He cautiously opens the gate and leans through. After literal gunshots coming from the house, I’d expect to see a serious police presence, probably with guns of their own out. But he says, “It’s clear. We’re good.”
Then his hand is again on my back, guiding me along, like he’s my uncle and I’m five years old. The only sound is the gentle roll of lonely, late-night traffic on the distant artery of Geary Street. There aren’t any cops. Doesn’t look like any of the neighbors have even turned on a light. Does the magic of the house muffle gunshots, too?
I glance back at Collin, fully expecting him to be trapped at the boundary of the fence. I’m no ghost expert, but Stryker mentioned once that hauntings have veryspecific limits, usually defined by the property line of wherever the person died. But he trots right out after us.
Seeing me catch his eye, he grins and gives me a wink. “See? Told you it would all work out! He’s class, isn’t he?”
Well, looks like the dangerous Monster Hunter has got the ghost vote! But not all of us are dead… yet.
Once we’re on the sidewalk, I quickly twist and wheel myself out from under his hand and, backing away, quietly say, “Okay. Thank youso much. Seriously. I’m going to go find the bus now, or maybe call an Uber. But really, this was great and?—”
He raises his palm, clearly expecting me to stop talking. Which I do.
“I’ll drive you,” he says. His voice is low, practically a growl, and he makes it feel like an offer I can’t refuse.
Maybe I should just run. But he’s faster than me. And he’s got a freaking shotgun in the holster on his back.
Before I can debate any more about it, his hand is right back there on my shoulder, leading me down the street.
“This way,” he says.
I debate about arguing with him and pitching a fit. Asserting my autonomy as, you know, an actual grown-ass man who can get himself home all by himself. But considering how committed he seems to be to providing door-to-door service, that would probably make me look even more suspicious.
At this point, he’s either on to me or he’s not. If he is, there’s no getting away. I can’t outrun him, and since he’s walking down the middle of the street in Arnold Schwarzenegger combat gear, he doesn’t seem at allworried about anyone thinking he’s an active shooter. If he wanted to, he could just blow my head off. But if he’s not on to me, and I push too hard, he might start to wonder why I’m so eager to get away from the hero who just saved my life. I’m supposed to be grateful and trusting, right? The more I protest, the more he’ll be tempted to question the story that I, myself, put into his head. It’s my own damn fault for feeding into his stupid ego!
In the PI world, very rarely is “rolling with it” the smart play. But it’s kind of feeling like theonlyplay right now.
We get to his car, which he parked a block and a half away from the house. It’s a late-model tank-like black SUV with dark windows. (Because of course he rides like the freaking US Special Forces!) He unlocks the passenger side, and I slide into the front seat before he slams the door, leaving me in a tight, enclosed space where evenIsmell my own anxiety sweat. Soon to be with a highly trained Monster Hunter who might sniff me out at any second. And where I literally have nowhere to hide.
Well done, Alvin. Well done.
7
Before he takesthe driver’s seat, the Monster Hunter chucks his night vision goggles in the back, slides out of his Kevlar duster, then carefully places his shotgun with its back scabbard holster in the footwell behind me. (Within easy grabbing distance, I’m sure!)
The duster gets folded and put over the goggles on the back seat next to Collin, who now sits inside, gaping out his (still closed) window with the eager expression of a dog on day trip to the park. That he’s made it into the car at all is hella strange. I don’t care how liberally old San Francisco drew those property lines, we’re over a block and a half away from the front lawn of that corner mansion! He really shouldn’t be able to exist this far away from the house, not if he died there! I’m beginning to wonder if nowI’mthe thing he’s haunting. Could the watch be some kind of ghost magnet?
The Monster Hunter drops into the driver’s seat next to me, and for the first time, I get to see his face without the high-tech optics. And let’s just say, it’s not what Iexpected. First of all, he’s young. Like still-in-his-twenties young. Black hair, dark skin. (He said he was part of the “Peralta clan,” so what does that mean, Mexican ancestry? Portuguese? Maybe a mix?) And his chiseled, clean cut, perfectly symmetrical features look like they should belong to a fitness influencer with a million followers, not a cut-throat warrior. He does have one small scar on his left eyebrow, but it just makes him look more…dashing, I guess. What I’m trying to say is that this paranormal-killing-machine is actually really freaking handsome. Super-model handsome. Much, much hotter than any Monster Hunter has any right to be.
And no, for the record, that doesn’t mean I want to pounce on him right now. Chances are he’s still going to murder me, which is kind of a boner-kill, you know? But I don’t do well around cute guys in general, so his Instagram thirst-trap looks are just one more reason for me to feel completely freaked out. Because, you know, I needed something else to freak out about tonight. Thank you, Universe!
I realize I’m full-on staring, which (crap!) he totally just noticed, so I follow Collin’s lead and quickly turn my head to look out the window. Maybe I can just do that the whole way home, avoid any conversation, and?—
His hand grips my knee, and it’s all I can do not to squeak and leap up in fright. (Let’s be real: I actually do both those things.) I then glance over at him through the corner of my eye, and he’s looking at me with a smile that smolders with amusement. (Dude, your fingers are inches away from my inner thigh! How do you expect me to react?!)
“Still a little tense after those vamps, huh? Let’s get you home. What’s your address?”
I force myself not to hyperventilate while I debate about whether I should lie about this. I probably should just give him some corner near my bus line and hoof it from there. But somehow I justknowhe’ll want to watch me go into my building, to make sure I “make it back safely.” And anyway, it’s like 3:30 in the morning by now and, to be honest, I just want to crawl into my own bed, pull the covers over my head, and pretend I never was born.
“I’m, uh, at Jones and O’Farrell.” I get the words out, but my throat is so tight, it’s sounds like I’m having a second puberty.
“All right.”
He removes his hand (thank you!), but then reaches over me, bicep grazing my nipple (!), bringing our facesinchesapart (!!), so he can pull my seatbelt around me and snap it in. (OMG,dude!I swear, I’m really not five years old!)
I’m now literally locked in place.
He responds to my look of terror with a wink. “Safety first, right?” (It’s like he’senjoyingmessing with me!) Then he sticks out his massive hand for a handshake, his smolder-grin broadening. “I’m Rafa.”
