Samantha Moon: First Eight Novels, Plus One Novella

by J. R. Rain

  Do you still think of yourself as your ex-husband’s wife?

  Maybe a little. I still feel connected to him. Maybe it’s the kids that make me feel connected to him.

  Even though he has rejected you in every way?

  Well, it’s only been a few months, you know. I guess I still need time to heal.

  We were silent some more. Lately, I had been thinking of taking up smoking. I hadn’t yet, but what the hell? It’s not like I was going to ever die of lung cancer, right? Anyway, right about now I could picture myself sucking on the end of a cig just to do something with my hands. I wondered how my body would react to the nicotine.

  Well, there was only one way to find out.

  Fang was writing something to me, and so I waited. As I waited I looked over at Monica, who was lying on her side and reading a novel. A vampire novel, no less. Maybe I should read one of those. Maybe I could learn a thing or two.

  Fang deleted his message and started over. What he deleted, I will never know. A moment later, his message appeared: Promise me one thing, Moon Dance.

  Okay, I’ll try.

  Before you commit to the werewolf—or any man, for that matter—please promise me that you will meet me first.

  But I’m not committing to anyone, Fang.

  Just promise.

  Okay, I will consider it. But I have to admit, I’m confused. I thought we were friends.

  For a friendship to work, both people have to want the same thing. Both people have to want to be friends.

  I wrote, And if one of the friends suddenly wants something more than friendship?

  It changes things, he wrote.

  I don’t want things to change, Fang. I like talking to you. You are my outlet. You are my friend and my therapist and my confidant.

  I want to be more, Moon Dance.

  We were both silent for a long time. The hotel made typical hotel noises: a door slamming somewhere, the ding of the elevator around the corner, the endless drone of hundreds of air conditioners working hard against the warm Orange County night. On the bed nearby, Monica licked her fingers and turned the page. As she did so, her shoulder flexed a little. A narrow cord stood out on her neck. I found myself absently staring at it. Even from here, I could see it pulsating.

  You there, Moon Dance?

  Yes.

  I want to meet you in two weeks.

  I sat up suddenly. My heart, nearly useless in my chest, slammed hard once or twice against my ribs. My mouth instantly went dry. Two weeks?? I reached for a nearby bottle of water and sipped from it, staring at Fang’s words. Finally, I answered him.

  Okay, I wrote. Two weeks.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  We were at our favorite bar in Fullerton, called Hero’s.

  I was with my sister, Mary Lou, and my client, Monica. The three of us were sitting on vinyl stools in front of a long, brass-topped bar. Our favorite mixologist was tending bar, a young guy of about thirty. The fact that he was also kind of cute contributed to the “favorite” part.

  We were all sipping white wine. My sister Mary Lou was probably doing a little more than just sipping, since she was already on her third glass. It was Friday evening and the bar was hopping. This was also Casual Friday, apparently, and so Mary Lou, who worked for a small insurance agency in Placentia, was wearing jeans and a bright yellow tee shirt. For the uninitiated, Casual Friday is a sort of mini-national holiday for office workers everywhere. Occurring only four times a month, Casual Friday is commemorated by the wearing of jeans, tee shirts and sneakers, and the consumption of store-bought donuts and bagels. Homemade brownies are also acceptable. From what I understand, the day usually begins with a general air of optimism and hope, and deteriorates rapidly into a serious need to drink something strong and hard. I often reminded my older sister that every day was Casual Friday for me. And I did so now.

  “Are you trying to depress me?” she said.

  “Not clinically,” I said. “But a tear or two is always nice. Besides, I have to gloat about something. There’s not much else to gloat about these days.”

  Mary Lou didn’t like her job. Unfortunately, she never did anything about it, other than bitch. My philosophy is this: Life is too short to work another minute at a job you don’t love. Unless, of course, you’re a vampire. And then that philosophy goes out the window.

  Anyway, with my client sitting with us, my sister and I kept our conversation to mundane topics. Just three fairly cute girls, sitting in a bar, wrapped in secrets and pain and heartache.

  Good times.

  Mary Lou knocked back drink number three and waved the bartender over. He caught her eye, nodded, and reached under the counter for the bottle of wine. As he did so, I caught my sister adjusting her bra.

  “Why are you adjusting your bra?” I asked.

  “I’m not adjusting my bra,” she said. “I’m adjusting my boobs.”

  “Happily married women don’t adjust their boobs in front of cute bartenders.”

  “Happily married women have boobs, too,” she said.

  “They also have husbands.”

  “He’s coming over—shh, quiet!”

  Indeed, he was, grinning at us easily. He had short brown hair. Big brown eyes. Dimples in his cheeks and chin. He wore a combination of metal and leather bracelets, which jangled as he filled Mary Lou’s glass with more wine. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing tattoos that went down to his wrists and beyond. Some of the tats crawled along the back of his hands. His ears were pierced with silver studs, and he wore a leather strap around his neck, anchored by two huge shark teeth.

  “Just a little more,” said Mary Lou, slapping his hand lightly. “Pretty please.”

  Oh, brother, I thought, and caught Monica’s eye. She smiled at me and sipped her wine, enjoying my sister’s retarded attempt at flirtation. Myself, I wasn’t enjoying it so much.

  “If I give you more, young lady, then I have to give everyone else more,” he said. “And if I give everyone else more, then my boss will fire me.”

  “Oh, poo. You’re no fun.”

  He winked at me and left.

  So far, Monica had remained silent and inexpressive. I sensed that her personality had been beaten out of her by her ex-husband. Sure, she had opened up to me, but not so much with other people. With that said, I suspected she didn’t like my sister, either. The excessive drinking might have had something to do with it. Also, when someone laughed particularly loud, or brushed up against her, she jumped. And so she stayed close to me, like a trained puppy, never more than a foot or so away from my elbow. She felt safe with me. She should feel safe with me. Hell, I felt safe with me.

  While we drank and talked, I stayed alert for any suspicious activity. Her ex-husband, prior to his unfortunate run-in with the bulletproof glass, had indicated that he had succeeded in hiring someone to carry out his threat on her.

  Monica touched my forearm and leaned over and whispered into my ear. “I need to use the restroom.”

  I patted her hand. “Okay.” I turned to Mary Lou. “We’re going to the restroom.”

  Mary Lou nodded and kept her eyes on the bartender. Monica and I left and I held her hand as I threaded our way through the crowded bar. She kept about as close to me as she possibly could. Inside the surprisingly uncrowded bathroom, I waited outside the stall for her to finish her business. As I waited, I had a very bad feeling I couldn’t shake. I looked over my shoulder, but we were alone. I frowned.

  Shortly, we were working our way back through the bar to where we found an ashen-faced Mary Lou staring at us. We took our seats on the stools next to her, and as I sat, Mary Lou leaned over and whispered in my ear: “There was a man here.”

  “Who?”

  She shook her head. My sister looked completely shaken. “I don’t know. He came up next to me and ordered a drink.”

  “So?”

  “He looked right at me and smiled...the most horrible smile I have ever seen.”

 
; “You’re not drunk are you?”

  “No, dammit.” She kept shaking her head. “He looked... wrong. Off. Evil. He looked what I would imagine a killer would look like.”

  “A killer?”

  “A hired killer.”

  “Is he here now?”

  “No, he ordered a Red Bull, paid cash, and left. Right before you two came back. He wanted me to see him. He wanted you to know he’s watching.”

  “And you’re not drunk.”

  “Goddammit, no.”

  My first instinct was to run out after the guy. Maybe that’s what he wanted me to do. Maybe. The sun was still an hour or so from setting. I wasn’t at my strongest, and I wasn’t going to leave Monica.

  “Okay,” I said to Mary Lou. “Hang on.”

  I motioned for the bartender. He saw me immediately and, even though he was talking to someone else, said something to them, laughed, and came right over. He looked curiously at my mostly full drink.

  “You need something else?” he asked.

  I nodded. “The guy who ordered the Red Bull a minute ago. Have you ever seen him in here before?”

  He shook his head. “No. Why?”

  “How tall would you say he was?”

  He shrugged. “Six foot maybe. Why?”

  “How old would you say he was?”

  He shrugged again. “Hard to say. Forty, fifty. Is everything okay?”

  “We’ll see,” I said. “Can you tell me any more about him?” I wanted a description of the guy from someone who wasn’t nearly three sheets to the wind.

  The bartender studied me with his big brown eyes. His shark teeth glistened whitely at his throat. He had been working here for a few months, but he had never really spoken. Still, I often caught him catching my eye. I think he thought I was cute. Go figure. Finally, he said, “White guy. Thin. Black hair. Black eyes. Probably brown eyes, but they looked black in here.”

  “Anything else about him?” I asked.

  “He was wearing a sign around his neck that said, ‘I am exhibiting suspicious behavior.’ Does that help?”

  “I don’t tip you to be funny,” I said.

  “The humor is free.”

  I looked away from him, scanning the room. I didn’t sense any immediate danger. The sensing of danger is tricky business for me. Lots of things set off my warning bells. If the man honestly didn’t intend any sort of physical violence at this moment, I probably wouldn’t have picked up on anything. Now, had he been charging us with a pocket knife at this very moment, my spidey-senses would have sprung to life.

  I turned back to the bartender, who was watching me curiously. “So that’s all you remember?”

  He grinned easily. “Hey, he just ordered a Red Bull to go. I think I did pretty good remembering what I remembered.”

  “Bravo. You get a biscuit.”

  “So what’s this all about anyway?”

  “Official undercover chick business,” I said.

  He nodded. “I see. Well, be safe under those covers, young lady,” he said, and then moved quickly away to get another drink order filled.

  I turned to Monica; she was staring at me, having heard everything of course. “Is he a bad man?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Does he want to kill me, too?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, frowning. “But no one is going to kill you or hurt you or anything. I promise.”

  She smiled, or tried to, and gripped my arm even tighter.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  I called right at 7:00 p.m.

  Danny picked up and told me to hold on. No other pleasantries were said. There were never any pleasantries said. While I waited and while I listened to him breathing steadily on his end, I thought of us standing together in the shade of the Fullerton Arboretum. It had been a small wedding. Just forty or so family and friends. It had been a beautiful, sunny day. Danny had looked so handsome and awkward in his suit. He kept folding his hands over and over at his waist, trying to look dignified standing in front of everyone, but mostly looking nervous as hell. I had watched him the entire way as walked down the aisle with my father. Danny had watched me, too, and the closer I got the more his nerves abated. He quit fumbling with his hands. He then smiled at me brighter than he had ever smiled at me before or after.

  I heard something akin to a hand covering the phone, heard muffled voices, then more scraping sounds and Danny spoke into the phone. “You’ve got eight minutes.”

  “Eight!?”

  A second later, a squeaky little voice burst from the line.

  “Mom!”

  “Hi, baby!”

  “Don’t call me baby, mom. I’m not a baby.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Man.”

  “I’m not a man, either.”

  “Then what are you?”

  “I’m a boy.”

  “You’re my big boy.”

  He liked that. I could almost see him jumping up and down on the other end of the line, pressing the phone into his ear with both hands, the way he usually does.

  “Daddy says you can’t come see us tomorrow. That you are too busy to see us.”

  “That’s not true—”

  “Yes, it is true, Sam,” said Danny’s voice. He had, of course, been listening in from the other phone, as he always does. “You’re busy with work and you can’t see them.”

  I took in a lot of air, held it. Let it out slowly.

  “I’m sorry, angel,” I said to my boy. “I’m going to be busy tomorrow.”

  “But we never get to see you—”

  “That’s enough, Anthony. Get your sister on the line.”

  A moment later, I heard Tammy say, “Give me that, jerk,” followed by Anthony bursting into tears. Sounds of running feet and crying faded quickly into the distance, followed by a door slamming. He was probably crying now into his pillow.

  “Hi, mommy,” she said.

  I was too broken up to speak at first. “Is Anthony okay?” I asked, controlling my tears.

  “He’s just being a baby.”

  “No, he’s just being a little boy.”

  “Whatever,” she said.

  “Don’t ‘whatever’ me, young lady.”

  She said nothing. I heard the pop of chewing gum. I also heard Danny making tiny shuffling movements on his end of the line. No doubt looking at his stopwatch. Yes, stopwatch.

  “What did you guys do today?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “How was school?”

  “Boring.”

  “Did you do your homework?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Is that a yes or a no, young lady?”

  “It’s a maybe.”

  I knew Danny was on the other phone, listening, hearing his daughter disrespect her mother, and not giving a damn. I let the homework go. She was right, after all. I presently had no say in whether or not the homework got done, nor did I have any way of enforcing any house rules. I knew it. She knew it. I also suspected she was deliberately hurting me, since my unexplained absence was hurting her.

  “I miss you,” I said. “More than you know.”

  “You have a funny way of showing it, mom.”

  “I’ll figure out a way of seeing you guys more soon. I promise.”

  “Whoopee.”

  “That was rude,” I said.

  “So?”

  “Don’t be rude to your mother.”

  “Whatever.”

  I took a deep breath. I knew my time was running out fast. I suspected Danny sometimes cut our conversations short. Either that, or time disappeared when I spoke to my kids. Even when they were being impossible.

  I said, “I promise, I’ll see you as soon as I can.”

  “Tomorrow?” she asked, and I heard the faint hope in her voice. She was still trying for badass pissy, but the little girl who missed her mother was still in there.

  “Not tomorrow, angel,” I said, my voice breaking up. “But soon.”
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  She was about to say something, probably something mean or rude or both. But something else came out entirely. A small, hiccuppy gasp. She was crying.

  “I love you,” I said. “I love you more than you could possibly know.”

  “I love you, too, mommy,” and then she really started crying, and I was crying, and Danny stepped in.

  “Time,” he said.

  “Goodbye, angel,” I said quickly. “I love you!”

  She was about to say something when the line went dead.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Monica and I were sitting in my minivan down the street from my house. Very far down the street. In fact, we were at the opposite end of the street. Still, from here I could see my house—yes, my house. In particular, I could see anyone coming or going, especially Danny and his lame new Mustang.

  Mustang? Weren’t those for college girls?

  Also from here, I could see the Pep Boys’ sign rising above the house. Looming, might be a better word. The lights in the sign were currently out. The boys were asleep. Allegedly.

  The night was young and some in the neighborhood were still out and about: pushing baby strollers, walking dogs, jogging, or, in one case, power walking.

  My windows were heavily tinted for two reasons: The first was because I happened to be fairly sensitive to the sun. Go figure. The second was because I often used my nondescript minivan for surveillance. And when I was doing a lengthy surveillance, I would actually pull down a dark curtain from behind the front seat and hunker down in the back of the van, looking out through the many blackened windows. I even had a port-a-potty for long surveillances.

  Tonight I didn’t expect to need my port-a-potty. Tonight I expected the action to begin fairly quick. Call it a hunch.

  “So is this a real stakeout?” asked Monica. She was sitting cross-legged in the passenger seat. She could have been a teenager sitting there next to me.

  “Real enough,” I said.

  “And that’s your old house up there?”

  “Yes.”

  “So are we stalking your ex-husband?”