Wanted: Undead or Alive

A Blue-Eyed Irishman

Books. From floor to ceiling on all four walls, rows upon rows of books covered every surface. Books wobbled in towering stacks on the floor and lay open on the desk and on the edges of the shelves. Some were thick as my grandma's family Bible and had crumbling leather covers. Mixed among them were paperbacks and books sporting bright, modern dust covers. A gorgeous crimson floral carpet with golden fringe lay upon a wooden floor that smelled of lemon oil. A single chair stood on either side of an antique desk that was wider than my mattress, and on the far side of the desk, sat a dark-haired, blue-eyed man in a white tee-shirt that hugged every peak and valley of his freakishly perfect body. His right eyebrow arched upward, slightly higher than his left, and he asked in a heavy Irish accent, "What have we here, my friend?"

A tsunami of powerful, unexpected lust crashed upon my inner shore, leaving me hot-cheeked and gaping like a fish in the desert. This was not a normal reaction to an attractive person. This was soul-crushing, mind-obliterating, devastating carnality.  

"This is the girl I told you about." The bounty hunter pushed me forward and down into the fancy antique chair.

The extraordinary man behind the desk, Nick, I guessed, twirled a wooden fountain pen between his gloriously proportioned hands. "I see. You've compensated her, I presume?"

"Yeah. Like we talked about. And then she found me." He hovered near my left shoulder and slightly behind me as if to catch me, should I try to bolt.

I could no more imagine running away from Nick than I could imagine setting myself on fire. Why would I ever want to be away from anything I yearned for so powerfully?

"Really?" Nick asked. "This human girl found you in less than one day?" He turned his sapphire eyes on me.

I crossed my arms over my chest, feeling seen in a way that was a bit too all-encompassing to be comfortable. A bead of sweat trickled between my shoulder blades. Hot little coals burned deep in my belly. This is not normal. What the hell is wrong with me?

"Well, I wasn't trying to hide from her." Moose sounded a little salty.

Still staring at me, Nick asked the bounty hunter, "And why did she track you down, even after being compensated and warned away?"

"You can speak to me directly," I told him, proud to have found my voice.

His eyebrow arched a fraction higher. "I will speak with you... directly."

My voice went and hid again. A flame flickered up from the coals and a sudden understanding came upon me about why women in romance novels so often swoon. I fought the urge to throw myself over the desk at him.

Nick focused his gaze on the bounty hunter. Thank God. I took a slow breath. It stuttered unevenly into my lungs.

"She says she wants answers," Moose said.

Nick placed his pen on his desk, next to a black rotary telephone. "We all want answers. Life is so full of questions." He looked at me again. 

I couldn't think when he was looking at me. It was like I had bees buzzing inside my skull. Or maybe they were inside other parts of my body.

Moose spoke up. "She blew a contact I had with one of the squawkers. Said she'd keep being a nuisance if I didn't answer her questions. You told me not to wipe her, so I didn't."

"You brought her here. You made your problem my problem," Nick said.

The enormous man stared at the toes of his freakishly big shoes. He looked like a kicked puppy. 

I had to do something. "I didn't intend to get Agent Freeman in trouble."

"Of course not," Nick said. "Your intention was to satisfy your curiosity. But we all know what happened to the curious cat, do we not?"