“Good. We have deal.”
“Thank you, Boris. I will text the details about my client. Hopefully, the job won’t last more than a day or two.” Damien planned to find these people, including the governor’s brother, and send them a message. Politely, of course, since he wasn’t a fixer anymore. He did not threaten, break thumbs, bust kneecaps, or cap asses. He sewed nice garments.
They ended the call, and Damien got into his SUV, starting the engine. He set his GPS for the mall. With any luck, he’d make it just before closing. He still needed to find that sex fairy, and the best place to start was the security video.
CHAPTER SIX
“Sorry, Mr. Greystone, but the police confiscated the footage from that day.” The middle-aged, bald security guard, wearing a khaki uniform three sizes too small, offered Damien a consoling look. “But between you and me, I saw the tape. There wasn’t anything on it.”
Damien tried not to stare at the buttons about to pop from the shirt. He really wanted to fix them. “You saw nothing unusual at all?”
“The angle just outside the fitting room showed a moth under one of the lights, but that was it. A moth. I even slowed the footage.” He lowered his voice. “I think the woman was on something. And now, every kook in the country is camping outside our store.”
That moth could actually be the fairy. They moved quite fast, which might result in a blurry effect. “Did you get a picture of the moth?”
“Sorry?”
“This moth. Perhaps if I showed it to the woman—for her therapy—she’d see it was nothing more than a harmless insect,” he lied.
The security guard frowned. “No. I didn’t get a photo.”
Damien thought not. His next step would be to ask the police if they would allow him a look at the footage. A long shot, but worth a try.
“Hey, if you really want to see the tape,” said the guard, “someone leaked it. It’s all over the internet.”
Why hadn’t he thought of that? Likely because he was centuries old, and using technology was generally an afterthought. “Thank you.”
Damien left the mall and went for his SUV. It took only a moment to pull up the video on his phone. Apparently, it had gone viral, and people were making a fuss over it. The video with the most hits was entitled: Fairy tale or moth myth?
He hit play. The small figure on his tiny screen darted out from beneath the dressing room door moments before the store manager came to assist Sky. The moth streaked by the camera and had a shiny lavender hue.
Yep. A fairy. Moths typically didn’t sparkle, but fairies did. Their wings were covered with microscopic specks of iridescent minerals.
Damien continued to watch as the drama unfolded. The store manager helped Sky get her pants on, mostly blurred out, and then she called the police.
“What is this?” Damien hit replay. There was a split second where the small, shiny form appeared again. It went for Sky’s purse.
Could it be? Could Sky have taken the creature home without knowing?
But why would it do such a thing?
I have to find that fairy. And the only place he could think of was Sky’s house. Or her purse?
Damien picked up his phone to call Sky, but it went to voicemail. She was likely busy with her nephew or speaking to the police, who’d been called to make a report. Damien would stop by her house on the way back to the hospital and look for signs of a tiny, winged intruder.
Just after ten p.m., Damien pulled into Sky’s driveway. He ignored the fact that every time his mind drifted to thoughts of the woman—those warm brown eyes and full lips—he felt an unwelcome surge of heat in his groin and chest.
No. This is not desire. It was merely a physiological response to her female form, no different than how his dick got hard when he woke each morning. Perfectly natural. Especially for a virile man such as himself.
For safety purposes, though, I should pleasure myself, he thought. Releasing the tension always kept him in the green zone.
Of course, he could only masturbate to images of women who were already dead. Once, and only once, his mind had wandered off to a once-famous actress who he’d believed was long gone, only to discover she was alive, well, and in her eighties.
Yes, yes. The scintillating memory had been from a movie she’d done while in her twenties. Nevertheless, the next morning, news of her death was all over the front pages. Heart attack. No, not a coincidence. His lust had killed her.
Since then, he was careful to ensure any women who entered his fantasies were free and clear.
Maybe I’ll go for a Marilyn Monroe session. Or that goddess, Colel. He couldn’t kill Colel either, since she was truly immortal. Deities lived on no matter what, and thank gods, because Colel’s long golden locks, curvy body, and pert breasts were a sight to behold.
I wonder who inherited her powers. Didn’t matter. She was still gorgeous.
As he picked the lock on Sky’s front door for a second time today, Damien willed himself to remember that fact—Sky wasn’t the only beautiful woman in the world.
He entered and flipped on the light, placing a different mental lens over the surroundings. Before, he’d seen pizza boxes and piles of books. Now he was looking for wads of tissue, globs of drying lube on the furniture, or tiny scratch marks on the walls.
Damien entered the bathroom, which smelled like vanilla and lavender. Mmmm… Sky’s shampoo. But there was no sign of sex fairy activity.
Next, he went through her bedroom, pushing himself to ignore the drawer of lacy panties left open. He would not imagine her in the pink pair at the top of the pile.
Aside from the unmade bed, nothing seemed sexed up, shredded, or marinated in glossy KY.
After inspecting the rest of the home, Damien felt satisfied. No sexy fairy here.
Satisfied? Not quite. His eyes toggled between the front door and the bathroom. His next stop was the hospital to check Sky’s purse and, well, for her own safety, he really should dial down the lustful urges, lest the curse mistake his physical needs for genuine desire.
“Fuck it.” He marched toward the bathroom and closed the door, removing his blazer. He found that bottle of shampoo, eyeing it for a moment. No. Too many suds.
He looked under the sink and found a bottle of unscented lotion. The good kind. Hypoallergenic. This will do.
He unbuttoned his pants, put the lid down on the toilet, grabbed a wad of toilet paper, and went to work massaging his length. Damien closed his eyes and tilted back his head as images of women in the “safe zone” filled his mind. Cleopatra. Hmmm…yeah. I love a good pageboy haircut on a strong woman.
Next came Colel. Yes. Soft curves and supple breasts. I love her buzzy lisp. So exotic.
His hand stroked his thickening shaft, firm and steady, as he imagined the two women kissing his chest, licking his cock, touching his balls.
“Yes. Like that. I’m going to take you—”
Suddenly, something flew up his nose and lodged in the back of his throat.
What the hell? He pushed his hand to his neck. What is that? He hacked. He snorted. He took that wad of toilet paper and tried to blow the object out. No luck.
Damien stood, bracing himself on the sink, coughing like mad. He could breathe through his mouth, but whatever was inside his nasal passage wasn’t moving.