Doubull Indemnity

7

Isla, Making a Scene

He's beauty. He's not really grace. He's always getting hit in the face.

And he's pissing me off.

"You're a klutz for a you-know-what, you know that?" I seethed into Greg's ear, hooking my arms under his and dragging his (fine) undead ass to his feet.

Greggy shot me a look as sharp as the glass wine stem stabbed through his hand—which the vamp hadn't seemed to notice yet. Detangling himself from my arm, and our waiter's legs, Greg produced a cloth napkin from seemingly nowhere and used it to dab a splash of wine off my own arm.

"Oh my, golly, I'm so sorry," he practically shouted before leaning in close as he pretended to tenderly blot a splash of wine off my cheek and harshly whispering: "What are you doing here?"

How dumb was it for that to shoot shivers up my spine, huh?

Our waiter—drenched in as much wine as Greg, poor guy—kept apologizing in rapid fire gibberish for his own thoughtless clumsiness. Amidst the stream of nonsense, he gasped. "Oh my god, there's glass—"

The vamp's face scrunched, kind of cutely, at hearing the lord's name invoked. I knew Greg was holding back a hiss. Could practically see him chewing off his tongue inside his mouth as he held back a full body twitch. Once the sensation apparently passed, Greg blinked at his impaled palm and stuffed it inside his blazer. He flashed the unfortune waiter a downright seductive smirk. You know, the kind complete with a little too much glint of fang and charming twinkle in those blue eyes. He raised his uninjured hand.

"Glass? No, no glass here. I'm peachy keen. Shoot! I am just so darn sorry for this mess, let me—"

"Darling, your shirt, come here," I grabbed Greg by the wine-soaked collar. Tightly. Enough to choke the snooping prick of a vamp. "You'll catch a chill in this weather. Let's get you cleaned up."

"Napkins!" said the waiter. "I can, uh, get you more napkins?"

"Yes."

He nodded.

"Do that."

"Right!"

With that, the waiter scampered off in the direction of who I presumed was his manager materializing behind the bar.

Murmuring amongst the crowd swelled. From the way he tensed, I knew Greg also noticed that the spotlight was on us. Yeah, that's right people, go ahead and stare. Take it all in. I could foresee the headline in the Nightly Scry tomorrow: Local Vampire & Paroled Necromancer Make Ass of Themselves at Fancy Mortal Restaurant, We've Got the Morbid Details on page 6. Plus, Something Wicked This Way Comes: Five Rituals for Setting Intentions for your Love Life.

Ugh.

"Well, come on, let's get you to the restroom."

Greg didn't budge. Beyond narrowing his eyes at me. Or rather, just over my shoulder. To my table. Where Billy sat. Waiting. Probably glaring at Greg like the vamp was waving a red flag and wearing a sparkly waistcoat.

"People are staring, darling."

Ooooh. Was somebody was jealous?

"Whose fault is that, Mr. Brightside?" I shot back (Greg winced). "If you don't want them to keep staring when your screwed up ankle pops back into place and a massive glass splinter shoots out your palm, then just follow me to the freaking to the toilets."

That and I either want to yell at you or shove my tongue down your control freak throat while I haven't decided precisely which yet I'd like to do it in private.