Ever After (Rachel Morgan)

the keys, Ivy. You’re going to want that top closed.”
    “Thanks,” she said, giving me a soft smile before she turned away and breezed out, coming within inches of the woman.
    I stood as the blond woman shivered as if chilled. “Chicken,” I berated Jenks as I moved to get in line right behind her.
    “You think I’m going to get involved in that heart-to-heart women crap?” he said as he snuggled in behind my scarf. “Hell, no! Aw, she’s sweet! You sure we have to lock her in the trunk?”
    When I’m done with her, she’s going to be more pissed than a cat in a well, I thought as I took a quick step back from her as she ordered. I was afraid if I got too close, I might catch whatever cheerful bug had infected her. It was too early to be that sickeningly bouncy, but I suppose if your job required you to dress as a professional distraction, a happy disposition might be an asset. Right now, she was making me ill on smile overload.
    “Holy toad piss,” Jenks muttered. “This woman is even bouncier than you after you’ve got some, Rache.”
    “Shut up, Jenks.”
    “I haven’t seen you like that in . . . hell, how long has it been?”
    “Shut up!” I muttered, tightening my scarf until he called uncle, laughing at me. It had been a while, and even worse, it had been with Pierce. Everyone I had sex with died. Except Marshal, and that had only been because he left in time.
    Adrenaline hit me when Ms. Bouncy-Hair finished her transaction, catching my eye as she moved to the pickup counter. She must have heard me telling Jenks to shut up, but being the crazy woman would only help, and I gave her a neutral smile and hitched my shoulder bag higher. Sweet or not, she was our fast and dirty ticket into the museum and behind security doors. I hated locking people in their own trunks. Except for Francis. That had been fun.
    I was still wearing my smile as I stepped up to the counter. “Ah, two grandes, black. A skinny chai tea tall, and a vanilla grande with a shot of pumpkin in it if you still have it.” I knew they did. The drinks I ordered were was the exact same ones Ms. Bouncy-Hair had ordered, right down to the size. “Oh, and can you put it all in a to-go bag? Thanks.”
    “Got it,” the barista said, never looking up, never noticing it was a duplicate order. Junior would have, and I was glad he wasn’t here.
    I handed the barista a bill to cover it, turning around to see the blue Mustang in the parking lot, the top still open to the sky. “Thank you,” I said around a yawn as he gave me my change. Eight? Was it really eight? Adrenaline or not, this was an insane time to be up. That was humanity’s problem right there. They were brain damaged from the early sun.
    “Ah, Rache?” Jenks whispered, poking me in the neck, and I jumped, giving the barista a faint smile as I moved down.
    I stood just inside most people’s personal zone, and sure enough, Ms. Bouncy-Hair noticed, shifting down a smidge. My pulse quickened. I couldn’t help it. Maybe I was as bad as Ivy. When the woman’s order slid onto the counter in one of those paper trays, I was ready.
    “Thanks, Bill!” she called out cheerfully, reaching for it as I leaned in as if going for it too. The woman got there first, her hands full of hot coffee as she turned, smashing right into my upraised hand. It would have gone all over me, but I was the one planning accidents, and with a little flip, it went down her front instead.
    “What the fuck!” the woman exclaimed, staggering back with her entire order spilled on the floor. Well, not all of it, and her pink V-neck sweater was now an ugly brown.
    “Ooh, mouthy,” Jenks said, and I heard him take to the air, wings clattering.
    My shock was fake, but it looked real enough. I’d had plenty of practice. “Oh, my gosh!” I exclaimed, standing there with my eyes wide and hands up in the helpless-me position. “I am so-o-o-o sorry!”
    The baristas were already moving to mop it up, and she dropped back to the tables and chairs, disgust swamping her. “Bill, can I have another set?” she said, and then muttered at me, “Why don’t you watch where you’re going,” as if embarrassed for the F bomb she’d dropped.
    She was on the defensive, and that was fine with me. It didn’t make the guilt any less, but it did tend to put it off till later.
    “Oh my God, I’m so, so sorry,” I said, grabbing napkins like mad and shoving them at her. “Here, let me give you my address,”