The Dead Girls' Dance (5 page)

Eve sat on the floor, hugging her knees close to her chest. She looked at him with anime-wide eyes. “And?'”

“He got drunk. A lot.'” Bitterness ran black through Shane's voice, and all of a sudden the beer bottle in his hand seemed to get a whole lot of significance for him, beyond just something to occupy his nervous hands. He set it down on the floor and wiped his palms on his blue jeans. “He started hooking up with these bikers and stuff. I—wasn't in a real good place; I don't remember some of that. Couple of weeks later we got a visit from these guys in suits. Not vamps, lawyers. They gave us money, lots of it. Insurance. Except we both knew who it was from, and the point was, they were trying to figure out what we knew and remembered. I was too drugged out to know what was going on, and Dad was drunk, so I guess that saved our lives. They decided we were no threat.'” He wiped his forehead with the heel of his hand and laughed—a bitter, broken sound like glass in a blender.

Shane on drugs.
Claire saw that Michael had caught it, too. She wondered if he was going to say something, but maybe it wasn't the best time to say,
Hey, man, you using now?
Or something like that.

He didn't need to ask, as it turned out. Shane answered anyway. “But I kicked it, and Dad sobered up, and we planned this out. Thing is, even though we remembered a lot of stuff, the personal stuff, we couldn't remember things about how to find vamps, or the layout of the town, or even who we were looking for. So that was my job. Come back, scout it out, find out where the vamps hide during the day. Report back. It wasn't supposed to take this long, and I wasn't supposed to—get tangled up.'”

“With us,'” Eve supplied softly. “Right? He didn't want you to have any friends.'”

“Friends get you killed in Morganville.'”

“No.'” Eve put a pale hand on his knee. “Shane, honey, in Morganville, friends are the only things that keep you alive.'”

C
laire couldn't believe how much had poured out of Shane—all that grief and horror and bitterness and anger. He'd always seemed sort of, well,
normal,
and it was a shock to see all the emotional bloodshed…and a shock to hear him talk so much, about things so personal. Shane wasn't a talker.

She collected the dishes and did them alone, comforted by hot water and the fizz of soap on her hands; she cleaned up pots and pans and splashes of red sauce, and thought about Shane finding his mom dead in a bloody bathtub.
I wasn't in a real good place,
Shane had said. The master of understatement. Claire wasn't so sure that she'd ever have been able to smile again, laugh again, function again, if that had happened to her, especially after losing a sister and winning the Drunk-Asshole Lottery with Dad. How did he do it? How did he keep it together, and stay so…brave?

She wanted to cry for him, but she was almost sure that he'd have been embarrassed, so she kept the misery inside, and scrubbed dishes clean.
He doesn't deserve this. Why don't they all just leave him alone? Why does he have to be the one everybody beats on?

Maybe just because he'd shown he could take it, and make himself stronger for it.

The kitchen door swung open, and she jumped, expected Shane, but it was Michael. He walked over to the sink, ran some cold water in his hands, and splashed it over his face and the back of his neck.

“Bad night,'” Claire said.

“Tell me about it.'” He cut a sideways look toward her.

“Do you think he's right? About them, you know, killing his mother?'”

“I think Shane's carrying around a load of guilt the size of Trump Tower. And I think it helps him to be angry.'” Michael shrugged. “I don't know. It's possible. But I don't think we can know one way or the other.'”

That felt…sick, somehow. No wonder Shane was so reluctant to talk about it. She tried to imagine living with that kind of uncertainty, those memories, and failed.

She was glad she did.

“So,'” Michael said. “I've got about three hours until morning. We need to make some plans about what we're going to do, and what we're
not
going to do.'”

Claire nodded and set a plate aside to dry.

“First thing is, none of you leave the house,'” Michael said. “Got it? No school, no work. You stay indoors. I can't protect you if you go outside.'”

“We can't just hide!'”

“We can for a while, and we will. Look, Shane's dad can't run around out there forever. It's a temporary problem. Someone's going to find him.'” The unspoken subject of what would happen to Shane's dad after he was caught was a whole other issue. “As long as we don't do anything directly that ties us to whatever his dad does, we're okay. Amelie's word is good for that.'”

“You're putting a lot of trust in—'”

“A vampire, yeah, I know.'” Michael shrugged and leaned a hip against the counter, looking down on her. “What choices do we have?'”

“Not too many, I guess.'” Claire studied him more closely. He looked tired. “Michael? Are you okay?'”

Now he looked surprised. “Sure. Shane's the one who's got issues. Not me.'”

No, Michael was all good. Killed, dismembered, buried, reborn…yeah, just another day in the life. Claire sighed. “Guys,'” she said mournfully. “Michael, I'll stay home today, but I really do have to go to school, you know. Really.'” Because her missing school was like a caffeine addict going without a daily jolt.

“Your education or your life, Claire. I'd rather you be alive and a little bit dumber.'”

She met his eyes squarely. “Well, I wouldn't. I'll stay home today. I don't promise about tomorrow.'”

He smiled, leaned forward, and put a warm sloppy kiss on her forehead. “That's my girl,'” he said, and left. She sighed again, this time happily, and found herself grinning. Michael might be Eve's new main crush, but he was still available as an oh-my-God-how-cute-is-
he
thrill.

Claire finished the dishes and went back to the living room. The TV was on, tuned to some forensics show, and Shane was slumped on the couch staring at it. No sign of Eve or Michael. Claire hesitated, thinking longingly about bed and forgetting about all this for a while, but Shane just looked so…alone.

She went and settled in next to him. She didn't say anything, and neither did he, and after a while his arm went around her and that was all right.

She fell asleep there, braced against his warm body.

It was nice.

 

Claire supposed that she should have known Shane might have nightmares—bad ones—but she'd never really thought about it. When Shane jerked and rolled off the couch, she thumped flat onto the cushions. The TV was still on—a flickering confusion of color—and Claire flailed and scrambled for some grasp of what was going on through the fog of interrupted sleep.

“Shane?'”

He was on his side on the floor, shuddering, curled up into a ball. Claire slid down next to him and put her hands on his broad back. Under the thin T-shirt his skin was clammy, and his muscles were as tense as steel cable. He was making these
sounds,
agonizing gasps that weren't quite sobs but weren't quite not, either.

She didn't know what to do. She'd felt helpless a lot in the past few hours, but this was worse, somehow, because Michael and Eve were nowhere to be seen, and she wasn't sure if Shane would have wanted them to see him like this. Or if he wanted
her
to see him like this. Shane was all about the pride.

“I'm okay,'” he gasped out. “I'm okay. I'm okay.'” He didn't sound okay. He sounded scared, and he sounded like a little boy.

He managed to sit up. Claire wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tight, and after a few seconds of resistance she felt him sag against her, and hug her back. His hand stroked her hair as if she might break. “Shhh,'” she whispered to him, the way her mother had whispered it to her when things got bad. “You're here. You're safe. You're okay.'” Because wherever he'd been in his dreams, he hadn't been any of those three things.

If she expected him to talk about it, she was disappointed. He pulled back, avoided looking at her, and said, “You should go to bed.'”

“Yeah,'” she agreed. “You first.'”

“Can't sleep.'” Didn't want to, more likely; his eyes were red and blurred with exhaustion. “I just need some coffee or something.'”

“Coke?'”

“Whatever.'”

She fetched it for him, and Shane downed it like a frat boy at a mixer, belched, and shrugged an apology. “Where's Michael?'” She spread her hands. “Eve?'” She did another silent pantomime of ignorance. “Well, at least somebody's getting a good night's sleep. They together?'”

Claire blinked. “I—don't know.'” She hadn't thought about it, actually. She hadn't seen them go, didn't know if they'd gone to separate rooms or if Eve had finally worked up the courage to proposition Michael. 'Cause he'd never make the first move. That just wasn't Michael, somehow.

“Christ, I hope so,'” Shane said. “They deserve a little fun, even in hell.'” He was kidding, but not. He
did
see Morganville as hell. Claire had to admit, he had a point. It was hell, and they were the lost souls, and it was coming on toward morning and she'd been scared for what felt like a very, very long time….

He was watching her closely, in a way that made her feel warmth all over her skin, like a light sunburn.

“How about us?'” she heard herself ask. “Don't we deserve a little fun?'”

I did
not
just say that.

Only she had.

He smiled. She wondered if the shadows were ever going to leave his eyes again. “I could do something fun.'”

“Ummm…'” She licked her lips. “Define fun.'”

“Quit doing that, jailbait. It's distracting.'”

The whole idea that somebody would even
think
of her as jailbait was tremendously exciting. Especially Shane. She tried to hide that, and act like she wasn't quaking on the inside like a Jell-O fruit salad. “So now you want me to stay up? I thought you said I should go to bed.'”

“You should.'” He didn't put any particular emphasis on it. “'Cause if you stay down here, there's going to be fun. I'm just saying.'”

“Video game fun?'”

His eyes widened. “You want to play video games?'”

“Do you?'”

“You are the weirdest girl.'”

“Please. You live with
Eve
.'” She was
not
doing this right. How did girls seduce boys? What did they say? Because she was pretty sure that talking about video games and bringing up roommates wasn't in the have-fun game plan. She was hyperaware of her body, too. How was she supposed to move? She felt awkward, all angles, and she wanted to be one of those graceful girls, all delicacy and elegance. Like in the movies.

Eve would know. She'd had those garter hose on, and those thong panties, and Claire didn't even own those things, or have any idea how to get them. And Eve had worn them for Michael, or maybe just as a secret little excitement for herself around Michael. Yeah, Eve would know what to say.

Say something sexy,
she commanded herself, and in a blind panic, she opened her mouth and blurted, “Do you think they're doing it?'” She was so appalled that she clapped both hands over her mouth. She'd never in her life wanted to take back words so much, and so fast…and for a second, Shane just looked at her, like he couldn't figure out what she was talking about.

And then he laughed. “Man, I hope. Those two could use a good—uh—'” He blinked and she saw her age flash in front of his eyes. “Hell. Never mind.'”

Words weren't working for her. She leaned forward and kissed him. It felt weird, and awkward, and he didn't immediately respond—maybe he was too surprised. Maybe she was doing it wrong, or she'd been wrong to make the move on him….

His lips parted under hers, damp and soft and warm, and she forgot all of that. Her entire life focused in on the sensations, the gentle pressure that grew more intense the longer the kiss went on.

Chaste kisses, then dirtier ones, and man, those tasted good. They tasted better the wider her mouth opened, and especially after his tongue touched hers.

She could have done a whole semester of kissing with Shane. Intense personal study. With lab classes.

Time really wasn't happening for her, but eventually Claire realized that there was a soft glow coming from the windows, and she was numb and sore from sitting on the floor. She winced as a muscle in her back protested, and Shane reached out, pulled her up, and settled himself on the couch.

He stretched out, and extended a hand to her. She stared, tingling and confused. “There's no room.'”

“Plenty of room,'” he said.

She felt breathless and kind of wild, stretching out on the tiny area of sofa cushion available next to him, and then smothered a yelp as Shane picked her up and draped her over his chest and,
oh my God,
over all the rest of him, too.

“Better?'” he asked, and raised his eyebrows. It was a real question, and he was looking for a real answer. Claire felt a blush building a fire in her cheeks, but she didn't look away from his gaze.

“Perfect,'” she said.

It felt like being naked, except for all the clothes. The kisses this time were wet and urgent and deep, and the feeling of Shane's muscles tensing and relaxing under her was incredibly exciting.
This should be illegal,
she thought. Well, it
was
kind of illegal. Or would be, if any clothes came off.

Shane might not have been Michael, with all the responsibility, but he definitely wasn't that impulsive. At least, not with her. His hands roamed, but never to places where she wanted them to—badly—and some of the places they roamed made her wonder why she'd never wanted someone to touch her there before. Like the small of her back, where the skin dipped into a shallow valley. Or the back of her neck. Or the inside of her arms. Or…

As he was bringing his hands up her sides, his fingers just
barely
brushed the outer curve of her breasts, and she gasped into his mouth.

Shane immediately sat her upright, and moved to the other end of the couch. His face was flushed; his eyes were bright and no longer looked even a little bit tired. “No,'” he said, and held out his hand like a traffic cop when she tried to scoot closer. “Red flag. If you make that sound again, we are in trouble. Or I am, anyway.'”

“But—'” Claire felt that blush creeping in again, and had no idea what it was going to be like to put this into words. “What about you? You know—'” She made a vague gesture that could have been anything. Or nothing. Or anything.

“Don't worry about me. I needed this.'” He was still breathing deeply, but he did look better. Steadier. More like…Shane, instead of that lost and hurt little boy terrified of his nightmares. “So? Did we have fun?'”

“Fun,'” she agreed faintly. So much fun she felt like a fizzed-up soda, ready to burst. “Um, I need to—'”

“Yeah, me, too.'” But Shane made no move to go. Claire swallowed hard and took the course of the better part of valor, up the stairs to her room. She shut the door and locked it, threw herself on her brand-new mattress—she hadn't even put sheets on it yet, and they were a little light on blankets after using most of them to fight the fire—and bounced. The room smelled like a wet smoky dog, but she didn't care.

Not at all.

Fun.

Oh yes.