H.T. Night's 8-Book Vampire Box Set (114 page)

“Patrón,” I said.

“Okay, now you’re getting there,” she said
teasing me.

“What? A Coors Light chaser isn’t manly?” I
asked.

“No light beer is manly,” she said, as a
matter of fact.

“Oh, this is one of those kind of places,” I
said, joking back.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked,
far too loudly for my taste.

Now others were listening in. I knew that I
needed to be cool or trouble might start. “I just meant that this
is a man’s man bar.”

“No twinkle-toes, this isn’t a man’s man
bar. That bar is down the street, and I’m sure they have a real
fruity drink you could chase your tequila with.”

I couldn’t tell if she was busting my chops
because I was obviously new to the bar, or if I completely pissed
her off. I couldn’t tell if she had a dark sense of humor.

I decided there was only one way to find
out. “I’m not into that scene, but I’m sure if you whipped out your
dick, they’ll let you in for free,” I said, giving it right back to
her.

“My dick?” She stared at me straight-faced
and held it for two seconds and then just busted up laughing. “I
like this kid,” she said.

I let out a comfortable sigh and sat into
the stool. The bartender gave me a double shot of tequila and sure
enough, brought over my Coors Light chaser. I went to pay her. And
she said, “It’s on the house.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I said.

“Wasn’t my call,” the bartender said.

“Whose call was it?” I asked.

“My boss.”

“Whose your boss?”

“The gentleman in the back by the pool
table.”

I turned around and saw a man in his early
40’s who looked as fit as a guy his age could look. He had dark
hair and pale skin. He had a scruffy face, and reminded me a little
like myself twenty years from now. He looked like a guy who could
take care of himself if he had to. The man raised his shot glass to
me. I raised mine to him, and downed my double tequila shot without
the salt-lime ritual. I just swallowed it straight, and then with a
sip of my Coors Light chaser.

I sat back in my swivel chair that was
pretty uncomfortable. I swear, it makes no sense for bars to have
bar stools. They cut off circulation and make it so your lower half
falls asleep.

“Tommy,” a female voice said from behind me.
I turned around, expecting to see a girl I’d probably had a
one-night stand with and never called back to throw a drink in my
face, but I didn’t recognize her. She smiled at me suggestively and
red flags went up in my head.

“Look, doll. I don’t have a ring, but I’m
taken,” I said, as I looked over my shoulder. I got a glimpse of
this gorgeous creature and my tongue really fell out of my mouth.
She was a Latin beauty for sure. She was built like a black show
horse in top shape. She was built to last. She was Ford tough.
‘Maya, Maya, Maya,’ I kept chanting in my head like a protective
mantra against sleek Latina chicks who gave me the bedroom eyes,
smelled delicious, and tossed their glossy heads of blue-black
hair, as thick as horses’ manes.

“Mr. Fausto would like to talk with you, he
is a fan.”

“A fan? A fan of what?” I asked.

“You are a fighter, correct?”

“I am. Has he seen me fight?” I was shocked.
No one at this point knew who I was. I had only had a couple
professional fights.

“Not only has he seen you fight, he thinks
you have a lot of talent and would like to meet you, if you’re not
too busy.”

Busy? I was the farthest thing from being
busy. “Sure, I’ll join him!” I got up and made my way to the back
where two pool tables were set up. There was a long conference-type
table against the wall. There was six men and three ladies seated
at the table. It was a scruffy, but good-looking bunch. Not the
ladies… the men were scruffy. The ladies were, well, they were
showy arm candy, for the most part.

I’m not normally shy, but in this situation,
I couldn’t help but feel a tad on the spot. I walked up to the
alpha male, Mr. Fausto, and said, “Thanks for the drink or should I
say, drinks plural?”

“No problem. It’s not every day we get a pro
athlete walk through our doors. Do you have a picture that you can
autograph and we could hang it behind the bar?”

“I don’t exactly carry eight by tens
around…You would really do that? Hang my face behind the bar?” I
laughed.

“You’re Tommy Jensen, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am. But you can call me Kyro.”

“Kyro?”

Mr. Fausto smiled and said, “Sure enough.
Okay Kyro, you were 14-0 as an amateur and now you’re 2-0 as a
pro.”

“Wow, you know my stats. Not even my grandma
knows my stats.”

“I know you have knocked out everyone you
faced. I love mixed martial arts. It’s man vs. man! Nothing more
Roman Gladiator than that.” Mr. Fausto smiled at me. “I better calm
down. People might get the wrong idea, and question if I am still
into the ladies.” He had a woman on both arms, so I didn’t see that
happening. “I love the sport. It’s almost an obsession of mine.
When is your next fight?”

“I actually had a setback, but I’m aiming
for eight weeks from now. Mainly, because I need the cash.”

“Cash is nice. It’s the best motivator I
have found. People say it’s about the love of the game. I say it is
about the love. The love of the game of cold, hard, cash.” Those at
the table all laughed at Mr. Fausto’s statement. “Have a seat and
join us. My name is Marcos. Marcos Fausto.”

“I don’t want to impose, Mr. Fausto,” I
said.

“Please call me Marcos, and I promise you
that you are not imposing.”

“Okay, then. Thank you.”

Marcos pulled out a chair that was right
next to him. I walked around the table and sat down. Marcos looked
up at a waitress who had hurried herself over for service. “Get him
another double shot of tequila, but give him some of the imported
beer as a chaser, none of that light stuff.”

He tilted his chin at me. “What kind of
imported beer do you like, when you aren’t training?”

“Do you have Carlsberg Elephant beer?” I
said readily.

“Interesting pairing with the Patrón. That
Danish beer’ll pack quite a wallop, chasing tequila.”

“That it will,” I agreed. “But I know what I
like. And you did ask.”

Without looking at the waitress, Marcos
tilted his chin toward the bar and said, “We have it.”

The waitress nodded and made her way behind
the bar.

“So, tell me, Kyro. What kind of setback did
you have?”

“A physical one,” I answered.

Marcos leaned in and whispered to me so that
no one else at the table could hear. “Are you referring to the
chunk of flesh that was bitten out of your shoulder?”

I looked at Marcos, surprised. There should
be no way for him to know that. So, I whispered back to him, “How
did you know that?”

Marcos got real close to my ear and
whispered. “Let’s just say that once you become one of us, you can
spot others a mile away. And in your case, I spotted you even
before you knew yourself.”

He knew I was a werewolf. He also implied
that he was one, too. He chose to be vague with his statement so I
respected that. Perhaps when we knew each other better, we would
trade details. Tonight, my wolf senses were kicking in to guard me.
I would reveal only minimal details until I saw what Marcos was up
to.

“A man bit me in a street fight, the night
before my fight,” I said quietly. That’s about as much as I wanted
to preface my story. I wanted to hear what else he knew about me.
And figure out why he wanted to know more.

“You were bit by a Carni who was in his
human form, correct?” This time, Marcos’ voice was a tad louder and
something told me he was just giving the illusion that we were
having a secret conversation and that everybody at the table knew
exactly what we were talking about.

“You knew all of that about my shoulder?” I
said in my regular voice.

Now Marcos got real tight on me and
whispered in my ear, “Yes, because it was a full moon that night.
Only a dog would take a chunk out of a man’s arm in a street
fight.”

Now I was sure what was happening. I knew of
the hustle. I felt it when someone wanted something from me and the
hairs rose slightly on the back of my neck, a cautionary response.
“So, what’s all this about?” I asked.

“I’m just getting to know one of my
customers and nothing more,” Marcos replied. “Regardless of how
famous and wolf-like they happen to be.”

I looked Marcos in the face and calmly said,
“What do you want, Fausto?” I called him by his last name, a subtle
hint that I was onto his game of trying to draw me out by getting
personal details. Maybe I didn’t want to spill them now. No, for
sure, I didn’t.

Marcos smiled. “I’ll let you know in time.
We are going to be great business partners. Tonight, let’s enjoy
ourselves. We have alcohol, sport, and women. Please indulge in all
of it.”

“Business partners? That was kind of a leap
from just getting to know one of your customers and nothing more.”
He’d slipped that in subtly but I wasn’t that drunk yet. “I’ll take
you up on your alcohol. But I have a good woman at home.”

“I’ll bet you do. Bottoms up, then.” The
waitress poured the Carlsberg Elephant beer in a pilsner glass and
placed my double shot in front of me, too—Marcos and I clicked
glasses. He made a toast in another language and everyone laughed,
but me, since I did not understand what he said. This time, I
downed the Patrón with no chaser.

* * *

So, as the alcohol flowed more freely, the
next couple of hours were filled with jokes, stories, and questions
about being a MMA fighter. Everyone was calling me Kyro, and it was
not the obscurity I had hoped for, considering they all knew I was
also a MMA fighter. I wanted to keep Tommy and Kyro separate when I
come into this world.

There was one guy who seemed especially
interested in me. He asked me a lot of questions and seemed to be
as genuine as a guy you could ask for. His name was Dave. He gave
off a strong positive vibe. Some people have a presence that just
puts a smile on your face when you talk to them. Dave was that guy.
He had red hair and was mildly fit. He was a pretty good-looking
guy, considering he was a male ginger. That usually doesn’t go well
for the guys, but in Dave’s case, he was handsome enough.

As the night went on, Dave and I separated
ourselves from the group and decided to shoot a game of pool. Most
of the bar had gone home and Dave and I were pretty much by
ourselves in the back room, shooting pool. I wasn’t ready to go
home yet. I was waiting for my buzz to go away. Marcos had made his
way to a backroom that his office was in. He was probably counting
the daily receipts to see what he brought in for the day. Marcos
seemed like a real unpredictable guy. My gut feeling was that a guy
like him, eventually, was up to no good. He smiled and led you by
the collar to do things his way and at any given moment, he’d cut
you off. There are a lot of characters like him in the MMA world
and I did my best not to associate with them. Now that I was in the
Carni world, I might not have much of a choice. He knew things
about me, that, when known together, packed quite a wallop. He knew
that I fought MMA and he knew that I was now a werewolf and even
knew when and how it happened. I was so glad for Dave’s company. He
seemed like a decent guy. Genuine.

So, while Marcos was counting up his money,
and no doubt spying on me through a closed-circuit TV system, Dave
and I began playing a game of pool. I racked the balls and Dave
broke. He hit the white cue ball as hard as he could, and they
whacked into the other balls and he made a striped ball in the side
pocket.

“I guess I’m stripes,” Dave said without
ego.

“You guess? I think the rules of pool are
pretty clear—when you make a ball in on the break without
scratching, you are either solid or stripes,” I said, laughing.

“I was trying to show some humility, Kyro,”
Dave smiled.

“You’ll need to show it when you beat me,” I
said, continuing to give him the business. When I like someone, I
give them a hard time. So, it was apparent that I had already grown
fond of Dave.

“I plan on beating you. Just promise me you
won’t kick my ass when I do?”

“The only ass kicking I plan on doing is
during the game. I leave my intimidation tactics for the ring.”

“You seemed to be doing a pretty good job
right now with the whole talking part,” Dave said, giving it right
back to me.

“Would ‘Big Red’ like to make it
interesting?”

“Big Red? I haven’t been called that for
years.” He patted his hair. “You shoulda seen it when I was a kid.
Flaming red. Not so much anymore.”

“Okay, Medium Red. Would Medium Red like to
make it interesting? Neither one of us know anything about the
other’s game. If one of us is a pool hustler, neither one of us is
aware of it at the moment.”

“You think I’m Paul Newman or
something?”

“By the looks of your all Archie comic book
hairdo, I hardly doubt it. But then again, that could be your move.
But something tells me that I doubt you ever hustled a dime in your
life. And your first name isn’t the name of a city, otherwise, I
would just kiss my money goodbye.”

Dave laughed at my Teen Wolf quote. “Well,
what about you?” Dave asked me directly.

“Oh, I’m a big-time hustler,” I said.

“Seriously?”

“I am, but not in pool.”

“So, what’s the point of all of this banter?
Are you one of these guys that just likes to hear himself talk?”
Dave asked.

“Do you want to put 50 bucks on the
game?”

“Just 50?” Dave said, winking at me.

“Okay, you might be a hustler,” I
laughed.

“I’ll tell you what. Let’s just play and the
loser pays for the next round.”