Infected: Shift

by Andrea Speed

  “Guess not. I prefer football.”

  Once they were in the back room, a maze of underlit corridors, Grey said, “Yeah, guys who shoot ’roids in their ass until they’re too big to fit through a normal doorway, with their junk shrunk to the size of raisins. Sign me up for that.”

  “I know you told him to eat you, Tank, but that’s the limit of my French. What else did you say?”

  “I was complaining,” he admitted. “I said the place was cheap and ugly, it smelled bad, and expecting ten bucks for a soda was a joke.”

  All fair points. “When you pointed at the stripper…?”

  “I said she looked like his mom.”

  Grey laughed then but tried to stifle it. “You bastard, I almost lost it then.”

  Tank just smiled in a pleased, slightly unbalanced way. Again, Tank seemed like the mellowest guy in the world, but he gave off an energy that suggested that was a trap. Both he and Grey exuded the quiet confidence of men who never had to worry about anything, but Tank still had an edge to him that made him harder to read. Either he was honestly just a bit nuts or really liked people to think that he was.

  Roan led the way to the room, one door among a few, none particularly indicative of what was inside. But he could smell sweat in the air, arousal, frustration. What was that Chris Rock joke? Something about there never being sex in the champagne rooms? Well, these were the equivalent of the champagne rooms, and no, there was no sex, although there was anticipation and disappointment.

  Roan opened the door without knocking, not sure what he was going to see. What he saw was a sleazy/cheesy-looking lounge, with velvet sofas in a semicircle, mirrors on the wall, and some kind of pop style R & B music blocking out the sounds of the club or any noises from the other rooms. A scantily clad brunette waitress in a gold bikini (Really? Tacky.) was serving drinks off a silver tray to Darren and his “posse.” The posse consisted of three steroided-out muscleheads—one shaven headed, one with a crew cut, the last with a type of protomullet (he mentally dubbed them, in order, Curly, Moe, and Larry)—and a stacked blonde in a skintight purple sheath dress who probably worked for the club. Darren was unimpressive, your average frat boy type with a soul patch and unruly dun brown hair that suggested he was vain and trying hard not to come off that way. Something in his eyes had the smug arrogance of the terminally bored, but he looked sour at their entrance. “Dudes, occupado,” he said. Wow, that just made Roan hate him more.

  “I’m Chelsea Yamamoto,” Roan told him. “You were expecting me.”

  Darren’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

  Larry, Moe, and Curly all stood up, and Grey and Tank took a couple steps forward, as if ready to charge them. The fact that there were three of them and that at least two of them outweighed Tank by a hundred pounds didn’t seem to faze them. Grey was physically relaxed, a total lie (no good fighter ever really tensed), and Tank seemed almost semiconscious, save for his eyes, which seemed to eat up the room with every glance, sorting details and tossing them aside based on irrelevance. His laser-like focus was impressive; he was a sniper waiting to happen.

  “I’m a private detective, and I’m looking into the disappearance of Jordan Hatcher. I wanted to talk to you, but all I seemed to get was the runaround. Which I think I understand now. So why are you using his credit card, Darren? Surely your dad’s loaded.”

  Darren was holding a beer bottle, which he rested on his knee as he looked at him with contempt. “What? What the fuck? Get out of here or I’ll have you removed.”

  “You’re welcome to try,” Grey said casually. A threat that didn’t sound like one.

  “Who are these fucks?” Darren demanded.

  “I thought Jordan was your best friend. What happened?”

  Darren looked confused and pissed off. “I don’t hafta talk to you. I can have you arrested.”

  “And get yourself arrested? You’re seventeen. You can’t drink; you can’t legally be here. You’ll get the club shut down, and I’m sure you wouldn’t want that. Now, what did you do to Jordan?”

  Belligerence flashed through his gaze, as if it had never occurred to him that there was something he couldn’t do. The woman in the sheath dress suddenly looked nervous—she hadn’t known he was seventeen? Yeah, it was kind of shitty of him to put her job at risk.

  “Get them out,” Darren said to the Three Stooges. He then, with almost no telegraphing, flung the beer bottle. “Fucking asshole.”

  Roan saw it coming and wasn’t concerned, he knew he could duck it, but he never had a chance. Suddenly a hand snapped out and snatched the bottle out of midair, and in almost the same motion flung the bottle back with double the force. It was Tank, showing off nearly super-human reflexes of his own.

  Darren saw it coming, eyes widened in horror, and attempted to scramble off the couch to avoid the bottle but wasn’t fast enough. It shattered on his shoulder, surprising a yelp out of him. “Chickenshit motherfucker!” Tank yelled. “Get up and fight, you piece of shit dog sucker!”

  Grey leaned over and whispered, “Is he an awesome goalie or what?”

  Roan actually wanted to select the “or what” but really didn’t have the time, as that’s when shit started to happen.

  Moe dove for Tank, attempting a tackle, but Tank was clearly in “game” mode, ready for anything, and people just moved too slow. He stepped aside and punched Moe right in the gut, his own forward momentum making the punch that much worse. Moe dropped right to his knees, retching, while Tank taunted, “Stupid fucking shit licker! A two-legged pig moves faster than you!” Tank then punched him in the back of the neck, sending him sprawling onto the floor.

  Larry went for Grey, who simply grabbed his extended arm and twisted under it, and when he was behind Larry, he rabbit-punched him right behind the ear. Larry went down like a ton of bricks, unconscious on his feet. Roan knew there was a sweet spot there, and so did Grey, apparently. Maybe that was the judo training.

  Curly initially seemed to go for Roan, but stopped and reached into his coat instead, going for his weapon. Moron. Roan grabbed his arm as he started bringing it out, gun in his hand, and twisted hard. Too hard. It wasn’t just that the bones snapped, they crackled like bubble wrap, tendons tore, and Curly started turning shades of purple. He kicked, catching Roan in the leg, and it hurt enough that Roan lashed out a kick of his own in anger. And that was a mistake, as he was a little too angry.

  His kick hit the man’s knee with enough force that it shifted, and his knee seemed to bend the wrong way, back to front. He collapsed, still conscious, his right arm a twisted ruin and his left leg no better, making strange, truncated keening noises somewhere between yelps and moans. His gun had fallen on the floor and he was still trying to grab it with his good hand, but Grey snatched it up and winced. “Fuck, dude, you really messed him up.”

  Roan shook his head, ashamed of himself, trying to swallow back the anger, the adrenaline, the growl bubbling up from the base of his throat, the pain snaking through his lower jaw. That shouldn’t have happened; he shouldn’t have shifted so easily, with so little provocation. What the hell was that?

  Moe was still face down on the floor, but his arm was reaching under his jacket. Roan pointed, and Grey took the hint. He dropped down knee first on the guy’s back, and put his hand on the back of his head, pushing his forehead to the floor. “Dude, I can knock out your front teeth, or you can just chill out and wait for this to be over. Do you have good dental?” The guy stopped struggling, but muttered, “Goddamn motherfucker.”

  “That’s Mr. Motherfucker to you,” Grey corrected.

  The girls had left the room quietly, slipped out without notice. Perhaps there was an emergency protocol, learned in case of altercations, but that also told him that security were probably on their way. They needed to get this done now and get out ahead of any bigger thugs. Not that they couldn’t handle it—he had a two-man wrecking crew here—but he wasn’t sure what was happening to him, and another fight could make it worse. />
  Darren was crouched behind the sofa, blood leaking from a small glass cut on his cheek, his eyes wide and terrified, especially since Tank was advancing on him, hands balled into fists at his side. “Who are you guys? You mob? You want money? My dad’s got money, but he won’t pay if you hurt me.”

  “Stuff your money up your ass, you cowardly piece of shit,” Tank snapped. “You wanna fight, stand up.”

  “I don’t wanna fight,” Darren said, almost shrieking, cringing further back behind the couch.

  Roan moved forward, giving Tank a pat on the shoulder, letting him know he could back off. “We don’t want money. We didn’t even want to fight.”

  “I did,” Grey volunteered.

  “I just want to know what happened to Jordan. Where is he? Why do you have his credit card?”

  “I don’t!” he shouted, nearly hysterical. “I don’t know where Jordan is, all right? He stopped talking to me!”

  “’Cause you stole his card?”

  “Why do you keep saying that? I didn’t! I swear to God, man, Brittney just does shit, okay?”

  “Brittney? Selfridge?” Suddenly it clicked: Brittney’s mother had said she was a shoplifter. Maybe she was just a thief in general. “She’s with you, isn’t she? She left Jordan for you.”

  “It’s not her fault,” Darren insisted. He was almost crying; the smell coming off him was sharp and metallic with fear. “We didn’t know he’d run off. We didn’t!”

  So what it came down to wasn’t his stifling life or his asshole of a father, but betrayal by his best friend and girlfriend. It would have been depressing if it wasn’t so pedestrian.

  8

  Falling Sky

  Roan let Darren know that bringing the cops in on this was against his best interests and that surely his daddy’s people knew how to take care of everything without official involvement. Darren seemed to get that, but it was hard to tell, as he was so fucking terrified of Tank that he would have agreed to anything. This was doubly funny because Darren was taller than Tank by at least six inches, but it was attitude, and Tank was just exuding it at near toxic levels. Who on earth would mess with this guy? Even if it was just a front, it was a good one.

  They left just as the big Samoan and several other security guys of similar builds (like large appliances) arrived, and Grey put himself forward, as if daring them to grab him. He was a sports guy, not as big as them but semifamous locally, giving him an edge, and it made them pause. “There was a misunderstanding, but it’s settled,” Roan said, walking down the hall. Tank followed, saying something in French. Tank would tell him in the car that he said, “Suck my jock, assheads.”

  “Shame if the club lost its license,” Grey said casually. “Him being underage and all. If someone called the cops, this could go real bad, don’t you think?”

  “You’re barred,” the Samoan said darkly. “Don’t come back.”

  “Wouldn’t if you paid me,” Grey replied with a small, contemptuous smile.

  Darren had told Roan little, but enough. Jordan had found compromising photos of Darren and Brittney on Brittney’s cell, and after a brief scuffle, Jordan stormed off. Darren and Brittney (supposedly) hadn’t seen him since. Roan had already decided he needed to talk to Brittney. He just needed to decide on a plan of action. If she was staying at the Brewsters, it wouldn’t be easy.

  In the car, Grey asked him, “Learn what you wanted to know?”

  “Pretty much. Are you guys afraid of anything?”

  “Root canals,” Grey offered.

  “Being eaten by sharks,” Tank said, settling in the backseat.

  Roan glanced back at him to make sure he was serious. He was. “I saw Jaws when I was six,” he explained. “I never got over it.”

  Well, okay, that might do it.

  “Wow, sharks are a huge problem in Quebec,” Grey noted sarcastically. “You musta been terrified all the time.”

  Tank leaned forward and flicked Grey on the back of the head, which only made him chuckle as he started the car. For a moment, Roan was almost jealous of their friendship. He wasn’t sure he’d ever met two straight guys who were so close.

  They were on the road, driving toward his house, when Tank said, “It’s okay, you know. Everybody loses control now and then. It’s hard to ride the line of being passionate about what you do and being mental about it.”

  It took Roan a moment to understand what he was talking about, and then he got Tank was referring to him breaking the arm and leg of that bodyguard. He rubbed his eyes, trying not to let on how embarrassed he was, and admitted, “I don’t know what happened. I shouldn’t have been that strong.”

  “You forget your own strength,” Grey said, with the kind of casualness that suggested he’d experienced it many times. “You overestimate the other guy’s strength and you just paste him. I’ve been in that boat, believe me.”

  “Rhody’s concussion,” Tank replied.

  He nodded. “Rhody’s concussion. I felt so shitty about that. You never want to see a guy carried out on a stretcher.”

  They didn’t understand. He really shouldn’t have been that strong. It wasn’t the same—Grey just hit a guy far too hard. Roan hadn’t realized his muscles had started shifting, that he was beyond Human strength. But he wasn’t about to explain it, mainly because he wasn’t sure how. “Isn’t that your job, though? Enforcing?”

  “To a degree. But you never want to hospitalize someone. That’s just thuggery.”

  Hockey was subtler than he thought.

  After a moment, Tank noted, “For ex-military, they were kinda crap.”

  “They underestimated us,” Grey explained. “You do that, you’re just asking to get your ass kicked.”

  They dropped him off at his house, and he walked in to find the lights on and the rich smell of Italian cooking coming from the kitchen. “Oh, you’re back,” Dylan said. He was putting things away in the kitchen. “I didn’t know if you would be home for dinner, so I ate already. But I made enough for you.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not hungry.” He was actually, but he didn’t feel like eating right now. How could he have started a change and not felt it? Changing hurt; it also made his mouth bleed, neither of which had happened. He hadn’t taken that many pills, and besides that, the painkillers never really did much more than take the slightest edge off. Only really pure opiate derivatives numbed the pain, and not that well and not for long.

  Something new was happening to him. He woke up out of breath the other night, now he was changing with no warning. Was this it? He was going to die in some freakass way.

  He noticed Dylan looking at him with a raised eyebrow. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’m just trying to figure out where to go from here.” He knew Dylan would be dubious, so he told him what he’d discovered, that Jordan had been two-timed by his best friend and girlfriend, and that’s why he ran off. But with Brittney probably hunkering down in the Brewster compound, he wasn’t sure how to contact her.

  Dylan kept working, cleaning up the kitchen diligently. He wasn’t a slob like Roan; he always cleaned up his work area. “Well, there’s school.”

  “She’s been skipping.”

  “Oh. Crap.” But after a moment, he said, “She’s a trendy rich girl, isn’t she? She’s gonna shop, go out with her boyfriend.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “Wonder if I can narrow that down to specific areas.” She had a Facebook page, she probably had a Twitter feed, maybe she’d tell him where she’d be. That would be insanely helpful of her. “Yeah, maybe I can.” He went to the kitchen to get a drink, and put a hand on Dylan’s shoulder as he put dishes in the sink.

  “Where were you anyways?” Dylan wondered.

  “Questioning Darren. I get any phone calls?”

  “Nope. Expecting any?”

  “Nope.” He’d hoped Holden would have called by now, but he was definitely up to something. He was going to have to pay him a visit. He wrapped his arms around Dylan and reste
d his head on his shoulder, pressing his body against his, wondering if he should apologize. Dylan wasn’t even thirty, and here he was saddled with a dying freak.

  “Why do I get the feeling you’re not telling me things?”

  “Because I’m a secretive bastard.” He kissed the side of his neck, enjoying the taste and scent of his skin, and he could feel the heat and pulse of his blood beneath the flesh. The urge to tear into it with his teeth was still strong, but it was amazing how he could ignore it now and the urge no longer bothered him. He knew it should have, but somewhere along the way it had ceased.

  He had to feel Dylan’s skin, so he slipped his hands beneath his shirt, running his hands over Dylan’s flat stomach, and he felt so warm and good. He missed him, and he would miss him, if he was at all capable of missing things when he was dead (which he wasn’t, but he was feeling generous at the moment). “How long ’til you’re due at work?” he wondered, kissing the curve of Dylan’s jaw, working his way up to his earlobe.