Read Online The Nine Lives of Chloe King by Liz Braswell - Free Book Online Page A

person. A modern do-gooder, a legal defense aide who worked with immigrants by day and took his wife to benefits and galas for nonprofits by night. Chloe tried to picture him at Carlucci’s with her, the gray and hazy areas of his face pieced in with old scrapbook photos. He would tell her that boys were terrible things and that he should know, because he had been one. He would blush but try to remain supportive when she talked about Xavier. He would be interested that Alyec was Russian. He should be, considering it had been his idea to adopt the orphan of an ex-Soviet state. Right now Chloe felt like she had no one to talk to.
    “Hey.”
    A pair of black knit kitty cat ears appeared above the rack where she was working. The guy wearing them stood on his toes and waved at her.
    “Hey,” she said, smiling.
    “I think I’m going to buy a whole suit this time,” he said. “Or maybe just a jacket,” he added.
    “Lania is our queer-eye-for-every-person girl. She can help you pick out something professional and stellar if you don’t mind the constant bitching.”
    “Oh.” In the flash of sunlight his eyes were almost green and very deep, like an expensive glass paperweight.
    Chloe desperately tried to think of some way of continuing the conversation.
    “Hey, um, I think I want the pattern for your hat after all,” she said. “My friend Amy knits, and she owes me a birthday present.”
    “Oh! Absolutely!” He gave up his tippy-toe routine, seeming to suddenly realize he could simply walk around the rack. He wore a dark green shirt with jeans and black square-tipped European-looking shoes. Very much the clove cigarette type: dark and mysterious. His shoulders were larger than they had seemed the other day, and he held a copy of James Joyce’s Ulysses under his arm. “I’ll bring it by.”
    “Sure, that would be great.”
    There was a silence between them for a moment.
    “Or,” he added, “I could take you out for a coffee after work sometime and give it to you.”
    Chloe smiled. “That would be great.”
    “How ’bout tomorrow?”
    “Absolutely!”
    “I’m Brian, uh, by the way.”
    “I’m Chloe. Pleased to meet you.” She made a serious look and held out her hand. He shook it.
    “Chloe—like ’Daphnis and Chloe,’ the Greek myth?”
    “One and the same,” Chloe said, surprised he knew of it.
    “You know,” he said, glancing at the newspaper section she held, “not everyone who dies winds up in the obituaries.”
    “What? Oh.” She blushed, thinking furiously. “I—I guess I’m just morbid. I, uh, like to see how old people are when they die and stuff.”
    “Try the crossword instead,” he suggested, smiling. “It looks impressive and high-falutin’ when you do it with a pen.”
    Chloe grinned. “Maybe I’ll just do that.”
    She stayed late to help Marisol lock up, checking her watch nervously. Now that the new season of television had once again begun, Wednesdays were Smallville and takeout night, her mother’s attempt to connect to her daughter via cable’s younger generation. One of her more successful attempts, actually, since Chloe loved dumplings and Michael Rosenbaum. Plus since the unexpected birthday party she and her mom seemed to be getting along better, something Chloe didn’t want to screw up.
    By the time she helped Marisol pull the chain gate down, it was seven forty-five. There was no way the bus was going to get her home in time. Three miles on the bus took forever.
    “Here.” Marisol handed her a ten-dollar bill.
    “I only stayed an extra hour,” Chloe protested.
    “Shush!” The older woman pushed it into her hand and closed her fist around it. “Take a cab home. I got a ten-year-old, and someday she’s going to be your age. It freaks me out watching you and Lania. Be safe.”
    “You have a daughter?” Chloe felt twice as embarrassed taking the money now, having just found out about an important part of her boss’s life that she knew nothing of