He once had a wife.
“Would you, again?”
Satan shrugged.
“Time will tell, huh?”
I swore a grin started to form on his face. It was much too small for the camera to notice, and I probably only noticed because I’d spent so much time around him. But the look, all the same, gave me a certain feeling.
That warm, fuzzy glow in the stomach that half wants to remind you to not overanalyze things and half wants you to just dive headfirst into the bliss and possibility.
Thank God for the camera rolling right now.
“Indeed it shall, thank you Satan.”
I asked a few more questions about club lifestyle and activities that led to Satan being back to his usual gruff, stereotypically tough self, but I felt like I’d already gotten far more than I bargained out of this—and I didn’t just mean on a professional level.
Satan then brought in Spawn, which was, suffice to say, extraordinarily awkward when, about two minutes into the interview, I pieced together that he had been the one to harass my sister into moving out of state. I kept my composure and didn’t say anything, but I could have easily grilled him if we were alone or if this wasn’t my last interview—neither of which was true.
“Thank you, Spawn,” I said, cutting the interview short as I felt my temper rise at some of his bullshit answers.
Spawn left, commenting to Satan, “That easy, huh?” before stepping out of the room. Satan shot me a look. He understood.
“The hell?”
“You got your secrets; I got mine,” I said. “I got nothing against Spawn, but I sure know a lot of people who do.”
Satan bit his lip, flared his nostrils, and nodded.
“I can talk to him if you want.”
That, I had not expected.
But I wasn’t required to indulge in every pleasant, unexpected announcement.
“I’ll tell you more later.”
I said that mostly on the basis of wanting Satan to say more. Maybe he would. Maybe he wouldn’t. But I wasn’t about to create more strife between us.
“Tell me when you order your drinks,” he said. “I believe that you owe me a round.”
I smirked. I supposed I did. And I supposed after the way the interview went…
Who knew what else I would “owe” him?
* * *
“So tell me honestly, Hailey. Did you let me off the hook on the interview?”
I took a sip of my drink, having just shared a laugh—well, I laughed, he more snorted—over a story one of my colleagues had shared about Phoenix politics. I chortled and shook my head.
“Maybe a little. It’s a balancing act, though.”
“Oh? I’m getting the behind-the-scenes perspective on a journalist now.”
“Like, there were a couple spots I could have pushed you for more questions. But what’s the overall goal? It’s to get as detailed, thorough, and honest a report about the Devil’s Patriots as possible. And to do that, I need access to you and other members of the club. If I ask a question that maybe is revealing but pisses you off enough that you block my access, it does no good.”
“Oh, so you’re saying on the last meeting, I should expect a barrage of heavy questions that’ll make me ever regret letting this become a thing.”
