by J. R. Rain
He grinned and reddened. I reached over and patted his superheated face.
“You’ll just have to give yourself a raise tonight,” I said, and left him my card. “Call me if you hear anything new.”
“But I live right around the cor—”
“Sorry,” I said. “But your calculations were off.”
I smiled sweetly and left.
Chapter Six
We were at the beach, sitting on the wooden deck of a lifeguard tower. The sign on the lifeguard tower said no sitting on the wooden deck.
“We’re breaking the law,” I said.
Kingsley Fulcrum turned his massive head toward the sign above us. As he did so, some of the moonlight caught his cheek bones and strong nose and got lost somewhere in the shaggy curls that hung on his beefy shoulders.
“We are risking much to be here,” he said. “If we get caught, our super secret identities may be discovered.”
I said, “Especially if I show up invisible in the mug shot.”
Kingsley shook his head.
“You vampires are weird,” he said.
“This coming from a guy who howls at every full moon.”
He chuckled lightly as a small, cold wind scurried over my bare feet. Before us, the dark ocean stretched black and eternal. Small, frothing whitecaps slapped the shore. In the far distance, twinkling on the curve of the horizon, were the many lights of Catalina Island. Between us and Catalina were the much brighter lights of a dozen or so oil rigs. The beach itself was mostly quiet, although two or three couples were currently smooching on blankets here and there. They probably thought they were mostly hidden under the cover of darkness. They probably hadn’t accounted for a vampire with built-in night vision watching them. A gyrating couple, about two hundred feet away up the beach, might have been doing the nasty.
Kingsley turned to me. I always liked the way the bridge of his nose angled straight up to his forehead. Very Roman. And very hot.
He said, “You became a private investigator after you were changed?”
“Yes.”
“So that means you took your P.I. photo when you were a vampire.”
“Yes.”
“So how did you manage that?”
“I wore a lot of make up that day,” I said smugly, proud of myself. I had wondered what to do about the photo, too.
“So the make up showed up, even though you didn’t?”
“Yes, exactly. I even made sure I blinked when the picture was taken.”
“Just in case your eye sockets came up empty.”
“Exactly.”
“You could have worn colored contacts,” said Kingsley.
“But then the whites of my eyes would have come up empty,” I said.
He nodded. “So you sacrificed your vanity.”
“I might look like a major dork in the picture, but at least I look human. Granted, if you look close enough, there is a blank spot somewhere near my throat, where I had missed a patch of skin, but not too many people are looking at my throat.”
“No,” said Kingsley. “They’re looking at the dork with her eyes closed.”
I punched him in the arm. The force of my blow knocked him sideways.
“Ouch!” He rubbed his arm and grinned at me, and the light from the half moon touched his square teeth. Kingsley was a successful defense attorney in Orange County. A few months ago, he had hired me to investigate a murder attempt on his life. His case had come at a difficult time in my life. Not only had I just caught my husband cheating, the bastard had the gall to kick me out of my own home.
A very difficult time, to say the least. The wounds were still fresh and I was still hurting.
And I would be for a very long time.
Not the greatest time to start a new romance with a hunky defense attorney with massive shoulders and a tendency to shed.
“There are two people boffing over there,” said Kingsley, looking off over his shoulder. “I think one of their names is Oh, Baby.”
Kingsley’s hearing was better than mine, which was saying something.
I grinned and elbowed him. “Will you quit eavesdropping.”
He cocked his head to one side, and said, “I was wrong. His name is Oh, God.”
I elbowed him again, and we sat silently some more. Our legs were touching. His thigh was about twice as wide as mine. We were both wearing jeans and sweaters.
I sensed Kingsley’s desire to touch me, to reach out and lay his big hand over my knee. I sensed him forcibly controlling himself.
Down boy.
I was still looking out over the black ocean, which, to my eyes, wasn’t so black. The air shimmered with light particles which flashed and streaked across the night sky. I often wondered what these streaking lights were. I didn’t know for sure, but I had a working hypothesis. I suspected I was seeing the physical manifestation of energy itself. Perhaps I was being given a behind-the-scenes glimpse of the workings of our world.
Then again, I’ve been wrong before.
Kingsley was still looking at me, still fighting what he most wanted to do. And what he most wanted to do was ravage me right here and now on this lifeguard pier. But the brute held himself in check. Smart man. After all, I gave him no indication that I wanted to be ravaged.
“Not yet, Kingsley,” I said calmly, placing my own hand lightly on his knee. “I’m not ready yet.”
He nodded his great, shaggy head, but said nothing. I sensed his built-up energy dissipate in an instant. Hell, I could practically see it zigzagging away from his body, caught up by the lunar wind and merging with the silver spirits surfing the California night skies.
He exhaled and sort of deflated. Poor guy. He had gotten himself all worked up. He rested his own hand lightly on mine, and if my own cold flesh bothered him, he didn’t show it.
And while we sat there holding hands, with me soaking in the tremendous warmth of his oversized paw, I told him about my latest case.
When I was finished, he said, “Jerry Blum is a dangerous man.”
“I’m a dangerous girl.”
From far away, emerging from under the distant Huntington Beach Pier, was a lone jogger. Even from here, the jogger appeared to be a very big man. The man was easily a hundred yards away.
Kingsley, who had been looking down at my leg, suddenly cocked his head, listening. He then turned and spotted the jogging man. The man, as far as I could tell, wasn’t making a sound.
I was intrigued. “You heard him?”
“Yes and no,” said Kingsley, still looking over his shoulder at the approaching man. “But I could hear his dog.”
I looked again. Sure enough, running along at the man’s feet, about the size of a rat on steroids, was something small and furry. A dog, and it looked miniscule next to the running man. I smiled. For some reason, I found it heartwarming to see such a big man running with such a little doggie.
Kingsley said, “So what, exactly, is your client hiring you to do? Does he want you to take down one of the most dangerous criminals on the West Coast?”
“Taking him down will be extra.”
“Taking him down will be dangerous for both you and your family, Sam. Remember, this guy doesn’t play nice.”
“I won’t put my family in harm’s way,” I said. “And besides, who says I play nice, either? I’ve been known to bite.”
“Very funny. But I don’t like this, Sam. This isn’t your typical P.I. gig. Hell, the FBI still hasn’t figured out a way to nail this guy, and you’re just one woman.”
“But a helluva woman.”
“Sure, but why am I more concerned about your safety than you are?” he asked.
“Because you like me a little,” I said, blinking daintily.
“I would like you more if you stayed away from this case.”
Something small and furry and fat suddenly appeared in the sand beneath our feet. It was the same little dog, now trailing a leash. It was, in fact, a tea cup Pomeranian, and it was about as cu
te as cute gets. Maybe even cuter. It wagged its tail a mile a minute and turned in a half dozen small circles, creating a little race track in the sand. It never once took its eyes off Kingsley.
“It likes you,” I said.
“Go figure.”
Kingsley made a small noise in his throat and the little dog abruptly sat in the sand in front of him, staring, panting, wagging.
And from out of the darkness, sweating through a black tee shirt and rippling with more muscle than two or three men put together—that is, if those men weren’t Kingsley—was the same tall man we had seen a few minutes earlier. He approached us with a small limp that didn’t seem to bother him.
“Kill, Ginger,” said the man easily, grinning. Ginger turned in two more circles and sat before Kingsley again. The man reached down and gently patted its little head. “Good girl.” He looked up at us. “Were you two at least a little afraid for your lives?”
“Terrified,” said Kingsley.
“I might have wet myself a little,” I said.
The man stood straight and I might have seen his six-pack through his wet tee shirt. Hubba, hubba.
“She doesn’t usually come up to strangers,” said the man. “In fact, I’m fairly certain she’s terrified of her own shadow. Of course, it’s a pretty fat shadow. Scares me a little, too.”
Kingsley slipped off the wooden platform, landing softly in the sand, too softly for a man his size. Ginger didn’t move, although her tail might have started wagging at close to the speed of light. The attorney reached down and scratched the little dog between turgid ears. Ginger, if anything, looked like a star-crossed teenager at a rock concert. Or me at a Stones concert.
“Okay, that’s a first,” said the man, looking genuinely surprised. “Took me three months before I was anywhere near those ears.”
Kingsley, still petting the dog, said, “She probably had a bad experience when she was a pup. If I had to guess, I would say she was beaten and abused before she found her new home. Probably by a man about your size, and so she doesn’t like men, but she does like you, even though you run too fast for her little legs, and you don’t give her near enough treats.” Kingsley gave Ginger a final pat and stood. “Like I said, it’s just a guess.”
“Good guess. And spot on. She had been abused before my girlfriend rescued her. Of course, there was no rescuing the man who abused her. Let’s just say when I was done with him, he had a newfound respect for every living creature.”
Kingsley and I grinned. I had no doubt that the man in front of us could have inflicted some serious damage on someone.
He went on, “And if I gave Ginger any more treats I would have to roll her on my runs.”
I snickered and Kingsley laughed heartily. He reached out a hand. “I know you from somewhere.”
“Not the first time I’ve heard that,” said the man as he scooped up the little dog, who promptly disappeared behind a bulging bicep muscle that had my own eyes bulging.
Kingsley’s eyes narrowed. His thinking face. “You used to play football for UCLA.”
“Is there any other school?”
The attorney snapped his fingers. “You were on your way to the pros until your broke your leg.”
“Don’t you just hate when that happens?” said the man lightly. “And you are, of course, Kingsley Fulcrum, famed defense attorney and internet sensation.”
Kingsley laughed; so did I. Indeed, a few months ago, someone had tried to kill the attorney outside of a local courthouse. It was a bizarre and humorous incident that had been captured on film and seen around the country, if not the world. Kingsley, the man who couldn’t die. The world watched as his assailant shot him point-blank five times in the head and neck.
The two men chitchatted for a bit, and I realized, upon closer inspection, that both men were exactly the same height. Although the stranger was muscular and powerful-looking, Kingsley had a beefy savagery to him that no man could match. Even ex-football players.
After all the silly football talk, I soon learned that the tall stranger now worked as a private eye. I perked up. Kingsley mentioned I was one, too, and the man nodded and reached into his sweat pants pocket and pulled out a brass card holder. He opened it, gave me one of his cards.
He said, “You ever need any extra help or muscle, call me. I can provide both.”
I looked at the card. Jim Knighthorse. I might have heard the name before, perhaps on some local newscast or something. On his card was a picture of him smiling, really cheesin’ it up for the camera. I had a very strong sense that Mr. Knighthorse just might have been in love with himself.
“Helluva picture,” he said, winking. “If I do say so myself.”
I was right.
Chapter Seven
It was far too early in the morning for me, but I didn’t care.
The sun was high and hot, and I was sitting in my minivan in the parking lot of my children’s elementary school near downtown Fullerton, where I had parked under a pathetic jacaranda tree. The tree was mostly bare but offered some shade.
Beggars can’t be choosers.
I was huddled in my front seat, away from any direct sunlight, the shades pulled down on both the driver’s side and passenger’s side windows. My face was caked with the heaviest sunblock available on the market. Thin leather gloves covered my hands, and I was wearing another cute wide-brimmed sunhat, which sometimes made driving difficult. I had many such hats—all purchased in the last six years, of course—and all a necessity to keep me alive.
And what happens if I’m ever exposed to any direct sunlight?
I didn’t know, and I didn’t want to find out, either. All I knew was that the sun physically hurts me, even when I’m properly protected. I suspected I would wither and die. Probably painfully, too.
So much for being immortal.
Immortality with conditions.
As I huddled in my seat, I thought about those words again: wither and die.
You know, I used to lead a normal life. I grew up here in Orange County, was a cheerleader and softball player, went to college in Fullerton, got a master’s degree in criminal science, and then went on to work for the federal government. Lots of dreams and ambitions. One of them was to get married and start a family. I did that, and more.
Life was good. Life was fun. Life was easy.
If someone had told me that one day my daily To-Do List would consist of the words: 1) Buy extra-duty sunblock. 2) Oh, and see if Norco Slaughterhouse will set up a direct billing... well, I would have told them to go back to their Anne Rice novels.
I sat in my minivan, huddled in my seat, buried under my sunhat and sunblock, wary of any beam of sunlight, and shook my head and I kept shaking my head until I found myself crying softly in my hands. Smearing my sunscreen.
Damn.
I may not have known what lived in me, and I may not have known the dark lineage of my blood, but I knew one thing for fucking sure. No one was going to keep me from seeing my kids. Not Danny. And not the sun.
I opened my van door and got out.
Chapter Eight
I gasped and stumbled.
I reached a gloved hand out and braced myself on the hot fender of my minivan. Heat from the sheet metal immediately permeated the thin glove. Maybe Stephenie Meyer’s vampires had it right. Maybe I should move up to Washington State, in the cold and rain, where gray clouds perpetually covered the skies.
Maybe someday. But not now. I had real-life issues to deal with.
I gathered myself together and strode across the quiet parking lot, filled mostly with teachers’ and school administrators’ cars. I’m sure I must have looked slightly drunk—or perhaps sick—huddled in my clothing, head down, stumbling slightly.
A small wind stirred my thick hair enough to get a few strands stuck in the copious amounts of sunscreen caked on my face. I ignored my hair. I needed to get the hell out of the sun. And fast.
I picked up my pace as another wind brought to me the familia
r scents of cafeteria food. Familiar, as in this was exactly what cafeteria food had smelled like back when I was in elementary school.
After crossing the hot parking lot, I stepped up onto a sidewalk and a moment later I was under an eave, gasping.
Sweet, sweet Jesus.
Keeping to the shade and sliding my hand along the stucco wall to keep my balance, I soon found myself in front of the main office door.
Focus, Sam.
I needed to look as calm and normal as possible. School officials didn’t take kindly to crazy-looking parents.
My skin felt as if it were on fire. And all I had done was walk across a school parking lot. I wanted to cry.
No crying.
I sucked in some air, held it for a few minutes—yes minutes—and let it out again. My skin felt raw and irritated. I picked hair out of the heavy sunscreen with a shaking hand, adjusted my sunhat, put a smile on my face, and opened the office door.
Just another mom here to see her kids.
* * *
A few minutes later, I found myself in the principal’s office; apparently, I was in trouble.
Principal West was a pleasant-looking man in his mid-fifties. He was sitting behind his desk with his hands folded in front of him. He wore a white long-sleeved dress shirt with Native American-inspired jade cuff links. As far as I knew, he wasn’t Native American.
Principal West had always been kind to me. Early on, just after my attack, he had been quick to work with me. I was given special access to the front of the school when picking up my kids. Basically, I got to park where the buses parked—thus avoiding long lines and sitting in the sun longer than I had to. Good man. I appreciated his kindness.
That kindness had, apparently, come to an end.
“I can’t let them see you, Samantha, I’m sorry.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I got a call today from Danny. In fact, I got it just about a half hour ago. Your husband—or ex-husband—says that the two of you have an unwritten agreement that you will not be picking the kids up anymore.”
