Dying for a Living (A Jesse Sullivan Novel) (4 page)

I looked up into his black eyes. “Do you enjoy blackmailing your slaves?”

“Slavery is a life sentence,” he replied. “Which is what you’d be serving in the Illinois State Penitentiary if it wasn’t for me.”

He was right of course.

The suffocating smell of smoke and the sounds of sirens in the distance came back clear and sharp. Wooden rafters crashed down around me as the flesh of a man, charred and black, roasted in front of my very eyes. My very first death had been a barn fire—and not an accident.

I only remember vague bits and pieces of my life before that death—I didn’t even remember Ally though she told me we’ve been friends since childhood. What few early memories I had were not of birthday parties or the prom.

What I remembered was killing a man.

I pushed against the memory until I was dizzy, grabbing the edge of the table without realizing it.

Brinkley knew he’d won. “And don’t talk to me about your emotional suffering. What if I added a year to your contract for every ounce of grief you give me?”

I bit my lip until the room and Brinkley came into focus, but I couldn’t get the smell of burning flesh out of my nose. “If you’d wanted to replace me, you’d have done it already.”

“Do you think so?” he asked with a menacing smile. “Don’t push your luck.”

“I can’t help it.” I shrugged. I had to do something to lessen the horrible tightness between my shoulder blades. “It’s what I do.”

“Here’s what else you’re going to do.” He took another step toward me and I stepped back before I meant to. So much for standing my ground. “You’re going to do your job. Smile until your lips bleed. Bend over backwards to make your clients happy. Become the poster child for death replacement until every last one of those extremists believe Necronites have souls. Saving lives is only a small part of what we need to accomplish here. We have to change the world.”

“Gawd, you don’t want much, do you?”

“I mean it, Sullivan,” he said. “You might not take your job seriously, but it is serious. This is a war between us and them and I want you front and center. You think I make your life hard but believe me, I know plenty of people who want to make it harder.”

“Very motivational, chief.”

He’d had enough of this room, of me, and turned to leave. “If your next review is anything less than a seven, I’m pulling the plug and you can spend the rest of your life wearing an orange jumper.”

“That’s it? End of discussion?” Someone needed to teach Brinkley how to communicate.

“Just wait until the prison inmates hear about your talents,” he added, finally moving toward the door. “They’ll enjoy discovering all the ways you can die.”

Chapter 3

S
kittish neighbors aside, Greenbrook was a cute suburb of Nashville, enterable by two roads that intersected on either side. Fifty or so houses sat on six blocks. The houses weren’t uniform, which I liked, although each unit had a certain similarity. For instance, like mine, most were two stories high with an attached garage. The exteriors varied in their brick, stone, or siding combinations, but the garage doors were usually white, windowless slats.

Lots of trees and flowerbeds and a running trail that wove in and out of the woods forming a two-mile loop. Each house had an acre or more of grass and trees surrounding it. I walked up the driveway, past my burgundy Japanese maples that Ally planted last year. They matched my house’s white-gray marbled brick exterior and black shutters nicely.

Throwing my jacket on a chair and my keys on the counter, I padded across the tiles to the sliding glass door, which led to the back porch. By the door, my pug Winston was a heap of wrinkles in his doggie bed. This was his favorite position, gut spread wide and his face in the empty food dish. Thank goodness it wasn’t the water bowl, or he’d have drowned.

“I know Ally already fed you.” To this he said nothing, unless I counted the drool oozing from the side of his mouth onto the floor and the saddest brown eyes, which he batted at me with sheer desperation.

“You’re disgusting,” I said, lifting him from the bowl and snuggling him. “But I love your squish face so much.”

“Hello,” a voice called from the living room. I carried Winston in my arms to the edge of the couch where I found Lane. He was tall, but to me everyone was tall, packing a good deal of muscle in his slender frame. Lucky for him I had one of those large sectional couches or he’d never have been able to stretch out as he was now—one arm behind his head like a makeshift pillow and the other hand lying across his stomach.

When he smiled, which was often, it was that mischievous, knee-buckling smile. He wore pressed, black jeans and a short-sleeved button up dress shirt the same ocean blue as his eyes. If he was dressed so nice, and smelling so nice—he was either here for sex, or he’d just come from his mother’s house. If it was from his mother’s no doubt she lectured him about his dark hair being a month overdue for a cut. Though I’d never had said a word, loving the way it curled at the ends around his ears, chin and brow.

He also wore a smiley face button pin just above his left breast, near the collar. I’d given it to him on our first and only date to a carnival where I’d won it. I was trying to win a goldfish, but twenty dollars and forty terrified fish later, the carney gave me the button and politely told me to go the-F away.

Ok, yes, so Lane and I went on one date. One. Why only one date? Carnival games, gut-twisting rides, and cotton candy beneath the swirl of an artificial lightshow had somehow turned into mind-blowing sex—in my bed no less. Mind-blowing anything was bad for a zombie. Let me just say I reacted as any sensible person would. I promptly locked him out, leaving him on my front porch, clutching his remaining clothes. I’d tricked him by saying I’d left my phone in the car and of course he volunteered to get it. Mean, I know, but how else could I get him to leave? He’s twice my size.

To my credit, I’ve since learned that asking works just fine and no longer resort to such trickery. But in the beginning, I hadn’t known that.

“And you’re here for—?” I already knew why he was here.

“I was hoping it was one of those days,” he smiled—a small but hopeful smile.

One of those days—a sex with no strings attached day. Because even though I didn’t want to be someone’s girlfriend, Lane and I were fan-TAS-tic, so I had a hard time keeping the boy out of my bed.

“Perhaps,” I said and scratched the pug behind his ears. “But I’m awfully sore.”

“I can be gentle,” he said.

I only grinned and Lane was on me. Poor Winston was flopped onto the couch like an unwanted remote and I was lifted up and carried to my bedroom.

“Okay, not too gentle,” I said and bit his neck. I left a small crescent moon of teeth marks there. “Don’t treat me like I’ve got a broken hip or something.”

“Do you?” he asked with a quirk of his lips.

“Not this time,” I said. To make my point, as soon as he set me on the bed I started to tear off his clothes. But when it became my turn, somewhere between removing my shirt and penetration, I always thought a little too much about my autopsy scar. Lane made a point of kissing it just to prove it didn’t bother him, and while I found this gesture sweet, it still didn’t completely erase that moment of panic I got when removing my shirt in front of anyone.

Then I gave in.

He stayed true to his word and was careful with me—except for where it mattered. I had to change positions a few times when a muscle seized up, but overall it was just
wham, bam, thank you man
.

I felt a million times better when I woke up in the gray shadow of my room. Brinkley’s threats and Mr. Reynolds’s snide remarks had faded into the background as night grew thicker around us. Sunset fell in orange ribbons across the bed sheets and through my open bedroom window a soft breeze cooled the sweat on my skin.

Lane was a dark lump beside me. He was stretched long and the curve of his neck, shoulder and chest muscles collected the pooling darkness. I watched his chest rise and fall before I realized it was the constant vibration of my cellphone on the nightstand that had woken me.

Ally’s name and picture showed up on the caller ID. “Did you make it home okay?”

“Yeah,” I replied.

“Good,” she said and then sighed. “But I think we have a problem.”

Of course.

“I just checked the appointment book and we have a replacement scheduled. At midnight, we’re supposed to meet”—the sound of a page flipping crackled through the phone. “—Eve Hildebrand.”

“Brinkley’s an asshole,” I grumbled and Lane curled up to me. I threw his heavy arm off of me and pushed him away. He seemed to have forgotten that we don’t cuddle. “I haven’t even healed.”

“That’s the thing,” Ally said. “I don’t believe Brinkley filed it.”

“Who else could have?” Brinkley was the only one with access to my office and the only one signed off on replacements. There was a bin on my desk and even if Ally and I did a million consultations, I only replaced the clients whose folders were in my bin. And Brinkley was the only one who put names in that bin. He was like God in this way, deciding who deserved a second chance.

“I don’t know, but it’s strange. The profile is for a hooker,” Ally said.

“Since when did you care about non-traditional occupations,” I asked, honestly surprised.

Ally was one of those tree-hugging, I-love-everyone types. In her senior photo, she had dreadlocks and hemp jewelry, though you’d never know it for all her professionalism now.

“I don’t care what she does for money. I mean, I care because it’s sad, but she doesn’t exactly fit our typical client profile,” she said. “There’s barely any information on her, like no address, no medical history, no anything. It’s just her name and a phone number.”

Lane stirred and I switched the phone to the other ear. “Did you ask Brinkley?”

“I can’t get ahold of him,” she said. “Can’t you call him?”

That unhappy feeling crept into my gut again. I was hoping to avoid Brinkley for a week if I could get away with it. “I think he’s tired of me questioning his methods.”

“Yes, but something about this is wrong,” she said.

“Does it have Brinkley’s signature?” I asked. “Is the money present and accounted for and the paperwork filed?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Then we have to do it,” I said. Or run the chance of going to prison.

Ally exhaled slowly. She didn’t like it, but she wasn’t going to fight me. “Do you want me to pick you up at eleven?”

“Please. And can you bring me a coffee. Triple shot. I’m already exhausted.”

“Why wouldn’t you be?” Lane purred.

I hadn’t realized he was awake. The dead silence in the phone said Ally had certainly heard him. She hung up without even saying goodbye.

As I closed my phone, Lane propped himself up on one elbow. “I thought you told her we were dating.”

“First of all,” I said, angry now because I half-believed Lane had said something on purpose just to upset Ally—some kind of territorial male bullshit. “You and I aren’t dating. We’re fucking and there’s a difference. Secondly, she does know, but I don’t feel like I have to shove it in her face every five seconds.”

He got out of bed and pulled on his pants.

I didn’t want to be the only one naked here, so I pulled on my clothes too, shirt first.

“You are very considerate,” he said. He ran his hand through his hair but wouldn’t look at me. I didn’t know what else to say, so I picked up a fallen pillow from the floor, tossed it onto the bed and stormed past him.

“I’m going to check the mail.”

“You do that,” he fired back. “I’m leaving anyway.”

I could be just as stubborn. “
Bye
.”

If he said bye, I didn’t hear it. I ran down the steps and out the front door.

Why were people so hard to deal with? Why did they have to be so emotional? God, my job came with so many risks, so many complications, that I just wanted something easy. Something that wasn’t so serious. Hell, tomorrow I could start hallucinating big-eyed aliens come to probe my ass because my brain suddenly decides it has had enough of death-replacing and just rips itself in two. It happens. My old mentor Rachel—the ex-agent who trained me—was already locked up for losing her shit. What if I’m to spend the rest of my life in a looney bin, eating mashed bananas? When that’s my possible future, why the hell would I want to think beyond today?

Why didn’t Lane understand that?

At the end of the driveway, the first few yellow, orange and red stars rolled stem over leaf down the paved street, a flurry of them scratching across the concrete, guided by the light breeze. I tried to let the air relax the tension between my shoulders. I closed my eyes and took a breath but when I opened my eyes I saw it.

A big black crow hopped at my side until it cawed loudly. I yelped in surprise, catching my hand on the mailbox’s metal red flag. After shaking the pain out and sucking at a red gash, I retrieved the mail slowly. I was afraid the bird might peck my eyes out if I made any sudden movements. His sleek, black body was such a contrast to the gray concrete, that he looked wet.