Jeanne Stein - The Watcher

This time he takes his eyes off the road to look at me. "Maybe Gloria is right. Maybe we should take a break. Evaluate what we want to do before something bad happens again. Last summer I almost got you killed. I couldn't live with myself if it happened again."

My first inclination is to laugh. I did get killed, after all, but not in any way he can imagine. Instead I give rein to the second impulse. Anger.

"You son of a bitch. I got over it. Why can't you?"

Again, the aggravating hum of silence.

"Are you trying to piss me off? What do you want me to do? Make it easy for you and quit?"

I don't know why I said that, but once I did, the picture snaps into focus. I swivel toward him. "You want to dissolve our partnership? Because you're afraid I'll get hurt or because of Gloria?"

We're still on Broadway headed back toward the coast and David pulls the Hummer to a stop on the side of the road. His hands remain on the wheel and his eyes stare straight ahead, but he says quietly, "Not because of Gloria, exactly." He pauses, draws a deep breath. "I'm thinking of moving to Los Angeles."

Rage rises in my throat until I think it will choke me. I have to swallow hard a couple of times before I can get words out. "Los Angeles? Where Gloria lives and this has nothing to do with her? When did you decide this?" My voice is shaking.

His shoulders hunch. "It's not definite yet. It's something I've been thinking about for a while. You know it hasn't been the same for us since the attack. It's like we're going through the motions but we're not friends the way we used to be. We don't go out to eat anymore, we don't even work out together. You make excuses to avoid spending time with me except on the job. It's obvious you only think of me as a business partner and you can always find another one of those."

He runs out of breath and words at the same time. I'm too stunned to do anything but stare. Everything he said is true. There are reasons for all of it, of course. Hello. Vampire. But David doesn't know that. He doesn't know.

And I can't tell him.

He clears his throat as if to dispel the awkward silence, then forges ahead. "Once we collect for Guzman, you'll have plenty of money. You can find another partner if you want or go out on your own. You're so good at the business, you really don't need anyone else. Or you might think about becoming a cop. I'm sure your friend Williams would like that. I suspect that's why he spends so much time with you. And I'm sure Max wouldn't object. I never thought he liked the idea of what you do for a living. Too outside of the box."

I can't stand hearing another word. "David." I bark his name so loud, we both jump. "Will you please shut the fuck up?"

The afternoon sun has fallen low in the sky. The glare through the driver's side window makes it impossible for me to see David's face clearly. I'm overwhelmed with sadness and regret. Sadness because I don't know how to make this right and regret because I'm suddenly not sure I should try.

I grab my purse and reach for the door handle.

He turns in the seat. "What are you doing?"

But I've already opened the door and climbed out. I close it quietly behind me and walk away. I don't answer because I can't.

What am I doing? At this instant, I don't have a clue.

IF SOMEONE HAD TOLD ME EARLIER WHAT HAVOC this day would wreak on my life, I would have come home from Beso de la Muerte this morning and gone straight to bed. I wouldn't have gone to see Williams, wouldn't have answered David's telephone call, and certainly wouldn't have gone back to Mexico. If I had stayed home, I would have known it was Max in my bed. I would have avoided Gloria at all costs. I might even have told David to bring someone else in on Guzman's capture just to avoid that last conversation.

If I had known.

What good is it to be immortal if you can't see the future? A serious design flaw.

"Another drink, miss?"

At first glance, the bartender doesn't look old enough to be working in a saloon. His skin is blotchy, his hair bleached, his pants baggy. His eyes, though, are not young. They reflect what he's been exposed to—cynicism, remorse, regret. Like breathing second-hand cigarette smoke, exposure to pathetic creatures like me must be a hazard of the job.

Or maybe it's what I'm projecting through a haze of scotch.

I nod. "Yes. Please."

He nods, too, and upends the Glenlivet bottle. Single malt, eighteen year Glenlivet. At the rate I'm drinking, I'll go through Guzman's bounty before sunrise.

I don't much care.

The guy at my right elbow eyes me. He's been watching me for the last hour, biding his time, waiting for the right moment to speak. He thinks if I'm drunk enough, I won't notice the bad skin, thinning hair and shiny spots on the elbows of his jacket. He thinks if I'm drunk enough he may get lucky.

I turn toward him and smile.

He may be right.

"ANNA. HEY, WAKE UP."

I pull the covers over my head.

"Come on. We have to get out of here."

Dragging myself to consciousness is painful. Like cold on a sensitive tooth. My head throbs, my limbs are heavy as lead, even my hair prickles on my scalp. It takes me a minute to realize I don't recognize the voice speaking in my ear. Worse, I don't know where I am. And I'm naked.

When I peek out from the covers, all I see is the lower back of a naked male torso bent over at the waist. He's dressed, at least half of him, in a pair of Levi's. He's perched on the other side of the bed. I shift to sit up, and a bottle rolls out from under the covers and hits the floor with a thud.

The back straightens and turns around. The face is vaguely familiar. It splits into a grin. "So you finally came to. It's about time. Come on. Checkout time is ten. We've got about fifteen minutes."

I don't want to embarrass myself by asking the obvious—who the hell are you?—so I gather a sheet around my chest and sit up.

The guy is bent over again and I see now that he's tying his shoes. I look around the room. A motel room. Nondescript. A table and two chairs in the corner, one of which is piled with my clothes. Bed, chest of drawers, armoire that I assume houses the television. The double doors are closed. Obviously, we did not watch television last night.

So, what did we do?

As soon as I try to move, I know.

Jesus. I’m so sore, a gasp escapes my lips before I can stop it.

The guy turns around again. "Are you still in bed? Come on, we've got a long trip ahead of us. We have to get to El Centro by noon."

"El Centro?"

He frowns. "Don't tell me you forgot. You promised to help me. My daughter, remember?"

No. I start to say it out loud, but his face is so full of hopeful anticipation, I swallow hard and say nothing. Instead I rub at my eyes. "I'm not quite awake yet." I look up at him. "And to be honest, I'm a little confused. Did we meet at the bar last night?"

He laughs and reaches out a hand to smooth my hair. "I guess I should be insulted," he says. "But you did have a lot to drink. No, we didn't meet at the bar. You and my brother met at the bar. He told you about me and you agreed to help. He brought you here, to my room. We were talking and—well, one thing led to another."

I guess so. The ache between my legs begins to throb. We must have had some night. But it's daylight now and I haven't a clue where we are or what I agreed to do for this guy. I missed my appointment with Williams in the park, the first time in weeks. I wanted to ask him about the witch and what happened at Beso de la Muerte. I don't know if Max has tried to get in touch with me, or David.

The guy has crossed to the chair. He picks up a T-shirt and slips it over his head. His arms and torso are well muscled, his waist and hips slender. He has calloused fingers, strong hands. A carpenter maybe? He's probably in his early forties. He has short, sandy hair, thick, well cut. His face looks familiar, not quite handsome but rugged and appealing. The shadow of his beard adds an unpretentious air of strength. When he turns once more to face me, I realize what it is that's familiar.