Red Rain: Over 40 Bestselling Stories

by J. R. Rain

  Classy.

  As badass as she wanted the world to think she was, all she was now was a gently snoring girl who’d broken into my office, abused one of my prized mugs, and was now staining my couch with her drool and cigarette stink.

  Such is my life.

  I also saw bruising, and not just a little bruising, but a lot. She’d been beaten recently. I suspected there were more such bruises covering other parts of her body that I couldn’t see.

  I might have felt weird about inspecting a sleeping woman so thoroughly; that was, if said sleeping woman hadn’t broken into my office. I looked again at her mouth and saw the possible reason for all the drool...the inside of her lower lip was split. She’d taken a shot to the face. I noticed now how the blood mixed with the drool. Yes, I was going to have to get the couch cleaned. Again.

  Don’t ask.

  How she’d broken into my office was a mystery. The mystery might have been solved if I’d gone through her purse, which was partly spilled open on the floor next to her. Two more unopened packs of cigarettes were visible inside the purse.

  I always liked a woman who was prepared.

  I stood back and considered my options. Call the cops? Probably. Wake her up? Maybe. Check my email? Definitely.

  So, while my unknown office guest slept contentedly, I powered up my computer and checked my email. I checked some sports scores. I checked my Facebook. Lastly, I checked my bank account.

  Depressed, I did some triceps dips along the edge of my desk, as I’m sure most people the world over did. After all, who wouldn’t want nice triceps?

  Next, I did some diamond push-ups. Very few people know what a diamond push-up is. Even fewer know how to do them right. I’m one of the few who probably does them perfectly. Case in point, my hands were brought in together, centered just below my chest, my two index fingers and thumbs forming a perfect diamond. The burn is fabulous on both the triceps and the outer pecs. Since my focus was on the triceps this morning, I did just that: focused the burning in my triceps. I did push-up after push-up, cranking them out quickly, but precisely, over and over. I could do this until the cows came home, or until I got tired of them.

  Or, in this case, until the mystery girl woke up on my couch, which she did now, gasping as she sat up.

  However, I wasn’t quite done with my diamond push-ups. No, no, no. My arms were burning, yes, but not burning enough. And so, I cranked out twenty-five more, knowing that I now had an audience.

  When I was finished, I nodded to the woman who was now sitting up on the couch and watching me, her mouth hanging slightly open—and not because she had been recently beaten up. I think, perhaps, she might have been in awe. At least, I liked to think so.

  “And that,” I said, hopping up to my feet, “is how you do a diamond push-up.”

  “I don’t know how to respond to that,” she said.

  “Few do,” I said. “Now, start talking.”

  Chapter Two

  I leaned a hip against my desk, arms folded over my still-burning chest.

  The girl asked if she could smoke. I told her she couldn’t. She pointed out that she’d smoked a crap-ton the night before, and what difference did it make? I pointed out that if people everywhere followed that line of logic, then the world would descend into anarchy. And if that happened, only the strong would survive...or those who had mastered the diamond push-up. She asked if I had been drinking. I told her I hadn’t had a drink since last Tuesday. She looked skeptical.

  “To sum up,” I said, “the answer is no.”

  “Please.”

  “No.”

  “Pretty please?”

  “There’s nothing pretty about it. Start speaking. What’s your name?”

  “Camry,” she said.

  “Like the car?”

  “Please don’t make any Toyota jokes.”

  “I’m not sure I could if I tried.”

  “Well, good. I’ve heard a few corny ones, trust me.” She pulled her sock-clad feet up on my couch and hugged her knees. Her socks were pristine white. How girls kept their socks so damn white was a mystery to me.

  “Who are you?” I asked again.

  “I told you.”

  “No, you told me your name, which just so happens to be the name of the most reliable car in America.”

  “Is that a joke?”

  “Just an observation. Now, start talking.”

  She looked at me with eyes that weren’t fully awake, or alert, or aware. She might have been a little high. She was cute, in a strung-out kind of way. Dark rings around high cheekbones. Pale skin. Soft muscles hanging loose over a longish frame. She could have been beautiful. But for now, she had to settle for cute with a chaser of ‘what could have been.’

  “I need your help,” she said finally. “But first, I would like some coffee.”

  I looked at her. She looked at me. Neither of us budged until I remembered her bruises and her bloody lip, which now hung in a pout. I sighed, pushed off the desk and headed over to the sink. Once there, I washed the coffee pot, slipped in a new filter, guesstimated the right amount of Folgers, and turned on Señor Café, which sounded more erotic than it should have.

  While we waited, Camry was content to sit quietly on the couch, hugging her knees and looking forlorn. While the coffeemaker came to life, belching and hissing, I leaned against the little counter. A few years ago, I had tried to do incline push-ups against the little counter and had nearly torn the whole thing out of the wall.

  “How did you get inside my office?” I finally asked.

  For an answer, she reached inside her purse and pulled out a curious-looking gun-shaped tool that looked familiar. In fact, I had one in my desk drawer. It was a lock-pick gun.

  “That would do it,” I said, making a mental note to invest in a double-deadbolt for the door. “So you’re a thief?”

  She looked at me long and hard, although her eyes might have wavered a little. Being high does that. Finally, she nodded. “When I have to be.”

  “For drugs?”

  “Is there another reason?” she asked.

  “For the thrill of it?”

  She shook her head and reached down for her pack of cigarettes, but as she did so, I shook my head and she sighed and dropped the pack back into her purse. “Sometimes, there’s a thrill. Mostly, I’m terrified.”

  “You seemed real terrified,” I said, “when I caught you drooling on my couch.”

  She snorted and wiped the corner of her mouth. “Well, I wasn’t robbing you. I was exhausted. It seemed like, you know, a safe place to crash. Besides, there’s nothing here to rob.”

  “Ouch.”

  Behind me, my computer chimed. An email. It took all of my considerable willpower not to check it.

  “How old are you?” I asked.

  “Twenty-five.”

  “So, why are you here?”

  “I need protection.”

  “From whom?”

  She pushed up the sleeve of her shirt and showed me another tattoo. It was of a logo I was familiar with. Mostly I had seen it on the backs of leather jackets, worn by guys with long beards, long hair and loud motorcycles.

  “From them.”

  Chapter Three

  Next, she asked if I had any food.

  I held up my coffee cup and said, “You’re looking at it.”

  She said, “Don’t be mean,” and started crying, and the next thing I knew I was in the drive-thru at Jack-in-the-Box, ordering her a breakfast croissant and juice, and for me, the entire left side of the menu.

  Camry was asleep when I returned. I suspected the waterworks had been a ploy. Speaking of waterworks, yes, there was more drool. Stay classy, Huntington Beach.

  I dropped her bag next to her and said, “Breakfast.”

  She gasped and sat up. Chuckling, I went behind my desk and dug into my own two bags. Soon, we were making munching sounds.

  “How did you hear about me?” I asked between sounds.

&nbs
p; “I looked you up in an old phone book. I thought your name was the coolest one in the Yellow Pages.”

  “It is, and people still have those? Phone books?”

  She didn’t look at me while she ate. “Yes, why?”

  I shrugged, although she didn’t see me shrug. “I was making a social commentary on the progress of technology.”

  “Sounded more like a stupid question to me.”

  “That, too.” I generally didn’t take much to heart, especially from someone who was hungry, alone, hurting, and on the run. Whether or not she was a good person, I didn’t much care. Whether or not I did my job right, kept her safe, and thwarted the evildoers, was a different story. “Do you want to talk about it?” I asked.

  “About what?”

  “Obamacare,” I said. “Or why you need protection. You pick.”

  “You think you’re funny or something?”

  “Or something,” I said.

  “I don’t think you’re funny.”

  “Neither did Mrs. Neville.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “My sixth-grade teacher.”

  “If I tell you about it, will you stop with the jokes?”

  “Probably not.”

  She thought about that as she munched on the last of the croissant sandwich I’d brought for her, a croissant sandwich that she’d yet to thank me for. After a moment, she shrugged and told me the story.

  It had been a wild night of partying. In fact, every night was a wild night of partying. Camry was often high or drunk or both. She was Steel Eye’s girl and everyone knew it and stayed away.

  “Did you say Steel Eye?”

  “Yes.”

  I nodded. “Carry on.”

  Everyone respected her and treated her as one of the guys. Except for one guy. One guy she had found interesting. One guy who was now dead. His name had been J-Bird.

  “All we were doing was talking,” said Camry, looking away and rubbing the back of her neck, “when Steel Eye flipped out.”

  “What else were you two doing?”

  She did more neck-rubbing and shrugging, but now she wouldn’t make eye contact with me. “We were maybe kissing, too.”

  “I take it Steel Toe didn’t appreciate another man kissing his girl.”

  “Steel Eye, and yeah, you could say that.”

  “Did J-Bird understand the ramifications of kissing you?”

  “He loved me. He would have done anything for me.”

  “Did you love him?”

  She shrugged, looked away. “I thought he was interesting.”

  “You led him on.”

  “I might have flirted—”

  “Did you encourage him?”

  She shrugged. “I was bored.”

  “And now he’s dead,” I said. “Still bored?”

  “No. Now, I’m scared.”

  I shook my head. “I think you knew what would happen to J-Bird. I think you knew that Steel Balls—”

  “Eye.”

  “—would come for J-Bird, probably even kill him. I don’t think you cared much about the Birdman at all, because you were bored. I think you wanted some excitement. I think you got more excitement than you bargained for.”

  I watched her carefully. Her jaw rippled. She was angry. I watched her fists tighten around her napkin, the knuckles showing white. Then her hand opened a little and her jaw slackened. She looked at me with real tears in her eyes. It was a complete metamorphosis. “He promised to get me out of the gang. We talked quietly, secretly. For days. And one night we were both drinking and we got carried away.”

  I waited, watching her. Outside, something heavy rumbled along Beach Boulevard. The window in my office actually rattled. On the wall behind me, surrounding the window, were dozens of framed photographs and articles that featured yours truly. Back in the day, I was someone important. Now, I was only important to Cindy, my girlfriend, and Junior, my dog, which was good enough for me.

  “But that didn’t mean the son-of-a-bitch had to kill him. He fucking shot him. Right there.”

  “Did you see Steel Eye shoot him?”

  “No. He’d slapped me. I was on the ground, crying. J-Bird tried to protect me from getting kicked and I heard them drag J-Bird away. Heard them beat him up pretty good. And then...”

  “And then what?”

  “They shot him in some bushes near the Pit.”

  “The Pit?”

  “The fire pit we all hung out at.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Because that’s what bikers do, hang out in the desert around fire pits.”

  She said nothing. I didn’t think she even heard me. After listening to her sobs and the steady drone of the afternoon traffic, I asked, “Where’s the Pit?”

  “What?”

  “The Pit. Where’s the Pit located?”

  “The desert somewhere.”

  “What desert? Joshua Tree? Mohave? Serengeti?”

  “I don’t know. I just ride. I go where Steel Eye takes me.”

  “Is it in California?” I started the twenty questions game.

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the biggest city you can remember passing through?”

  She thought about that for a long moment. “Palm Springs. Down the 111.”

  Yeah, there was a lot of desert around Palm Springs. Not a lot to go on, but I’d taken cases more vague than this.

  “Any interesting scenery down that way?”

  “The Salton Sea. There were pelicans. Wait, I do remember something.” She paused. “There was a kitschy sign. It said, ‘Slab City. Welcome.’ Just after the sign was the turnoff we took. To the right. Dirt road goes right past the Pit.”

  Bingo. It only took three questions to get it out of her. I was that good. I knew the place, too. Slab City, a former military base, was now an RV squatters’ town full of impromptu flea markets and drug commerce. Drifters and grifters.

  I said, “What’s Steel Eye’s real name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What about J-Bird?”

  “Jason, I think.”

  “You think?”

  “Yes.”

  “His last name?”

  “I don’t know. These guys don’t use last names.”

  “Did you see him get shot?”

  “No, but I heard the shot. That’s when I ran. I figured I was next.”

  “You ran all the way to Huntington Beach?”

  “No. I ran to someone’s unoccupied RV and broke in. I holed up and called a friend from inside it. It was freaking hot in there. He picked me up and took me to West L.A.”

  “Go on.”

  “I stayed with my friend in Culver City for a few days, but he was scared. He dropped me off here.”

  I nodded. “Lucky me. Who’s your friend?”

  “An old drug connection. When my money was gone, though, he wanted me to leave.”

  “Did you shoot up on my couch?”

  She didn’t reply.

  Chapter Four

  I was at a place called Smokey’s.

  It wasn’t much of a place, but it served beer, so it couldn’t have been that bad. I was sitting in the shadows at the short end of an L-shaped bar, my back to the wall. I think I might have been a cowboy in a past life. And a knight, of course. And, if I went back far enough, probably a barbarian, too. I could imagine myself on a horse, with a broadsword strapped to my back, wearing a loincloth, doing whatever the hell it was that barbarians did. Probably kicking a lot of ass and drinking grog. Yeah, that sounded like me.

  “You want another beer?” asked the bartender, who might have been Charles Manson’s twin brother, minus the crazy eyes.

  “Do you think I’d make a good Viking?” I asked.

  “You want another fucking beer or not?”

  “Sure, matey,” I said. Yeah, I was definitely a pirate, too.

  “You giving Stones a hard time?” said a voice coming toward me on my right, a voice that belonged to a young, blond guy with long
ish hair, wearing jeans and a black T-shirt. That the black T-shirt sported a white skull with red devil horns was a given. Although Michael weighed a buck-sixty, dripping wet, he was a tough little dude that might—might—give even me a problem.

  “Stones?” I said.

  “Yeah, Stones,” said Michael coming up to me and clasping my hand and arm with a firm grip in a long-time-no-see bro shake. He smelled of hard liquor and cigarettes and probably weed, too. Mixed with all of that was a touch of body odor and cologne and bike grease. He smelled, basically, like a real man. He added, “I think the name refers to his balls, or lack thereof.”

  “Lost them in the war?”

  “What war, Knighthorse?”

  “Seemed like the thing to say.”

  Michael shook his head and raised his finger, a gesture that Stones saw instantly.

  “Lost them to cancer, Knighthorse.”

  “What was his name before?”

  “Phil.”

  I nodded, picked up the last of my first beer. “I like Stones better.”

  “Most do.” Michael reached for his beer. If Stones knew we were talking about him, he didn’t show it. Michael drank deeply, then glanced at me. He was a young guy, no more than twenty-five. But he had seen much, done much, and talked about even less. What I knew about him was enough to impress even me. “So, what’s going on, Knighthorse?” he asked.

  “Thanks for meeting me. I have a Devil’s Triangle question. I assume you’re still affiliated.”

  Michael gave me a wry smile, one that suggested that I had said something very stupid. “I’m in for life, Knighthorse. We all are.”

  “Can I see the tattoo again?” I asked.

  “This ain’t show-and-tell, big guy.”

  “I have my reasons.”

  He leaned over and showed me the inside of his arm, and revealed the tattoo I had seen a few years ago, back when I first met him on one of my investigations, an investigation in which he had been witness to a murder, a murder he still wouldn’t speak about. The tattoo was, of course, the same tattoo that was on Camry’s forearm. A triangle with a laughing devil in the middle. It always looked creepy as hell to me.