JК
Guilty Pleasures :: Гамильтон Лорел
Страница: 75 из 205Fields 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 beginning to crumble. She licked her lips and turned back to me. “Really.” She was recovering quickly; she sounded superior again.
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 thinness of exercise but of lucky genetics. Jamison's idea of a workout was lifting shot glasses at a good party.
“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.
“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 beginning to crumble. She licked her lips and turned back to me. “Really.” She was recovering quickly; she sounded superior again.
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 thinness of exercise but of lucky genetics. Jamison's idea of a workout was lifting shot glasses at a good party.
“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.