Page 92 of Gates of Tartarus

Jonah shakes off whatever heaviness has settled on him, steps by me, and pulls the door open briefly. “Later, Lach!” he calls in a cheerful voice, and Lachy replies in an onlyslightlyexasperated tone.

“Shotridge.” It could mean anything, but if you know Lachy as well as I do, it’s a reluctant acknowledgment of a budding friendship, and it makes me smile. Lachy needs people other than just me and Gemma.

Shutting the door, Jonah smirks adorably at me. “Cracking the Lachy nut!” he stage-whispers, only to be interrupted by Smith.

“Where can we meet?” Smith asks, his grim tone catching my attention and stopping me short.

“Everything okay, Smith?” I ask, and he makes an indistinct sound. Thinking quickly, I suggest the small cafe in town and give everyone directions. Smith and Walker make their way to a large SUV parked at an angle in my drive, while both Jonah and Hideo hover by the passenger door of my mini. They have a quiet battle of wills, and Deo mutters, so softly it’s difficult to make out, “You’re not on the couch yet, Shotridge.” Jonah holds up his hands laughingly and backs up, but there is a hard set to his face that belies his amusement. He stops for a second, tilting his head, and replies, “You know I will be, though, Tanaka. You should get used to the idea.” Deo’s face is dark, and I click the unlock button on my key fob, disturbing the exchange.

“We’ll meet you there, okay?” I call, and Jonah flashes a smile at me before turning and jumping in with the other two. Deo and I get in, and we drive in silence the entire way, each lost in our own thoughts, but he holds my hand the entire time, tracing circles on my knuckles with his thumb.

???

The only place that has enough seating for our little group is Clara’s Cafe, a place I’d studiously avoided since I’d been on island – it’s pink and white-laced decor, heavy with frills and flowers – a migraine in cute and cuddly wrapping paper.Everythinginside is tiny – white, wrought-iron tables, tiny bud vases with single pink carnations, white booths with Pepto-Bismol cushions, and fake flowers. It... it’s a lot. The look on the poor waitress’s face when I walk in with four, fairly large, visibly tattooed men, is priceless and panicked. She’s a cute little thing and fits the decor perfectly, a pink-and-white-striped dress with a white, frilly apron, hair in a neat, shiny ponytail.

Taking pity on her, I point to the far corner, hidden behind fake trellising and faux climbing vines. “We cool there?” I ask gently, and she nods.

“I’ll... I’ll be right over with menus,” she stammers, clearly trying not to look at Jonah while alsodyingto look at Jonah, and I grin. Girl’s got good taste.

“No menus!” snaps Smith, storming over to the corner table, face looking especially Vikingish today, and the poor girl trembles as the rest of the group follows our leader.

“Yes, menus,” I whisper to her, dropping a deadpan wink. “He’s hangry. Four coffees, cream and sugar on the side, one green tea if you have it, please. And any selection of little cakey things – you do those, right?”

The girl nods, eyes wide, but her smile is creeping back. “We have that stuff in the case–” she motions behind her to a bunch of cupcakes and bars and cookies. “Would that work?”

Nodding, I point to a few specifically, until Smith barks, “Reed!” from the corner, and I roll my eyes at the maybe sixteen or seventeen-year-old next to me.

“Don’t mind him,” I say. “He’s growly, but harmless. Steel spine with that one and he’ll behave.”

She smiles wide now. “I have brothers. I can handle it.”

Raising my eyebrows, I laugh with her for a moment, then walk over to the group and pull up a twisty, fancy, incredibly uncomfortable chair.

“Really, Reed?” Smith bites out immediately. “This? This place?”

I shrug. “It’s always empty around now. The breakfast rush is over, and they don’t really have anything again until lunch. This is the in-between time.”

“Christ. Fine.” He rubs his face and opens his mouth to begin, when the cheerful little waitress stops by the table with her tray.

“Here you go…” she begins, and Smith glares.

“I said we didn’t need menus.”

“Well, you’re not the only one at the table, now, are you?” she smiles back, voice sweet and saccharine-y but firm as hell, and I laugh.

“Your coffee…” she puts a cup and a large teapot in front of me, face apologetic. “I figured you’d need refills, and wouldn’t want me coming over every five seconds, but we only have teapots. And for you…” She drops the rest of the drinks off, puts a delectable little tray of sweets in the center, and gives everyone but Smith a plate. The rest of us dig in immediately, loading our plates, and Smith frowns.

“Do I get a plate?” he asks grumpily, and she tilts her head at him curiously.

“Do I get an apology?” she asks, and Walker smirks, his dimples flashing dangerously.

“Ah…” Smith looks rightfully put in his place, before holding his hands up in a mea culpa. “An apologyanda large tip. And then a nice request to seat people away from us.”

She nods, face serious now, and asks me, “Anything else?” but I shake my head.

“You’re amazing. I want to grow up to be you.”

Blushing slightly, she kicks the ground a little in front of her, clearly making up her mind about something. “I don’t mean to bother you,” she begins hesitantly, “but I’ve seen you with Mr. Baird in town… They cut woodworking from school this year... it was the only class I actually liked, or was good at.”