Free Bleeding Violet by Dia Reeves Page A

all week, but—”
    “I love foreign films!”
    “You would.” He tugged a wayward strand of my hair that gleamed blondly in the sun. “You’re Swedish, right?”
    “I’m
Finnish
. And American. And white and black. And neither thing excludes the other, regardless of what you’ve been taught to believe.”
    He smirked at me like I was being naive, like he was humoring me. “Say something in Finnish.”
    I told him to get bent.
    “What’s that mean?”
    “I said you’re very charming.”
    He ducked his head in this cute way that made me feel guilty for teasing him. “If you come tomorrow at six,” I told him, “I’ll cook dinner before we go.”
    “Sweet.”
    I gave him my number and he stored it in his cell phone, slim and green as a dragon’s scale.
    The sound of squealing tires broke the mood. Far beyond the porch screen, a familiar lemon Jag screeched into the driveway.
    Wyatt helped me to my feet. “Is that Rosalee?” He pressed his face to the screen, trying to peer around the side of the house.
    “Do you want to meet her?”
    He looked shaky-excited, like a girl at her first boy band concert. “Hell, yeah,” he said, following me into the kitchen.
    We stepped through the back door in time to see Rosalee slam the car door shut. The man with the snakelike tongue got out as well, scowling.
    As Rosalee stormed our way, the snake yelled her name. “Don’t walk away from me! Who the hell do you think youare?” He grabbed her arm, and before I could move, Rosalee turned and kneed him in the groin.
    “What part of ‘it’s over’ don’t you understand?” she shouted.
    The pained look in his face mixed with incredulity, as though his favorite teacup Chihuahua had somehow sprouted fangs and chomped his ass. He slithered to the ground like an oil spill in his expensively slick suit.
    Rosalee hauled him up and shoved him back in his car. “Get out of here!” She kicked out his right taillight with her stiletto heel, but he peeled away in reverse before she could get the left one.
    She pulled down the miniscule skirt of her dress and fluffed her hair, ignoring Wyatt and me as she walked past us into the house.
    I was worried about what Wyatt would think of that little show, but he was beaming, staring through the glass of the door after Rosalee. “She’s such a badass.”
    Envy swamped me in a surprising flood. “Maybe it’s not such a good time for introductions, after all.”
    “Yeah,” he agreed, disappointed, and trudged down the back steps.
    “But I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”
    “At six,” he said, heading toward his dusty green Ford parked at the curb.
    I wrapped my arm around the porch post and admired his no-nonsense stride. “Wyatt!”
    “What?”
    “I’m glad you’re a freak.”
    “Thanks,” he said, and then frowned as if wondering what he’d just thanked me for.
    I stayed on the back porch until he disappeared down the street in his truck.
    Rosalee was in the kitchen in a frilly red apron, cutting potatoes while a big pot of water came to a boil on the stove. A pornographic Betty Crocker.
    “Rosalee?”
    She glanced at me, frowning and silent.
    “Are you all right?”
    “Obviously.” Her cheek was bruised wine-dark, as though that lowlife had smacked her. I felt bad then, mooning over Wyatt while Rosalee suffered alone, battered and bruised.
    “Maybe we should call the police?”
    She shrugged off the suggestion. “I know how to handle men. Who was that boy?”
    “Wyatt Ortiga. He trains with the Mortmaine.”
    “I noticed the green,” she said, not even slightly impressed.
    I leaned my elbows against the counter beside her. “Did you know that there are monsters in this town?” I said it to hear what it would sound like aloud.
    “Of course I know.” Since this was usually the point where I got shipped off to the psych ward, her agreement was more than a little deflating.
    “I helped kill one—this weird thing that was living in the school windows.”