Good As Dead

Chapter Seven

Standing in line with Agent Glass isn't nearly as uncomfortable as I expected. I no longer hold my bag in a strangling grip, and his ink has dimmed to an occasional glimmer. There's still awkwardness between us, but pretending I'm interested in the vendor's list of lunch specials helps with that.

The thing is, though, I'm more interested in him. Now that he's not buttoned up in a full suit, he looks younger. What'd he say he was? Twenty-four? Not that old. And definitely not ancient like Slake.

While we wait, the sun comes out from behind the coastal fog, bright and warm. I pull out some shades from my bag, but he just darkens the lenses of his glasses with a flicker from his ink. It makes me wonder how much of his appearance he can change. We haven't actually touched, yet. Who knows how much is cosmetic codework and how much is flesh and blood.

He seems real enough. This close, he towers over me, and with his jacket off, the strong lines of his shoulders and the muscles in his arms are much more obvious. In fact, he's probably a match for Valentine in size and height. But that doesn't bother me. He's big but not suffocating, careful about giving me space while we stand together. Probably out of fear that I'll bite him if he gets too close.

When it's our turn to order, I get a honey-jalapeno glazed shrimp skewer, and then impulsively add in a horchata, remembering the ones Gran used to make for Maria and me. Gideon gets a scallop taco, asking for it to be topped with the mango habanero salsa. The vendor shoots me a glance to see if I'll warn him.

But while I try to figure out how to explain it's a scorching hot dish without sounding like a condescending jerk, he hands over the money. And when he gets the change back, I realize the vendor charged him for both our meals. As soon as we move to the side to wait for the food, I try to repay him for my half. "Here."

He looks surprised at the offer. "That's not necessary."

I frown. "You shouldn't have to pay for my stuff."

"It's all right. I'm leaving the country tomorrow and will have no further need of this currency."

"Maybe you could get a final coffee or something." When he shakes his head, probably ready to say he doesn't drink coffee, I get desperate. "Please, just take it. I don't want you doing things for me to make up for earlier. I hate it when someone demands the person they fought with pay up for pissing them off. It just makes things worse."

He gives me that look again, the one that suggests he hears more to my words than I mean to say. But after a moment, he reaches for the money. "If you're sure."

The warm, deft brush of his fingers against mine sends a thrill running up my arm. Christ. His hand is definitely real. And if his touch always feels like that, no wonder his ink responds so quickly. Before I can think up a joke to smooth it over, the vendor calls us for our food.

We take one of the trails winding through clusters of rocks and cypresses near the shoreline, a footpath without many other people on it. We're so close to the beach that the air smells sharp and salty. A few gulls land and start waddling behind us, hoping to be fed. Any other time, it's exciting as hell to be near the ocean, but right now I'm nervous, wondering how far I'll get with my story before Gideon loses his guilty goodwill.

I'm watching steam drift from my shrimp when he suddenly clears his throat. "I suspect the vendor believed I didn't know what I ordered."

The taco is overloaded with habanero salsa. The mere thought of biting into that makes my eyes water. "Some people aren't used to how hot Chetli food can be."

He raises an eyebrow and speaks a sentence in effortless Spanish before taking a bite.

I'm floored. I'm shit at understanding Spanish, but I can pick out the difference between the Chetli dialects and the official version taught in language classes. Gideon definitely spoke in one of the former. "You know the local talk."