Crimson Death (Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter #25)(15)

Just what?

Juliette nodded, like I’d made total sense. “Yeah, got it. We hang out with the basketball guys at lunch sometimes, you know. Mostly because of Lara and Matt being tight. We sat together yesterday. I forgot to tell you.”

My stomach spun and flipped and nailed a triple Salchow. So, if I hadn’t ditched to meet Izzy and the others, I would’ve ended up sitting with Will? I wasn’t sure if the idea was horrifying, or something I’d trade my guitar for. “Oh,” I said. “Great. That is so great.”

“I’ll hit you up about the audition thing, yeah? See you tomorrow. Have fun at practice.”

She headed off down the hall. Well, at least I was prepared now. Likely, in the near future, I’d be stuck in close vicinity with Will. Will, who’d spent all day every day with me this summer. Will, who now seemed to have developed an acute allergic reaction to me. That was fine. This was fine. I definitely had the tools in my vast and nuanced social tool kit to deal with this without making it uncomfortable for everyone.

Really, the only option I had right now was to stop liking him. Obviously, nothing was going to happen, so cut that cord as quickly as possible. Step one: delete his number from my phone.

There. Done. That was only 95 percent agony. It was getting easier by the day to move on from him. With any luck, it wouldn’t take too long for him to feel like a scar instead of an open wound.

I strutted the rest of the way to the music room wearing a self-satisfied smirk. Here walks Ollie Di Fiore. Master of his feelings, expert detacher, only mostly devastated.

Now there was something to put on my tombstone.





6


“You’re trying to play me,” Will said, darting forward to take the basketball from me. “You can’t be this bad.”

Said the vice-captain of the basketball team. I hoped he was more encouraging to his team members on their off days.

I stepped back, trying to dribble the ball, but hitting the air instead as the ball lost its height. “I swear I’m not,” I said. “These skills are all innate. Couldn’t fake them if I tried.” Will lunged for the ball and I threw myself onto it, burying it under my body. “It’s still my turn. Time out!”

“You’ve lost your privileges.”

“You can’t discriminate against me because I suck, Will.”

“I can do whatever I want, it’s my house. Come here, come on.” Will clapped his hands, and I got up, still clutching the ball. “All right, okay. We can revisit dribbling later. Can you handle a pass?”

“Are you asking me if I can handle balls, Will?” I grinned, and he darted forward to wrench it from my grip. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry! That was bad. I’ll focus. Please, explain how one passes a ball.”

Before Will could figure out if my deadpanning was serious, his father poked his head around the side of the house. “Hey, you two. I’m heading to the store. Any requests for the grill tonight?”

Will took the distraction as an opportunity to reclaim the ball. Right out of my hands. This guy’s parents had never taught him to play nice. “Mm, yeah, can we do hamburgers, Dad?” he asked.

“Sure thing. How ’bout you, Ollie?”

Will shot me a sideways warning look. I knew what it meant. Don’t even think about saying sausages. I almost did it, just to see his reaction. But I opted not to. Double entendres were funny when we were alone, but it’d be significantly less funny if his dad got suspicious and banned him from seeing me for the rest of the summer. “Hamburgers sound great to me, Mr. Tavares.”

Mr. Tavares made a super-uncool clicking noise and gave us finger guns as he left.

I turned to Will, shaking my head with a grin. “You always expect the worst from me.”

“Because I know you.”

“Details, minor details.”

Will shrugged, glanced behind him, and threw the ball backward over his shoulders. It went straight through the hoop. I couldn’t stop myself from cheering, legitimately impressed. “Holy shit! That was actually awesome.”

“Wait, did it go in?”

“Straight in.”

“No shit? Total fluke.” He spun around, pumping his fist.

“Check the modesty on this guy.”



“My fingers aren’t big enough,” Crista complained, spreading her hand like a starfish over the fret board.

I rolled back on my haunches to see for myself. On the one hand, she kind of had a point. Her fingers were skinny and short, little spidery things. At best, she’d end up with killer cramps after a few chord progressions. Then on the other hand (no pun intended) I’d seen a four-year-old on Ellen nail Santana, so, really, she was years behind already.

I couldn’t quite bring myself to explain to my little cousin that her weak will was bringing shame on the family, and that Ellen would never want her at this rate. Instead, I grabbed the neck alongside her. “Here. Put one finger here on the fifth string. Remember which one that is? Perfect. And then this one”—I grabbed her middle finger and raised it—“up here on the sixth string. I’ll hold this one down here. Remember which string this is?”

“First.”

“Great job, right. Now, do you think you can give it a strum as well?”