snppt sndy
:3c
Nat borrowed Quinn’s Lexus Phantom for the party, and he’d never been in such a fancy car in his life.
“The seats are heated,” he said to Jen. “The seats are heated.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Heated.”
Nat was feeling good, happy—giddy, even—and not just because this car had a reversing camera. Quinn had gushed over him in his new suit and woven marigolds into his hair, and early that day he’d killed Eric Lochmond, the operations manager at Earth Vitality Organic. The file Quinn had given him had outlined Lochmond’s various crimes and moral failings, mainly the covering up of a toxic baby food scandal. Nat had poked about in some of his own research to confirm details.
Lochmond was worse than Caleb, and Nat figured he could draw the line somewhere around there. Better than Caleb or Caleb level—not appropriate food. Worse than Caleb—fair game. This seemed like a reasonable and not-at-all fallible system for sorting the entirely of society with every inch of nuance it required.
Jen was wearing a dark orange dress with a skirt that spilled multiple layers of ruffles down the car seat and onto the floor, and her hair was pinned back in an elaborate swirling style that looked incredibly precarious and made little sense to Nat, like some sort of optical illusion. Her jewellery glimmered in the city lights as Nat circled the block a third time. He’d planned parking ahead of time, but when he’d explained to Jen he’d found a good, cheap parking garage just a few blocks over, she’d pulled a face and insisted on street parking somewhere near the venue. Her heels were too high, she’d reasoned, and she didn’t want to get all hot and bothered walking. It was Friday night in the CBD, however, so Nat saw little chance of success.
“How about I drop you and then I’ll park?” he suggested. Then, immediately, “Wait, I’m your bodyguard. That’s a terrible idea.”
Cue more circling of the block. Eventually, Nat did get lucky. He hopped out of the driver’s seat and hurried over to Jen’s door to open it for her.
“Nat, you don’t have to be so…” Jen stifled a laugh. “… chivalrous.”
“Sorry,” Nat said. “I’ve never been a bodyguard before.”
He wondered whether he should take Jen’s arm, whether that was appropriate bodyguard behaviour or too ‘chivalrous’. He went back and forth on this at least eight times before Jen decided for him. She linked her arm through his and started them walking towards the entrance to the Convention Centre. The buzz of conversation was already audible from inside.
Nat’s good mood was promptly quashed by nerves, and a wave of nausea overtook him. That was right—this was a party. He’d let himself get distracted by the joy of a nice car and the thrill of feeling important. Inside the Convention Centre were people, lots of people, and he’d be surrounded from every angle. Not only could someone kill him, not only could someone release an undead, shapeshifting horror from his corpse and set it loose inside a cramped space with very few exits—someone might try to engage him in a conversation.
