The door at the bottom of the stairs opens, and Shane marches up, his chest puffed out like a general on the winning side of a surrender ceremony. His radiance comes from more than his donor’s blood—its source is the testosterone surge of vicarious victory.
He comes over and plants a kiss on my lips. “Thank me later.”
“For the kiss? It wasn’t one of your better ones.”
“For the spectacle.” He checks the clock. “Any minute now.”
Regina, Jim, and Noah file up from the basement and stand in front of Elizabeth’s office, looking bored. Regina makes a point of avoiding my eyes.
Shane turns his head toward the parking lot. “He’s coming. Can I borrow your phone?”
I pull it out of my bag and hand it to him. “What’s wrong with yours?”
“It doesn’t take pictures.” Shane flips it open, then finds the camera button. “Vengeance is mine, loser.”
The door at the bottom of the stairs creaks open, and David walks slowly up from the lounge, wearing a long gray raincoat, tied around the waist. I look up at Shane, whose eyes gleam with triumph.
“Go on.” He gestures to David. “Show us what Ravens fans are made of.”
Our boss sets his briefcase on the floor. Chin held high, he unties the raincoat and lets it drop to his feet.
My eyes fly open so fast, my lids threaten to cramp.
David stands there dressed in nothing but a pair of shiny black Steelers underwear, though “underwear” is too generous a term, since it’s not so much worn as it is painted on.
I’m not normally a fan of Speedos and the like. Few non-models can pull off the look. But David succeeds, partly because his smooth, semi - swarthy skin holds a year - round tan, but mostly because his muscles are developed in just the right way—solid but sleek. My eyes battle over where to linger: on the contoured pecs or the long, wiry thighs. Beneath my desk, I run my fingertips together to stop the tingling.
“Not bad.” Regina nods as she checks out David from head to foot. “Makes me wish I could be human for an hour. Or two.”
I force my gaze to turn to Shane, whose look of triumph has faded to chagrin. The cell phone is still pointing at David, its camera function forgotten.
“Um,” he says, then clears his throat. “David, when’d you start working out?”
“Few months ago.” With the maximum dignity possible for someone with approximately 98.7 percent of his skin showing, David bends over and pulls a cardboard sign out of his briefcase. It reads in magic marker, PITTSBURGH 38, BALTIMORE 7.
Shane claps his hands together once and stands up. “Okay, that fulfills the bet. Time to get dressed.”
“Nope.” David crosses his arms over his chest, and a gasp of admiration floats from Franklin’s side of the office (thankfully covering the sound of my own sigh). “The deal was, I’d wear this all day.”
“But it’s cold in here.” Shane picks up David’s coat. “At least put this on.”
“A man must maintain honor, in defeat as well as victory.” David brushes past him on the way into his office. By reflex, my head tilts to keep him in sight.
“It’s not appropriate workplace attire.” Shane motions to me and Franklin. “It’ll bother the other employees.”
I shrug. “No, it won’t.”
“Yeah,” Franklin adds, “we’re all professionals.” He seems to have trouble keeping his mouth closed.
David sits behind his desk with perfect grace. Shane grabs the doorknob and starts to swing the door shut.
“No.” David holds up a hand. “It doesn’t count as public humiliation if I can hide.”
Shane stops, shakes his head, and emits a harsh laugh. “Fine.” He lets go of the doorknob and pushes the door wide open.
“Good night.” Snickering, Regina clomps back downstairs in her combat boots. Noah follows.
Jim stands at the top of the stairs for a moment. He scratches the back of his head, ruffling the long brown curls. “I thought Baltimore was the Colts.”
“Shut up.” Shane starts to follow him down the stairs.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
He turns in response to my question.
“I’ll be needing that camera,” I tell him.
He looks at my cell phone in his hand, then sets it on the edge of my desk. “I’ve been outmanned, haven’t I?”
“Serves you right for gloating.” I aim the camera at David’s serene face. “And the word we use these days is ‘pwned.’ “
It’s an unusually quiet day at the office. I occupy myself by updating the DJs’ blog entries, transcribing their occasionally rambling treatises on rock history from the tapes they’ve made for me. Other than Shane, they’re so computer - averse, you’d think keyboards were polished with holy water.
At lunchtime, I get up and tiptoe to David’s open door. Still mostly naked, he looks up with a Buddhalike smile.
“Yes?”
“Um.” I direct my question to his shelf’s far corner. “Do you want to see those press releases before I send them out?”
“Ciara?”
“Yeah?” I say to the rubber foot on his desk leg.
“I need you to look at me.”
His words send a shock down my spine. “Why?”
“Because I need to know if you’re telling the truth.”
“Oh.” I suck in a slow breath, then meet his gaze. “About what?”
He rests his elbows on the desk and gives me a level look. “You already sent those press releases about the pirate broadcast, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” When his jaw tightens with anger, I hurry to add, “I had to. Reporters were hearing all sorts of crazy rumors. One of them thought we were the ones breaking the law. I had to set the record straight.”
His fingers interlace, creating a two - handed fist. I try not to notice how the action tightens everything from his biceps to his pectorals. I fail.
“I think you’re right.”
I blink. “Huh?”
“If we can’t keep the secret, we need to control the message.”
“Right. Of course.”
“And the publicity is, as you say, free.”
“The best kind.”
“But we’re not just milking it for the exposure.” He sits back in his chair and crosses his bare arms over his bare chest. Once again, I find the ceiling corner fascinating.
“The longer we let this play out,” he says, “the more evidence we can gather so we can nail them in the end.”
“Absolutely.” I should be inspired by his defiance, but my mind is preoccupied. “David?”
“Yes?”
“Do you have to be like that all day?” I wave my hand in his general direction.
“Yes.” He opens a drawer and pulls out a folder. “As I was saying, every time they interrupt us, they commit a crime. A crime with thousands of witnesses, including our digital recorder.”
“So it’s an easy case, right?”
“One would think.” He opens the folder. “A pirate radio signal in Brooklyn has been interfering with community stations for years, and the FCC hasn’t acted. It’s in their queue, they say.” He splays four articles across his desk. “Here’s one in St. Paul, another in Miami, another in Nashville. This happens all the time, and the government does nothing. It’s not a priority.”
I think of Jeremy’s pen and the power of the press. “It will be if we throw a fit.”
“Which is why you’re right—we need the media. But we have to proceed carefully.” His eyes turn serious, and he lowers his voice. “No more going behind my back.”
“But I—”
“First you hire Lori without asking me.”
“And didn’t she do a great job yesterday?” Nerves are making me babble. “I know I got a lot more done than usual.”
“It’s not your station, Ciara.”
I look at my toes and decide not to mention that legally, as Elizabeth Vasser, it is my station. “I know
. Sorry.”
He clears his throat and speaks in a normal tone again. “Colonel Lanham is coming over tonight to inspect the dog.”
My neck goes cold. “Inspect? He won’t take him away, will he?”
“Depends. Each of the vampire animals has a subdermal microchip that contains all their information. Lanham can scan the chip and see where Dexter belongs.”
“He belongs with me. I’ll find a new place where I can keep him.” My fists clench. “I’m not letting him go back to the lab.”
“Hang on.” David holds out his hands palms down in a soothing gesture. “No one said anything about him going anywhere. I promise I won’t let Lanham take your dog away.”
I can’t speak through the lump in my throat. David doesn’t have the authority to make that promise.
Remember, Ciara, Dexter belonged to someone who was working with FAN—that’s why he was chained to the cross. He could be the key to finding out who’s behind the piracy, maybe even the arson. Our livelihoods—hell, even our lives— might depend on the information he holds. The Control is the only way to get that information.”
I frown, knowing he’s right. “All right. But whoever let him go doesn’t deserve to get him back.”
“I’m going out to lunch.” Franklin scoots back his chair and grabs his jacket. As he unlocks the front door, he turns and gives me a sly grin. “Behave yourselves.”
He shuts the door, and there I am, alone in a tiny office with a nearly naked version of a man with whom I once shared a phony but passionate kiss. I stare at the floor and kick my heel softly against David’s doorjamb. An unusually sultry surf rock tune, one of Spencer’s favorites, plays over the speakers.
Desperate to break the tension, I decide to tell him about my road trip with Regina last night, though she made me promise to keep it between us. Right now, I’d rather face her wrath than see David looking at me like that.
Just then, the door to the downstairs lounge opens, and in my relief I want to hug Travis, who’s taking the stairs two at a time, a small stack of papers in his hand.
“I heard from my guy at the state police.” He rounds the corner. “Turns out the—Whoa!” Travis stops at the sight of David. “Remind me never to bet against Shane.”
“Don’t worry,” I tell him. “We’ll do anything to keep you out of a Speedo.”
“You have new information?” David asks him, as if nothing is out of the ordinary.
“Uh, yeah.” He steps into the room and drops the papers on David’s desk, then darts back out of the office, keeping me between him and our boss. “Got a copy of the forensics report on the YOUR GOING TO HELL sign and the Molotov cocktail bottle from the Smoking Pig fire.”
David examines the pages. I decide to stay away and not indulge my curiosity.
“Anyways.” Travis rubs his knuckles over the edge of his jaw. “Near as I can tell, the paint on the sign and the substances in the bottle match the ones left at our station.”
“You have your own chemical lab?” I ask him.
“No, but I know a guy.”
I nod. Like me, Travis has spent most of his career on the shady side of life, dealing in what my professors might call “the underground economy.” Those of us who aren’t particular about legalities always seem to “know a guy.”
David puts down the pages. “So whoever torched the bar probably did it because of us.”
“Not you us.” Travis slips his hands into his front jeans pockets, hunching his shoulders. “Us us. Vampires. Someone wants us to burn.”
I look at the YOUR GOING TO HELL sign, which is propped against David’s bookshelf, facing the wall.
Someone wants the vampires to burn, all right. In this life and the next.
“This won’t work,” I tell Shane.
“Are you sure?” he replies, his hand under my shirt. “I think we should try.”
I’m lying on my new twin bed, squished between my boyfriend and the wall. “It’d be different if David weren’t downstairs.”
“He said to make yourself at home.” Shane fingers the button of my jeans and nuzzles my neck. “We could be quiet.”
I stretch and shiver at the heat of his lips. “I can’t be quiet with you.”
“Not true. Remember that time in the supply closet at work?” He unhooks my bra with an inhumanly deft maneuver. “And the alley behind the coffee shop? And the parking lot next to—”
“But it feels rude, in David’s house, with him here.”
“Maybe.” Shane’s voice turns even sultrier. “But the bed’s too small for the three of us.”
I stiffen at the sudden sweaty image. After today’s Speedo incident, my mind needs no help picturing David’s naked body.
“Stop.” I push his hands away. “You’re driving me crazy.”
“Sorry.” Shane sits up, shifts to the end of the bed, and pulls my feet into his lap. “We’ll figure something out.”
“It’s just temporary, until I move into a new—Ohhh.” My voice drifts into a purr as he starts to rub my feet. “On second thought, let’s find a motel right now.”
He doesn’t laugh. “Ciara, I’ve been thinking about something.”
“Lessons in good sportsmanship, I hope?”
“Dexter stays downstairs here during the day, and he’s perfectly safe. Remember Elizabeth’s basement apartment?”
“Remember it? I go there every week to pick up her mail.” I never venture inside, though—too creepy.
“She had those blackout curtains over the windows to keep out all the sunlight.” His grip on my foot tightens. “What if we find a place like that, where we could be together?”
“So you could stay over during the day sometimes instead of running back to the station?”
He stops rubbing. “So I could stay, period.”
My eyes fly open as my chest constricts. He can’t mean what I think he means. “You want to live with me?”
He nods. “I love you. I want to be with you. I want to take the next step.”
I sit up, pulling my feet out of his hands. “Now?” My heartbeat surges like I just chugged four cappuccinos. “The other night you sounded like you had doubts about us. Now you want to shack up?”
“I think it’s what we need.” His gaze is steady on me. “The other night we talked about how you don’t really know who I am. If we lived together, you’d figure it out pretty fast.” His jaw twitches. “Then you can decide if I’m what you want.”
The back of my scalp tingles, and I feel a sudden dizziness. What if he decides I’m not what he wants?
“Maybe someday. After I finish school.” Yeah, that sounds good.
He squints at the ceiling. “But with one class a semester, that’ll be more than two years from now, even with summer school.”
“So? Can’t we wait?”
“Wait for what?”
I hug my knees to my chest. “For me to be ready.”
His mouth curves into a half smile. “You think I’m ready, Ciara? No one’s ever ready.”
The doorbell rings. I glance at the clock. Uh - oh.
“What’s wrong?” Shane says to the look on my face.
“Promise you’ll be nice.”
His eyes narrow. “To who?”
I tell him, and his face turns to stone.
When we enter the living room, David has already let Colonel Lanham in. With his impeccable solid black Control uniform and buzz - cut hair that can be measured in micro-meters, Lanham exudes a brutal efficiency.
He turns to face us, and his posture stiffens when he sees Shane, the man whose family - reunion dreams he crushed. “Ms. Griffin. Mr. McAllister.”
Shane just nods and glares at him as he holds Dexter’s leash. The dog growls low in his chest at the colonel. A sadistic smirk crosses Shane’s face as he probably realizes Dexter would tear out Lanham’s throat if he “accidentally” dropped the leash.
Lanham gives me a contraption that looks like a grocery store handheld scanner. “
Point that at the area between the dog’s shoulder blades.”
I do as he asks. The little machine beeps, and I hand it back to Lanham.
He checks the screen, then pulls out his cell phone. “I’ll have my colleague run this through the necrozoology database.”
I stand in front of Dexter. “And then what?”
“And then we’ll know his status.”
My shoulders relax a tad as I realize Lanham just called Dexter “he” instead of “it.”
He places the call, relates Dexter’s information, and hangs up. “It’ll be a few minutes.”
David says, “The cross he was tied to was a Control - style vampire trap. It almost killed one of our friends.”
Lanham furrows his brow. “How did you deactivate it?”
My heart slams in sudden panic. I send David a look of warning. We can’t tell Lanham the truth about my anti - holy blood. I’d be stuck in a lab the rest of my life, like Dexter and his fellow canines.
I blurt the first thing that comes to mind. “We pulled the plug.” I mime the action to reinforce the lie.
“That’s right,” David hurries to add. “I disconnected the repeater, just long enough to release Travis.”
Lanham’s confusion looks genuine. “Why would that work?”
“Faith!” My voice pitches up. “Faith gives power to the religious symbols your agents use as weapons. They only work in the hands of believers. So David had a hunch that the radio preacher’s words were activating the trap.”
“Interesting application of the principle.” Lanham rubs his chin. “But not one I’ve heard of in our agency.”
“So it could be stolen Control technology,” David says.
“Almost certainly stolen. I would know if the agency had deployed a weapon this powerful in my district.” He turns to me. “While we’re waiting for the results on the dog, I need to speak with you alone.”
Shane and David don’t move.
“Please,” Lanham says to me. “It’s about your father.”
My throat jolts. “Did you find him?” I don’t add, And kill him?
Lanham says nothing, just folds his hands in front of himself and waits.
I turn to Shane. “You and David take Dexter outside. See if he’ll chase a ball.”
“Are you sure?” Shane asks me.
Bad to the Bone Page 11