Page 27 of Hunt for You
And neither are me and twelve-inch bowie knives.
I pushed away the slew ofimpaled by twelve-inchesjokes that sprang to mind that only I would laugh at, and flashed a smile at Kash when he plonked a Bundaberg ginger beer on the bar, glaring at me over it.
“You drink it. You do whatever business it is that you’re here to do, then you leave. I’m not playing, Bridge.”
Kash had met the not-so-psuedo serial killer and warned me he was bad news. But since Kash also existed boldly in theMother Will Not Approvespace, I’d told him he was the kink calling the fetish “pervert.”
Of course, Kash drew the line at loss of life—unless it involved his own, and a massive amount of drugs—so maybe I should have listened.
“I’m not doing business tonight,” I said as I pulled the tab-top on the fat, brown, short-necked bottle. “I’m just hanging out.”
“No, you aren’t.”
“Kash, stop.”
“No, Bridge.Youstop. Art told me what you were looking for last time. That’sfucked up.”
“Art needs to keep his mouth shut,” I grumbled, then took a swig from the bottle, appreciating the very-real, slightly spicy, ginger hit.
“Wouldn’t help since you told the entire bar,” Kash grumbled. “So drink your drink and bat your eyelashes at someone, then leave. I’m having nothing to do with it. I don’t want those kinds of guys in my bar.”
I let my mouth drop open, then very slowly turned to look pointedly at the old mob guy who sat in the corner booth here five nights a week, doingbusinessbecause he liked that Kash played old rock music instead of “that electric crap.” Then I looked back at Kash with my brows up.
Kash’s jaw tightened. “He’snever had the Police knocking on my door,” he said with a pointed look at me.
“That’s because theywork for him.”
“Shut up, Bridge. I told you, drink your drink, then get your ass out of here.”
“And a very shapely ass it is, too,” a low voice rumbled from behind me.
For a split second my heart leaped—had Cain come for me?—but I should have known, it was just Art, the barn-sized man who worked as Kash’s bouncer.
“Hey, Art,” I said, giving him my most winning smile, mainly because it would piss Kash off.
“Hey beautiful—I’m glad you made it. I found something you might like.”
I clapped my hands as Kash put both hands up and shook his head, backing away from the bar. “Fuck this. Just fuck it. I don’t want to hear it. I’m too old for this.”
“You’re thirty-five,” I snapped at his back as he tossed the dirty rag into the sink and stormed out to the walk-in fridge at the other end of the bar.
Art leaned over the bar to steal a handful of peanuts, then grinned and threw a few in his mouth as he watched Kash leave.
I patted his ham-sized fist to draw his attention back to me.
Art was old-school. The kind of criminal who used knowledge as power, and was more interested in ripping offThe Man,than becoming an online culture icon. He was a vault when it came to keeping secrets, and knew a great many of the fleas crawling around on the dirty underbelly of this city. He was very useful. And he liked me. I didn’t know why, but from the first time Kash had brought me here, he acted like I was his niece or something. He watched out for me, stuffed me into an uber when I got too drunk, and needled Kash to make me laugh.
I loved him.
“Now that Killjoy has left the chat, what’s going on? Whatcha got for me?”
Art grinned and crunched the rest of his mouthful before he answered. “I got a dude who likes the same dark shit you like and he’s trying to build what he calls anaudience.I want you to be careful though, he’s a live wire.”
“Those are the best kinds. How do I reach him?”
“You walk over to the pool table, ‘cause he’s hustling, but he’s eager to meet you.”
I leaned past Art’s mammoth chest to look at the slightly-better-lit alcove where the two pool tables were, and sure enough there was a guy with spiky black hair, metal punched through every ridge and orifice, adog collar,and a nasty grin, looking right at me as he chalked the business end of a pool cue.