Well, I don’t need to spend any more time than I have to with jerks. I type in the destination and confirm my ride.
“I’m good.”
Chapter Six
BEAU
Nonchas losthis mind if he thinks Iris Adams isn’t a drama queen.
She trips my uncle and then makes it all about her. She can’t frickin’ drive herself. She throws her money around. And then she storms off the minute I ask if she’s impaired—which she clearly is. She may not be not slurring her words, but I’m not convinced she could walk a straight line if she can’t climb into a truck.
And she still insisted on taking an Uber even after I apologized. Fine. But I’m not leaving until it gets here. I won’t leave her to wait alone.
A girl who looks like her? In a neighborhood like this? No way am I leaving.
So now we’rebothwaiting. Me and the drama queen.
I’m leaning against the side of my truck, arms crossed over my chest, and she’s sitting on the porch swing, glued to her phone, frowning.
I recognized her immediately. I’ve never watched her show, but a lot of my students do. I’ve caught commercials for it, and I’ve seen GIFs and memes of Iris Adams as Raven Blackwell facing off with some monster or vampire or werewolf. Last fall, I assigned a project for my French III students to create French captions for three-minute scenes of their favorite TV shows. Two of the projects featured scenes from Iris’s showHexed.
So, yeah, I’ve seen her in action, though she looks different than when she’s in character. Softer. More natural. In fact, I don’t think she’s wearing much makeup. But she doesn’t need any.
She’s beautiful.
A beautiful, spoiled, entitled little drama queen.
That’s what I’m thinking when her phone rings in her hands, and I watch her whole posture change. Instead of slumping on the swing looking bored and irritated, she bolts up like her spine’s hooked to a pulley.
“Moira, no,” she answers, turning her back toward me as she begins to pace. “I don’t think we need to make a big deal out of it.” She’s quiet for a while, listening, probably, and she begins to pace faster.
I have to admit, if she’s drunk or stoned, it’s not showing up now. She’s not weaving or moving off-kilter. She’s pacing like someone nervous. Someone alert to danger.
Except she’s not. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement. A guy in a stretched out T-shirt and dirty jeans is pushing an old bicycle down West Convent Street. His eyes are on Iris’s back. If I’m betting, on her ass. She’s wearing high-waisted black and white striped shorts, and, I’ll admit, the view is exceptional. In fact, I don’t think this bum has even seen me. He’d have to tear his gaze away from her to do that, and I don’t think he has it in him.
Judging by the way his clothes and even his skin hang on him, I doubt self-control is one of his strengths.
“Moira, I really don’t think he’s going to sue, but I just feel like we should offer—”
When the guy parks his bike on the curb, I push off my truck. She still hasn’t turned.
“Hey, honey,” he calls. “You got any tweak?”
Iris whirls around to see he’s in the yard, closing in on her, and she takes a step back, but I’m closing in on him.
“This is private property,” I boom, making him jump. He’s either high or coming down hard because his peripheral vision did him no good. “You need to leave.”
He puts his scrawny, pale hands up. His fingernails are long and grimy. “I ain’t botherin’ nobody.”
“Trying to buy drugs on my property is bothering me.” I move between him and the foot of the porch steps.
“Moira, I-I’ll call you back.” Iris’s voice is barely audible behind me, but it catches our visitor’s attention. His eyes, wild though they are, light up.
“Hey… do I know you?”
“No,” I answer. “You don’t.”
He scowls, baring teeth that are mottled green and black with rot. “I was talkin’ to her.”
