Crying for the Moon (7 page)

At the door, a thin man with a wispy beard asked for identification; Alex had to smother a laugh at the idea of his reaction if he knew how old Alex really was. The bar was bigger on the inside than it had looked out front, stretching away into a long rectangular room. In the back, Alex could see people taking turns playing pool under a thin haze of cigarette smoke, bright lights suspended over the green baize of the tables. In the front of the room, the lights were much dimmer and the packed tables created narrow spaces in which customers could walk, carrying beverages from the bar to their seats.

Tate made a left turn into a small room off to the side. A television was mounted in every corner, each one tuned to a different channel. He took off his coat and hung it on the back of a chair at a corner table. Alex sat down across from him and removed his gloves, placing them in his pocket.

“So, honey, tell me about your day,” Tate quipped, after the waitress had taken their order. He leaned his elbows on the table, resting his chin in his hands, as he appeared to hang fawn-like on Alex’s next words.

Alex snorted despite himself. To his surprise, he found himself regaling Tate with the story of how he’d battled and won against the recalcitrant headlight. Tate laughed in all the right places and commiserated with him on the deliberately obtuse manual. Their order arrived and Alex watched as Tate worked on a club sandwich while he sipped a cold Killian’s, making it last.

“You sound like a city boy.” Tate grinned. “Not used to fixing things on your own, eh? I can tell you, the only two things you need in your tool kit around here are duct tape and baling twine.”

Alex shrugged. “I guess you’re right. I never had to worry too much about the plumbing or how to fix something on the car before I came here.” He hesitated, afraid of sounding like some kind of idiot. “I kind of like it, though.” Tate was right: Alex had seldom been expected to “fix” anything. Every vampire he knew had enough wealth and power, not to mention sycophants, to fulfill their every need. No one he knew would even dream of replacing a bulb, let alone remodel his house. It gave him an odd feeling of accomplishment. “I’m learning more about home repair than I bargained for,” he added with a little laugh.

Tate nodded. “Like me on the computer. I can get incredibly frustrated with it, but there’s an immense feeling of satisfaction when I work out how to do something on my own. Sometimes, though, I just need to get the task done and to hell with the self-pride of doing it by myself. Don’t hesitate to give me a shout if you ever need a hand again.”

Tate was full of interesting and amusing stories himself. He spoke of the difficulties of being a house-call veterinarian and the sometimes-awkward situations in which he found himself. He told of being called to a home to extract a Chihuahua from a three-inch space under the sink, where it had wedged itself in the wall, snapping and snarling at anyone who stuck his hand in. “I just wrapped my hand in a towel and let it bite me,” Tate said cheerfully. “When it bit down, I dragged it out.”

They both laughed at the story. Alex had a hard time picturing anyone deliberating inviting themselves to be bitten by a dog, and his brain naturally substituted the image of Tate offering up his neck for Alex’s pleasure.

“Once I got a call from a man half in and half out of his bathroom window.” Tate chuckled at the memory. “He’d gotten locked out of his house and tried to crawl in the window. Only his cat attacked him, and was holding him at bay.”

“Why would his cat do that?” Alex shook his head bemusedly. He thought of EPT, and how the cat could rub against his ankles one minute before striking at him the next.

Tate shrugged. “Didn’t recognize him, I guess. Cats are masters of what we refer to as re-directed aggression. ‘If I can’t get the one I want, I’ll get the one I’m with.’ Two cats that live together can suddenly turn on each other if a strange cat shows up looking in the window. In this case, the cat saw the owner as an intruder into his territory. He really tore the guy up good.”

“Did he get rid of the cat?” Alex asked, even as he smiled at the Southern phrasing that had crept into Tate’s speech. He couldn’t imagine the average human putting up with an aggressive animal like that.

Tate shook his head. “No; he understood why the cat did it. I think he was a little proud of his attack cat, if you ask me. People will tolerate almost anything if they’re secretly proud of it.” He took another bite of his sandwich, chewing and swallowing before he spoke again. “Besides, he loved that cat. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s never trust a man who hates cats.”

“Excuse me?” Alex quirked an eyebrow upward.

Tate looked unexpectedly serious. “In my experience, men who hate cats are abusive by nature. I’m not talking about men who dislike cats or prefer dogs—I’m talking about men who
hate
them, who will go out of their way to kill a cat, given the opportunity. They’ll say it’s because they’re sly and secretive, or because they can’t be trusted. Bottom line, these people are control freaks. More often than not, the man who would kill a cat would also kill a lover or beat a child. The things they hate about cats are the traits they perceive in the people they seek to control. I tell my clients this when it’s warranted, though some of them don’t want to hear it.” Tate leaned in across the table as he spoke, using his hands for emphasis.

“Have you had personal experience with this?” Alex didn’t know what possessed him to ask the question; he only knew he felt a molten-lava rage deep down inside at the thought of someone hurting Tate.

Tate toyed with the paper cover of his straw, not making eye contact. “I was with a guy like that, a long time ago. He certainly fit the profile. But I’ve observed this trait more than once.” He suddenly crumpled up the paper into a ball and flicked it away. “Water under the bridge,” he said briskly. “So what do you do for a living?”

The change of subject, as well as Tate’s admission that he was gay, caught Alex off guard. From what Alex had observed in this small community, homosexuality wasn’t exactly embraced with open arms. That Tate would be so open with him was humbling. He also understood with sudden clarity the protective coloring of Tate’s sloppy manner of dress. “I’m, um, between things at the moment.”

Tate nodded in commiseration. “Things are tough for a lot of people right now. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help, okay?”

Alex found this unexpectedly touching, even as the offer struck him as extremely ironic. “Thanks. So, what did
you
do today?”

Tate accepted the redirection of topic without batting an eye.

“Today, I saw a little dog that had been bitten by a copperhead.” The gleam in his eye was far too amused for the story to have an unhappy ending, Alex realized.

“Really?” Alex felt no hardship in supplying the required prompting. In fact, it felt like he’d been Tate’s sidekick for years. “Is that fairly common around here?”

“It’s not unusual. A little late in the season, but the owners had recently moved their woodpile, so Sparky must have disturbed the place where it had been holed up. I seldom see any fatalities with copperheads, though you can never take them lightly. This past summer we saw a couple of dogs die from snakebite, even with antivenin, but I strongly suspect a rattlesnake had bitten those dogs. The attacks had all occurred at higher elevations and I think the drought is driving the snakes down farther than usual. Anyway, the snakebite dogs usually come in with a big, fat, swollen leg. Sometimes, it’s their face, if they put their nose on the snake and get bitten there instead.” Tate took a swallow of his soda and chased a French fry around his plate for the last of the ketchup.

“The first four to six hours are the most critical,” he said, munching on the fry. “A lot of the time, that window of time has passed before the client realizes there’s a problem. Usually by the time I see them, we’re talking about mostly tissue damage and infection.” He paused, frowning. “I’m not grossing you out talking about this kind of thing over food, am I?”

Alex couldn’t help but smile. “I’m not very squeamish.”

Tate’s face lit up with relief. He rubbed the end of his nose ruefully. “Good. I’ve been known to clear out entire restaurants blithely discussing cases over dinner. Anyway, so this dog’s been bitten and I’m trying to talk to the client about the implications of this, as well as the treatment, but she interrupts me. She tells me it’s
impossible
for Sparky to have been bitten by a snake because she has invisible fencing.”

Tate’s eyes sparkled with mischief. He was obviously waiting for Alex to comment on the ridiculousness of this assertion but when Alex said nothing, he continued. “You know, the radio-controlled fencing that keeps dogs in the yard when they wear the receiver on a collar?”

Alex knew. He’d seen the commercials. He just couldn’t believe that the client didn’t understand how they worked. “What did you say to her?” He smiled, shaking his head.

“I told her it’s not a
force field
, for crying out loud!”

They both laughed.

“Maybe she needs to buy some little collars for the snakes,” Alex suggested, just as Tate was taking another sip of his drink. Tate choked and had to wipe his chin.

A moment later, Tate pushed back his plate, obviously done with dinner. Alex felt unexpectedly disappointed when he couldn’t think of any way to prolong the evening.
This has been fun
, Alex thought, as they got ready to leave. “You’re not taking that with you?” He pointed at Tate’s plate.

Tate had left part of his sandwich and some fries behind. He wrinkled his nose. “I’m not so good with leftovers. Besides, it’s not enough for another meal. I could box it up and take it to Peter, though.” He grinned briefly and picked up his coat but did not put it on, folding it over one arm instead. “I need to stop by the restroom after we pay up.”

Alex followed Tate as he threaded his way through the crowd to the back of the building. The restrooms were in a small corridor off the main room. The hallway was bordered on one side with a change machine and on the other with some arcade-type games. One of the games was a boxer’s punching bag suspended in a small cage. Each player got two swings at the bag. A flashing light board registered a combined score for each round. Several frat boys had lined up in front of it, taking punches in turn, and crowing over the numbers that registered.

“I’ll wait here. I can hold your coat,” Alex suggested.

Tate pushed past the raucous bunch of young men and entered the men’s room. The corridor smelled of stale beer and cigarettes. Alex leaned against a pillar and alternated between watching the nearby game of pool and the contest between the frat boys over the boxing game.

A young black man sporting a T-shirt that showed off his impressive physique seemed to be winning the punching game. As Alex watched, he registered a score of 880 points on the board. The next highest score was 650. Each player swaggered forward, intent on toppling the leaders from the board. Alex watched in idle amusement as the high scorer whooped and preened over his numbers, wondering what his reaction to a bar-brawler like Duncan would be and whether things would erupt in a fight.

Something of that must have shown on his face because, when the boy’s gaze caught his eye, he addressed Alex. “Pretty good, huh?” He flexed a bicep, though whether it was meant to challenge or impress, Alex wasn’t sure.

Alex didn’t care much for the kid’s posturing. He smiled briefly and looked away.

“Aw, don’t waste your time, Ricky.” The sneer in the speaker’s voice made Alex turn back again. It was one of the other college kids. He held eye contact with Alex for a moment before continuing. “Pretty boy there’s not in your league. I doubt he even plays on the same team.”

Alex could see that they’d all had a bit too much to drink. The kid who spoke had blond hair in a military-style buzz cut and was flushed with alcohol. Alex considered telling him what he’d look like in fifteen years, when he was no longer playing sports, with thinning hair and a beer belly, but he saw no sense in pouring gasoline on a well-lit fire. Only some perverse little imp made him respond anyway.

“Not at all. I was just wondering if that was the best you could do.” He indicated the boxing bag.

The boys began to hoot and slap one another, even as Blondie thrust his chest out in front of him. “Let me guess,” he said. “You think you can do better?”

“Mind holding this?” Alex handed Tate’s coat to one of the other frat boys. “Now, how does this work? Anybody have some change?”

One of the boys held out a handful of quarters. Alex smiled at the guy nearest to the coin slot, turning on the full force of his charm. He could feel the thrum of the boy’s heartbeat and could tell that the kid was turned on and excited without knowing why. “You mind?”

The frat boy shoved the coins in the machine with alacrity.

Alex approached the bag, eyeing it carefully. “I just hit it?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said Blondie. “Try not to break a nail.” He chortled at his own joke.

Alex had a mental image of driving his nails deep into Blondie’s skin, pinning him down as he shrieked, his screams turning to gurgles. He could almost taste the blood; his mouth watered and his cock throbbed in sympathy. Fortunately, the boys were too drunk to notice.

He pulled his fist back and aimed it at the bag in slow motion, stopping just before he touched it. Shooting Blondie what he knew to be an evil smile, he returned his focus to the bag. With a blur of motion, he struck the leather bag full force. It exploded at the seams, releasing stuffing as it swung crazily from its hook. The numbers on the board scrolled upward over a thousand before stuttering and blanking out.

“Oops,” Alex said into the stunned silence.

The boys erupted into wild cheering just as Tate came out of the restroom. Alex collected Tate’s coat and handed it over to Tate as he walked up.

“What’s all that about?” Tate asked, glancing over his shoulder as they walked back to the front of the bar.

“I have no idea,” Alex said.