From Dead to Worse (Sookie Stackhouse #8)(27)
Author: Charlaine Harris

I wanted to protest that there was no certainty that it had happened like that, but when I thought about it, it had to have been exactly that way or in some manner very close to it. Just to be sure I was remembering correctly, I called Amelia and asked her if she’d told any callers where I was the night before.

"No," she said. "I heard from Octavia, who didn’t know you. I got a call from that werepanther boy I met at your brother’s wedding. Believe me, you didn’t come up in that conversation. Alcide called, real upset. Tanya. I told her nothing."

"Thanks, roomie," I said. "You recovering?"

"Yeah, I’m feeling better, and Octavia left to go back to the family she’s been staying with in Monroe."

"Okay, see you when I get back."

"You going to make it back in time for work?"

"Yeah, I have to make it to work." Since I’d spent that week in Rhodes, I have to be careful to stick to the schedule for a while, otherwise the other waitresses would get up in my face about Sam giving me all the breaks. I hung up. "She told no one," I said.

"So you – and Eric – had a leisurely dinner at an expensive restaurant, with another man."

I looked at him incredulously. This was so far off the point. I concentrated. I’d never poked a mental probe into such turmoil. Alcide was feeling grief for Maria-Star, guilt because he hadn’t protected her, anger that I’d been drawn into the conflict, and above all, eagerness to knock some skulls. As the cherry on top of all that, Alcide – irrationally – hated that I’d been out with Eric.

I tried to keep my mouth shut out of respect for his loss; I was no stranger to mixed emotions myself. But I found I’d become abruptly and completely tired of him. "Okay," I said. "Fight your own battles. I came when you asked me to. I helped you when you asked me to, both at the battle for packleader and today, at expense and emotional grief to myself. Screw you, Alcide. Maybe Furnan is the better Were." I spun on my heel and caught the look Tray Dawson was giving Alcide while I marched out of the kitchen, down the steps, and into the carport. If there’d been a can, I would’ve kicked it.

"I’ll take you home," Tray said, appearing at my side, and I marched over to the side of the truck, grateful that he was giving me the wherewithal to leave. When I’d stormed out, I hadn’t been thinking about what would happen next. It’s the ruin of a good exit when you have to go back and look in the phone book for a cab company.

I’d believed Alcide truly loathed me after the Debbie debacle. Apparently the loathing was not total.

"Kind of ironic, isn’t it?" I said after a silent spell. "I almost got shot last night because Patrick Furnan thought that would upset Alcide. Until ten minutes ago, I would have sworn that wasn’t true."

Tray looked like he would rather be cutting up onions than dealing with this conversation. After another pause, he said, "Alcide’s acting like a butthead, but he’s got a lot on his plate."

"I understand that," I said, and shut my mouth before I said one more word.

As it turned out, I was on time to go to work that night. I was so upset while I was changing clothes that I almost split my black pants, I yanked them on so hard. I brushed my hair with such unnecessary vigor that it crackled.

"Men are incomprehensible ass**les," I said to Amelia.

"No shit," she said. "When I was searching for Bob today, I found a female cat in the woods with kittens. And guess what? They were all black-and-white."

I really had no idea what to say.

"So to hell with the promise I made him, right? I’m going to have fun. He can go have sex; I can have sex. And if he vomits on my bedspread again, I’ll get after him with the broom."

I was trying not to look directly at Amelia. "I don’t blame you," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. It was nice to be on the verge of laughter instead of wanting to smack someone. I grabbed up my purse, checked my ponytail in the mirror in the hall bathroom, and exited out the back door to drive to Merlotte’s.

I felt tired before I even walked through the employees’ door, not a good way to start my shift.

I didn’t see Sam when I stowed my purse in the deep desk drawer we all used. When I came out of the hall that accessed the two public bathrooms, Sam’s office, the storeroom, and the kitchen (though the kitchen door was kept locked from the inside, most of the time), I found Sam behind the bar. I gave him a wave as I tied on the white apron I’d pulled from the stack of dozens. I slid my order pad and a pencil into a pocket, looked around to find Arlene, whom I’d be replacing, and scanned the tables in our section.

My heart sank. No peaceful evening for me. Some asses in Fellowship of the Sun T-shirts were sitting at one of the tables. The Fellowship was a radical organization that believed (a) vampires were sinful by nature, almost demons, and (b) they should be executed. The Fellowship "preachers" wouldn’t say so publicly, but the Fellowship advocated the total eradication of the undead. I’d heard there was even a little primer to advise members of how that could be carried out. After the Rhodes bombing they’d become bolder in their hatred.

The FotS group was growing as Americans struggled to come to terms with something they couldn’t understand – and as hundreds of vampires streamed into the country that had given them the most favorable reception of all the nations on earth. Since a few heavily Catholic and Muslim countries had adopted a policy of killing vampires on sight, the U.S. had begun accepting vampires as refugees from religious or political persecution, and the backlash against this policy was violent. I’d recently seen a bumper sticker that read, "I’ll say vamps are alive when you pry my cold dead fingers from my ripped-out throat."

I regarded the FotS as intolerant and ignorant, and I despised those who belonged to its ranks. But I was used to keeping my mouth shut on the topic at the bar, the same way I was used to avoiding discussions on abortion or gun control or g*ys in the military.

Of course, the FotS guys were probably Arlene’s buddies. My weak-minded ex-friend had fallen hook, line, and sinker for the pseudo religion that the FotS propagated.

Arlene curtly briefed me on the tables as she headed out the back door, her face set hard against me. As I watched her go, I wondered how her kids were. I used to babysit them a lot. They probably hated me now, if they listened to their mother.

I shook off my melancholy, because Sam didn’t pay me to be moody. I made the rounds of the customers, refreshed drinks, made sure everyone had enough food, brought a clean fork for a woman who’d dropped hers, supplied extra napkins to the table where Catfish Hennessy was eating chicken strips, and exchanged cheerful words with the guys seated at the bar. I treated the FotS table just like I treated everyone else, and they didn’t seem to be paying me any special attention, which was just fine with me. I had every expectation that they’d leave with no trouble Pam walked in.