A Touch Morbid (11 page)

She tried to keep the tremor from her hand as he filled her cup. She looked up at him, met his eyes. “Because he wants us to know he’s coming,” she said. “He wants us afraid.”

“Of what?” Az said, trying to reason with her. “What’s so scary about ashes?”

Eden sipped her coffee. She crossed back into the living room, heard Jarrod getting ready for work in his room. “Because to a Sider, ashes only mean one thing, Az.” She thought of Adam, of Libby, and her stomach tightened in a cramp. “Death.”

“V
isitor. Counter,” Zach said as he passed.

Jarrod tipped back to get a glimpse around a display. He only had to catch a fraction of her hood and black hair to know it was the girl. Sullivan. He pivoted, almost ducking behind the counter before he realized how stupid he’d look. Not to mention it was kind of pointless. Eden and Az seeing the Bound, Az’s freak-out—it had him wound up. Paranoid. He looked down at the macchiato he’d finished making and strode to the counter, completely ignoring her as he rang out the customer.

Sullivan wasn’t smiling, her face dour. He was pretty sure the black under her eyes had gotten darker. Maybe she wasn’t sleeping. Maybe something had happened. She knew about Touch. Did she know about the angels, too? He shot a glance at Zach and caught him looking.

Jarrod leaned over the counter, close enough that only the girl could hear him. “Look, you can’t bother me at work.”

“Please talk to me.” She sounded totally spent. Looked it, too. She dropped her hands onto the counter between them. Jarrod tensed, thankful Zach was so adamant about wearing gloves. He’d wanted to talk to Eden about Sullivan after work, but it looked like that wasn’t going to happen. He glanced back at the clock. Almost six.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” he said. “You keep your hands in your pocket and wait for me, there.” He pointed to the booth at the very back of the coffee shop. “I’m supposed to be off in half an hour. Don’t stare. Don’t watch me. When I leave, follow me and head left. I’ll wait for you a block down.”

She nodded and headed to the booth he’d pointed out without another word. He tried not to watch her as he took the next order.

Zach’s pretty much permanent smile had taken one of its rare vacations. He glanced down to Sullivan in the booth. “Who is she?”

“Showed up here yesterday, followed me after work,” Jarrod answered. “Last night, she asked about Eden and tried to get me to touch her. Want me to get her out of here?” He tried to keep his voice neutral.

“Mortal?” Zach asked.

Jarrod nodded. “Far as I can tell.”

Zach’s hand tapped against the counter and then he held it up. “You’re off early. Make sure she doesn’t come back here. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Jarrod snapped off the disposable gloves and whipped the apron over his head. He grabbed his coat from the break room and clocked out. When he got to the entrance, he turned back. Sullivan slid from the booth.

He pulled his gloves out of his coat pocket and put them on. “Later, Zach!” he yelled, and pushed open the door, the little bell trilling.

He turned right out of instinct, but then headed left, further from the apartment. When he looked back over his shoulder, she was hauling down the sidewalk, no more than ten feet behind him now. He stopped and leaned against the brick wall of the building.

She took him in, not saying anything, staring at him. He shifted, and she jumped even as her arm shot toward him, skittish, like she couldn’t quite decide whether she wanted to run away or grab him.

“You eat today?” he said quietly.

She shook her head. He rolled his eyes, already pissed at himself as he pushed off the wall. It was pretty obvious he’d be the one buying dinner.

“Come on,” he mumbled.

She followed him to the next block. He turned the corner and asked, “You got a preference? We’ve got Mexican or Cantonese,” over his shoulder.

“I’m—”

“Choose,” he cut her off. “This isn’t charity. I’m buying information off you, and your currency seems to be the edible kind.”

She bit her lip. “You’re buying, so it should be your call.”

“Tacos it is,” he said, throwing the door open, holding the part closest to the hinges to give her time to get through. The dinner crowd was in full swing, most of the tables taken, the chatter loud enough that they wouldn’t be overheard if they kept it down.

Sullivan went with the cheapest combo on the menu.

“Make it two,” he said, slapping his money on the counter. Her eyes locked on his fingers even though they were gloved up. He carried the tray to a table in the back corner, slid onto the seat.

“Eat,” he said, leaning back against the wall, pulling his feet up. He folded his arms over his knees, dropped his forehead onto them as she sat opposite him. He waited while she inhaled her enchiladas, not bothering with his own food. When she was done, he dropped his feet back to the floor, crossed his arms on the tabletop.

“All right, I want your story. Details. I’m not going to treat you like I did yesterday,” he said. “You know things. I wanna know what.”

“But you can get me some Touch, right?”

He watched her silently for a moment before he asked, “Where’d you hear about it?”

“A club with my friends. On Staten Island.” She picked at a piece of cheese left on her plate. “I wasn’t there the first time, but my friends were,” she continued. “We thought someone slipped something into their drinks. They were out of it all night. We went back to try to figure out what they’d gotten.”

“Wait, so your friends got drugged and you went back for more?”

She didn’t look up from the plate. “I never said I was an angel.”

Jarrod raised an eyebrow but the girl didn’t see it, and wouldn’t have gotten it if she had.

“I got stopped outside the bathroom. I don’t know if he overheard us, or I got lucky. Twenty bucks for a dose.”

She’d lifted her head, focused on the space over his shoulder. Jarrod pushed the second meal toward her. “Keep talking.”

“I got closer to Vaughn after that.” She dug into the next plate, took a few mouthfuls, and chewed slowly. She was stalling. Jarrod waited. “He was the one who had it. Who I met the first night. It helped to forget for a while.”

He knew what was coming. “Who did you lose?” he asked slowly.

Her attention flicked back to him. “No one to Touch.” She wouldn’t look at him, set her fork down on the plate. “Kallie’d had some stuff going on. I don’t think any of us knew how bad things were. She never let on.”

He didn’t know whether he should tell her it was Touch gone bad that took her friend. She hadn’t made the connection. A Sider’s Touch had cost her friend her life, and here Sullivan was practically begging for it.

“And you took more after?” Jarrod swore, unable to keep the shock from his face. “Jesus. How the hell did you manage to get through it with that in your head?”

She looked up, confused. “What do you mean?”

He hesitated, not sure how much he wanted to tell her. “Well, you shouldn’t take stuff while your head’s messed up. Dangerous combination. Especially with Touch.”

Sullivan leaned back in the seat.

“Listen. I appreciate the dinner. Well, dinners. I just want to get tipped. Preferably without your pathetic attempt at hitting on me. I’m not for sale.” She folded her arms over her chest, slumped back with a glare.

Jarrod balked. He felt his face flush. “I wasn’t hitting on you. Enchiladas aren’t exactly an aphrodisiac.” He thought he saw amusement in her eyes, the start of a smile on her lips, but then her scowl deepened. “Trust me, Sullivan,” he said earnestly. “You don’t want the Touch.”

“No? It’s not exactly my first time, you know. I was with him for three months.”

“With who for three months?”

“Vaughn,” she spat, exasperated. “You want info? Fine. He ran all the clubs. The parties. Had quite a few people under him. They talked about your friend. Her name’s Eden, right?”

Jarrod nodded, stunned silent by her rant.

“They saw the papers about what happened at the rave. If you could get me a meeting with her, I know I could help you guys out.” She dropped her hands absently to the table, her fingers circling her wrists like handcuffs, the skin reddening as she wrung them. “Vaughn had me spreading the word. Marketing. That sort of thing. I could help.” Her desperation inched her forward. “I’ll work off what you give me. Front me it this one time.”

“Jesus Christ.” He shook his head. “You’re addicted.”

He expected her to deny it, pull the “I can quit anytime” thing. Instead, she held out a hand, the slight shake in her fingers almost imperceptible. “Now, do you have it or not?”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to hit you up with it right now,” he said.

She jumped up out of the booth. “Forget it. I heard someone’s got a stash in Queens now.”

“No!” Jarrod yelled before he could stop himself. “Um, no, that’s an even worse idea.” No way could he let her try to track down Madeline. “Wait, who’s telling you where to get it?”

She turned for the door.

“Sullivan, stop.” He pulled out his wallet. “Twenty bucks to tell me how you knew to find me.”

At the mention of the money, her hand paused on the handle, but she shook her head slightly.

“Hey,” he said, getting up and grabbing her arm. The momentum spun her. One hand went for the money. The other snapped up to his wrist, her thumb deliberately catching the cuff of his glove. Her fingers wormed inside, slipping across his sweaty palm.

Touch passed, leaving him in a rush, his breath catching, brain panicking. He ripped his hand away, but it was too late. Far too late.

She laughed.

“You don’t know how fucking stupid that was!” he yelled.

“Jesus, relax. I’m good for it, thanks to you.” She winked and tried to hand him back the twenty as she slipped out the door. He followed her to the sidewalk.

He tightened his fists, the muscles of his arm screaming for action. He used every bit of his restraint not to punch the brick wall beside them. “I don’t deal it. It’s not a drug, okay?”

“No shit, Sherlock. So much for not treating me like an idiot.” She threw a hand on her hip, taking a few steps back. “Right. Guess we’re done here then.”

Her feet kept moving, slow at first like she thought he’d give chase. He stared after her, no idea what to do. He hadn’t spread in weeks, but he was still using the Touch to heal. Would that make it more concentrated? Less? Whoever had been passing to her had tossed her, and she’d mentioned at least one dead friend. She knew about the Siders, and obviously knew more than she’d told him. And now she was halfway down the block, fading into the crowd.

“Shit,” Jarrod mumbled, and then broke into a run. “Wait! Sullivan. Hold up.”

She tensed, almost crouched, like the thought crossed her mind to break for it. She looked like she might. “What do you want?”

Jarrod stared her dead in the eyes. “I haven’t passed any out in a long time. I don’t know if it’ll be too strong, or work at all. It could be bad.”

“I’m fine. I have a hotel room. I’ll ride it out.”

“You won’t make it through alone.” He moved closer. “I could help you.”

She looked up. “Why?”

He didn’t bother sugarcoating. “Nothing more than personal gain. You shouldn’t be addicted like this. I want to figure out why you are. That’s it. No catch. I need you alive to get my info, and you won’t be if I don’t help.”

“What’s your name?” she asked.

He paused, realized he’d never told her, that she’d never asked. “Jarrod.”

She nodded once. “Jarrod, you are bizarre.”