Then she yelled, "Tim! Taking five!"
"No, you're not!" Tim, who was working the register, yelled back. "Do not take that apron off. Eve!"
Too late. Eve's apron hit the counter, and she ducked under the barrier to join Claire on the other side. Tim sighed and motioned one of the other register clerks to cover the espresso station as they walked away.
"One of these days, he's going to fire you for that," Claire said.
"Not today. Too busy. And he'll forget by tomorrow. Tim's kind of like a goldfish. Three-second memory." Eve looked relaxed. In fact, despite the fact that she was typically Gothed up in red and black, with clown-white makeup and bloodred lipstick, Eve looked almost . . . content. "Thanks."
Claire sipped the mocha, which was actually pretty good. "For what?"
"You know what."
"Don't, actually."
Eve's smile turned wicked around the edges. "Michael came by."
"Oh?" Claire dumped her backpack on a deserted table. "Tell."
"You're too young."
"Seventeen as of yesterday."
"Oh? Oh. Um . . . sorry." Eve looked deeply ashamed. "I . . . Happy birthday. Man, I can't believe I forgot that. Well, in my defense, I was kinda pissed at you."
"Yeah, I noticed that. It's okay. But you owe me a cake."
"I do?" Eve flopped into the chair across from her. "Okay. It'll probably suck, though."
Claire found herself smiling. "I hope so. Anyway. What happened with Michael?"
"Oh, you know. The usual." Eve traced a black fingernail in some carving on the tabletop - apparently Martin + Mary = HOT, or at least it had once. "We talked. He played guitar for me. It felt . . . normal for a change."
"And?"
"Like I'm going to tell you."
Claire stared at her.
"Okay, I'll tell you. God, don't nag, okay?" Eve scooted her chair closer. "So. We kissed for a while - did I mention what an awesome kisser he is? I did, right? - and . . ."
"And?"
"And I'm not going to end up on Blood Bank Row because I told you dirty little stories about me and Michael, Miss Barely Seventeen. So just, you know, imagine." Eve winked. "You can be really vivid if you want."
"You suck." Claire sighed.
Eve opened her mouth, then closed it again without saying a single word. Before either of them could think what to say next, a shadow fell across the table.
Claire had never seen him before, but he had the typical cool-boy-on-campus look . . . a loose black T-shirt over a nice expanse of shoulders, comfortable jeans, the usual pack full of books. Dark hair, kind of an emo cut, and expressive dark eyes beneath his bangs.
"Hi," he said, and shuffled from one foot to the other. "Umm, do you mind if I . . . ?" He pointed to the remaining chair at the table. Claire looked around. All the other tables were full.
"Knock yourself out," Eve said, and pushed his chair out with her foot. "Hope you're not allergic to girl talk."
"Not likely. I have four sisters," he said. "Hey. I'm Dean. Dean Simms." When he extended his hand for Eve to shake, Claire automatically checked his wrist. Not a Morganville native; there was no bracelet, and no sign that there had ever been one. Even those who'd gladly ditched the symbols of Protection still had the tan lines.
"Eve Rosser." From the wattage of Eve's smile, she liked what she saw across the table. "This is Claire Danvers."