“Why? You already did.”
And, okay, in retrospect, that probably wasn’t the right response, because she burst into tears. I awkwardly put an arm around her shoulders, because that seemed to help last time. And had it angrily shrugged off.
“Don’t be kind!” she told me. “I’m a shit friend; I know it! I’ve been telling myself that for the last two hours—”
“I didn’t say you were a shit friend.”
“Well, I did! And I am!”
She angrily wiped off napkin residue like she was shedding a second skin.
“You never yell at me, even when you should. And I know why,” she said, when I started to open my mouth. “You never had a roommate before. You don’t have anyone to compare me to, but trust me, I’m shit.”
“Claire, you’re not shit—”
“Yes, I am!” She looked up, eyes blazing. And then suddenly slumped against the car, the fire gone as fast as it had come. “See? I can’t even let you yell at me properly; I have to boss how you do it. I’m overbearing and interfering and everything always has to be my way. I try not to be—I do—but then something comes along and it—it just isn’t right. And I have to fix it—I have to try, even if I end up screwing everything up and making it worse than before. Because I’m shit.”
She slid down beside a tire and hugged her knees.
I’d been in that position earlier, and it sucked. Nothing ever went well in that position. That was the world’s-out-to-get-me-and-probably-will position, and it made me sad to see Claire in it.
I went over and sat beside her.
“You’re not shit,” I told her.
She looked at me, her eyes filled with tears. “You haven’t heard what I told him yet.”
* * *
—
A couple minutes later, I was on the road to Horatiu’s, with the pedal pressed all the way down. Not to see him this time, but to prevent a possible murder. Because when Claire fucked up, she did it right.
Not that she’d meant to. She’d hoped to get Louis-Cesare and me back together by spilling the beans. Namely, that I loved him and was just doing this to protect him, and how he should have been able to see that when it was clear as day to everyone else, and that he should have stayed and fought for me. But instead he’d just turned and walked away—I guess she’d talked to Soini—and if he was that much of an idiot, he didn’t deserve me.
When she finally let him get a word in, he’d reminded her that she didn’t know anything about our relationship, and that it was her father-in-law trying to steal me away in the first place. And apparently succeeding, because I clearly preferred him! And that this was none of her business, so perhaps she should—and he meant this in the most respectful and courteous way possible—die in a fire.
Then, of course, Claire got pissed—because let’s face it, it never takes much to set her off—and said that she must have misjudged him, that he really was a giant idiot and that I’d probably be better off with someone else, anyway.
Like that Marlowe fellow.
I didn’t know why the hell she’d picked him. Kit Marlowe was the consul’s pit bull and chief of security. He was also a giant dick. He and I cordially loathed each other, and while we had developed a somewhat decent working relationship recently out of necessity, our lips still had a tendency to curl when the other walked into a room. He hated—and I mean hated—the idea that a dhampir was on his beloved Senate, polluting it with my very presence. And I . . .
Well, I just hated him.
He made it really easy.
So, no, Marlowe was not an issue.
But, apparently, Louis-Cesare now thought he was, because Claire’s mouth and brain don’t talk to each other when she gets upset, and Marlowe was one of the only nonfamily vamps she knew. And she’d somehow managed to convey the idea that he’d been nosing around, and was now ready to pounce since his competition had just fled the scene.
Like the cowardly bastard that he was.
She’d fit that phrase in a few more times before she realized that my ex was no longer on the phone. But not like he’d hung up. More like he’d simply dropped it while doing something else, something that I really hoped wasn’t driving hell-bent for leather toward a certain annoying bastard of a Senate member.
Who was, uh, probably about to have a bad night.
To give her credit, Claire had tried calling Louis-Cesare back when she calmed down, but his phone was busy. It was for me, too, which was a problem. But not as much as hearing one of his masters, who had answered the landline at his place, inform me that he’d left rather abruptly earlier this evening, and could he take a message?