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“Leave it alone, Jorge. I don’t want you hurt.” I didn’t want him involved—didn’t want the Ambrosia Bakery to be a target—so keeping an eye on the men, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Chase’s number.
“It’s not right, miss. Not right at all.”
“No, it isn’t, but right now, the most important thing to me is getting Iris’s cake home safe and sound. So please, Jorge, go back in the bakery. The cops may come to talk to you, but I don’t want you out here. Please?”
“I don’t want to leave you two out here alone.” He scuffed the ground. “You girls going to be okay?”
“We’ll be fine. I’m calling the cops. Now go.” As he headed back toward the store, cart in hand, Chase answered the phone.
“Chase, can you get a car down here to the corner of Vine and Wilder? Someone just tagged our car with hate speech—bright red spray paint. I’m going to send you a couple pictures of who I think did it. And of the Jeep.”
“Stay there—don’t engage them. I have a car on the way.” Chase’s voice took on a worry that I hadn’t heard in a while.
“We won’t, but we have to get home for Iris’s wedding, anyway. We’re running late. And I’m afraid if we stay, we may actually get into a rumble because frankly, if I have to stand here one more minute, I’m going to whale ass on these SOBs.”
I punched the End Call button and held up the phone, taking a clear shot of the jokers on the corner. They shuffled when they saw me taking their picture and began to head the other way. Like all bigots, they were cowards inside. That, and our reputation preceded us, apparently.
I then took pictures of the Jeep and sent all of them to Chase’s cell phone. Afterward, I motioned to Camille. “Get in. We’re leaving.”
But before we could pull out, Shamas came screeching into the spot in front of us. He leaped out of the car. By now, a small crowd had formed as several parties came out of the restaurant and stood around to gape.
Shamas took one look at the car, and his usually pale cheeks flared with color. I pointed out the receding figures who were now a block away.
“You take off, we’ll deal with them,” he said, motioning to the squad car where his partner, Thayus—a man with skin as dark as Trillian’s and hair just as silvery-blue—sat. “Go on. And drive safe.” He held the door open for Camille, so she wouldn’t get tagged by the fresh paint. She gave him a faint smile.
I got behind the wheel, cupcakes all but forgotten, and started the car. “We’re not telling anybody at home yet. I’m not casting a pall over Iris’s day. I’ll just park so they won’t see the door of the Jeep and while everybody’s busy setting up for the wedding, I’ll come out and wash the paint off. If I can.”
Camille nodded. “Yeah, I think that’s best.”
We pulled out of the parking spot and headed for home.
On the way home, Camille unbuckled her seat belt and—just as I was about to yell at her for it—she turned to fumble around in the backseat. After a moment, she plunked herself back in her seat, box of cupcakes in hand, rebuckled the seat belt, and gave me a forlorn smile.
“I don’t want to share these at home. I’m sorry, but we’ve had one hell of a morning, and I want my cupcakes, damn it.”
I snickered. “Me, too. Hand me one, would you?”
“Pull off to the side up there, into the parking lot.” She pointed toward a small park along the way. Brentmeyer Park. It was one of those little neighborhood greenbelts, where there were a few swing sets, a jungle gym, scattered picnic tables, and a couple of grilling stations. The park wasn’t very big, but it had trees and grass and gave the neighborhood kids a place to play.
As I put the car into park and turned off the ignition, Camille opened the door. She swung out, onto the ground, and picked up the box of cupcakes, motioning for me to follow her.
“We need a break.” She led the way over to one of the nearest picnic tables and, brushing the raindrops off the bench, sat down. I followed suit, breathing the crisp scent of impending rain. The sky was dark, the ground wet, and I hoped that Iris’s tents would hold off the downpour. As we sat down at the table and opened the cupcake box, my gaze flickered over to the side of my Jeep. The red lettering had dried, and now it just looked ugly and garish.
“Stop,” she said.
“Stop what?” I wanted to cry. I loved my Jeep and had bonded with it in the same way I had my laptop.
“Feeling sorry for yourself. The cretins who did this are scum. But it’s paint. We can clean it off—or we can get your Jeep repainted. What they did was moronic and rude, but it’s fixable.” She frowned. “Not like the Supe Community Hall—there’s nothing that can bring back the victims.”
“I know…but…it’s the energy behind it. Seattle was so nice to us when we first came here. Now what’s happening?”
“The haters are coming out of the woodwork. They were always there, though. First you hate the blacks and the Jews and Muslims and the gays and the women. When it no longer becomes acceptable to hate them, you find a new target. Anybody different, anybody who makes you realize you aren’t the center of the universe. Even Otherworld isn’t immune. Look at Father and how he reacted to Trillian. Look at the goblins—they hate just about everybody.”
“They’re goblins. What do you expect?” I shook my head. “We need to counter this somehow. We need something to show people that we aren’t the enemy. Maybe…”
“Maybe it’s time to start focusing on an interactive group? The vamps and the Weres and the Fae all have their own support groups now, and that’s a good thing. But maybe it’s time to come together? To form a club that’s inclusive? That opens up to the people of the city?” She blinked and bit into one of the cupcakes, closing her eyes with delight.
I followed suit, thinking about what she said. As the rich, buttery chocolate melted into my mouth, I sank in the sugary comfort. I polished off one cupcake and picked up another, pulling the paper holder away from the cake.
