Disclaimer: I do not own Dead Like Me or any of the associated characters. This chapter is still in George's POV. Please feel free to R/R!

Chapter 2: For Every Action, an Equal and Opposite Reaction

Rube was in his usual jovial mood when we made it to Reaper Hut. He was writing in his battered leather binder, but he wasn't writing out Post-Its, thank God.

"Hey, kiddo. Daisy," he said. "Mason."

"Why do you gotta say it like that, Rube? Maaaason …" Mason said, surly. "Hello to you, too, Ruuuube."

Rube ignored him. "How went the reaps?" He didn't look up.

"Messy, bloody, limby, disgusting, you know, a riveting old time!" said Daisy. She looked at him. "You know, Rube, if you're going to subject us to that much blood on a daily basis, you might want to think about some kind of dry cleaning incentive."

"Good idea, Princess," said Roxy, who was already seated by Rube and blowing the steam of the top of her cup of coffee, black. "And while you're at it, Rube, how about reinstating that dental plan?"

"There was a dental plan?" asked Mason, clearly not catching on.

Daisy shot Roxy a dirty look. "I'm just saying, look at it like … hazard pay," she finished, looking satisfied with herself. She dusted an imaginary fleck of lint of her new Armani—right … Armani?—shirt. She still hadn't answered that one. I looked at her out of the side of my eye. I still wondered from whom she'd shit-talked that one.

"Fuck the hazard pay! What's this about dental?" Mason repeated, still not catching on.

"You looking for a new way to get your hands on a drill, Mason?" Rube said, still not looking up as he wrote. "They've got 'em down at the hardware store on the corner for cheap. Just make sure you keep your brains away from Daisy's outfit or you'll have to pay for cleaning."

"Ah, screw you, Rube!" Mason said pissily. "Why do you always have to bring that up?"

"Why does he always have to bring that up? I don't recall anyone ever calling you Drill Boy, and as the girl who constantly gets called Toilet Seat, even from complete strangers, I think I might remember," I said.

Thankfully, Kiffany stopped my righteous rant, which was getting kind of loud. "Can I get you something, sweetie?"

"Just some coffee, please, Kiffany."

"And you, sweetie, you want some coffee, too?" she asked Daisy.

"No thank you." Daisy gave her that sweet, "Daisy, Daisy Adair" smile.

Kiffany looked at Mason, but he'd already pulled an airplane bottle of rum out of his jacket pocket. She didn't say anything, but she gave him a look before walking away.

What was he, a walking liquor store?

"That time of day, already, Mason?" asked Roxy.

"Jesus, people, can't we give poor Mason just a lil' bit of a break?" Mason asked testily. He put the rum back in his pocket, but I could tell it was coming back out as soon as no one was looking. "Y'know, how are you, Mason? How was your reap, Mason? Anything new goin' on, Mason?"

"Anything new going on, Mason?" Rube asked. He was still writing. He was always writing. What the fuck was he always writing? I tried to sneak a peek, but with the way he'd angled his body there was no way I could look.

I suspected that was a conscious move.

"Well, thank you for asking, Rube," Mason said, brightening. Then, "Erm … umm … I … no."

"Thank you for that clearing that up."

When Kiffany returned with the coffee, Mason pulled out his airplane bottle. He gave me a conspiratorial look, and I felt like I was back in third grade, passing notes. But I still had a buzz from the whiskey, so I held out my coffee cup as quickly and discreetly as possible, and he poured a generous bit of rum in while no one was paying attention. Which seemed to be often.

Georgia Lass, age 18, died in a senseless accident involving a piece of the orbiting space station Mir today …

I shuddered a little and gulped at the coffee greedily. Damn, he'd put a lot of rum in there! It was pretty nasty. I made a face.

"Want some sugar, sugar?" Mason asked, and winked.

"Need a little pick-me-up, Peanut?" asked Rube, looking up for the first time. I suspect all my slurping and gulping had broken his concentration.

"More like 'need a little sober-me-up,'" said Daisy. She looked at Rube and Roxy and lowered her voice. "Mason and George had a little drinking contest this afternoon on the way here," she said.

"God, Daisy, you're such a tattle-tale!" I said. "And anyway, you're the one who's wearing weird, ill-gotten, weird—did I just say weird?—ill-gotten gains! She's wearing Armani!" I snitched.

Shit! This was third grade.

"Got something on your mind, Georgia?" Rube asked, and he gave me that look that I normally thought looked fatherly and sort of nosy—didn't the two go hand-in-hand, really?—but now, through my gauzy haze, just looked kinda squinty.

He looked so squinty, in fact, it made me giggle. "Nope," I answered honestly, shaking my head back and forth as the rum burned a hole down my windpipe. "Not a thing."

"Hmm." I could tell he didn't quite believe me, but he let it go.

"Mason, you know you can go to jail for contributing to the delinquency of a minor," Roxy said, looking very official in her police blues and sounding only semi-snarky.

"I am not a juvenile delinquent!" I blurted out, and Mason yelled, "Jesus, Roxy, it's not like she's really a minor! She's been dea—"

Rube gave him a look that said, Finish that sentence and you'll be dead. Again.

"She's been dead over two years," Mason finished in a whisper, looking around. "And unless you've all forgotten, it's fucking Saturday! So let it rest, will you? Can you do that, I mean? Let it fucking rest?"

"Yes, Mason, it is fucking Saturday and I can let it fucking rest," Rube said matter-of-factly, and started to get up. "But just remember: 18 plus two does not make 21."

He looked at me pointedly.

"What?" I said. "I've had alcohol before." I lowered my voice to what I was pretty sure was close to a whisper and said, "Before I was Toilet Seat Girl'I had a life, you know."

I was totally lying and he knew it. I knew he knew it. I'd tried some of Betsy Fletcher's father's Scotch once at her sixth-grade slumber party, which my mother had gotten me invited to and had also made me go to, kicking and screaming, but it just tasted like hot burning Hell. I drank it and made this huge retching noise, and then all the other girls started laughing.

I spent the rest of the night reading her dad's stupid hunting magazines and picturing how I might pick those girls off, one by one.

"Anyway, Peanut, just be careful," Rube said, and gave me that squinty look again, which in turn made me giggle again. He shook his head, and turned to walk out. "OK, then, people. See you in the a.m. Don't be late."

"'Bye, Ruuuuuube," said Mason, brazenly taking a swig of another airplane bottle, this one vodka.

"Well, I'm not going to sit here and watch this," Roxy said, sat down her empty cup and got up, too.

"Rox, where are you going?" I asked, and I heard myself whining but I couldn't stop. I was really hurt that Roxy, too, was leaving me.

Wait—why was I hurt that Roxy was leaving? I felt weird.

"If you three want to pollute yourselves, have at it," she said. "But I'm not going to sit around and watch it. Besides, I'm going back to work."

"Don't count me in on it!" said Daisy, jumping up like she'd been bitten by a snake.

Why was everyone treating Mason and me like lepers? Was this the way Mason always felt? I suddenly felt a strong surge of sympathy—or was it empathy?—for Mason.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"I have plans," she answered.

"With Giorgio Armani?" I asked.

"I said that's none of your business, Georgia," she reminded me dismissively.

"Oh, yeah? Well, I have plans, too!" I said, a lot louder than I meant to. Everyone in the restaurant turned around to look. I quickly put my head down and started studying my coffee like it was the Cliff's Notes to War and Peace.

As soon as Daisy was gone, Mason slid into the booth beside me and put his arm around me. "So, what you say, Georgie, girl, it's just you and me then?" he asked.

He looked sad, like a puppy who'd been abandoned by its siblings to fend for itself, and, dammit, there went that twinge of sympathy—empathy?—again.

Then I thought, "How dare they leave me? Us? On a fucking Saturday!"

"I'm in," I said huffily, and continued to drink the coffee that was still burning a hole through my windpipe.

That's when things really started to get fuzzy.