House Rules - Chloe Neill Page 0,84

But probably that was time he could have spent with me, had he not been so angry.

He’d wanted a friend, someone who’d validate his feelings.

He couldn’t have picked a better accomplice out of a catalogue. She was everything I believed I wasn’t—graceful, stylish, cool under pressure. More like him than I was. Lindsey had once told me that was exactly why Ethan needed me, because I was fire to his ice. Lacey might never anger him, but she certainly wouldn’t ignite him.

But none of that made me feel any better. Not tonight.

I slapped the steering wheel with both hands until my palms ached and the steering column felt loose. The poor Volvo. Fine Swedish engineering or not, it wasn’t designed for vampire aggression.

There seemed only one option.

I drove to Ukrainian Village and the dive the North American Central Pack called home, at least in Chicago—a squat biker bar called Little Red. (Now also home to some of the city’s best smoked meats. And I would know.)

Even in frigid temperatures, shifters lounged outside along the row of Harley-Davidson and Indian motorcycles that lined the pavement in front of the door. I smiled politely as I passed them, but they were big and gruff and, frankly, didn’t give a crap about a skinny vampire, no matter how well fitted and buttery her leather.

I walked inside and was immediately pummeled by the Clash and the smell of sour cabbage. It must have been sauerkraut-canning night at the bar.

Berna stood in her preferred position—behind the bar in a T-shirt one size too small for her heft. But this time, she had a buddy.

Mallory, her ombré hair in high side buns—couture à la dairy maid—stood beside Berna and practiced pouring liquor into a row of shot glasses.

As I walked closer, Berna’s instructions became clearer. “No,” she insisted. “You pour quickly, no spills. I show; I show.” She nudged Mallory out of the way and took the unmarked bottle of liquor from her hand, then proceeded to fill six glasses in a smooth, fast line without spilling a drop.

Mallory gave her a begrudging nod. “I’m not sure if I like you,” she said frankly. “But you know your meat and booze.”

“Those are two of the four food groups,” I said, sitting down at the bar. “Mallocakes and pizza being the other two.”

God knew Mallory was far from perfect, and our relationship was still delicate. But it took only a glance at my face for her to realize the source of my troubles . . . and roll her eyes.

“What did you do now?”

“Why do you assume I did something?”

“Because you’re across town at this bar when you have bigger problems on your plate.”

“You’ve talked to Catcher?” I liked that news. It suggested—even if only a little—that things were getting back to normal.

“We’ve talked. We’re talking. Lots and lots of talking and then more talking and conversing and communicating and talking.” She snapped her thumb and fingers together, mimicking a mouth. “But you’re not here to talk about us.” Mallory narrowed her gaze at me, and I felt a faint prickle of magical interest—at least before Berna pinched her on the arm.

“Ow!” Mallory said, rubbing the spot, which was already turning red. “Damn it, Berna. He said I could use it a little bit.”

“You use sparingly,” she said, slapping one hand against the other, then gesturing at me. “Look at girl. She skinny vampire. She is in love, but is far away from lover. You don’t need magic to know this.” She tapped her temple. “You need eyeball.”

They both looked at me. I nodded sheepishly.

“When you’re right, you’re right,” Mallory said. “And since he took a stake for her, which pretty much proves he’s in it for the long haul, I’m betting she’s the current source of her own drama?”

I hated that conclusion. Not because it was wrong, but because it was humiliating. I was twenty-eight years old and headed for immortality. Was I destined to be forever awkward, at least where love was concerned?

And how often had I screwed things up when she wasn’t around, and didn’t even know it?

Mallory turned to Berna. “I’m taking fifteen, and we’re moving this discussion upstairs.”

“You can have here! I will not listen.”

“You will listen,” Mallory said, “and you’ll tell your book club exactly what you heard.”

“But is like Twilight in real life!” Berna protested. “Sparkles!”

But Mallory had already grabbed my hand and was pulling me toward the door.

“Ignore the half-naked shifters,” she said, and before I had time to