Sebastian’s left eye twitched slightly. “Uhm, that’s, uh, interesting. That’s…well, that’s a wonderful ability.”
I was tired of this, and I really wanted to get back to my book.
“Listen, Mr. Walker. Look me dead in the eye and tell meyoudidn’t stake your grandfather. Tell me that, and if it’s the truth, I’ll take the case. If not? It was nice meeting you, and you can go about your night, and I can go about mine.”
From the look on his face, I could see I’d nailed the situation. He licked his lips, his tongue darting out. It was still tinged red from thedinnerhe’d had earlier—or was it breakfast? I couldn’t quite recall how vampires’ days were set up.
Finally, the other man took a hesitant step backward. “Mr. McClintoc, I’m not sure this is necessary. This is a business transaction. Nothing more. The lawyer needs the death signed off as an accident by a licensed investigator. Once that is done—by you, hopefully—we could perhaps discuss a…uh,bonusof some sort. How would that sound?”
I leaned out the door, pressing my face toward his, forcing him to take another step back.
“Sebastian, tell me youreallywant to hire a private investigator who will know the moment you lie to him. One who will be able to see past any fake story you spin. Also, do you want to hire one who may or may not have the morals to go ahead and handle things himself the second he has proof of what he suspects? Is that really what you want to do?”
The vampire took another step backward, almost tripping on the stairs leading to the sidewalk.
“You know what?” he said, smiling back at me with the fakest smile I’d ever seen, his fangs glinting in the light from the street lamps. “I think I may have been wasting your time.” He hurried down the last few steps and straightened his shirt. “I’m truly sorry, Mr. McClintoc, you have a great night.”
“Uh huh. Hopefully you get what’s coming to you.”
His smile faltered, morphing into an angry scowl.
“Yes. Well. Good evening,” he said, then turned on his heel and walked away, the echo of his dress shoes on the sidewalk clicking away, until he was out of sight.
“Prick,” I muttered as I locked the door.
I glanced at the paperback, and shook my head in disgust. There was no way I could focus on a western right now. That asshole vampire had gotten me all riled up. I needed to burn off some energy.
Walking to the side door of my office, which had turned into more of a man cave since I’d retired, I stepped out into the garage, where my car sat on one side and my home gym on the other. Stripping off my shirt, I tossed it aside and went to load up the barbell. A good sweat always calmed my mind.
After loading two-hundred-and-twenty-five pounds on the bar, I did a few quick warm-up squats to get ready for something heavier, re-racked it, then glanced into the mirror hanging beside my shelf of dumbbells. My body was as hard, fit, and strong as it had been two decades ago. In my youth, I’d been vain enough to shave my upper body to show off the chiseled abs and pecs, but now I’d given up on that. A sheen of dark hair covered my chest, fading until it almost vanished at my belly.
Grunting, I slammed two more plates onto the bar, bringing the total to three-fifteen. If anything, I was stronger and fitter than when I was younger. Since retiring, I’d used fitness to try and calm all the stormy and intrusive thoughts that tried to overtake me every day. My legs were denser, laced in thick, ropey muscle. My arms tended to strain the seams of my dress shirts, and there wasn’t an ounce of fat on my stomach. Still, as the days went by, even punishing myself in my gym wasn’t enough to keep the old memories away.
Six sets of ten reps later, I slammed the barbell back onto the J-hooks and went to the pull-up bar. Pull-ups, knee raises, muscle-ups, and chin-ups. Sweat shone on my body when I was done, and still it wasn’t enough. I stepped onto the treadmill, cranking it up to nine miles an hour. I ran at a steady clip, my breath hissing in and out of my nose while I tried to let my mind drift off to other things. Memories still trickled up. Not even ramping the speed up to twelve miles an hour could stop the flashes from blasting across the internal movie screen of my mind.
Soulless eyes staring at me.
My lungs burned, my controlled breathing becoming quick, heaving gasps.
Footsteps echoing as I ran.
Legs aching, I pushed myself harder.
The screams,panicked and terrified.
“Don’t stop,” I panted as my energy began to wane.
My knuckles turning white as I gripped my gun.
“Fuck!” I shouted.
I leapt off the treadmill and sank to my hands and knees, chest heaving, sweat dripping off me. All the while, the treadmill kept going, its high-pitched whine screaming in my ears.
Once my heart rate slowed, I stood and turned the machine off. I yanked the gym towel off the hook beside the stationary bike and wiped the sweat off my body.
My stomach gave a painful growl as I finished, and I trudged inside, the whispers of past trauma still reverberating through my head. I tended to forget to eat most days, going about my usual daily routine and only eating when my body screamed out for sustenance. When I found myself starving like I did now, I threw together something quick.
Standing at the stove, I tossed a piece of flatbread into a pre-heated pan, then added some chopped tomatoes, olives, spinach, and onions, followed by a handful of crumbled feta cheese, making a bastardized Greek/Mexican quesadilla. While it cooked, I poured myself a glass of whiskey and sipped as I folded, then flipped the flatbread. With it sizzling away in the pan, I glanced around at the tiny kitchen.
