Jo pursed her lips. "Anders doesn't sound very Russian."
"It was originally Andronnikov," he admitted. "I got tired of North Americans mangling the name."
"Hmm," Jo said. "Russian. We should get along great then."
"Why?" he asked, and she couldn't help but notice that his tone was dubious as he met her gaze in the mirror again. There was also true confusion on his face. She suspected he doubted they would get along at all.
Jo met his gaze, smiled sweetly, and said, "Well, it just figures, doesn't it? I'm a bartender, you're a Black Russian. It's a perfect match."
Bricker burst out laughing, but Anders, she noticed, looked less than impressed, and Jo wondered if that crack would be considered racist. She hadn't thought so. Actually, she hadn't thought at all before saying it. Damn, she really needed to learn to think before she spoke.
"It wasn't racist," Anders said dryly. "It was a very bad play on the name of an alcoholic beverage, but not racist."
Jo peered at him sharply. "How did you know I was worrying about that?"
He hesitated, but then shifted his eyes back to the road and said, "You have that guilty look white people get when they're worried they've misspoken." Anders glanced back to the mirror and raised an eye brow as he asked, "Or is it racist to call you white? Perhaps I should say Caucasian."
Jo snorted and then found herself babbling, "Hell if I know. You can call me white if you want. Although I don't really get the whole white business myself, I mean we aren't really white. Well, I suppose we can be when upset and we pale, but mostly we're kind of tan in the summer and pink like pigs in the winter."
"Shall I call you pig then?" he asked sweetly.
Jo's eyes sharpened on his face in the rearview mirror, but she caught the twitching of his lips and asked, "Was that an attempt at a joke?"
"It was better than yours," he said, and actually cracked a smile.
"Hmm," Jo muttered.
"Right," Bricker commented with amusement, "So now that you two have broken the ice and moved straight to the slinging of insults, where are we going for breakfast?"
"Do not look at me," Anders said dryly. "I do not eat... breakfast," he added when Bricker glanced at him sharply.
"You should," Jo said with feigned solemnity. "It's the most important meal of the day, you know."
"Is it?" Anders asked. "And what do you usually have for breakfast?"
"Dried-up day-old pizza or anything else I can scrounge up," she admitted wryly.
"Why am I not surprised?" Anders said in dry tones.
Jo frowned at his knowing expression. "It's my pores, isn't it? They give away my bad student-type habits."
His eyes sharpened on hers in the mirror, bewilderment in their beautiful depths. "Your pores?"
"Yeah. I have big pores that give away my vices while you guys all have baby's ass pores."
"Baby's ass pores?" Bricker asked incredulously.
"Smooth and poreless like on a baby's butt," she explained dryly.
"Jesus," Anders muttered, his hand rising to rub his own cheek and his eyes examining his skin in the rearview mirror.
"Eyes on the road, big guy," Jo ordered. "You can look at your pretty self later."
Anders stared at her in the mirror briefly and then glanced to Bricker and muttered, "It's a shame I can read her. She's an interesting female."
"I know. I've been bemoaning it all summer," Bricker said on a sigh, and then added, "She's hot too."
Jo wasn't sure what the hell they were talking about with the reading business, but was relatively certain she'd just been given a compliment. It cheered her up and made her smile. Jo smiled a little wider when she realized that her headache was easing. Something to eat and some juice and coffee might help eradicate it completely, she thought. "There's a little place not far from my apartment that serves all-day breakfast."