Dark Sacrifice (13 page)

L
andry freakin' Prince!

I slap a piece of toast onto his plate. “Breakfast.”

His nose crinkles as he pokes the toast with his finger. “Do you have butter or jelly?”

“I'm not your maid.” I rub my bottom and glare at him. He pretends not to notice. Or maybe he really doesn't. Why did I try to kiss him last night, especially after he hid the fact that he met with his father? I mean, after listening to the rev's story, even I felt a twinge of sympathy for him. Maybe I even believe him about not being there when Mama died. I never actually saw anyone's face, other than Acker's. The fact he's living out in the boonies just to protect his son makes me willing to give him a chance to make good on his promise to catch the fourth guy.

Hell, I'm not totally delusional. Anger made me crazy enough to think I could go all Wonder Woman and take down the rev with my own two hands. Reality set in real quick when he talked about finding Rathbone's and Gloria's bodies. I can't fight a gun. Not even if I learn how to use my super-ninja magic to bore a hole in the bad guy's gut.

Course that power fizzled on me when I tried to use it on the rev yesterday. He didn't even fart from the pressure I put on his gut. Damn fickle magic.

I sit across from Landry and scoop up a forkful of scrambled eggs. “Mm-mm, so good…”

Landry slides back from the table with a sigh. He catches me staring as he walks to the refrigerator, and I glance away. He's limping. Did I hurt him when I fell on top of him? I'm not a thick girl, but I won't blow away in a strong wind either. I try to squash my concern, but it's so hard. Maybe I should say something about spying on him and his father. Relieve some of his guilt.

The throb of pain shooting through my butt when I shift in the chair makes my decision. Nah, he deserves to suffer.

“I'm going to town for supplies. Be ready to go in an hour,” I say.

“I don't feel like going.”

I fix him with a level stare.

He slams the refrigerator door. “Fine, but I need more energy to deal with a road trip. Toast isn't gonna cut it.” He grabs my plate and transfers half of my bacon and eggs onto his. I don't bother to argue. What's the point?

We eat without further conversation, and the silence between us at breakfast continues during the drive into town. I cast sideways glances in his direction. What's going on in his head? The distance he's creating between us feels like a wall I can't climb. He catches my glance and gives me a long, penetrating look but doesn't say anything.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat and sigh. I miss the way he used to tease me. I didn't know how much until last night. The sexual tension blazed so hot that I thought my body would spontaneously combust. Before Mama died, he would've kissed me until I lost my breath. Maybe he thinks he's being a gentleman. Does he want me to make the first move?

I shake my head so hard the road blurs, and I almost drive into a ditch.
Dummy, you jumped him, and he dumped you flat on your ass.
My hands grip the steering wheel as the memory of Landry's words comes back. Saying I cooed at George like an insipid nitwit. Well, he didn't say that exactly. Those are my words but I couldn't deny it. Not after seeing George bleeding from a head wound. He looked like an injured puppy, but the thing is, I never once felt like “kissing his owie.” The only injury I want to kiss is Landry's. If he hadn't run off into the woods and instead spied on the rest of our conversation, he would know George and I just confused platonic love for romantic love. Which I hope will eventually morph into the love of a sister for her stepbrother.

Gah! I kissed my brother.

The more I think about it, the queasier I get. Sure, there's no blood relation, but a foul taste lingers in my mouth. I rake my fingernails across my tongue, almost choking myself in the process.

“What the hell are you doing?”

My eyes widen.
Crap! Landry.

“A bug flew into my mouth,
blech
.” I spit out the window. Saliva hits the glass and drips down the pane. “Oh, uh, can you grab a tissue from the glove box, please?”

He does so without further comment. Not that he needs to speak. His body language shouts louder than words:
I'm locked in the truck with a crazy person.
Hopefully his sense of self-preservation won't force him to leap out a moving vehicle to get away from me. He scrunches his large frame against the door, almost choking himself with the seat belt.

“Ha, ha,” I say. “Very funny.”

The tiniest of smiles flickers across his lips then disappears. He shifts back over and sinks back into brooding.

“Seriously, Landry, why are you so nervous? You'll get to see your friends.” I wait for a passing semi truck, then swerve around a slow-moving tractor. Woodland thins and turns into orderly rows of sugarcane fields.

“What friends?” His shoulders hunch as he crosses his arms. “Do you know how many of my so-called friends visited me while I was in jail? One.”

Jerks.
“Well, that's cool. Maybe you'll get to see that person.”

“I'm looking at her right now.” He turns his glare out the window, and I lean back in the seat. No wonder he doesn't want to go. I've been on the bad end of being bullied. Someone stuck a rotting possum in my locker at work. I hope nobody does anything like that to him. He's been hurt enough.

I let him sulk in silence. He needs to get the angst out of his system before it festers into a seeping wound not even an antibiotic can cure.

On Saturdays, the local farmers set up a market in Paradise Park. I plan to do my veggie shopping there since I didn't get my garden planted this year. The streets bordering the park are packed. I'm lucky to find a spot in the parking lot of First National Bank kitty-corner from the Vietnam Memorial Rose Garden. Colorful tents are lined up in orderly rows in the square. Each section is separated, with the organic foods in one row and regular folk who want to sell extra produce in the other. Local shops also set up booths selling everything from pastries, coffee and tea, handmade clothing and soaps, fresh eggs, and organic meat, to toys and games. A freaktastic clown stands on the street corner with a tank of helium, and a gaggle of kids around him. I'm tempted to buy Landry a balloon to cheer him up.

The passenger door slams shut as soon as I shut off the engine. Landry wastes no time coming around to open my door and lift me to the ground before I can squawk in protest. He strides off while I grab my cloth shopping bag, leaving me to stare after his retreating back in shock. When he's halfway across the street, he pauses and turns around.

“This is your idea. Hurry,” he yells.

“I'm coming.” I shut the door and run to catch up. When I reach him, he moves around me until I'm on his blind side. He starts forward again, but slows his steps so they match mine. If I didn't know him so well, I'd think he didn't have a care in the world, but I do. He walks like he did in jail—shoulders back and tight, chest slightly raised. He scans the area, alert for a threat.

I take his hand, squeezing when he tries to pull away.

We blend into the crowd, strolling up and down the rows. It's a mix of people of all ages. A few people say hi. Most don't. A large percentage of them stare. I feel like I'm at the mercy of paparazzi.

“Smile and wave,” I mutter from the corner of my mouth, jabbing Landry in the side with my elbow.

“Huh?”

“You're acting like you've done something wrong, but you haven't. Don't let these fools see you sweat. Weakness breeds violence. Like a silverback gorilla in the jungle, you need to beat your chest and fling your poop at someone.”

His snort-laugh doubles him over, and I pat him on the back. “That's perfect,” I say. “No worries.”

He turns and lifts me into a breath-stealing hug. “Thanks,” he whispers in my ear and presses a brotherly kiss to my forehead. Wish he'd move his lips a little lower. Would a few inches kill him?

My voice comes a little thick and raspy too, and I cough to clear my throat. “No problem.”

How long has he been standing here holding me? We have an even larger audience than before. Now we really are the object of paparazzi-like behavior as people snap pictures of our embrace with their phones. I wrap my arms around his neck and press my cheek against his. “Cheese,” I say, grinning for the cameras.

A couple of high school kids start to laugh.

One yells, “Give her another kiss, Landry.”

“Yeah, Landry. Give me a kiss.” I bat my eyelashes, whispering in his ear, “I swear, if you drop me on my ass in public—”

I don't have to finish the threat.

His mouth steals across mine.

I lean into him, head tilting. My arms tighten around his neck. His lips are soft and juicy, like peaches. Yum. My thoughts scatter and swirl, leaving only the sensation of his mouth on mine.

He breaks free first and lowers me to my feet. He avoids my gaze. “Did it work?” he asks, running his fingers through his black hair so it falls forward to shield his eye again. He shifts from his forward foot to his back, which somehow puts distance between us without him having to move.

I laugh, playing off the hurt. “Yeah, we gave our fans a titillating bit of new gossip to take the place of the old. Rumors about our relationship will be flying through town before lunch.” I glance around to be sure. The crowd drifts away, realizing there's nothing more to see. Even better, nobody hurls insults or throws dead animals at our heads. “Let's go.”

I don't wait for him to follow, but I'm conscious of his presence at my side.

There's a line in front of the shop selling fresh-baked goods. I listen to my craving for homemade muffins and fall in behind a woman with a toddler in a jogging stroller. The little boy has blue-colored honey smeared across his face from the plastic straw he's sucking on. The kid looks over my shoulder and cracks up laughing.

I catch Landry making funny faces at the kid. He finally remembers how to smile, or he does until the woman sees us standing behind her. She pushes out of the line, practically running, like we're baby snatchers or something.

Landry folds his arms and glares at the ground. Time for a distraction.

“So have you ever been to the market before?” I ask. He shakes his head, and I hold in my sigh. “Well, you're in luck. Carmela makes the best blueberry muffins you'll ever taste. They literally melt in your mouth. Actually all of her muffins are good. I also need more bread. Hell, with you eating everything in sight, I need to restock my whole pantry. The trick is to check what the other vendors are selling because, while the prices are the same, the quality of the items varies.” I point to the tent beside us. “See those carrots? They're tiny compared to the ones across the way.”

Landry nods.

“Don't worry. If everything goes okay, I'll treat you to an ice cream cone at Munchies for being such a good boy.” I reach up and pinch his cheek. He doesn't pull away, just stares at me, and I release him.

Dying stole Landry's sense of humor.

“Boring…you're so boring now,” I tease, hoping for a smile.

He sighs. “I'm trying not to piss you off.”

“Well, you're doing exactly the opposite. Do I need to introduce you to my psychiatrist? He put me on some good drugs. They made me drool like a bulldog, but I'm amazingly carefree given the circumstances.” I bite my lip. “Hmm, maybe that isn't such a bad idea. If you're depressed, you should see a doctor.”

“I'll be fine.”

“What happened to you was very traumatic.”

“I'll get through it, Mala.” He tips his chin. “Look, isn't that Dena?” The red-headed girl standing in line to pay for bags of veggies could be a female clone of her father—only way cuter, like a Raggedy Ann doll, and without the murderous disposition.

“Hey, cuz,” I yell, waving to my way, way, distant cousin. Not that we care how far back the relationship stretches. Family is family. Too bad Mr. Acker never felt the same. Alive or dead, the man's still a jerk.

Dena's skin pales, making her freckles pop. “Mala, hello.”

Her body language shouts her reluctance at coming over to us. Is it because of me or Landry? Since she gives him a tight smile but avoids eye contact with me, I'm guessing I'm the one making her uncomfortable.

Landry looks between us. “I'll hold our place in line.”

I walk over to Dena and wait until she finishes paying for her groceries. She tips her head, and we head toward a relatively crowd-free spot behind one of the tents.

“What's wrong, Waydene?” I ask. “You're acting squirmier than usual.”

Her fiery bangs fall in her face. “Don't call me that,
Malaise
,” she hisses, poking my arm. She flushes again. “Oh, I'm so sorry. Did I hurt you?”

She scans my face as if searching for injury. I roll my eyes. “I'm fine.”

Tears brighten her eyes. “Are you sure? I know you got shot. I'm sorry I didn't come see you in the hospital,” she finishes in a rush.

So far, it appears nobody knows about the psych ward. My friends all think it took me a month to recover from getting shot. Which it did, but not physically. Seeing Dena brings the guilt I feel about killing her dad bubbling up.

“Don't worry about it,” I say. “I'm kind of glad you didn't see me like that. I wasn't at my best after what happened.”

She leans closer and glances around. “So, Landry, huh?”

My cheeks heat up. “Yeah, he's staying at my place. He doesn't have anywhere to go.”

“Oh my gosh, you're living in sin with Sir Hotness?” She practically shouts the question, and I look around to make sure we weren't overheard. I pull her over to a secluded area, upwind of the Port-A-Potty, and drag her down onto an empty park bench.