Ballsy, Damien thought. He liked ballsy women. No. Wait. He hated them. Ballsy women bad.
Anyway, long story short, Sky had wanted to stop the investigation at that point, thinking she had been given bad info, but something kept nagging at her about that salsa truck. So she got in her car, drove three days to San Diego, and staked out that salsa company, which was owned by two brothers, Tom and Jerry Brown. Yes, like the cat and mouse. And yes, their company was actually named Brown Mexican Salsa. Not very smart or appetizing sounding, which was probably why they were engaging in illegal activities to supplement their income.
Sky never did find out what was in those crates, but she discovered the Browns were definitely trafficking women, along with all sorts of exotic endangered animals, rhino tusks, and pretty much anything illegal.
Since time was of the essence for these women, Sky turned over the key evidence—photos and video she’d taken of the Browns’ afterhours activities—to the authorities, and she immediately published her first two articles on her independent news site, telling how she’d busted the case wide open. The story got national coverage.
Where Sky went wrong was pulling the trigger too fast. The Browns read her article and skipped town.
But why had the police waited four entire days to issue a warrant after saying they’d rescue the women right away? Quote: “We’ll be there within the hour.”
Didn’t feel right.
Luckily Sky may have gotten a hold of some records while maybe breaking into the Browns’ home before the story broke and they ran off, and she may have stolen documents confirming that the Browns’ investor was Vincente Newbery. As in, the governor of California’s brother.
That little bombshell would be the focus of her next article, after she did a little more digging into the man.
Sky went home to Ohio to do just that, but then the threatening emails started, and strange cars started following her everywhere. Thus the reason her sister suggested she lie low and go camping for a few weeks together once the third article dropped. Of course, that plan led to bathing suit shopping, a fairy attack, and Miguel getting beaten up.
So here we were.
Now Sky was pissed and planned to immediately release the third article exposing Vincente Newbery, who she believed was behind the assault on Miguel. Once the evidence was out, she prayed going public would put a stop to him.
I wish I were so convinced. In Damien’s experience, people like that eventually got their revenge, even if it was from behind bars. Still, the article was set to go live on her website tonight. Damien had been unable to convince Sky to abort her plans.
Stubborn woman!
He left Sky there in the hospital room with her nephew, promising if the Newberys were involved in her nephew’s attack, they would pay.
On the way to his car, Damien took out his cell and called the only person he trusted to help: Boris. Because fighting thugs required bigger thugs.
“Izz diss you, Greystone?” Boris answered with his thick Russian accent.
“Hello, old friend.”
“Do not ‘old friend’ me, Greystone,” Boris growled with his deep voice. “Last time we spoke, you take my money.”
“Won. Not took,” Damien corrected. Boris was one of his human clients who loved to socialize when he came to LA. That meant going to a shady hotel and attending Boris’s poker parties complete with hookers, cocaine, and shady friends. Damien generally showed up to be cordial and made sure to lose his money quickly in order to get out of there, but the last time, his darkness took over. Darkness won Boris’s money.
“How would you like a chance to earn that money back? Tenfold?” Damien offered.
“You have intrigued zi Boris. What does diss entail?”
“I need to hire protection. For a customer.”
“But you are tailor.”
“Yes, I am aware,” Damien replied, treading carefully. He didn’t want to give too many details. Details led to questions. Questions he could not answer, such as why he was involved with Sky and her family. Damien had no desire to explain that to a mobster who was completely ignorant of the supernatural world.
“This client is important,” Damien said. “Not as important as you, of course, but they buy many suits. And, unfortunately, they’ve run into some trouble.”
“Hire a security guard. Or call zi police.”
“We both know I would not be calling you if I felt those were viable options. I need someone discreet who can stay completely out of sight—the client would feel embarrassed if they knew I was doing this for them. A matter of pride. Also, I need someone who doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty should these particular men show up and attempt another attack.”
See. I have got this. I am thugging without actually getting involved. Perhaps there was hope for Damien yet. After working so hard to pull himself out of that dark, violent place filled with death, he didn’t want to go back. He couldn’t go back.
He enjoyed his quiet life of therapeutic sewing. Sometimes on the weekends, just for fun, he made tiny blankets for kittens and donated them to the animal shelter. He also enjoyed the simplicity of sewing reproductions of Victorian-era ballgowns. His secret guilty pleasure. He just didn’t know what to do with the garments afterwards. He had boxes of dresses in his stockroom, and it wasn’t as if he was going to wear them himself. Cross-dressing wasn’t his thing. He enjoyed suits, nice ones that separated him from the riffraff.
“Dah. I will help you, Greystone. But I do not want your money.”
Odd. “Then?”
“My seester, Natasha, she get married. You make groom tuxedo, dah? And his bestie man, too.”
“That’s it? Two tuxes?” Seemed a little light.
“You must also make dresses for the bride wenches.”
Bride wenches? Someone needed to hit the ESL classes. “When is the wedding?”
“One month.”
That would be tight.
“Do they all live in LA? Because I’d need to do fittings.”
“Miami.”
Damien rubbed his chin. That was nowhere near his shop. But at this point, he couldn’t guard Sky and her family on his own, and the gods had a noose around Bonbon’s neck. He had to keep moving forward, looking for answers about the blast.
“Deal. I’ll be out there next week to take measurements. I’ll send the garments overnight once they’re done. If anything needs adjusting—”
“Next week perfect. You come to pre-wedding banquet, dah? My personal plooz one.”
Plus one? Pluses were for friends or dates. And Damien knew Boris was all about “zi poozy.” He spoke incessantly about how much of it he got during their poker games.
So, he thinks we’re friends?
Boris continued, “I tell everybody about zi great tailor Damien Greystone. They always compliment me on my shirts. I look ten pounds lighter when I wear them.”
Damien mentally grunted. Boris was trying to help him get new clients? He did not want to insult the man, but Damien didn’t need more clients. He needed security for Sky and her family. Also, Damien had rules about friendship. Rules that kept others safe. Friends, lovers, one-night stands, they were all off-limits.
But I can’t say no. “I would love to attend the dinner next week.”