I was pretty sure meeting the Trackers and falling off the wagon counted as two things, but I didn’t point that out. “I can’t look for Kyle and worry about you at the same time.”
“You can’t force me to leave.” Jason’s voice came out with the edge of a growl, almost as though he were infected.
“You’re right.” Serena was suddenly beside me. She flexed her hand and muscles shifted under her skin. “Mac can’t force you, but I can.” She didn’t look happy when she said it, but she flashed him a wolf’s grin, showing teeth that were a little too long and a little too pointed.
Jason swore under his breath and walked away. When he realized we weren’t following, he turned. “Are you coming?”
I hesitated and he pushed a hand roughly through his hair. “Look. I want to find Kyle. You want to find Kyle. We can argue about everything else”—his gaze darted to Serena and a thunderstorm played out across his face—“later. The Trackers said Montbello was fleabag friendly. It’s one of the few parts of Denver we haven’t checked.”
“You’re still going to help?” Serena asked the question before I could.
“It’s not like I have a choice.”
I followed him to the SUV. “Jason, you’ve always had a choice.”
“Kyle’s my best friend and you . . . you won’t come back to Hemlock without him.” He pulled open the driver’s-side door and slid behind the wheel. “Choice doesn’t factor into things.”
3
A SMALL WOODEN SIGN JUTTED OUT OVER THE NARROW brick building. The words Jumping Joe—barely visible in the fading light—were carved in block letters and painted the color of coffee beans.
Serena stared up at the sign. “I wonder if they have smoothies. I’m dying of thirst.”
Jason tugged on his turtleneck, making sure his tattoo was still hidden. “Yeah, all that flirting you did back there must have left you parched.” A set of bells jangled as he pulled open the door.
“Don’t hate on my investigative methods,” Serena chided as we followed him inside.
Jason made a noncommittal noise and headed for a table. We’d spent the day combing Montbello and the immediate surrounding area with no luck. A guy working at the last place we tried—a 7-Eleven on the edge of the neighborhood—had given us the name of the coffee shop in exchange for Serena’s number.
The mingled scent of coffee grounds and baked goods made my stomach rumble as Serena and I joined the line in front of the counter. Framed posters of old art deco travel ads covered espresso-colored walls and most of the illumination came from sleek, cylindrical lamps hanging above small round tables.
Serena’s phone buzzed. She pulled it from her pocket, glanced at the display, then slipped it back without answering. “Trey,” she said in response to my questioning look.
I cringed at the thought of all of the things her brother would say to me—most of them justified—when I got home. “I can’t believe he let you come on your own.”
She snorted. “I didn’t call and tell him until I was halfway here. Even then, I didn’t say where I was going.”
Trey wasn’t going to just yell at me. He was going to outright kill me.
“Don’t worry,” Serena said, catching the look of panic on my face. “I wanted to come and he needs to be less obsessively overprotective. This will be good for him.”
Somehow, I doubted Trey would see things the same way.
I pulled my own phone out and scrolled through the photos until Kyle’s face smiled up at me. Warm brown eyes, sharp features, and chestnut hair that always needed a cut.
An ache spread through my chest. Without him, Hemlock wasn’t home.
I glanced around the shop and my eyes locked on Jason. He was sitting at a table near the window, legs sprawled out and hands clasped behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling. Who would watch over him if I made him go back without me? Not his parents; they treated him like a problem they could just throw money at.
Serena started bouncing on her toes, providing a blessed distraction from my thoughts. “How are you not exhausted?”
“It’s one of the perks.”
Right. Superstrength. Superspeed. Less need for sleep. If you could bottle the benefits of LS without the whole turning-furry thing, people would line up to get infected.
We reached the front of the line. Serena got a mocha latte and I ordered two large coffees, knowing there was no way Jason would turn down caffeine after a night like the one he’d had. I handed the girl a ten and waved off the change, earning a small smile. She was about our age. Her shoulder-length hair was black with an indigo streak and when she brushed it away from her face, I caught sight of a Claddagh ring on her right hand.
I glanced over my shoulder. There was no one behind us.
“I was wondering if you’ve seen this guy.” I held out my phone, screen up. “He would have come in over the last couple of days.”
The girl took my cell and frowned down at Kyle’s picture. “Maybe,” she said slowly. She chewed on her lower lip for a moment. “It’s dead in here right now, but it’s usually pretty busy.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Eve?” Silence. “Eve!”
Another girl ducked out of a back room and approached the counter. She was short—maybe as short as Serena—and compensating with a pair of combat boots that looked regulation until you realized the soles were at least five inches thick and the laces were blue ribbon. Her apron, jeans, and T-shirt were all black and her scarlet hair was pulled back into a high ponytail.
She tilted her head to the side. “Yeah?” she asked, the word a smoky rasp.
The girl with the ring handed her my phone. “They want to know if we’ve seen this guy.”
Eve glanced at Kyle’s picture. Her eyes widened a fraction of an inch as her gaze darted from Serena to me. “Boyfriend?”
If I said yes, she’d probably think we were stalking him.
“Friend,” Serena said, picking up on my hesitation.
A shroud of indifference fell over the redhead’s face as she set the phone on the counter. “Sorry. Hasn’t been in.”
“Are you sure?” asked Serena. “You barely looked.”
“I looked. Never seen him.” Underneath her low tones, there was a defensive edge the question hadn’t warranted. Her fingers strayed to a large leather cuff around her wrist, twisting it as though letting off the tiniest bit of restless energy.