"About what?"
"What do you think? About what's going on with him and Eve!"
"Oh hell no. Guys don't talk about that crap."
"You're serious."
"Really."
"What do you talk about?" Shane looked at her as if she were insane. "You know. Stuff. We're not girls. We don't talk about our feelings. I mean, not to other guys." Claire rolled her eyes and said, "Fine, be emotionally stunted losers; I don't care."
"Good. Thanks. I'll do that." The door opened, and Michael shuffled in, rocking the worst bed head Claire had ever seen him with. "Whoa. Dude, you look like crap. You getting enough iron in your diet?"
"Screw you, and thanks. I just woke up. What's your excuse?"
"I work for a living, man. Unlike the nightwalking dead." Michael went straight past them and from the refrigerator took a sports bottle, which he stuck in the microwave for fifteen seconds. Claire was grateful the smell of the onions, brisket, and taco meat covered the smell of what was in the bottle. Well, they all knew what it was, but if she pretended really hard, it didn't have to be quite as obvious. Michael drank from his sports bottle, then wandered over to look at what they were doing. "Cool, tacos. How long?"
"Depends on whether or not she lets me do the chopping," Shane said. "Five minutes, maybe?" The doorbell rang. "I'll get it!" Eve yelled, and there was something in her voice that really didn't sound quite right. More ... desperate than eager, as if she wanted to stop them from getting to it first. Claire glanced over at Shane, and he raised his eyebrows. "Uh-oh," he said. "Either she's finally dumping you, Mikey, and her new boy's coming for dinner, or--" It was the or, of course. After a short delay, Eve opened the swinging door just wide enough to stick her face inside. She tried for a smile. It almost worked. "Uh--so I invited someone to dinner,"
"Nice time to tell us," Shane said. "Shut up. You've got enough food for the Fifth Armored Division and all of us. We can fill one more plate." But she was having trouble keeping eye contact, and as Claire watched, Eve bit her lip and looked away completely. "Crap," Michael said. "I'm not going to like this, am I? Who is it?" Eve silently opened the door the rest of the way. Behind her, standing with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans jacket, head down, was her brother, Jason Rosser. Jason looked--different, Claire thought. For one thing, he usually looked strung out and dirty and violent, and now he looked almost sober, and he was definitely on speaking terms with showers. Still skinny, and she couldn't say much for the baggy clothes he was wearing, but he looked ... better than she'd ever seen him. And even so, something inside her flinched, hard, at the sight of him. Jason was associated with several of her worst, scariest memories, and even if he hadn't actually hurt her, he hadn't helped her, either--or any of the girls who'd been hurt, or killed. Jason was a bad, bad kid. He'd been an accomplice to at least three murders and to an attack on Claire. And neither Shane nor Michael had forgotten any of that. "Get him out of here," Shane said in a low, dangerous-sounding tone. "Now."
"It's Michael's house," Eve said, without looking at any of them directly. "Michael?"
"Wait a second--it's our house! I live here, too!" Shane shot back. "You don't get to drag his low-life ass in here and act as if nothing happened with him!"
"He's my brother! And he's trying, Shane. God, you can be such a--"
"It's okay," Claire said. Her hands were shaking, and she felt cold, but she also saw Jason lift his head, and for a second their eyes met. It was like a physical shock, and she wasn't sure what she saw, or what he saw, but neither one of them could hold it for long. "It's just dinner. It's not a big deal." Shane turned toward her, eyes wide, and put his hands on her shoulders. "Claire, he hurt you. Hell, he hurt me, too! Jason is not some stray mutt you can take in and feed, okay? He's psycho. And she knows it better than anybody." He glared at Eve, who frowned but didn't glare back as she normally would have. "You expect us all to just play nice with him now that he figures out the bad guys aren't winning, so he cranks out a quick apology? Because it's not happening. It's just not."
"Yeah, I figured it would go this way. Sorry I bothered you," Jason said. His voice sounded faint and rusty, and he turned and walked away, toward the front door and out of their line of sight. Eve went after him, and she must have tried to stop him, because Claire heard his soft voice say, "No, he's not wrong. I've got no right to be here. I did bad things, sis. This was a mistake." Of all of them, only Michael hadn't spoken--hadn't moved, in fact. He was staring at the swinging door as it swayed back and forth, and finally he took a deep breath, set down his sports bottle, and went out into the hallway. Claire smacked at Shane's arm. "What the hell was that, macho man? You have to come to my rescue all the time, even when nobody's trying to hurt me?" He seemed honestly surprised. "I was just--"
"I know what you were just doing. You don't speak for me!"
"I wasn't trying to--"
"Yes, you were. Look, I know Jason's no saint, but he got himself together, and he stuck with Eve when all of us were--out of commission, when Bishop was in charge. He protected her."
"And he let his crazy buddy Dan grab you and almost kill you, and he didn't do anything!"
"He did," Claire said flatly. "He left me to find help. I know because Richard Morrell told me later. Jason went to the cops and tried to tell them. They didn't believe him or they'd have gotten help to me a lot earlier." Earlier would have meant a lot less terror and pain and despair. It wasn't Jason's fault that they'd figured him for crazy. Shane was thrown, a little, but he came back swinging. "Yeah, well, what about those other girls? He didn't help them, did he? I'm not friending up somebody like that."