Brown Eyed Ghoul

by H. P. Mallory

  Of course I had no idea what Drake looked like naked but I was absolute sure that everything I’d just said was the whole truth and nothing but the truth. And, I hated to admit it but there was a definite part of me that wished I could verify.

  Drake wheeled around and faced me with a small grin. “Ditto, mon chaton,” he whispered and I felt a lump forming in my throat. A forming lump which was quickly cut short once I caught Black glaring at me.

  If looks could kill, Black’s expression and piercing eyes would’ve struck me dead instantly. However, Red didn’t seem to share his friend’s burning offense; I was pleasantly surprised when he tried to hide a smile in his beer mug. The bartender noticed it as well, and scowled disapprovingly before he went to take care of other customers.

  Suddenly, Black Mustache was standing in front of us, pointing his finger in Drake’s face. I noticed at once that he was at least a half foot shorter than me, which wasn’t surprising. People were inches smaller in stature in the early twentieth century compared to modern times.

  “You better teach your woman some respect and tell her not to talk to a man without getting’ his permission before I do it for you,” he warned through gritted teeth.

  Drake leveled his eyes on the man and said slowly, “My wife is unusually proficient in her vocabulary and I doubt seriously that she needs any coaching from me.”

  The man edged closer, his nose nearly touching Drake’s. Drake didn’t move a muscle, but simply gazed stonily at Black Mustache. “Maybe you’re the one who needs the lesson.”

  I took another gulp of my beer, then wiped the foam from my mouth. The sound of women laughing caught our attention. Drake looked over his shoulder at the two lavishly dressed women we saw as we entered the bar earlier. They were seated not far from where we were now, up against the back wall. I saw all of them smiling at Drake and a few were a little too friendly, but one of them nodded at me with a look of approval.

  I gazed over the rim of my glass as I took another sip of beer.

  “Outside,” Black Mustache growled.

  Drake sighed, and got up from his stool. Even though he towered over Black Mustache, the man wasn’t the slightest bit intimidated. I felt a bit worried for Drake.

  “I will return in a moment, mon chaton.” He kissed my cheek, then straightened his hat on his head. “Please do not follow me,” he added in a lower tone so only I could hear him. “I must handle this affair by myself,” he finished before following Black Mustache outside.

  TWELVE

  I knew Drake could handle himself. He’d probably encountered many similar situations as a police officer. But I was still nervous. Black Mustache didn’t seem exactly stable. To distract myself, I drained the contents of my glass and signaled to the bartender that I wanted another.

  Red sidled next to me, dragging his stool over to where Drake was previously standing just as I received my freshly filled pint. I could tell by the way he moved that he was beyond buzzed, and I was well on my way to the same happy place myself. The bartender left after serving my drink, and apparently losing interest in our conversation now that his most passionate ally and supporter was gone.

  “That’s quite a mouth you have,” Red said, a smirk on his lips as he made a show of looking at mine. Then he gazed back up into my eyes, still grinning. “And your husband, unfortunately, is the poor sap who has to suffer for it.”

  I waved at him dismissively, and the action made me sway. Bracing myself with both elbows on the bar, I took another gulp of beer. “He’ll do fine.” I secretly hoped I was right. Maybe I should go out there. I studied my pint once again to avoid speaking.

  I can’t go out there, or it could make Drake look bad. They already teased him about his petticoat—so the last thing he needs now is me. Whatever might be going on out there, I know Black Mustache is way out of his league and no way could he take Drake down. Come on, Peyton.

  I set my drink down on the solid wooden bar and tried to rub some feeling back into my face. If he doesn’t come back in five minutes, I’ll go out there. Feeling like someone was watching me, I let my arms fall onto the bar and instinctively turned toward Red.

  Yep. He was watching me.

  Red’s attention dropped from my face to my breasts, and he made no effort to conceal his interest. After an awkwardly long moment of studying my chest, his eyes ascended up to mine and he raised his schooner while giving me an enormous smile. In one short gulp, he chugged the last of his drink and ordered another pint.

  Acting like a goofy, horny teenager, Red seemed harmless enough, so I decided to use his drunken admiration, however shallow it was, to my advantage.

  “So, Red…”

  “Aye, milady,” he answered, emphasizing an Irish lilt. This time, his eyes rested squarely on mine.

  I straightened up, trying to appear more sober than I felt, a sure sign I had already crossed the threshold to being drunk. “I realize we’re in a big city and all, but have you ever heard of a man named Thomas Dickerson?”

  Red made a show of petting the carpet of orange fur under his nose with the knuckle of his index finger. “Thomas Dickerson…” He squinted and looked up at the ceiling as he wracked his memory.

  A spark of hope flickered inside me when the time he took to consider my inquiry extended for significantly longer than I expected.

  “Nope, I sure haven’t,” he finally said, taking a long pull from his beer. He turned and looked at me, studying me intently again. “You really must love your man. I can tell.”

  “Uh,” I said, totally caught off guard, but I recovered quickly, “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  “See? Maybe you’re right about that.” He leaned closer to me. A little too close.

  I straightened up again and established more space between us. “I’m sorry, right about what?”

  “A man has to be good an’ decent to make a lovely woman like yourself…” His eyes fell onto my chest and roamed further downward before he finished with, “…love ‘em.” He leaned back, shamelessly checking out my backside before his attention returned to my face. “And you know what?”

  I doubted I would like where this was going. “What?” I replied, gulping down more beer.

  “I can just imagine what you do to…” he leaned in closer and smelled my hair without any shame or modesty before ending with, “…you know, to love him.”

  My best option was to freeze up and try to keep his predatory instinct at bay. “So tell me, Red, what’s your wife’s name?”

  The brief intensity drained from his face as he slowly leaned away from me and turned to face his beer again. Picking it up as if his arm were suddenly made of lead, he said, “Molly.” He took a swig of beer. “I thought she’d put on some…” he held his palms open in the air in front of him, bouncing them loosely as if he were weighing a pair of imaginary, well, breasts. I assumed that’s what he was going for. “…Some heft after she had a babe or two, but no. She’s still just as thin as a board.”

  Had five minutes passed yet? It sure felt like it. Just when I was ready to find Drake, the bar door swung open and he stepped in, holding his hat in his hands. His hair was a little mussed, and he was breathing just slightly faster than normal, but otherwise, Drake looked no worse for wear after “taking it outside.” He strode over to me, leaned over Red to reclaim his drink, and took a few long gulps.

  The tension caused by Red’s unsolicited interest instantly receded to a warm, fuzzy memory as I examined Drake’s face. When he finally set the glass down, the bartender returned and came over. An idea dawned on me as I stood and smoothed down Drake’s hair. “Well, darling,” I said, as if he just returned from a trip to the bathroom. I refused to let them see me worried. “Red, over here, was just saying he hasn’t heard of a man by the name of Thomas Dickerson.” I said it loud enough for the bartender to hear me.

  Drake took my lead and turned to the bartender. “You aren’t acquainted with a Mr. Thomas Dickerson, are you, sir?”

  The bartend
er regarded him for a moment, and replied slowly, “What do you want with Mr. Dickerson?”

  He knew him! It was as obvious as his mean frown.

  “We’re visiting from out of town,” Drake said easily as he threw down a wad of cash. “And a mutual friend asked us to pass along a message.”

  “No,” the bartender finally stated clearly. “I do not know him.”

  I wondered if he were just saying that because we (or maybe only I) weren’t on his list of favorite people.

  “Well, if you…” Drake began before he was interrupted by one of the women who had been sitting near the back wall. She placed a hand on his arm and smiled at him warmly. Drake responded instantly, his chocolate eyes going soft and friendly.

  I was seconds away from slapping her hand off his arm.

  “Excuse me,” she said before turning to the bartender and ordering a beer. As he served her drink, she addressed me. “Would you and your husband like to join us for a drink?”

  I opened my mouth, ready to warn her, “Step off, bitch,” when Drake decided for us.

  “We would be delighted,” he said.

  I shut my mouth and glared up at him. The woman smiled widely at Drake and turned to go back to the table. Before Drake followed her, he smirked at me, his dark eyes dancing with laughter.

  “What?” I barely ground out.

  “Retract your claws, mon chaton.” He leaned in closer until his lips grazed my ear. “And open your ears.”

  I tried to ignore the chilly tingles he sent all through me, as well as my disappointment when he began to follow the woman. I was acting like a complete idiot. We were here for a reason, and judging by Drake’s last statement and the way his voice weighed the words, he must have assumed these women could be helpful to us. Mentally shaking off my brief disenchantment, my curiosity grew. I wondered how our new friends might assist with our predicament. Then another question emerged from the corner of my mind: why did Drake think they could be useful? Was he planning a sexual rendezvous with one or more of them?

  The answer to that question had better be a loud, damned no!

  When he reached the small table, he pulled out a chair for me to sit in. I gave him a polite smile of thanks, then misgauged the distance to the chair and sat down a little too hard. I got annoyed when the older, more extravagantly dressed woman, looked at me with unmasked amusement. Drake sat down next to me, and his smile was nothing less than charming.

  Now that I was closer to them, I managed to get a better look. The first thing I noticed right away was that both women wore lipstick. All the other women I spotted throughout the day were not wearing any.

  “Mr. Drake Montague,” Drake said to the women, tipping his hat to each of them in turn. “May I present my wife, Mrs. Peyton Montague?”

  “Mrs. Flynn,” the older one said as she nodded to us.

  The other said, “Miss Walsh.”

  “What brings a man such as yourself,” Mrs. Flynn asked, and her eyes lingered a bit too long on Drake’s body as she spoke, “into a dilapidated establishment like this?” She brought a beer to her lips and sipped it, her gaze never leaving Drake’s face for a moment as she waited for his answer.

  “’Such as myself?’” Drake repeated, his tone sounding flirtatious. “Whatever do you mean?”

  I was not thrilled by how this was going.

  Her smile grew, although it didn’t reach her eyes. “I recognize that name ‘Montague.’”

  “Ah, yes,” Drake said softly as he studied the beer in front of him.

  I noticed the tops of his cheeks were pink from alcohol.

  “I am not surprised to learn a woman such as yourself would recognize the name,” he said.

  That really made me start wondering. Drake didn’t talk much, or even at all, about his family. He’d been inside my freaking head for months, and I knew nothing about his parents or his siblings. But it wasn’t for lack of trying. The week leading up to our departure was one of mystery and intrigue. Drake remained more than elusive about how he was connected in New York. I knew he came from old money, but I didn’t think random women in bars would recognize his family name.

  Mrs. Flynn’s saccharine smile snapped me back like a slingshot to the conversation. She seemed pleased with his compliment, one which she originally intended for him. “Are you any relation to the Montagues here in the city?”

  “I am, however, I wouldn’t say we are close.” His eyes went back up to hers, and his chocolate brown irises appeared even darker than normal. He didn’t elaborate further.

  She studied him quietly. “Why not?”

  Drake shrugged as he tilted his beer schooner toward him, letting the liquid come up to the edge of the glass before slowly righting it again. “We don’t value the same things,” he finally said.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Flynn said, her gaze turning to me. “So I see.”

  Whatever that means, I thought.

  For a moment, no one said anything, and Drake focused entirely on his drink. Mrs. Flynn took a long sip of her beer as well before Drake broke the silence.

  “I don’t suppose you are acquainted with Miss Lola Reilly?”

  Surprise flitted across Mrs. Flynn’s face and she paused mid-sip, but it vanished the next instant. She carefully set down her drink. “I thought you said you didn’t share the same values,” she said, her smile hinting on sly.

  My eyes narrowed.

  Drake smiled back at her, his face revealing nothing as to what she meant. “She is a dear friend. I should like nothing more than to catch up with her. Is she still living in the city? I believe, she was living over on Sixtieth Street?”

  “She is still.” The woman rested a delicate hand on the table in front of her, and caressed the handle of her glass with her index finger.

  I knew her gesture was aimed at Drake although I didn’t know why. I failed to understand one damn thing that was going on in front of me. But I remembered to be patient. Whatever was going down right now, I had an uncanny feeling, it was pretty important.

  “It’s strange; I don’t think I’ve ever heard her mention a Drake Montague, and yet, you must be a dear friend if she told you her address. She can be quite reclusive when she isn’t… you know, working.” She watched his face closely.

  “Ah, well,” Drake said easily. “She didn’t often call me by my Christian name.”

  Mrs. Flynn’s smile widened considerably, and Miss Walsh, with a matching expression, gave me a quick glance to see my reaction.

  Despite feeling far from amused, I simply took a sip of my beer, trying as hard as I could to keep the swaying out of my movements. Who did Drake want to visit and what was she? An ex? A woman with a reputation for debauchery? I’d never even heard her name and Drake knew all about my life. He lived inside my head for several months and absorbed just about everything.

  “Well,” Mrs. Flynn continued, lowering her eyes and her voice. “If you’re hoping to locate Mr. Dickerson, Miss Reilly could put you in contact with him.” She looked back up at Drake and her expression tingled with suggestion. “But if you were looking for…”

  I plummeted from elated to downright grumpy in the span of a half second.

  Drake leaned forward, his posture looking casual although his eyes appeared more serious. “We are very interested in contacting Mr. Dickerson,” he said slowly.

  I couldn’t deny my admiration. Even stronger than the excitement that buzzed inside me at the thought of finding Thomas Dickerson was the warm satisfaction swelling in my chest at watching Drake’s clarification of his intentions.

  Mrs. Flynn inhaled softly as she sat back in her chair. “In that case, you already know where to find Miss Reilly.”

  Drake smiled politely as he looked at me. “It is getting late, mon chaton,” he said, his voice filled with the warmth of familiarity and affection. He pushed back his chair as he stood, then held out his hand to help me up.

  It took considerable energy, but I managed to stand up without having to rel
y on Drake’s hand to steady myself. The sensation of a moving floor beneath my feet was more than a little challenging.

  “It was a pleasure meeting you,” Mrs. Flynn said as she rose and offered her hand to me.

  I shook it and left her with what I hoped was a warm smile, then did the same with Miss Walsh. Drake shook Miss Walsh’s hand, then gave Mrs. Flynn’s hand a kiss.

  “Goodnight,” he said to both women before taking my arm and placing it in his.

  Carefully monitoring my movements, I did not want to reveal how drunk I was as I let Drake lead me to the door. But once we were out of the bar, I exhaled a huge sigh of relief and leaned into Drake. To my surprise, he had to step sideways to keep from falling over, which he overcompensated for and almost knocked me over in the process. Clearly, he was drunk too.

  “So what was that all about?” I demanded.

  “What was what all about?”

  “Don’t play innocent with me, Drake Montague. I know you too well for that.”

  He studied me through squinting eyes, and his hat was crooked on his head. He was about to say something, but instead, he straightened his hat and pulled me in more tightly to him as a couple of men passed us. “Let’s get you settled in for the night.”

  The laughter drained from me as I fell into step with him. “Get me settled in? What about you?” Before I could stop myself, my face screwed up in a scowl and I blurted out, “And who the hell is Lola Reilly?”

  Even though the night was freezing, I could barely feel the cold because of the warm flush of alcohol beneath my skin.

  “As I said before, she is a dear friend,” Drake said, managing to keep his voice soft, despite the haze of alcohol that tinged his words with a slur.

  “Yeah, okay.” I rolled my eyes. “Well, I’m not settling in anywhere, unless you’re going to settle in too.” My choice of words made me pause for a second, but I waved it away, the motion of my arm causing both of us to put in some extra energy to avoid tripping over our feet.

  “Well, then I guess you will meet Lola. We have to speak to her tonight,” Drake said.