Vampire Moon (4 page)

 
      
 
Of course, I never wanted to attract crowds of onlookers, as I generally avoid bringing attention to myself. But since that incident last month with a Marine boxer, an incident in which I put him in a hospital, well, I had become somewhat of a hero in this mostly women’s boxing club.

 
      
 
“Well, I could probably go another round or two,” I said lightly to Jacky.

 
      
 
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” he said.

 
      
 
Jacky shook off the protective gloves. His hands were ruddier than his Irish complexion; his fingers were fat and swollen.

 
      
 
“Sorry about that,” I said. “I had a bad night.”

 
      
 
“I’d hate to get on your bad side.”

 
      
 
“Doesn’t seem to worry my ex-husband.”

 
      
 
“Then I say he’s not right in the head. You punch like a hammer.” He shook his head in wonder. I often caused this reaction from the old boxer, who hadn’t yet figured me out. “Harder than anyone I’ve ever trained, man or woman.”

 
      
 
“Yeah, well, we’ve all got our talents,” I said. “Yours, for example, is having red hair.”

 
      
 
“That’s not a talent.”

 
      
 
“Close enough.”

 
      
 
He shook his head and held up his red hands which, if I looked hard enough at them, I could probably see throbbing.

 
      
 
“I need to soak these in ice,” he said. “But if I soak these in ice, the women here will think I’m a pussycat.”

 
      
 
I leaned over and kissed him on his sweating forehead. The blush that emanated from him was instant, spreading from his balding head, down into his neck.

 
      
 
“But you are a pussycat,” I said.

 
      
 
“Well, you’re a freak of nature, Sam.”

 
      
 
Jacky, of course, didn’t realize how freaky I was. In fact, I could count on one hand the number of people who knew how freaky I was.

 
      
 
“You could be a world champion,” he said. Now we were making our way over to the big punching bag.

 
      
 
“I’m too old to be a world champion,” I said. Jacky was always trying to get me to fight professionally.

 
      
 
He snorted. “You’re, what, thirty?”

 
      
 
“Thirty-one, and thank you.”

 
      
 
However, Jacky was closer than he thought. I was indeed thirty-seven calendar years old, but I was frozen in a thirty-one year
old’s
body.

 
      
 
The age I was when I was attacked.

 
      
 
Granted, if a girl had to pick an age to be immortalized in, well, thirty-one would probably be near the top of her list.

 
      
 
And what happens ten years from now when you’re forty-seven but still look thirty-one? Or when your daughter is thirty-one and you still look thirty-one?

 
      
 
I didn’t know, but I would cross that bridge when I got there.

 
      
 
Jacky took up his position behind the punching bag. “So what’s eating at you anyway, Sam?”

 
      
 
“Everything,” I said. I started punching the bag, moving around it as if it were an actual opponent, using the precise body movements Jacky had taught me. Ducking and weaving. Jabs. Hooks. Hard straight shots. Punches that would have broken jaws and teeth and noses. Jacky bared his teeth and absorbed the punches on the other side of the bag like the champion he was, or used to be. I took a small breather. So did Jacky. Sweat poured from my brow.

 
      
 
“Let me guess,” said Jacky, gasping slightly, and looking as if he had taken actual physical shots to his own body. “Is it that no-good ex-husband of yours?”

 
      
 
“Good guess.”

 
      
 
“Does he realize you could kick his
arse
from here to Dublin?”

 
      
 
“He realizes that,” I said. “And why Dublin?”

 
      
 
“National pride,” he said. “So why don’t you go kick his fucking
arse
?”

 
      
 
“Because kicking ass isn’t always the answer, Jacky.”

 
      
 
“Works for me,” he said.

 
      
 
“We’ll call that
Plan B
.”

 
      
 
“Would be my
Plan A
. A good
arse
-kicking always clears the air.”

 
      
 
I laughed. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

 
      
 
“Break’s over. Hands up.”

 
      
 
He leaned back into the bag and I unleashed another furious onslaught. Pretending the bag was my ex-husband was doing wonders for me.

 
      
 
“You’re sweating like a pig, Sam,” screamed Jacky. “I like that!”

 
      
 
“You like pig sweat?”

 
      
 
He just shook his head and screamed at me to keep my fists up. I grinned and unleashed a flurry of punches that rocked the bag and nearly sent little Jacky flying, and attracted a small group of women who gathered nearby to watch the freak.

 
      
 
And as I punched and sweated and kept my fists up, I knew that fighting Danny wasn’t the answer. Luckily, there were other ways to fight back.

 
      
 
Chapter Five

 
      
 
After a long shower and a few phone calls to some friends working in the federal government, I was at El
Torito
Bar and Grill in Brea—just a hop, skip and a jump from my hotel.

 
      
 
I was wearing jeans and a turtle neck sweater. Not because it was cold outside, but because I looked so damn cute in turtle neck sweaters. The stiff-looking man sitting across from me seemed to think so, too. Special Agent Greg Lomax, lead investigator with the FBI, was in full flirt mode, and it was all I could do to keep him on track. Maybe I shouldn’t have looked so cute, after all.

 
      
 
Damn my cuteness.

 
      
 
El
Torito
is loud and open. The loudness and openness was actually of benefit for anyone having a private conversation, which was probably why Greg had chosen it.

 
      
 
Personally, I found the noise level here a bit overwhelming, but then again, I’m also just a sweet and sensitive woman.

 
      
 
It was either that or my supernaturally acute hearing that quite literally picked up every clattering dish, scraping fork, and far ruder sounds best not described. And, of course, picked up the babble of ceaseless conversations. If I wanted to I could generally make out any individual conversation within any room. Handy for a P.I., trust me. Granted, I couldn’t hear through walls or anything, but sounds that most people could hear, well, I could just hear that much better.

 
      
 
“Lots of people over at HUD talk very highly of you,” he said.

 
      
 
“I gave them the best seven years of my life,” I said.

 
      
 
“And then you came down with some sort of, what, rare skin disease or something?”

 
      
 
“Or something,” I said.

 
      
 
“Now you work private,” he said.

 
      
 
“Yes. A P.I.”

 
      
 
“How’s that working out?”

 
      
 
“It’s good to be my own boss,” I said. “Now I give myself weekly pay raises and
extra long
coffee breaks.”

 
      
 
He grinned. “That’s cute. Anyway, I was told to tell you what I could. So ask away. If I can’t talk about something, or I just don’t know the answer, I’ll tell you.”

 
      
 
We were sitting opposite each other in a far booth in the far corner of the bar. I was sipping some house zinfandel, and he was drinking a Jack and Coke. White wine and water were about the only two liquids I could consume. Well, that and something else.

 
      
 
Just thinking about that something else immediately turned my stomach.

 
      
 
I said, “So do you think the crash was an accident?”

 
      
 
“You get right to the point,” he said. “I like that.”

 
      
 
“Must be the investigator in me.”

 
      
 
He nodded, drank some more Jack and Coke. “No, this wasn’t an accident. We know that much.”