from straining to look into the large room and glanced again at the staircases; though the floors were all hardwood through the foyer and hallway, the stairs were covered with expensive, worn carpet. The railings were finely carved wood, also worn with age, and beyond the other side of the staircase to my left I could see a mannequin draped with old clothes. Upstairs, though it was difficult to see, I thought I could see the hallways decorated in the same manner as the walls downstairs.
Wait. A mannequin?
I stopped and did a double take at the mannequin, and it jolted a spasm of shock through me. It wasn't a mannequin, it was a person.
Difficult to tell, under all his coverings, but it was, in fact, living and breathing, which I accounted for as a human being. I cursed reflexively with the surprise, and stood staring at him wide eyed for several seconds. In response to my finally noticing him, he slowly walked out from behind the banister to where I could clearly see him.
It was no wonder I had mistaken him for part of the decor. All of his clothes were old fashioned, from the aged white shirt he wore under an intricately stitched vest to the tattered black cloak he wore over the whole package. He even had a scarf to hide the bottom half of his face, and the mop of long, unkempt black hair atop his head did a pretty good job of hiding the top half. All in all, he looked more like the scary villain from a fairy tale than a real person. But underneath the weird clothes and old scarf and messy hair, he almost looked... handsome. Brooding. Dark. Sexy.
We took each other in through the silence for several seconds, and then he spoke. His voice was rich and low, and held traces of an accent I couldn't place. I had never been good with accents anyway. “Who are you?”
“Um.”
I glanced toward the door, then back at him, and without answering, bolted. I half expected him to tackle me and start gnawing off my arm before I could get my foot out the door, but I got lucky. I managed to get into the glorious sunshine before he could grab me. But I didn't stop when I hit outside- no, I kept going. I ran across the street (almost causing an accident in the process- I crossed oncoming traffic) burst through the door of the shop, and sank down into a booth by the door. I sank my head down onto the cool metal of the table, and sat there for a second, catching my breath and trying to figure out what had just happened.
Did somebody actually live there, or had I had the misfortune of breaking in the exact some time as someone else? And for that matter, who was that guy? Some sort of freaky psychopath? That was the only explanation I could think of.
Taking a deep breath and letting it out, I poured all of my thoughts and feelings into one very meaningful, all-encompassing phrase.
“Holy bull-shnikeys.”