“Fine.” MF took the blazer and slid it on. “Now’re you happy?” She spun around.
Not in the least. “May I ask why you wear pants that could double as a tent? You are not a turtle, woman.”
“Who asked you?” she snapped.
“Your clothes. They are crying for help. Can you not hear them?”
She narrowed her brown eyes. “Aren’t you the funny one, Grandpa.”
Grandpa? Damien didn’t look a day over thirty. When he grew out his beard, he could pass for thirty-five tops. But he found his dark facial hair accentuated his hazel eyes and caused too much attention from the ladies—something he tried very hard to avoid.
“I am merely pointing out that you can still repel people and look,” he used air quotes, “scary without appearing sloppy. For example, I find being well-dressed sends a psychological message all its own.” I have my shit together. “You’d be surprised how intimidating confidence can be.”
“So, what are you? Dr. Phil’s loser brother, Dr. Phil-o-shit?”
Damien smiled tightly. “Very amusing.”
He turned toward the mirror on the wall to conduct his final quality check before the shop opened. Straighten tie. Ensure hair was properly groomed. No misses on the shave.
Damien pushed his hand over the top of his thick hair. “You will be silent and watch me deal with customers. You will learn to work the register.”
“What about tailoring?”
Damien laughed. “I highly doubt you can sew to such a level.”
“Try me.”
Two hours later, MF had produced a perfect dart, a perfect pant hem, and had sewn a new silk lining into a coat. No hesitation. No double measuring. The woman didn’t even use chalk or pins!
I’ve never seen such a seamstress. Who is she?
“Well?” MF handed him the shirt with the repaired dart.
“Your stitchwork is…adequate. Where did you study?”
“Study? I’m self-taught. I sewed all my own clothes growing up.”
Liar. “All right, well, I must get to the airport. You have my number. Call if you have any issues.”
“What about the dog? What do I feed him?”
Bonbon appeared in the doorway. “Did someone mention feeding me?” MF didn’t understand him, of course. It took a talent for languages and hours of practice to master love-sucking-demon speak.
“There is a small container of fortune cookies under the register.”
“Fortune cookies?” Her brows bunched together.
“He’s a picky eater. Especially when I’m away. Oh, and please be sure to give him a few hours outside each day to enjoy the fresh air.”
She frowned. “This is LA.”
“He loves the muted sunshine.” And the leftover fortune cookies from my daily Chinese take-out orders.
“Hey, um…” MF’s voice suddenly sounded vulnerable and soft.
Damien stopped halfway out the door. “Yes?”
“Thank you for giving me a chance. I know we got off on the wrong foot, but I’m a hard worker. Really.”
He bowed his head, perplexed by her sudden turn. “I only ask that you take good care of my shop, of my customers, and that you air out your nipples on your own time.”
“We’ll see about that, but good luck on your trip. I hope you find what Cimil’s looking for. That woman is scary as hell.”
No shit. “Thank you. I will call tomorrow.”
CHAPTER THREE
The woman’s name was Sky Morales. Thirty-two years old. Dark brown hair. Very attractive face.
No. No. Not attractive. Especially her full lips and ample bosom. She was plain, unremarkable, and definitely not worth looking at. At least, that was the lie he needed to tell himself. His lust was a luxury she could not afford.
Keep it professional, Greystone, he told himself.
From her photos on social media, he’d say she was a size ten and enjoyed provocative yet professional clothing—tight tailored skirts, snug satin blouses, lots of cleavage. Not so unusual for someone in the public eye. An independent journalist and entrepreneur with a popular news site, coveted for non-biased reporting: Sky’s Fresh Air News. Transparent, nonpartisan, and independent.
What he found unusual, however, was how Sky had recently received national recognition for publishing a series of investigative reports exposing sex traffickers in California. Why would a woman just hitting her stride professionally go public with a wild story about a winged creature attacking her?
According to the police report and the interview she gave several weeks ago, she had been shopping with her sister at SouthPark Mall, near Cleveland, Ohio, when she was attacked in a sporting goods store.
Yes, that sporting goods store. Named after a penis.
It was a well-known fact that sex fairies were drawn to places with sexy names: Hand Job Nail Spa, Dirty Hoe Garden Supplies, and Master Bait Tackle Shop, to name a few. Then there were the towns: Climax, Colorado. Bald Knob, Arkansas. Mary’s Igloo, Alaska. Sugar Tit, Kentucky. If the name sounded dirty, a sex fairy could be found nearby despite the lack of anything particularly sexual occurring in these places.
No one ever said sex fairies were smart.
But back to Sky. She gave intimate details of trying on a swimsuit for an upcoming camping trip with her sister and nephew. She claimed she slid the bikini bottoms over her underwear and suddenly felt something moving around.
She pulled the bottoms down to find a purplish winged creature about the size of a hummingbird. She screamed, swatted at the thing, and fell down, only to have it dive into her panties, where Sky wrestled with the thing and managed to keep it from, well, doing what sex fairies did.
Interesting. Sky’s account of the attack sounded legitimate. Sex fairies were known to get aggressive when startled or afraid. Simply put, they looked for the nearest place to hide. If it happened to be a human orifice, so be it.
But had this been a fairy attack, or had the creature been frightened by something?
Damien turned off the engine of the Suburban he’d rented at the airport. Not his usual ride, but they’d been out of sedans. Back home, he owned over twenty cars—a red 1959 Porsche Roadster, 2023 silver Audi, black Jeep Rubicon, and baby blue 1965 VW Bug, to name a few. He collected anything with a convertible top. New, old, didn’t matter. Driving with the wind in his hair was his biggest vice. That and a fine scotch. All right, and Chinese food. Especially the fried stuff. When one was immortal and did not cook, you got to eat whatever you liked.
Damien exited the SUV and double-checked the address Cimil had texted him. This was the place, but the blue ranch-style house did not fit what he’d learned about the journalist. Outspoken, educated, career driven, and a confident dresser. The lawn had not been mowed in weeks, a pile of wet rotting newspapers sat in the driveway, and the windows had foil taped over the glass. It was early evening, and there were no lights on outside, either.
He walked up the leaf-covered sidewalk, noting the mail overflowing from the box beside the door. He grabbed an envelope to check the name. It was addressed to Sky Morales, so this had to be the correct house. Was she out of town?
He rang the doorbell, listening for movement inside.
Nothing.