Guilty Pleasures

18

The door to the other office opened. A tall, blonde woman stepped through. She was somewhere between forty and fifty. Tailored golden pants encircled a slender waist. A sleeveless blouse the color of an eggshell exposed ta

The boy that followed her was also slender and blond. He looked about fifteen, but I knew he had to be at least eighteen. Legally, you ca

Jamison brought up the rear, smiling, solicitous. He was talking softly to the boy as he walked them towards the door.

I got a business card out of my purse. I held it out towards the woman. She looked at it, then at me. Her gaze slid over me from top to bottom. She didn't seem impressed; maybe it was the shirt. “Yes,” she said.

Breeding. It takes real breeding to make a person feel like shit with one word. Of course, it didn't bother me. No, the great golden goddess did not make me feel small and grubby. Right. “The number on this card is for a man who specializes in vampire cults. He's good.”

“I do not want my son brainwashed.”

I managed a smile. Raymond Fields was my vampire cult expert, and he didn't do brainwashing. He did do truth, no matter how unpleasant. “Mr. Fields will give you the potential down side of vampirism,” I said.

“I believe Mr. Clarke has given us all the information we need.”

I raised my arm near her face. “I didn't get these scars playing touch football. Please, take the card. Call him, or not. It's up to you.”

She was a little pale under her expert makeup. Her eyes were a little wide, staring at my arm. “Vampires did this?” Her voice was small and breathy, almost human.

“Yes,” I said.

Jamison took her elbow. “Mrs. Franks, I see you've met our resident vampire slayer.”

She looked at him, then back at me. Her careful face was begi

I shrugged. What could I say? I pressed the card into her manicured hand, and Jamison tactfully took it from her and pocketed it. But she had let him. What could I do? Nothing. I had tried. Period. Over. But I stared at her son. His face was incredibly young.

I remembered when eighteen was grown-up. I had thought I knew everything. I was about twenty-one when I figured out I knew dip-wad. I still knew nothing, but I tried real hard. Sometimes, that is the best you can do. Maybe the best anyone can do. Boy, Miss Cynical in the morning.

Jamison was ushering them towards the door. I caught a few sentences. “She was trying to kill them. They merely defended themselves.”

Yeah, that's me, hit person for the undead. Scourge of the graveyard. Right. I left Jamison to his half-truths and went into the office. I still needed the files. Life goes on, at least for me. I couldn't stop seeing the boy's face, the wide eyes. His face had been all golden tan, baby smooth. Shouldn't you at least have to shave before you can kill yourself?

I shook my head as if I could shake the boy's face away. It almost worked. I was kneeling with the folders in my hands when Jamison came in the office. He shut the door behind him. I had thought he might.

His skin was the color of dark honey, his eyes pale green; long, tight curls framed his face. The hair was almost auburn. Jamison was the first green-eyed, red-haired black man I had ever met. He was slender, lean, not the thi

“Don't ever do that again,” he said.

“Do what?” I stood with the files clasped to my chest.

He shook his head and almost smiled, but it was an angry smile, a flash of small white teeth. “Don't be a smart ass.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“Bullshit, you're not sorry.”

“About trying to give Fields's card to the woman, no. I'm not sorry. I'd do it again.”

“I don't like to be undermined in front of my clients.”

I shrugged.

“I mean it, Anita. Don't ever do that again.”

I wanted to ask him, or what, but I didn't. “You aren't qualified to counsel people about whether or not they become the undead.”

“Bert thinks I am.”

“Bert would take money for a hit on the Pope if he thought he could get away with it.”

Jamison smiled, then frowned at me, then couldn't help himself and smiled again. “You do have a way with words.”

“Thanks.”

“Don't undermine me with clients, okay?”

“I promise never to interfere when you are discussing raising the dead.”

“That isn't good enough,” he said.

“It's the best you're going to get. You are not qualified to counsel people. It's wrong.”

“Little Miss Perfect. You murder people for money. You're nothing but a damned assassin.”

I took a deep breath, and let it out. I would not fight with him today. “I execute criminals with the full blessing of the law.”

“Yeah, but you enjoy it. You get your jollies by pounding in the stakes. You can't go a fucking week without bathing in someone's blood.”

I just stared at him. “Do you really believe that?” I asked.

He wouldn't look at me but finally said, “I don't know.”

“Poor little vampires, poor misunderstood creatures. Right? The one who branded me slaughtered twenty-three people before the courts would give me the go-ahead.” I yanked my shirt down to expose the collarbone scar. “This vampire had killed ten people. He specialized in little boys, said their meat was most tender. He's not dead, Jamison. He got away. But he found me last night and threatened my life.”

“You don't understand them.”

“No!” I shoved a finger in his chest. “You don't understand them.”

He glared down at me, nostrils flaring, breath coming in warm gasps. I stepped back. I shouldn't have touched him; that was against the rules. You never touch anyone in a fight unless you want violence.

“I'm sorry, Jamison.” I don't know if he understood what I was apologizing for. He didn't say anything.

As I walked past him, he asked, “What are the files for?”

I hesitated, but he knew the files as well as I did. He'd know what was missing. “The vampire murders.”

We turned towards each other at the same moment. Staring. “You took the money?” he asked.

That stopped me. “You knew about it?”

He nodded. “Bert tried to get them to hire me in your place. They wouldn't go for it.”

“And after all the good PR you've given them.”

“I told Bert you wouldn't do it. That you wouldn't work for vampires.”

His slightly up-tilted eyes were studying my face, searching, trying to squeeze some truth out. I ignored him, my face a pleasant blankness. “Money talks, Jamison, even to me.”

“You don't give a damn about money.”

“Awful shortsighted of me, isn't it?” I said.

“I always thought so. You didn't do it for money.” A statement. “What was it?”

I didn't want Jamison in on this. He thought vampires were fanged people. And they were very careful to keep him on the nice, clean fringes. He never got his hands dirty, so he could afford to pretend or ignore, or even lie to himself. I had gotten dirty once too often. Lying to yourself was a good way to die. “Look, Jamison, we don't agree on vampires, but anything that can kill vampires could make meat pies out of human beings. I want to catch the maniac before he, she, or it, does just that.”

It wasn't a bad lie, as lies go. It was even plausible. He blinked at me. Whether he believed me or not would depend on how much he needed to believe me. How much he needed his world to stay safe and clean. He nodded, once, very slowly. “You think you can catch something the master vampires can't catch?”

“They seem to think so.” I opened the door and he followed me out. Maybe he would have asked more questions, maybe not, but a voice interrupted.

“Anita, are you ready to go?”

We both turned, and I must have looked as puzzled as Jamison.

I wasn't meeting anyone.

There was a man sitting in one of the lobby chairs, half-lost in the jungle plants. I didn't recognize him at first. Thick brown hair, cut short, stretched back from a very nice face. Black sunglasses hid the eyes. He turned his head and spoiled the illusion of short hair. A thick ponytail curled over his collar. He was wearing a blue denim jacket with the collar up. A blood-red tank top set off his tan. He stood slowly, smiled, and removed his glasses.

It was Phillip of the many scars. I hadn't recognized him with his clothes on. There was a bandage on the side of his neck, mostly hidden by the jacket collar. “We need to talk,” he said.

I closed my mouth and tried to look reasonably intelligent. “Phillip, I didn't expect to see you so soon.”

Jamison was looking from one to the other of us. He was frowning. Suspicious. Mary was sitting, chin leaning on her hands, enjoying the show.

The silence was damn awkward. Phillip put a hand out to Jamison. I mumbled. “Jamison Clarke, this is Phillip … a friend.” The moment I said it, I wanted to take it back. “Friend” is what people call their lovers. Beats the heck out of significant other.

Jamison smiled broadly. “So, you're Anita's … friend.” He said the last word slowly, rolling it around on his tongue.

Mary made a hubba-hubba motion with one hand. Phillip saw it and flashed her a dazzling melt-your-libido smile. She blushed.

“Well, we have to go now. Come along, Phillip.” I grabbed his arm and began pulling him towards the door.

“Nice to meet you, Phillip,” Jamison said. “I'll be sure to mention you to all the rest of the guys who work here. I'm sure they'd love to meet you sometime.”

Jamison was really enjoying himself. “We're very busy right now, Jamison. Maybe some other time,” I said.

“Sure, sure,” he said.

Jamison walked us to the door and held it for us. He gri

We met one of the real estate agents in the hall. She said hello to me but stared at Phillip. He smiled at her. When we passed her and were waiting for the elevator, I glanced back. Sure enough, she was watching his backside as we walked away.