"Spencer?"
"Leah." He didn't say it like Ryan did—he said my name like it was an inside joke, an ironic sweet reference to something I should remember. "Imagine seeing you here. What a crazy random happenstance."
"What—what the--?" I was trying to string words together like a normal person, trying to regain my mastery of the English language with admittedly limited success. I didn't do well with surprise. "What—did you escape? I mean, why—?"
"Hmm, I wish," he mused. "No, it's more of…let's see, how to explain? Ever see that movie My Bodyguard? I'm Adam Baldwin, and you're Matt Dillon."
"I'm Matt Dillon?"
"Okay, so it's not a perfect metaphor," he said, "but I thought the title would be a giveaway."
His humor was strange—very dry, dead dry and dead black, and occasionally it threw me. Sometimes it was hard to know what was meant to be funny. "If that was true, then you would be trying to tell me that you're my bodyguard," I argued, "which can't possibly be true." No, I wasn't one of those snobby elitist types who thought humans were bugs under my feet, but still. Facts were facts.
He arched his eyebrows at me, half-challenging. "What, you think I can't do it?"
"I think you can't do it."
"You're wrong."
"Listen, Spencer, I respect you as a person and all," I said condescendingly. Yikes, I'd better watch out or I would be one of those humans-are-bugs-under-my-feet types after all. "But you can't protect me. You can't do anything." Whoops. A little harsh. Then again, if the shoe fits…
"Why do you think the werewolves keep me around, Leah?"
Excellent question. "I don't know, why do they keep you around?"
"Never mind," he said, shutting back down—I could see him shuttering up his eyes, one of the most effective emotional blockouts I'd ever seen. I guess he had had practice, but still—I'd never thought anyone could be colder than me. I was a little jealous. "I don't want to talk about it."
"Don't want to talk about it? You're the one who brought it up!"
"I shouldn't have. It was a pride thing. You were challenging my masculinity." And there it was again—was he kidding? Probably, and if so how much? Should I smile? Was it okay to laugh?
I went another direction entirely. "Well, then why don't you run away now?" I asked logically. "Could just be me, but I doubt that bodyguarding me is what you want to be doing right now."
"Oh, I don't mind." This time I knew he wasn't kidding, which was a first. Just from the way he was looking at me—his eyes were very green, it wasn't really…fair. Like when someone shines a flashlight straight in your eyes. "Beats bartending, anyway. And I can't run, Ryan will just find me. It's happened before. Don't you have that whole freak super-senses thing, too?"
"Yes," I said crossly, slightly offended. Sometimes I used the words myself, in my mind or my conversation, things like "weird" or "freak" or "unnatural". I used them myself to try to take the sting out of when they were used by others, because "freak" as a word I hated to hear. Because I was. A freak, a sport, a one-of-a-kind. An albino alligator. "Thanks a lot."
"Sorry, I didn't mean to make you mad," he said, seeming a little puzzled as to why, exactly, I was mad. "It's just that you're—different."
"Yes. I am. We're different species," I said shortly.
"It's a compliment, Leah, don't be silly," he said, exasperated. "I hate these werewolves. You're different than them, which means I like you."
"You like me?" How silly. I felt a little fluttery, almost touched. Nobody liked me. It was very unusual. So of course my reaction was hostility. "No you don't. Why would you like me?"
"Because you're strong and smart and capable," he said simply, like a person answering a science question. All business. "Because everyone can tell you're hurt but you don't let it stop you. Because sometimes I look at you and—hmm." I saw the shutters going shut again. Slam. A person who's suddenly realized he's said too much. "Never mind."
I felt my breath catching over and over, like a car that wouldn't start, like I was having a heart attack right there on the B car of the London underground. It was just—stunning. I was stunned. Not the kind of stunned when you're surprised but the kind where someone has hit you over the head with something heavy. "Oh," I said finally. "Okay."
He wasn't looking at me anymore—had already moved on, and taken those eyes away from me, thank God. "You asked," he said. "So—Heathrow?"
What was he doing? Was he flirting with me? Surely not. I could never tell if he was kidding, he could be kidding now. He had better be kidding. Romantically, I was not much but a time bomb. Horror movie murder victim number eight, chest slashed to ribbons. I did the duck-and-cover thing, I couldn't meet flirting head on. "No, Jacob doesn't get in till ten."
"So," he switched instantly, easily. "Coffee?"
--
Twilight was cutting the city out in sharp lines and shadows, making London into sketched black silhouettes—shading further and further for every inch the sun went down. It looked dramatic, fantastic, I couldn't keep my eyes off it. I hoped Spencer didn't mind—that I was looking straight past him out the window over his shoulder, that I liked the city better than him. I didn't really want to look at him anyway, because he was looking back at me, and that made me jittery. Most people didn't look me in the eyes, not for the last few years, but I guess he didn't know better.
I sneaked a glance at him, and sure enough, he was looking at me, gaze-piercing me with those damn green eyes. I did the junior-high thing and looked away quickly again, trying to pretend I hadn't been looking at all. Which was a little difficult since I was sitting straight across from him, sucking up the foam dregs of my cappuccino and feeling his eyes on my mouth and cheekbones and hair.
As I said, it had been awhile since anyone had liked me. It had been awhile since I'd, for example, had someone to have coffee with. Things that casual and friendly had not existed for me in La Push. I didn't know how to handle him. If it had been up to me, even something as simple as getting coffee would have crashed and burned. He was easy to talk to, though, the kind of guy who starts conversations and then takes them places, asking me about opinions and favorites and world politics. He didn't treat me like a stupid girl and he didn't treat me like a bitch. I just couldn't figure out what he was treating me like.
He finished his own coffee and slid his watch face-front on his wrist—right wrist, of course, the left was a little jacked up at the moment. "Seven thirty," he informed me. "We've still got a few hours—should we take this date somewhere else?"
I had a lot of hot-button words, words that surprised me and upset me and made me house-on-fire furious—and all for very good reasons, I might add. "Love" was one of them—also "boyfriend", "girlfriend", and "marriage". Oh yeah: and "date". He managed to drop the word at exactly the wrong time, exactly as I was sucking the last bit of cappuccino up the straw.
I choked. I mean seriously choked, the kind of choking that makes milk shoot out of your nose in the lunch room, the kind of choking where you think you're going to die. I started coughing and then stopped, gasping up at Spencer as suggesting he might give me some help here, thank you very much.
"Keep coughing," he instructed briskly, getting up out of his chair and moving around to me—pulling my shoulders back so that I was sitting up straight, tipping my head back. "Hey, Leah—cough, okay? It's just liquid, it won't kill you. Coughing will clear your airway."
I usually wasn't one for following directions, but choking to death on a cup of coffee was not what I wanted to go on my gravestone. I coughed. It hurt, but he was right—it cleared out quickly, the coughs less violent every time. His hands pulled away from me and he disappeared, apparently leaving me to die.
"This is not—" I growled at him with what was left of my voice, as he showed up again with another styrofoam cup in his hand, "a date."
"Listen," he said, sliding back into the booth, sliding the cup across the table to me. "I have not had a lot of real social interaction for the last few years. I'm going to call it what I want, and you can't stop me. So there."
"Oh, I would not bet on that," I snapped hoarsely.
"You sound terrible," he informed me. "Drink the water. It'll soothe the strained tissue in your throat."
I drank the water he'd brought me, and of course, he was right. I didn't want to trust him or anything, but he did seem to be right a lot of the time. "Strained tissue," I repeated dubiously. "How exactly do you know all this, Spencer?"
"Med school," he said shortly.
"Med school? Really?"
"Yeah."
"Is there a…story here?" I liked to know stuff. Not my fault. Even pre-Sam I had been a little nosy, and since then it had become more of a meanspirited prying. I just—liked to know stuff, and usually people didn't tell me anymore unless I beat it out of them with a crowbar.
"Yes. A secret story," he told me firmly. Looks like I was going to need that crowbar. "I'm not sure what you would call my current employment, but I think I'm overqualified."
"Well, what happened?" I pried shamelessly. "How'd you end up with Cujo and the hyenas, here?"
"Look, Leah," he said, in that fragile tone that people get when they're talk over a sensitive subject. Like a person tiptoeing across thin ice. "You've been around these guys long enough to know that when they want something, they take it. Even if it's in Med School."
"But why would they want you?" I asked, frustrated. "What's so great about you? No offense," I added belatedly.
"Yeah, no problem," he said wryly. "So let's get out of here, huh? We could go see Buckingham Palace. Do you want to see Buckingham Palace?"
"No, I want to hear about you," I said crossly.
"How about Stonehenge? We could probably make it to Stonehenge."
"I don't want to go to Stonehenge, I want you to answer my questions!"
"Wait, how about the London Eye? You have to see the Eye, Leah, it's the biggest Ferris wheel in the world."
"I do not want to—" Wait. That actually sounded kind of fun. "Biggest—Ferris wheel?"
"Biggest Ferris wheel," he repeated solemnly. "In the world."
It was getting dark outside—the buildings were barely visible now outside the window, just darker shadows cut with boxes of window-light. As much as I disliked Ryan and sort of wanted to punch him in the eye, I couldn't help remembering what he'd said about nighttime in London. The um…vampires, and stuff.
But hey. I was Leah Clearwater. I was famous. And I could take care of myself.
Right?
Oh well, screw it. I wanted to see the Ferris wheel.
"All right," I said, standing in a quick, decisive way that left no question that I was about to make a rash decision. So what else was new. "Let's do it."
