In the next second, he smiled, and his eyes changed completely, like another person had just stepped into his body--the friendly coffee-shop guy he liked to pretend to be. "Claire," he said, and finished dumping shots into her mocha cup. "What a nice surprise. Sorry about the lack of seating."
"I guess business is good."
"Always." He knew how she liked the drink, and added whipped cream and sprinkles without asking before handing it over. "I believe the frat boys by the window are about to leave. You can get a seat if you hurry."
He was right; she could see the preleaving preparations going on. Claire nodded her thanks and grabbed her bag, pushing between chairs and apologizing her way to the table so that she arrived just as the last frat boy grabbed his stuff and headed for the door. She was one of four who had aimed for the vacancy, and missed it by the length of one outstretched, well-manicured hand.
"Excuse me, our table," Monica Morrell said, looking down at her with unconcealed delight. "The junior skank section is over there, by the trash. Beat it."
The sister of Morganville's mayor sank down on one of the four chairs, flipping her shiny dark hair over her shoulders; she'd added some blond highlights to it again, but Claire didn't think they did her any favors. She'd accessorized with arm candy, though, in the form of a big linebacker-style guy with one of those faces that was beefy but still handsome. He was blond, which seemed to be Monica's new type, and (Claire knew from the one class she'd shared with him) dumb, which was always Monica's type. He was carrying Monica's coffee, which he put down in front of her before taking a seat next to her, close enough to drape his big arm around her shoulders and stare down her cleavage.
It would have been the safe thing to just back off and let Monica claim her petty victory, but Claire was really not in the mood. She wasn't afraid of Monica anymore--well, not normally--and the last thing she wanted to do was let Monica spoil the one thing she'd been looking forward to during the entire walk over: a decent seat in which to enjoy her drink.
So Claire put her cafe mocha down at the third place and sat down, just ahead of Jennifer, who was making for the space. Gina, Monica's other ever-present girlfriend/minion, had already taken the last seat.
Monica, oddly, didn't say anything. She stared at Claire as if she couldn't quite figure out what the hell that was doing sitting down at her table, and then, once she got over the shock, she smiled, as if it occurred to her that maybe this could be fun. In a nasty sort of way. Her new temporary boyfriend didn't seem to be noticing any of it as he smirked and did a virtual high five with some friends across the room.
Jennifer stood there glaring down at Claire, clearly not sure what to do, and Claire was acutely aware that she had her back to the girl. Never a good plan. She didn't trust any of them, but she trusted Jennifer least of all these days. Gina had kind of discovered humanity, in a vague sort of way, and Monica . . . well, Monica could usually be counted on to do what was good for Monica.
Jennifer was unpredictable, and six of the worst kinds of crazy. Gina was mean, and Monica could be vicious, but Jennifer didn't seem to have any sense of boundaries at all. Plus, Jennifer had been the first one of the three to push her. Claire hadn't forgotten that.
Claire sensed a movement at her back, and almost ducked, but she forced herself not to flinch. Nothing will happen, not here. Not in front of Oliver. It wasn't that Oliver was fond of her, exactly--only that he didn't like conflict inside of his business that he himself hadn't started.
Monica's eyes went to Jennifer--wide and a little odd, as if Jennifer spooked her, too. "Jesus, Jen, get a grip," she said, which made Claire want to turn around and see whether the other girl was getting out a knife, but she managed to resist. "Just get another chair. It's not rocket science."
Jennifer's tone of voice made it clear she was still glaring at the back of Claire's head. "There aren't any."
"Well? Go scare somebody out of one. It's what you do."
That was cold, even for Monica, and Claire suddenly felt uneasy about this. Maybe she should just . . . move on. She didn't want to be in the middle, because if Monica and Jennifer really went at it, the one in the middle was going to get killed.
But before she could decide what to do, she heard Jennifer walking away, toward a team of people studying in the corner with books and calculators and notes spread over every available table inch. She zeroed in on the biggest guy, tapped him on the shoulder, and whispered in his ear. He stood up. She grabbed his chair and carried it back with her, and the guy stood there in complete bafflement.
It was, Claire realized, a really good strategy. The guy didn't seem like the type to come and pick a fight over something that small, especially with a girl of Jennifer's size (and reputation). So he finally shrugged and stood there awkwardly, resigned to his fate.
Jennifer jammed the chair in between Monica and Claire and sat down. Monica and Gina clapped, and Jennifer, finally, stopped glaring and grinned, proud to have earned their approval.
It was just . . . sad.
Claire shook her head. She still wanted to sit down and rest, but it really wasn't worth the small victory to be part of this. She stood up, grabbed her chair, and towed it across the crowded room to slide it next to the guy Jennifer had stolen the chair from, who was still standing. "Here," she said. "I'm leaving anyway."
Now he really looked confused. So did Monica and her Monickettes, as if the concept of givebacks had never crossed their path before. Claire sighed, shifted the weight of her backpack, and prepared to leave, mocha in hand.
"Hey!" Monica's grip on her elbow dragged her to a stop. "What the hell? I want you to stay!"
"Why?" Claire asked, and jerked her arm free. "So you can needle me for an hour? Are you really that bored?"
Monica looked even more confused. Nobody ever turned down being part of the queen bee's inner circle. After that second of vulnerability, though, her face hardened. "Don't diss me, Danvers. I'm warning you."
"I'm not dissing you." Claire sighed. "I'm ignoring you. There's a difference. Dissing you implies I think you're actually important."
As she walked out, she heard someone behind her laugh and clap. They were quickly hushed, but it still warmed her just a little. She didn't often get up in Monica's grille that directly, but she was sick of the games. Monica just needed to move on and find somebody else to poke her pins into.
The mocha was still delicious. Maybe even just a little bit more delicious for being outside in the open air, come to think of it. Claire nodded to a few people she knew on the street, all of them permanent residents, and strolled down the block. She wasn't in the mood to shop for clothes, but the little faded bookstore farther down beckoned her.
Book Mad was a dusty hole-in-the-wall, crammed floor to ceiling with stacks of volumes in--as far as Claire had ever been able to tell--only a vague sense of order. Generally, nonfiction was at the front and fiction at the back, but you really could never tell. The stacks never seemed to get any smaller, nor was the dust ever disturbed, but she was always finding new stuff she hadn't seen before.
That was weirdly entertaining.