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“You will find out tonight at the—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, at the Black Flag Pub.” I wave my hands in the air. “That’s tomorrow night, not tonight.”
“Correction. Was tomorrow night, it’s now tonight at 9 pm....”
“Fine! I’m going to have a shower!”
I grab my duffle bag, open the zipper, and dump the contents onto the bed. Pawing through my clothes, I realized that I packed the shittiest items I owned. Nothing matched. Settling on a long floral printed skirt, I snatched up a white ribbed t shirt to go with it. They would have to do.
It wasn’t until I stuffed a pair of fresh undies into my pocket that I glanced over at Raul. Sweat beaded on his brow as he stared at my heap of belongings. Following his gaze, I was appalled to see that he was staring at my little sucker friend.
He pulled his shirt collar away from his throat and I could see his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed hard. “What is that?” he growled as I snatched it up.
“It’s ah...fan.” I cleared my throat. More confident now with my excuse, I reiterated. “Yes! That’s what it is, my personal fan.”
Raul raised his shoulder. “Huh, could have fooled me. It looked like a clitoris sucker.”
He abruptly turned and started to head toward the exit. Stopping, he looked back at me and said, “I’m heading downstairs to the bar. Once you’re done, you can join us down there.” He started towards the door once again and over his shoulder, he tossed out, “Oh... and bring your ‘fan’... you’re going to need it.”
He left me standing there gaping at the closed door, turning fifty shades of red. I picked up a pillow and whipped it at the door imagining it was him then marched myself into the bathroom.
Chapter 4
C ashel
––––––––
I ENTERED THE ROOM where we, the Watchers of the Night, hold our meetings. A hidden room in the underbelly of the bar, far away from the prying eyes of the bar patrons above.
I look around and take note that a fire is already blazing away in the fireplace that’s big enough to park a Buick in and see Mickle sitting in one of the plush leather chairs set before it. A glass of amber liquid, that I know is the finest and oldest cognac around, dangles from his fingertips.
To my left is a boardroom sized table with a dozen chairs tucked neatly around it, and I toss the manila envelope I’m carrying onto its shiny surface as I pass by.
The second Mickle sees me, he pounces.
“I trust she made it safe?” he asked, sipping the amber liquid from his glass as his knee bounces up and down in nervousness.
