The Dirt on Ninth Grave(19)

Lewis, a prime customer for those big and tall men's clothing stores, jerked his head to urge me closer. He was in his early twenties with rich olive skin, neatly trimmed brown hair, and eyes the shade of wet moss. The effect was quite stunning, but many girls, including the one he was pining over, would never see past his large waistline. Then again, he played bass in a metal band called Something Like a Dude. I couldn't imagine he had much trouble with the opposite sex. And yet his heart was set on the one girl who didn't know he existed: Francie.



"Is everything set for tomorrow?" I asked him. I could feel the reservations he was having as clearly as I felt the draft coming from the open back door.



Lionel, the prep cook, had probably propped it open again. Sumi was going to stab him in the face one of these days.



"Yeah. But, I mean, are you sure about this?"






 

 

"Positive. Until Francie sees you in another light, she is not going to give you the time of day."



He still seemed unconvinced. And it was his idea!



Okay, it was my idea, but he contributed.



"Dude, look, your cousin comes in during the afternoon lull, pretends to rob me, you rush up, clock him, and he runs off with no one the wiser. What could go wrong?"



He lifted an unconvinced shoulder.



"I'm not saying you'll get the girl, Lewis, but until you do something to get her attention, she'll never give you the time of day."



Though I would have preferred Lewis find someone who saw him for who he was, the poor schmuck was in love with Francie. She was a cutie with shoulder-length red hair and an adorable pug nose, but she had the arrogance to match her looks. I was certain she'd grow up someday, but at this point, she saw only Lewis's size. Not how wonderful he was. Or talented. Or dashingly handsome.



Then again, who was I to argue? I was attracted to evil incarnate. Our libidos didn't always take the safest paths. And if I was completely honest with myself  –  again, something of a rarity  –  I wanted Francie's eyes as far away from Reyes as I could get them. Not that her lack of interest would give me a snowball's chance, but in my warped brain  –  the same brain that screamed for me to run in the opposite direction every time Reyes was near  –  it would up my odds that he would notice me. The heart wasn't the most logical organ. The spleen, however …



What Lewis didn't know was that, while I was going along with his plan to win Francie, I was secretly placing stimuli, kind of like those ads that used subliminal messages to get consumers to buy their products. Only I wasn't quite as subtle.



"So, I heard Shayla was at your concert this weekend."



"Really?" he said absently. "I didn't see her."



One of our third-shift servers, a tiny, elf-like creature named Shayla who looked about fourteen but was actually almost twenty-one, was just as much as in love with Lewis as he was with Francie. No, she was more in love. Lewis was simply infatuated. Shayla truly cared for him, so much so, she wanted him to have what he wanted, aka Francie. She knew he had a thing for her, and instead of flirting or asking Lewis out, she stood back and gave Francie every chance possible to see the wonderful man in front of her.



That was true love. So what I had for Reyes wasn't so much true love as, well, stark raving obsession. Which, oddly enough, worked for me. 



Erin rushed past with a tray full of drinks, reminding me I should probably get back to work. Or not. Everyone in my section was eating happily. Who was I to interrupt?



When we'd first come up with The Plan, as we were calling it, it was in direct response to a certain redhead falling head over heels for a certain raven-haired, preternatural regular. Her infatuation with Reyes had left Lewis miserable.



"Who am I kidding, Janey?" he'd said one afternoon, confiding in me, trusting me with his most precious secret.



As fate would have it, thanks to a spider bite and a headless picture that went viral of a man who'd dropped his jeans at a Chevelle concert, I knew his most precious secret, and it had nothing to do with Francie. The man in the picture became known as the Anaconda, and I knew it was Lewis because, again thanks to a spider bite and Lewis's fear that he was going to lose his leg after he got one on the inside of his thigh, I'd seen the skull tattoo on his hip. It was exactly like the infamous Anaconda's, right down to the words COLOR IS A LIE underneath the skulls.



Most guys would love for a photo of their little friend to go viral, but I suspected Lewis's unwillingness to step forward into the spotlight had to do with his deep respect for his mother. He was a good guy. Who, for some reason, dropped his pants at a Chevelle concert.