Free [Bayou Gavotte 03.0] Heart of Constantine by Barbara Monajem Page B

too riled, and not knowing what to expect next didn’t help one bit. He’d gotten reasonably good atdealing with his dad, but he couldn’t predict Constantine’s behavior, and the rock star was every bit as intimidating as people said.
    In silence, Constantine made him a very dry cappuccino. In more silence, he fired up the grill and produced two huge plates of eggs, tomatoes, home fries, and toast. He set one in front of Zeb and dug in.
    “Shit, man,” said Leopard, who had for several minutes been staring out the window with a glazed expression, “here are a couple new ones. Did you let those other chicks inside?”
    “Too early in the morning for eye candy?” Constantine speared some home fries and proffered the fork to his friend.
    Leopard batted the fork away. “Those chicks don’t qualify as any kind of candy.”
    “Poor jaded Lep.” Constantine nodded toward Zeb. “My friend here beat on the Pontificator this morning.”
    Zeb sputtered. Pontificator? Dad would love that one.
    Leopard brightened and reached across to high-five Zeb. “Well done, my man!” He made a face out the window. “Let ’em suffer a bit longer.”
    Constantine went on eating, and Zeb tried to gauge how soon he could leave. The longer he stayed, the more uneasy he became, and the more he felt like he needed the Zone, the more it eluded him. In any other circumstance, he would have been dying to talk to Constantine, like any other fan. As it was, the best he could hope for was to get the hell away.
    “So tell me, Zeb,” said Constantine.
    Zeb’s hope evaporated.
    “What’s your grudge against Professor Lutsky?”
    Relief surged up, resentment in its wake. “It’s no big deal. I can’t stand him, and I lost it.” The lack of sleep lately wasn’t helping his self-control either.
    “I can’t stand him either, but I haven’t beaten him up. What’s the story?”
    Zeb sliced at his eggs and said nothing. Constantine waited. Zeb raised his fork to his lips, glanced at Constantine, and threw it down. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. If you really must know.” He seethed a few seconds more, struggled, and spat it out. “The bastard killed my mother.”
    “Say what?” Leopard grimaced at Constantine. “Shit, man, I told you we should have done him.”
    Constantine showed nothing but mild interest. “He didn’t literally kill her, I assume. Indirectly, though?”
    “Maybe, but it was his fault, the stupid jerk.” Zeb took a deep breath. “He hit on my mother, and she told him where to go, but I guess you know what he’s like. Once he gets an idea in his big, fat, stupid head, he never lets go. He kept pestering and pestering her, trying to get her to run away with him. Anyway, they were at the same conference in New Orleans. She got a ride home with him, and their car went off the road. It hit a tree, and my mom died, and that bastard only got a few bruises.”
    “He’s the one who should have died,” said Leopard.
    Grateful, Zeb nodded. “I freaked out, and I wanted to kill him, and I tried, too.” He shrugged. “I was, like, only twelve. I didn’t stand a chance. Now, though, I might be able to do some damage.” He shoveled a mouthful of egg and potato. “I’m going to be in such deep shit over this. Andfor running up and down the mounds,” he added glumly, spreading strawberry jam on his toast.
    “Training for the Classic?” Constantine’s eyes were almost sympathetic. “I ran it a couple of times.”
    “Cool,” Zeb said, surprised.
    “Running’s a good way to burn off rage,” Constantine said.
    Bullshit. What was this, a frigging therapy session? The only alternative to rage was the Zone. If he folded his aura, rage couldn’t get at him—not his own rage, not anyone else’s. If he folded it tightly enough,
nothing
could get at him. He stayed in the Zone most of the time, because once there, he could avoid thinking—about his father and his dead mother, about decisions, about life and death—and