Third Grave Dead Ahead
Page 6
“You came all the way over here for painkillers?”
I gave him a second once-over while crunching. Other than the bullet wounds he now sported on his chest and shoulder from when I almost got him killed a couple weeks ago, he had good skin, healthy eyelashes, six-pack abs. Cookie may have been on to something. “No, I came over here to talk to you,” I said, swallowing hard. “I just happen to need painkillers at this moment in time. They in the bathroom?” I headed that way.
“I ran out,” he said, blocking my path, clearly hiding something.
“But you’re a bond enforcement agent.”
His brows snapped together. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Come on, Swopes,” I said, my voice sharp with accusation, “I know you track down drug dealers when you’re not watching Debbie Does Dallas. You have access to all kinds of drugs. You can’t tell me you don’t pocket a little crack here, a few prescription-strength Motrin there.”
After scrubbing his face with his fingers, he strolled to a small dining room table, pulled out a chair, and sat down. “Isn’t your sister a psychiatrist?”
I stepped into his bedroom and switched on the light. Besides the rumpled bed and clothes strewn about the room, it wasn’t bad. I hit the dresser first.
“Actually, I’m glad you’re here,” Garrett called out. “I might have a case for you.”
That was exactly why I’d come over, but he didn’t need to know that. “I’m not cleaning out your truck in search of some mysteriously lost object again, Swopes. I caught on.”
“No, a real case,” he said, a smile in his voice, “through a friend of a friend. Seems this guy’s wife went missing about a week ago and he’s looking for a good PI.”
“So why send him to me?” I asked, stumped.
“Are you finished in there?”
I’d just gone through his nightstands and was headed for the medicine cabinet in his bathroom. “Just about. Your choice of p**n is more eclectic than I thought it would be.”
“He’s a doctor.”
“Who’s a doctor?” Nothing of use in his medicine cabinet. Absolutely nothing. Unless nondrowsy allergy medication could be considered a painkiller.
“The guy whose wife is missing.”
“Oh, right.”
Who on planet Earth didn’t have aspirin in the house? My head ached, for heaven’s sake. I’d nodded off on the way over to Garrett’s place and veered into oncoming traffic. The honking horns and flashing lights had me believing I’d been abducted by aliens. Thank goodness a well-placed telephone pole put a stop to that nonsense. I needed stronger coffee to keep me awake. Or maybe something else entirely. Something industrial.
I peeked around the door and asked, “Do you keep syringes of adrenaline on hand?”
“There are special programs for people like you.”
In a moment of sheer terror, I realized I couldn’t feel my brain. It was just there a minute ago. Maybe I really was dead. “Do I look dead to you?”
“Does your sister have an after-hours emergency number?”
“You’re not helping,” I said, making sure the disgust in my voice was unmistakable. “You would suck as a customer service representative.”
He unfolded himself from the chair and headed for the fridge. “Want a beer?”
I shuffled to the table and stole his seat. “Seriously?”
A brow arched into a shrug as he twisted the cap off a bottle.
“No, thank you. Alcohol is a depressant. I need these lids to stay open for days.” I pointed to them for visual confirmation.
“Why?” he asked after a long swig.
“Because when they’re closed, he’s there.”
“God?” Garrett guessed.
“Reyes.”
Garrett’s jaw pressed shut. Probably because he wasn’t horridly fond of Reyes or our unconventional relationship. Then again, nobody ever said consorting with the son of Satan would be easy. He set the beer on the counter and strode to his room, his movements suddenly sharp, exact. I watched him disappear—he had a nice tapering thing going on—and reappear almost instantly with shirt and boots in hand. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”
“I came in Misery.”
“Exactly, and I think you’ve caused enough.”
“No, my Jeep. Misery? Remember her?” Sometimes people found it odd that I’d named my cherry red Jeep Wrangler Misery, but Gertie just didn’t seem to fit. “She’ll be upset if I just leave her here on a strange side street. Alone. Injured.”
He looked back at me, startled. “You wrecked your Jeep?”
I had to think about that one. “I can’t be entirely certain. There was a telephone pole, screeching tires, the strong possibility of alien life. It all happened so fast.”
“Seriously. I need your sister’s number.” He shrugged into the shirt as he hunted down his keys.
“Desperate much? Besides, you’re not my sister’s type.”
After Garrett escorted me to his truck none-too-gently, he climbed into the driver’s side and brought the vehicle to life with a roar. The engine sounded pretty good, too. I gazed out the window as we swam through Albuquerque, the night thick with an almost impenetrable darkness. The tranquil serenity didn’t help my current predicament. My scratchy lids were like lead and grew heavier and heavier with every minute that passed. Every second. Despite the discomfort, I fought with all my strength to keep them open, because this was better than the alternative: Reyes Farrow being drawn into my dreams against either of our wills, like an invisible force pulled him toward me every time I closed my eyes. And once inside my head, all our anger and inhibitions washed away into a sea of sensuality where mouths scorched and hands explored. Which sucked because we were both quite annoyed with each other.
I gave him a second once-over while crunching. Other than the bullet wounds he now sported on his chest and shoulder from when I almost got him killed a couple weeks ago, he had good skin, healthy eyelashes, six-pack abs. Cookie may have been on to something. “No, I came over here to talk to you,” I said, swallowing hard. “I just happen to need painkillers at this moment in time. They in the bathroom?” I headed that way.
“I ran out,” he said, blocking my path, clearly hiding something.
“But you’re a bond enforcement agent.”
His brows snapped together. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Come on, Swopes,” I said, my voice sharp with accusation, “I know you track down drug dealers when you’re not watching Debbie Does Dallas. You have access to all kinds of drugs. You can’t tell me you don’t pocket a little crack here, a few prescription-strength Motrin there.”
After scrubbing his face with his fingers, he strolled to a small dining room table, pulled out a chair, and sat down. “Isn’t your sister a psychiatrist?”
I stepped into his bedroom and switched on the light. Besides the rumpled bed and clothes strewn about the room, it wasn’t bad. I hit the dresser first.
“Actually, I’m glad you’re here,” Garrett called out. “I might have a case for you.”
That was exactly why I’d come over, but he didn’t need to know that. “I’m not cleaning out your truck in search of some mysteriously lost object again, Swopes. I caught on.”
“No, a real case,” he said, a smile in his voice, “through a friend of a friend. Seems this guy’s wife went missing about a week ago and he’s looking for a good PI.”
“So why send him to me?” I asked, stumped.
“Are you finished in there?”
I’d just gone through his nightstands and was headed for the medicine cabinet in his bathroom. “Just about. Your choice of p**n is more eclectic than I thought it would be.”
“He’s a doctor.”
“Who’s a doctor?” Nothing of use in his medicine cabinet. Absolutely nothing. Unless nondrowsy allergy medication could be considered a painkiller.
“The guy whose wife is missing.”
“Oh, right.”
Who on planet Earth didn’t have aspirin in the house? My head ached, for heaven’s sake. I’d nodded off on the way over to Garrett’s place and veered into oncoming traffic. The honking horns and flashing lights had me believing I’d been abducted by aliens. Thank goodness a well-placed telephone pole put a stop to that nonsense. I needed stronger coffee to keep me awake. Or maybe something else entirely. Something industrial.
I peeked around the door and asked, “Do you keep syringes of adrenaline on hand?”
“There are special programs for people like you.”
In a moment of sheer terror, I realized I couldn’t feel my brain. It was just there a minute ago. Maybe I really was dead. “Do I look dead to you?”
“Does your sister have an after-hours emergency number?”
“You’re not helping,” I said, making sure the disgust in my voice was unmistakable. “You would suck as a customer service representative.”
He unfolded himself from the chair and headed for the fridge. “Want a beer?”
I shuffled to the table and stole his seat. “Seriously?”
A brow arched into a shrug as he twisted the cap off a bottle.
“No, thank you. Alcohol is a depressant. I need these lids to stay open for days.” I pointed to them for visual confirmation.
“Why?” he asked after a long swig.
“Because when they’re closed, he’s there.”
“God?” Garrett guessed.
“Reyes.”
Garrett’s jaw pressed shut. Probably because he wasn’t horridly fond of Reyes or our unconventional relationship. Then again, nobody ever said consorting with the son of Satan would be easy. He set the beer on the counter and strode to his room, his movements suddenly sharp, exact. I watched him disappear—he had a nice tapering thing going on—and reappear almost instantly with shirt and boots in hand. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”
“I came in Misery.”
“Exactly, and I think you’ve caused enough.”
“No, my Jeep. Misery? Remember her?” Sometimes people found it odd that I’d named my cherry red Jeep Wrangler Misery, but Gertie just didn’t seem to fit. “She’ll be upset if I just leave her here on a strange side street. Alone. Injured.”
He looked back at me, startled. “You wrecked your Jeep?”
I had to think about that one. “I can’t be entirely certain. There was a telephone pole, screeching tires, the strong possibility of alien life. It all happened so fast.”
“Seriously. I need your sister’s number.” He shrugged into the shirt as he hunted down his keys.
“Desperate much? Besides, you’re not my sister’s type.”
After Garrett escorted me to his truck none-too-gently, he climbed into the driver’s side and brought the vehicle to life with a roar. The engine sounded pretty good, too. I gazed out the window as we swam through Albuquerque, the night thick with an almost impenetrable darkness. The tranquil serenity didn’t help my current predicament. My scratchy lids were like lead and grew heavier and heavier with every minute that passed. Every second. Despite the discomfort, I fought with all my strength to keep them open, because this was better than the alternative: Reyes Farrow being drawn into my dreams against either of our wills, like an invisible force pulled him toward me every time I closed my eyes. And once inside my head, all our anger and inhibitions washed away into a sea of sensuality where mouths scorched and hands explored. Which sucked because we were both quite annoyed with each other.
