Rogue (Shifters #2)(22)

“Where to?” Kevin adjusted the rearview mirror so he could see my face. I read him the name of the restaurant and the Metairie address my father had written down, and Kevin pulled out of the parking lot without another word. And without readjusting his rearview mirror.
I rolled down my window to relieve the locked-car heat, then unbuckled my seat belt and snuggled up next to Marc in spite of the temperature, content to know that now Kevin couldn’t stare at me without seeing Marc, too. In the mirror, our reluctant chauffeur’s eyes crinkled in a frown, then shifted to look at the road.
Including Holden Pierce, there were two other Pride cats living near New Orleans, both of whom were more courteous, more polite, and infinitely more pleasant to be around than the one behind the wheel. Yet my father had insisted that Kevin Mitchell be our guide for the day, probably just to test my self-discipline. I was pretty sure that if I made it home without Kevin’s detached head in tow, I’d get a gold star on my permanent record. Or maybe one of those little smiley faces.
Kevin’s father was Alpha of one of the northern Prides, and beating the shit out of an Alpha’s son, even if he was a real prick, wouldn’t be very good for inter-Pride relations. In fact, it would be really bad. Anyone looking for a reason to oust my father from his position as head of the Territorial Council—and there were several people on that list—would have plenty of ammunition if either of us lost our collective temper with Kevin without ample justification. For that reason, on the plane, Marc had rattled off some crap about this assignment being an assessment of my diplomatic skills. But it was really a test of my patience.
And I was willing to bet Marc would lose his before I lost mine.
After baking for forty-five minutes in the back of Kevin’s clunker, we pulled up in front of a long strip of connected storefronts, each housing a different business. Kevin parallel-parked at the curb and we got out, staring around like the tourists we practically were as brass-heavy jazz music poured from an open doorway nearby and strangers bumped and jostled us on the egg-fryable sidewalk. This part of town had obviously recovered nicely from the infamous hurricane.
The first thing I noticed was the Closed sign in the door of the Cajun Bar and Grill. According to a plaque propped in the front window, the restaurant didn’t open for lunch until eleven o’clock, which gave us nearly half an hour to stand around like idiots before we could speak to the employees inside.
“Let’s check out the alley while we wait,” Marc suggested. We went with his idea rather than mine, for obvious reasons.
The restaurant was in the middle of the block, so we had to walk past a florist and a hardware store, then around a dry cleaner to get to the mouth of the alley. Once there, we discovered that though the restaurant didn’t open for thirty more minutes, the staff inside was already hard at work crafting a jumble of spicy aromas that made my stomach growl in anticipation of dishes I’d never even tried.
How did we know this? The back door of the Cajun Bar and Grill was propped open, spilling laughter, the sharp clang of pots and pans, and piquant, lyrical accents into the alley.
“We can’t leave without eating there,” I told Marc, gripping his arm with one hand as I pointed to the open doorway with the other. “I’m starving.”He grinned. “We’ll order extra and take it home.”
“You’re hungry?” Kevin asked from my other side. “There’s this great Italian restaurant near my apartment. You like manicotti?”
“Thanks, Kevin.” I was trying my hand at tact and discretion. And manners. “But I’m going to try some of the local favorites. Right here.” I paused to glance at Marc, then continued, though I hadn’t seen what I’d been looking for in his expression. “You’re welcome to join us.”
Kevin frowned. “Thanks,” he said, but I wasn’t sure if that was a “Thanks, but no thanks,” or a “Thanks, I’d love to.”
“Okay, now what?” I mumbled under my breath, eyeing the row of widely spaced Dumpsters as I concentrated on the epicurean aromas to block out the other, less-pleasant smells originating from farther down the alley. Parker had said he found Harper’s body beneath the overflow from the one nearest the Cajun Bar and Grill. But what exactly were we looking for?
As we approached the Dumpster, my progress hindered momentarily when I put my sneaker through a rotten plank in an old pallet, a feeling of dread settled into my stomach. The Dumpster looked pretty clean, as far as Dumpsters go. It sat on bare, if slimy, concrete, absent of the overflow of garbage Parker had described. Trash collectors had clearly come and gone, taking any evidence we might have found to the city dump, wherever that was. And I was in no hurry to find out.
Marc climbed a stack of wooden crates to peer into the trash receptacle, tossing the heavy lid open without so much as a grunt. “It’s nearly empty,” he said, glancing down at me. “And what’s in here smells fresh.”
Behind me, metal hinges squealed as a door opened across the alley and down a few feet from the Cajun Bar and Grill. I whirled around to see a short, slender man wearing black jeans and a hot-pink T-shirt. He nudged a broken brick into the threshold to prop the door open, and when he stepped into the alley, I could see that the block printing in black across the front of his shirt read Forbidden Fruit.
“Hey, you can’t be back here,” he said, his fist tightening around the top of a bulging garbage bag.
Marc grabbed my elbow and I looked up to find something intense and imploring in his eyes. He was trying to tell me something, and I wasn’t getting it. Maybe he wanted me to pound the guy? Seemed a little extreme to me, but definitely effective.
The little man in the doorway reached for a wireless radio hanging from his belt. I curled my hands into fists and started to step forward. Marc pulled me back by that same elbow, and I glanced up to see him roll his eyes at me in exasperation.
Oops. Not the right time for a pounding, apparently. Kevin glanced from me and Marc to the man, then stuck his hands into his pockets, making no effort to help. 
“My sister left her cell phone in there yesterday, and no one turned it in,” Marc said, lacing his voice with a healthy dose of bored irritation as he nodded at the restaurant behind us. “The guys in the kitchen said we could look through the garbage.”
Actually, the guys in the kitchen hadn’t noticed us yet. They probably couldn’t hear us over their own racket. But the little man bought Marc’s lie with no hesitation. His hand moved away from his belt and his posture relaxed. He seemed more than willing to believe I was just some dumb chick whose most dangerous trait was an inability to keep hold of her own stuff. I couldn’t help being insulted by how readily he accepted that thought.
“Good luck.” Shrimpy nodded at the Dumpster as he walked toward it, passing less than two feet from me without so much as a shiver of fear. Damn it. We were going to have to do something about my harmless-looking exterior. “The garbage truck came first thing this morning,” Shrimpy said, tossing his bag into the Dumpster. “You’d have better luck finding the Holy Grail in there.” He strolled back across the alley, making no attempt at all to avoid me, though he steered noticeably clear of Marc, and even Kevin. Pausing in the doorway of Forbidden Fruit, Shrimpy held the door open with one hand and pushed his brick back inside. Then he turned to look me up and down. But mostly up, because I was at least two inches taller than he was.
“I can’t help you find your cell phone, miss,” he said, meeting my eyes much more boldly than I would have thought possible for such a small man. “But if you decide you want a job, come see me. Go to the bar and ask for Jeff.”
Before I’d recovered from surprise, he disappeared into the dark interior of the building.
Kevin’s raucous laughter filled my ears, as Jeff’s meaning sank in. “He just offered you a job as a stripper. Sounds like a lot more fun than your current line of work, and I’d sure as hell pay to watch you take off your clothes.”
No, casual nudity wasn’t a big deal for werecats; it was generally unavoidable. But stripping wasn’t casual nudity, and an unwelcome pass at me—especially in front of Marc—was a very big deal, to which Jace could readily attest.
My right hand formed a fist, but before I could put it into motion, Marc’s arm soared past me. His fist slammed into Kevin’s stomach. Kevin’s laughter ended in a sudden whoosh of breath rushing from his lungs. He flew ass-first into the wall at his back, then crumpled into a heap of denim and cotton on the ground.
Ha! Marc lost his temper first, and suddenly I was in very good spirits. Of course, my mood was also elevated by watching Kevin struggle not to vomit.
I held my hand out to Kevin, but he slapped it away and pushed himself up on his own, glaring at Marc over my shoulder as he stood. I wanted to tell him that he’d be singing soprano if Marc hadn’t beaten me to the punch, but he looked like his pride was in pretty poor shape without hearing what might have been. Pity.
One hand pressed into his stomach, Kevin took several deep breaths with his eyes on the ground, clearly mentally assessing his injuries. When he finally looked up, he seemed angry but surprisingly calm.