"Yeah," said Hugh. "Seems like you just sort of threw him in for no good reason. Everyone knows you two don't get along."
I stared disbelievingly at the three sets of angry eyes. "I have plenty of good reason. How do you explain him being at Erik's?"
The imp shook his head. "We all know Erik. Carter could have been there for the same reasons you were."
"What about the things he said?"
"What did he say really?" Peter asked. "Was he like, 'Hey Georgina, hope you got my note'? It's all pretty flimsy."
"Look, I’m not saying I have strong evidence, just that circumstantially—"
"I need to go," interjected Cody, standing up.
I gave him a cold look. Had I pushed them that far? "I understand if you don't agree with me, but don't just walk out."
"No, there's something I’ve got to do."
Peter rolled his eyes. "You're not the only one dating now, Georgina. Cody won't admit it, but I think he's got a woman stashed somewhere."
"A live one?" asked Hugh, impressed.
Cody put his coat on. "You guys don't know anything."
"Well, be careful," I warned automatically.
The tense mood was suddenly shattered, and no one seemed to be angry with me about suspecting Carter anymore. It was clear, however, that no one believed me about him either. They were dismissing my ideas like one does a child's irrational fears or imaginary friends.
The vampires left together, and Hugh followed soon thereafter. I wandered off to bed, still trying to put the pieces into place. The note writer had made a reference to angels falling for beautiful women; that had to be significant. Yet, I just couldn't reconcile it with this bizarre pair of attacks on Duane and Hugh, which had more to do with violence and brutality than beauty or lust.
When I got to work the next day, my e-mail inbox revealed a new message from Seth, and I feared some sort of follow-up to his date request from yesterday. Instead, he merely responded to my last message, which had been one in an ongoing conversation about his observations of the Northwest. The message's writing style and voice were as entertaining as ever, and he seemed for all the world not to have minded—or even noticed—my wacky rejection yesterday.
I verified this further when I went upstairs to buy coffee. Seth sat in his usual corner, typing away, oblivious to it being Saturday. I paused and said hello, getting a typically distracted response in return. He did not mention asking me to the party, did not seem upset, and indeed apparently didn't care at all about it. I supposed I should have been grateful that he'd recovered so quickly, that he wasn't pining or breaking his heart over me, but my selfishness couldn't help but feel a little disappointed. I wouldn't have minded making a slightly stronger impression on him, one that elicited some regret over my refusal. Doug and Roman, for example, hadn't let one rejection deter them. What a fickle creature I was.
Thinking of both of them reminded me I was meeting Roman later to go to Doug's concert. I grew heady at the thought of seeing Roman again, though apprehension tinged the feeling. I didn't like him having this effect on me, and I had thus far demonstrated no aptitude in refusing his advances. We were going to reach a critical point one of these days, and I feared for its outcome. I suspected that when it did come, I would wish Roman had bowed out of my pursuit so easily as Seth seemed to have.
Such worries vanished from my mind that evening when I admitted Roman into my apartment. He wore dress clothing all done in elegant shades of blue and silvery gray, every hair and fold perfectly in place. He flashed me one of those devastating smiles, and I made sure my knees didn't start knocking, schoolgirl style.
"You do realize this is a post-grunge, punk rock, ska -type of concert we're going to. Most everyone else will be in jeans and T-shirts. Maybe some leather here and there."
"Most good dates do end in leather." His eyes took in the sights of the apartment, lingering briefly on the bookcase. "But didn't you say this was a late show?"
"Yup. Starts at eleven."
"That gives us four hours to burn, love. You're going to have to change."
I looked down at my black jeans and red tank top. "This won't work?"
"That does wonderful things for your legs, I admit, but I think you're going to want a skirt or dress. Something like you wore swing dancing, only maybe... steamier."
"I'm pretty sure I've never heard the word 'steamy' applied to any of my wardrobe."
"I find that hard to believe." He pointed down my hall. "Go. The clock is ticking."
Ten minutes later I returned in a clingy, navy dress made of georgette. It had spaghetti straps and an asymmetrical hemline, jagged and ruffled, that rose high on my left leg. I had taken my hair out of its ponytail and now wore it long over my shoulders.
Roman looked up from where he'd been having meaningful, eye-to-eye communication with Aubrey. "Steamy." He pointed to the King James Bible sitting on my coffee table. It was open, like he'd been perusing. "I never took you for the churchgoing type."
Both Seth and Warren had made similar jokes. That thing was ruining my reputation.
"Just something I'm researching. It's only been moderately useful."
Roman stood up and stretched. "Probably because that's one of the worst translations out there."
I remembered the plethora of Bibles. "Is there a better one you'd recommend?"
He shrugged. "I'm no expert, but you'd probably get more out of one meant for research, not devotional use. Annotated ones. Ones that they use in college classes."
I filed the information away, wondering if the mystery verses might still have more to reveal. For now, I had a date to contend with.
We ended up at a small, hidden Mexican restaurant I'd never been to. The waiters spoke Spanish—as did Roman, it turned out—and the food had not been watered down for Americans. When two margaritas appeared on our table, I realized Roman had ordered one for me.
"I don't want to drink tonight." I recalled how flaky I'd been the last time we went out.
He stared at me like I'd just declared I was going to stop breathing for a change. "You have to be kidding. This place makes the best margaritas north of the Rio Grande."
"I want to stay sober tonight."
"One won't kill you. Take it with food, and you won't even notice." I stayed silent. "For Christ's sake, Georgina, just try the salt. One taste and you'll be hooked."
I reluctantly ran my tongue around the edge. It triggered a longing to taste tequila that rivaled my succubus urge for sex. Giving in against my better judgment, I took a sip. It was fantastic.
The food was too, not surprisingly, and I ended up having two margaritas, instead of just the one. Roman proved to be right about drinking with food, fortunately, and I only felt mildly buzzed. I did not feel out of control and knew I could handle things until the sobering up began.
"Two more hours," I told him as we left the restaurant. "Got something else in mind?"
"Sure do." He inclined his head across the street, and I followed his motion. Miguel's.
I racked my brain. "I've heard of that place... wait, they do salsa dancing there, don't they?"
"Yup. Ever tried it?"
"No."
"What? I thought you were a dancing queen."
"I'm not done with swing yet."
Truthfully, I was dying to try salsa. Like Seth Mortensen's books, though, I did not like to burn through too much of a good thing too fast. I still enjoyed swing and wanted to run it into the ground before I switched dances. Long life tended to make one savor things more.