Whenever I thought about my brother lately, it was to worry. If only he hadn’t known Maudette and Dawn so well! Lots of men knew them both, apparently, both casually and carnally. They’d both been vampire bitten. Dawn had liked rough sex, and I didn’t know Maudette’s proclivities. Lots of men got gas and coffee at the Grabbit Kwik, and lots of men came in to get a drink here, too. But only my stupid brother had recorded sex with Dawn and Maudette on film.
I stared at the big plastic cup on Sam’s desk, which had been full of iced tea. “The Big Kwencher from Grabbit Kwik” was written in neon orange on the side of the green cup. Sam knew them both, too. Dawn had worked for him, Maudette had applied for a job here.
Sam sure didn’t like me dating a vampire. Maybe he didn’t like anyone dating a vampire.
Sam walked in just then, and I jumped like I’d been doing something bad. And I had, in my book. Thinking evil of a friend was a bad thing to do.
“Which is the good pile?” he asked, but he gave me a puzzled look.
I handed him a short stack of maybe ten applications. “This gal, Amy Burley,” I said, indicating the one on top, “has experience, she’s only subbing at the Good Times Bar, and Charlsie used to work with her there. So you could check with Charlsie first.”
“Thanks, Sookie. This’ll save me some trouble.”
I nodded curtly in acknowledgment.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “You seem kind of distant today.”
I looked at him closely. He looked just like he always did. But his mind was closed to me. How could he do that? The only other mind completely closed to me was Bill’s, because of his vampire state. But Sam was sure no vampire.
“Just missing Bill,” I said deliberately. Would he lecture me about the evils of dating a vampire?
Sam said, “It’s daytime. He couldn’t very well be here.”
“Of course not,” I said stiffly, and was about to add, “He’s out of town.” Then I asked myself if that was a smart thing to do when I had even a hint of suspicion in my heart about my boss. I left the office so abruptly that Sam stared after me in astonishment.
When I saw Arlene and Sam having a long conversation later that day, their sidelong glances told me clearly that I was the topic. Sam went back to his office looking more worried than ever. But we didn’t have any more chitchat the rest of the day.
Going home that evening was hard because I knew I’d be alone until morning. When I’d been alone other evenings, I’d had the reassurance that Bill was just a phone call away. Now he wasn’t. I tried to feel good about being guarded once it was dark and Bubba crawled out of whatever hole he’d slept in, but I didn’t manage it.
I called Jason, but he wasn’t home. I called Merlotte’s, thinking he might be there, but Terry Bellefleur answered the phone and said Jason hadn’t been in.
I wondered what Sam was doing tonight. I wondered why he never seemed to date much. It wasn’t for want of offers, I’d been able to observe many times.
Dawn had been especially aggressive.
That evening I couldn’t think of anything that pleased me.
I began wondering if Bubba was the hitman—hitvampire?—Bill had called when he wanted Uncle Bartlett bumped off. I wondered why Bill had chosen such a dim-witted creature to guard me.
Every book I picked up seemed wrong, somehow. Every television show I tried to watch seemed completely ridiculous. I tried to read my Time and became incensed at the determination to commit suicide that possessed so many nations. I pitched the magazine across the room.
My mind scrabbled around like a squirrel trying to get out of a cage. It couldn’t light on anything or be comfortable anywhere.
When the phone rang, I jumped a foot.
“Hello?” I said harshly.
“Jason’s here now,” Terry Bellefleur said. “He wants to buy you a drink.”
I thought uneasily about going out to the car, now that it was dark; about coming home to an empty house, at least a house I would have to hope was empty. Then I scolded myself because, after all, there would be someone watching the house, someone very strong, if very brainless.
“Okay, I’ll be there in a minute,” I said.
Terry simply hung up. Mr. Chatterbox.
I pulled on a denim skirt and a yellow T-shirt and, looking both ways, crossed the yard to my car. I’d left on every outside light, and I unlocked my car and scooted inside quick as a wink. Once inside the car, I relocked my door.
This was sure no way to live.