Read Online The Turning Season by Sharon Shinn - Free Book Online Page A

hungry.”
    â€œI’m
starving
,” I exclaim. “Thank you!”
    We share the food, nudge each other a few times to point out people we think look particularly ridiculous on the dance floor, and trade a few other unimportant observations the next two times there’s a break in the music. I’m trying to decide if this is the most uncomfortable half hour of my life when Celeste and the blondes return to the table. Celeste throws her arms around Ryan and gives him a big kiss, which he enthusiastically returns.
    â€œDenver International Airport,” she demands. “What gate did you fly out of?”
    He squints, trying to remember. “B22.”
    â€œSo did I!” she cries. “Last time I was there! But they changed it at the last minute from B11, so I practically had to
run
down the terminal.”
    â€œThat’s exactly what happened to me!”
    â€œOh my God, you two are
almost the same person
!” I say.
    Ryan grins and Celeste mouths the word “bitch” at me. One of the other women says, “It
is
spooky how much they’re alike.”
    He turns to her with a warm smile. “Hey, Rain,” he says, or at least I think that’s what he says. Rain? Her name is
Rain
? That’s worse than Karadel. “You look good.”
    She giggles. “So do you.”
    The band plunges into some weird techno piece with a throbbing beat, and Ryan holds his arm out to Rain, a questioning look on his face. She nods and they head to the dance floor, where they instantly begin energetic gyrations. It might be my imagination that the other two blondes wear envious expressions as they watch them go.
    Celeste’s attention has been caught by something else. She pokes one of her friends and nods at a table a few yards away. I can read her lips as she asks,
Who’s that?
But I can’t hear what the girl shouts to her over the pulse of the music. I follow Celeste’s gaze to see who looks so interesting.
    He’s pretty easy to pick out. He’s a long, lean guy resting his long, lean body against the table, his back to it, his elbows on the edge. He’s wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, cowboy boots, and a leather belt with a big buckle in the shape of a longhorn bull. His hair is as black as Alonzo’s, but straight, a little shaggy, and his face has that fallen-angel beauty that instantly lets you know he’s trouble. You can almost see the sad little clattering shells of broken hearts trailing behind him and curled around his ankles in a forlorn heap.
    Just the type Celeste likes.
    There are two others at the table with him, people I vaguely recognize. One’s a local guy, kind of a troublemaker. He owns a junkyard off of 159 on the opposite side of town, and he’s always being cited for some kind of property-law infraction. He’s not as handsome as the stranger, but they look enough alike that I guess they might be brothers. The woman at the table, I think, is the junker’s wife. She’s dressed in a black shirt that’s as low-cut and clingy as mine, she’s wearing a lot of makeup, and she doesn’t look happy to be here. I can sympathize.
    From Celeste’s expression, I think she’s trying to figure out a way to introduce herself to the new guy, but it’s a little too early in the evening for her to simply walk up and ask him to dance. I wouldn’t bet against that happening within the hour, though. Right now, she just watches him for a few meditative moments while she sips at her beer. Then she sets the glass on the table and heads to the dance floor, the other blondes in her wake.
    I finish up the French fries, watch the dancers, drink the last of my water, and wish I was at home by myself with my dog and my DVDs. When the next song is equally loud and has an even heavier beat, I stand up and head toward the door for some cool air and a break from the sensory overload. No one who knows me will be