“Not a problem,” he said. “I’ll go tell the hostess.” He slipped past the other waiting people and inside, then returned about half a minute later, though he kept twisting his head awkwardly to look behind him.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Do I still have an ass?” He grinned. “I think the hostess just chewed half of it off.”
“I’ll be glad to check later,” I offered with an appropriate leer.
He opened his mouth to say something that I knew would be nice and naughty, but then he closed it, expression shifting to polite and bland as Philip walked up.
“You snagged the last parking place in three blocks,” Philip said to me, then turned to Marcus. “Hey, man. Good to see you.”
“You too,” Marcus replied, acting for all the world as if Philip was a guy pal he hung out with all the time. Which I didn’t think they were. Were they? That would be weird as all hell. Or, was I reading too much into their reactions to each other? The whole “two hunky guys must obviously be jealous of each other because of me” thing was a bit conceited and self-centered, if I stopped and thought about it.
The hostess hollered Marcus’s name, and we obediently followed her to a round table in the corner set for five. Marcus and Philip started some silent jockeying for who would get to sit with their back to the wall, which I solved by scooting forward and claiming the wall-seat for myself.
The two men exchanged a look that clearly meant Great. Now we’re all fucked if terrorists storm the restaurant, but managed to seat themselves without overt conflict—Marcus to my left, and Philip across from us with an empty chair on either side of him. Smart man.
A waitress with purple streaks in her hair and rings in her eyebrows slapped menus onto the table and tapped her foot impatiently as we gave her our drink orders. As she stalked off, Naomi bopped in with a mischievous gleam in her blue eyes that told me she was ready to stir up some shit. Six or seven years older than me, she’d seen the world a hundred times over and had plenty of opportunities to perfect her troublemaking skills. Defecting from Saberton had meant faking her death and a Pietro-funded change in appearance. Hair color, facial plastic surgery, and even a tasteful boob job. Her Heather identity had worn hazel contact lenses, but she’d fiercely refused to even consider shifting to green or brown for the Naomi persona, declaring that contacts were too much of a pain in the ass to bother with. She was one of a handful of non-zombies who worked for Pietro. Philip had been another until I’d turned him. I knew there were several others scattered throughout the organization, but I had yet to meet any of them since their jobs tended to be fairly specialized.
As Naomi made her way toward us, she gathered her chestnut hair into a ponytail and wrapped it with a scrunchie. Kyle moved more sedately in Naomi’s wake, tall and lanky with dark skin and smooth, catlike movement, calmly exuding an air of danger without even trying. The other patrons in the restaurant edged away from him, probably not even aware they were doing so. He scared me a bit as well, but I totally approved of the way he looked at Naomi—caring and thoughtful and deeply affectionate.
“Move, Zoldier,” Naomi said with a teasing grin to Philip. “I wanna sit next to Kyle.” Pietro had even bought her a new voice, a little deeper and throatier. I hadn’t even known that was possible.
She plopped down in the empty chair beside Marcus. Crap. Of course Philip was too nice to stand his ground and tell her to piss off, which meant he shifted over to the only available seat—beside me. I fixed a smile on my face and gave Naomi an exasperated You were supposed to HELP! You did that on purpose! look which she acknowledged with a wink. Just my luck to land a BestFriendForever who thought trouble and mayhem were fun.
The waitress dropped a plate of biscuits on the table and took Naomi’s and Kyle’s drink orders. As soon as she left I grabbed a biscuit and proceeded to stuff it with butter.
“What’s your weekend looking like?” Naomi asked me as she followed suit.
“Can you believe I actually have it off?” I said around butter and biscuit. “I think this is the first weekend in about a zillion years that I haven’t even been on call.”
Her smile widened. “Cool. I talked Kyle into going to Paintball Palisades on Saturday if I can find worthy teammates.” Her gaze raked Marcus, Philip, and me. “Or opponents.”
Marcus leaned back in his chair, brow puckering. “Paintball, huh? That sounds like it could be interesting.” Beneath the table he found my hand and gave it a light squeeze. I squeezed it right back. Marcus was a beast at paintball, but he obviously didn’t want the others to know. A little hustle action? I hid a smile. His secret was safe with me.
“Y’all would wipe the floor with me,” I said, not lying one bit. “Me no have grunt grunt combat skills.” My jiu jitsu sensei could attest to that. Sadly, I would most likely never become a zombie ninja.
Naomi leveled a stern glare at me. “No combat skills? I’ve seen you hold your own a time or two for realsies.”
Marcus squeezed my hand again. “Plus, Angel’s getting to be a pretty good shot,” he surprised me by saying. “She might be harder to wipe the floor with than you think.”
“What about you?” Kyle said, looking over at Philip with a slight smile of challenge. “I have some floors that need wiping. Are you a man or a mop?”
Philip simply shrugged. “Haven’t you heard? I’m an invalid. Damaged. I doubt I’m worth your time.” Yet his eyes said the opposite.
Kyle leaned forward a few inches, eyes still on Philip. “You’ll have Angel and Marcus to protect you . . . for a few seconds.”
Marcus stiffened, and I tightened my grip on his hand. I knew—or rather hoped—that Kyle hadn’t intended to insult Marcus by implying he’d pose as little threat as I would.
Unfortunately, Kyle seemed unaware, as did Philip. “That’s all I’ll need,” he responded, also leaning forward.
Tension vibrated through Marcus’s body, even though he kept his face composed. More composed than I’d have been in a similar position. Shit. I caught Naomi’s eye. Her smile was fixed, and a wince hovered just below the surface. She knew, even if the other two men were oblivious.
I abruptly grabbed the neckline of my shirt, pulled it out and peered down at my chest. “Oh my god! I think I just sprouted a chest hair from all the excess testosterone at the table.”
Naomi let out a laugh, bless her, and Kyle and Philip broke their eye contact and sat back in their seats. Philip glanced my way, and I saw the shift in his expression when he noted the tension in Marcus. He opened his mouth to speak, but I gave a micro-shake of my head. Saying anything now would only make it worse.
To my undying relief the waitress arrived at that moment to bring drinks and take food orders. Marcus shifted his attention to the waitress and rolled his eyes as usual when I ordered the Philly Cheesesteak without bell peppers. Everyone else found that amusing as well, despite my insistence that bell peppers were nasty, and the tension leached away. Naomi made small talk about some innocuous and forgettable topic, and all of us relaxed into her banter. She had an inexplicable talent for putting zombies at ease, sometimes enough to spill their deepest secrets. That, paired with her natural intuition, made her one sharp cookie. By the time the waitress delivered food everyone seemed to be a shitload less stressed.
Kyle’s phone buzzed as the waitress took our orders for pie. He answered with a low, “Griffin,” then listened in silence for almost half a minute during which time the waitress gave up on him and flounced off in impatience. “Got it,” he finally said, hung up and looked over at Naomi. “We need to go.”