by J. R. Rain
“A couple of times. I really don’t like it because all the girls go out of their way to kiss my ass so that they get on his good side. Plus they’re all spaced out on peace and love and that type of crap. Plus whatever he’s putting in the punch bowl. It’s just wrong.”
“Would he be opposed to you bringing your boyfriend down to meet him?”
“At Cloudland?”
“Yeah.”
“It would probably throw him off, but I’m pretty sure he’d be okay with it. Especially if we just popped in.”
“All right.” I said. “Are you up for it?”
“You’re serious?”
“As a corpse.” I pulled into the school parking lot, feeling a slight rush from more than just the blood. When I feed, I take on some of the victim. It’s one of the unfortunate side effects of my lifestyle, and in this case, the victim had definitely been on speed.
“But I didn’t do this to date you,” she said, running her eyes over me as if maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
“I’m not saying we’ll be dating for real. But we will need to pull it off around your family a couple of times before we go out and meet Dad. Your dad will be less suspicious of me if he thinks I’m just a goofy eighteen-year-old trying to get into his daughter’s pants.”
“You’re not a goofy eighteen-year-old? And you don’t want in my pants?”
“Oh, I’m goofy. Let’s just leave it at that.”
She was looking at me curiously as I took out a piece of paper from my glove compartment and wrote my number down for her. I was used to people looking at me curiously, but it always made me nervous—like I was an insect they wanted to swat with a newspaper, or maybe a snake to trap behind glass. I gave her my cell number and she looked at it, and then promptly snorted with laughter.
“Why does it say ‘Wal-Mart’ above it?”
“Because it’s better—and safer—than writing ‘Spider for Hire.’”
She snorted again. “But Wal-Mart? That’s so lame.”
“Not any lamer than being named Parker.”
“Jerk,” she said and slapped my arm.
“Well, if we’re dating, I’d better drive you home, so your dad can look out the window and see us.”
It had started raining. Big surprise for Seattle. The light patter on the roof of the car was always pleasant. Even after all these years of living, I loved the sound of rain. A few minutes later, following her directions, I pulled up in front of her two-story house.
It was upper middle class, and a Volvo wagon was parked outside. So Mr. Cole was the practical, safety-minded sort of psychotic religious fanatic. But it made me wonder why he forced his daughter to ride public transit.
When I stopped the car, she paused with her hand on the door handle. “So, you said ‘for hire.’ What will this cost me?”
She wore a little smirk as if she suspected it had something to do with the remark about getting in her pants.
The rain drummed rhythmically, hypnotically. Light from her front porch reached us weakly, illuminating her pretty face. “We’ll work something out.”
“That sounds creepy.”
“Not like that,” I said, although she had no room to call anyone else “creepy.” After all, she was the daughter of a serial-killing cult leader. “Sometimes I ask for favors. Depends on how much I trust you. We’ll see.”
“What kind of favors?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”
She suddenly leaned over and kissed me lightly on the cheek. “Wow. Your skin is cool.”
“I’m a cool dude.”
She rolled her pretty brown eyes. “See you tomorrow...boyfriend.”
She winked and dashed off to her house.
Bad Blood
is available at:
Kindle * Kobo * Nook
About the Author:
J.R. Rain is an ex-private investigator who now writes full-time in the Pacific Northwest. He lives in a small house on a small island with his small dog, Sadie, who has more energy than Robin Williams. Please visit him at www.jrrain.com.
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