Fangs for the Memories(2)
Dick was tall and well built with shaggy dirty-blond hair and deep-set sea-green eyes. He had dimples that winked from the corners of his mouth when he smirked, which he did almost ninety percent of his waking hours. He walked with the sort of swagger you expected with a Stetson and chaps, though his wardrobe was composed almost entirely of inappropriate T-shirts and ass-hugging jeans. God help me, the jeans.
To complete the “pre–Civil War–born scoundrel” package, Dick made his income in a way that was . . . less than reputable. Like Rhett Butler—if instead of sneaking whiskey and silk across blockades, Rhett had sold counterfeit Uzbekistani-made iPods out of the back of his wagon. Let’s just say Dick would never be invited to join the Half-Moon Hollow Chamber of Commerce.
He was clever and funny and seemed to have figured out the secret to being completely content while living a no-frills existence on the edge of the criminal underworld. Dick made no secret of the fact that he found me attractive, in a relentless, shameless manner that grated on my nerves half the time and made me blush the other half. But while it was a little bit of an ego boost, I’d had enough of rakish, handsome, and clever to last a lifetime. So I turned him down flat every time.
Without a hint of a smile, I told him, “Not your best work.”
Dick shrugged as he passed by, hauling the boxes toward the back exit. If Jane had been oddly calm about Mr. Wainwright’s passing, Dick had taken it particularly hard for someone he didn’t know very well. He’d been melancholy all evening, and his flirting hadn’t been up to its usual standard.
I stared after him. Something was going on with Dick, a strange tension that everybody seemed to understand except me. Was it possible that Dick was finally over his crush on me? I wasn’t sure if that made me relieved or a little sad.
“When are you going to let him off the hook and go out with him?” Jane asked, carefully stacking a copy of Most Potente Magick on top of other guides to Wicca. The more dangerous magic books, the ones that told readers how to do things like rip people’s toenails off with the power of their minds, Jane was keeping in a locked room in her house. Frankly, we found it a little scary that those books had been floating around the shop unsupervised for years.
“I thought you were the mind-reader,” I shot back.
“Yes, but I don’t go poking around in people’s heads without their permission. It’s rude,” she said, suddenly turning her head to look over her left shoulder. “Mr. Wainwright also thinks you should ‘take pity on the poor fellow because he’s obviously smitten with you.’ ”
“If I find out that Mr. Wainwright’s ghost isn’t really there and this is all an elaborate practical-joke-slash-coping-mechanism, I will be really upset with you,” I told her, shaking my head.
It was at times like this that I wished everybody—not just vampires and the endless supply of weirdos with their own cable shows—could see ghosts. It seemed unfair that regular humans couldn’t join the Friendship Beyond the Grave Club simply because our perception wasn’t broad enough.
Jane shrugged. “I get that. The only reason I’m so comfortable with it is because Aunt Jettie’s been following me around since I got turned. You get used to ‘invisible friends.’ ”
“Well, I’m sorry I can’t see you, Mr. Wainwright. I’m going to miss the other voice of human reason around here.”
Jane smiled fondly at the chatty blank space. “He says he plans on sticking around for a while. And he’ll find a way to make his presence known.”
“You know, from anyone else, that would come across as a threat,” I told the invisible shopkeeper, feeling more than a little silly. “But I find it comforting.”
Jane’s voice brightened. “So, mistress of subject changes, when are you going to take pity on poor Dick?”
“We’ve talked about my romantic history, Jane. You know why I’m not rushing into anything.”
Jane turned her head toward Mr. Wainwright’s “space” and whispered, “I’ll tell you later.”
I threw up my hands and gave Jane my “really?” face.
“Sorry, that’s probably distracting,” Jane admitted. “And dating someone you’ve known for months is not rushing into anything.”
“It is when you barely know them and what you do know isn’t great,” I said, tossing a roll of masking tape at her. And of course, with her vampire reflexes, she caught it before it hit her in the face. I rolled my eyes and scooped up a stack of flattened cardboard boxes. “I’m going out to the trash alley, where it’s normal.”