Hunted By the Others. Jess Haines
They already gave me enough crap for being a PI instead of a lawyer like Mike. My mom was fond of dishing that one out, along with the whole don’t-you-think-it’s-about-time-you-settle-downand-pop-out-a-few-grandkids-for-me speech. Sara gave me hell for that, laughing about it and bringing it up every few days for weeks afterward.
Rather than keep Jenny waiting, I took a breath to get some semblance of control over my temper and told her not to worry. “I’ll go over the numbers with Sara when she gets back. Look, it’s Friday. Why don’t you go ahead and take off. I’ve got to go get ready for tonight anyway; I’ll just wrap up here and lock up.”
Behind her glasses, her brown eyes held a hint of sympathy, though I had the feeling she’d head straight home and start posting her résumé all over the Internet. She was probably convinced we were going under. But between Sara’s generosity and my latest contract, I was sure we’d be able to pull out of this mess just fine.
So why did the whole situation still rankle so much with me?
“I heard you took a job doing something with that vampire who owns all those nightclubs. The one who’s in the news all the time. Is that right?”
I grimaced and nodded, avoiding her questioning gaze.
“Be careful, Shia. Those things are dangerous.”
“I know. Don’t worry. I don’t plan on doing any more than asking a few questions and leaving. They give me the creeps.”
She put a hand on my arm, surprising me with her serious expression and the touch of worry in her voice. “I’m not kidding, Shia. My cousin died about two years ago while she was dating one of those—those things. Those monsters.”
My eyes widened and after a moment I remembered to close my open mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. When? Why didn’t you say anything?”
She shook her head, not quite looking at me now. Her voice grew into a quiet, broken whisper, and terror gleamed in her soft brown eyes. “It was a couple of months before I started working here. Shia, you need to know this. You need to be careful. The coroner—he said it took her hours to die, bleeding out like that. The way it left her…after. I can’t bear the thought of it happening to someone else I know. Not again. Not you, please don’t let it get you, too.”
Almost involuntarily, my hand came up to gently wipe away the single tear that trickled down Jenny’s pale cheek. The feel of her trembling even under that light touch was frightening all on its own. For her sake, I smiled and took up her cold hands in both of my own to try to put her at ease, steeling myself against letting any of my private doubts come to the surface. Despite that, I knew the sincerity in my voice never touched my eyes. There was too much fear in them for that.
“I won’t. I promise.”
Chapter 4
Royce’s clubs are a shade more risqué than his restaurants, though all of them are usually packed. Vamp-run establishments are “the thing” right now. I guess to some people, the idea of rubbing elbows with a leech is titillating.
His newest restaurant, La Petite Boisson (I suppose “The Little Drink” sounds more tacky in English), is the kind of outfit where you’d spot people like the mayor, celebrities, visiting dignitaries from other countries, that sort of thing. I would stick out like a sore thumb there. Not to mention that even a glass of water from that place was way outside my budget.
Luckily, his website said he was going to make an appearance tonight at The Underground, one of his less expensive nightclubs. I’d been there plenty of times. The bouncers know me on sight, and usually let me through at the front of the line as long as I wave some money at them. It’s not my favorite hangout, mostly because of the BDSM theme. The music is heavy industrial or dark techno stuff, and they have scantily leather-clad male and female dancers in cages hanging up near the ceiling, high over everyone’s heads.
Maybe that’s some people’s idea of a good time, but it usually just gave me a headache.
Unfortunately, it seemed the majority of my “find-that-cheating-rat-bastard” clients (as opposed to “find-that-rat-bastard-that-owes-me-money” and “watch-that-shifty-eyed-rat-bastard-for-me” clients) thought their significant others were hanging out in establishments like this. What was even more unfortunate was that they were usually right. Every once in a while they’d prove me wrong by actually working late in the office. Once the boyfriend I was checking up on was working a second job in secret so he could pay for the engagement ring he wanted to spring on his paranoid soon-to-be fiancée. Yes, really. There may be some hope for humanity yet.
After tidying up at the office, I locked up and headed home to change. Pressed slacks and a business jacket wouldn’t fly at The Underground. Now, standing in the cold about a half a block away from the club in the reassuring pool of light of a street-lamp, I was glad I’d taken the time to change. Staring up at the garish neon sign flickering over the entrance, in one of the two pairs of black leather pants I owned, with a white button-down shirt that flared at the wrists and waist, topped with a black wool peacoat to keep warm, I shoved my hands into my pockets and shivered against more than the biting winds coming in off the river.
The line was long. I guess I wasn’t the only one hoping for a peek at the owner of the club tonight. My feet were already hurting, too. The heels on my boots were a little higher than I normally cared for, but I wasn’t planning on dancing. Much. This was work, after all.
Muttering under my breath, I withdrew a slightly trembling hand from my pocket to clutch my jacket collar closed around my throat before resignedly clomping across the street and past the leather and PVC-clad crowd chattering behind a length of black velvet rope. How cute, someone had chained little handcuffs to the support poles for the rope since the last time I was here. I also picked up the scent of some smoke on the air that smelled suspiciously unlike cigarettes.
Yup, it was the same old club scene I knew and loved. There wasn’t much difference between the vamp-run establishments and the human-run ones, honestly. These days, the pedigree of the owner was all it took to make the difference between what was cool and what was not. Were-run bars and restaurants weren’t as common, but they also seemed to get more business than those run by us poor humans.
Oh well. Bruno, the blond bouncer on the left, who was built like a truck and probably hit with those ham-sized fists like a ton of bricks, gave me a once-over when I brashly stepped around the front of the line to greet him. He cracked a Hollywood smile, all gleaming rows of pearly whites, when I held out a hand to shake. I was holding the requisite bills in my palm to bribe my way past the two-block-long line of complaining would-be patrons, who’d probably been standing in the cold waiting for entrance for at least a couple of hours already.
“Hey, Red, lookin’ good tonight.” Waving off the other three guys working security and unclasping the velvet rope for me to step through, he engulfed my hand in one of his. It looked like a shake, but he was really just palming the cash. I couldn’t stop from shuddering when he ran his thick, calloused thumb over my wrist. I wondered briefly if he could feel the staccato beat of my pulse before quickly drawing my hand back and shoving it back into my pocket.
“You gonna take me up on my offer yet?”
I laughed, though it was a little forced. Ugh, I’d tried so hard to forget that “offer” he’d made me last time I was here.
“Not yet, Blondie. Maybe next time.”
One of the other bouncers, new from the look of him, was holding the door for me. I didn’t keep him waiting and hightailed it inside to the sounds of catcalls and pissed-off complaints. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn the leather.
Walking into the entrance was always a little intimidating. It was a short, pitch-black hallway, occasionally lit by the hint of a strobe light creeping under the thick metal door at the end. I could already feel my bones vibrating from the bass of the music inside. Taking a breath, I slid my hand into one of the pockets of my leather pants and drew out a silver chain with a matching silver cross. Not much in the way of protection, but at