Things I’ll Never Say Read Online Free Page B

presume to speak for the Big Boss about . . . anything.
    Peering through the crimson drapes, I note that the hater in question sports a weathered face, dad jeans, and zero sense of humor. A handful of bigots likewise dressed in T-shirts with the National Council for Preserving Humanity logo are all puffed up, crowding in the foyer behind him. They take a halting step back at the sight of Uri and Olek.
    It’s harder for werebears to pass for human than it is for most other shifters. For one thing, the males tend to clock in at over three hundred pounds each.
    Sounding less sure of himself, the leader adds, “You will pay the penalty for —”
    â€œYeah, yeah, whatever,” Olek says, and then he and Uri forcibly evict the guys.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” Quincie asks, resting a cool hand on my shoulder.
    â€œIt’s nothing,” I reply. “It’s over. Go back to Kieren. Enjoy your night.”
    About an hour later, I peek around the cracked-open back door of the restaurant, watching Kieren and Quincie scamper down the alley. Given that she changed from her wedges into her blood-wine cowboy boots, I expect they’re on their way to the picnic shelter at the neighborhood park.
    I’m not sweating Quincie’s immortal soul.
    Heaven is chock-full of the ascended who had premarital sex.
    I mentally click through more serious risks. It’s chilly enough to be coat weather, but the undead can’t catch the sniffles. Nearly all humans believe that vampires no longer exist, and the last Van Helsing retired to open a florist shop in Amsterdam, so nobody bothers to hunt them. Probably Quincie’s biggest danger is crossing the red-hot entertainment district that is South Congress on a weekend night, but she has preternatural reflexes, supernatural speed, and an overprotective hybrid werewolf escort in Kieren.
    I remember the Creed: An angel may encourage, may inspire, may nudge, but each soul ultimately chooses its own fate.
    My hand tightens on the doorknob as I consider following them anyway. But Kieren could scent me out, and in corporeal form, there’s something both icky and stalkery about watching over an adolescent assignment without her knowledge. Even more so if she’s engaging in sexy-fun time.
    Besides, like every other souled being on the planet, Kieren has a GA of his own. It’s not as if they’ve been abandoned by heaven, and besides, table nine is waiting on its three little javelina chops and spit-roasted white-winged dove.
    It’s almost three a.m. when I exit via that same door, with every intention of sleeping past noon. I’m still wearing the black wings. After this weekend, I’ll donate them to Sanguini’s costume closet, but right now I’m reluctant to take them off. Even though they’re fakes, they make me feel more like myself.
    At the far end of the parking lot, someone’s standing in front of a truck, hood up, peering inside like there’s some kind of problem. I jog over to see if I can offer any assistance and discover that it’s Jamal.
    â€œDo you need a jump?” I ask, like I know anything about motor vehicles. But there are still a dozen cars parked in the lot. I could fetch somebody to help him out.
    â€œIt’s not the battery,” he replies, sliding into the driver’s seat. The engine chugs, spurts, and stops. “Oh.” Glancing at the dash, he grins, embarrassed. “I ran out of gas again. You’d think I’d have learned by now to check that first.” Jamal yawns. “I’m fried. I’ll mess with it tomorrow.”
    Jamal gets out, shuts the door, and locks it. “I might be able to make the last Capital Metro bus . . .” He checks the time on his light-up digital watch. “Or not.”
    â€œHow about I give you a ride home?” I say, gesturing toward my enormous black SUV.
    He grins, eyeing my wings. “What are you, my guardian