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Guilty Pleasures :: Гамильтон Лорел
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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.
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.