Behind him on I-5, someone honked. Grayson tossed the phone back to the passenger seat and grabbed the wheel again.
Of all the ways he’d expected Reece to respond to his request to meet, naming the fake empath club hadn’t made the list. And tonight, with news of the AMI president’s death still rocking Seattle, the club would likely be extra packed with people wanting to gossip.
In hindsight, letting Reece choose a place might’ve been a bad decision. Grayson was making an awful lot of those.
He drove back to the studio, where he stood at the kitchen island and ate two packs of Reece’s vegan ramen out of a rainbowbowl as he read up on the old Empath Initiative facility out by Port Angeles on his phone.
Eyes on Empathshad done a feature story on the old facility two years ago. Gretel had gone in person and posted some of her own photos of the abandoned campus: an evergreen-edged parking lot with lots of potholes but no cars, a shell of an office building with several boarded windows, a pile of rusted construction debris with a raven perched on top. If Traynor had been there recently to hide a flash drive, Grayson would guess he’d picked the office building, where it’d be out of the elements, at least, and the floors were finished and safe to walk on.
You told Reece you needed to see him,a little voice in his head pointed out.
Grayson hesitated over his phone. But yeah. He had done that.
Why?
Because Grayson was leaving town tomorrow—leaving St. James alone to watch over a powder keg with potentially murderous corrupted empaths on one side and the folks framing them on the other.
But you’re the Dead Man. You don’t have needs.
And you most definitely don’t need Reece.
Grayson put his phone down. It was time to go.
McFeely’s had been put through a lot that one November night after Senator Hathaway had died. Between Cora Falcon’s thralls, the panicking crowds and Reece smashing a historic window to escape, the club had needed to set up temporarily in a warehouse in Kent while the building underwent cleanup and repairs. McFeely’s had just reopened that week in their previous location in Pioneer Square.
It wasn’t much more than a mile from the studio, so Grayson opted to walk, leaving the Smart car in the building’s garageinstead of trying to find more downtown parking. It was a cold night, a light and partially frozen rain falling on his hat as he walked the sidewalk, trying to avoid any deeper puddles. The familiar smells of most urban downtowns were here, car exhaust and less pleasant human aromas, but at least layered over salty ocean air and rain. It was louder than expected, with pockets of people smoking on downtown corners, undeterred by the cold or the damp, and a steady flow of cars splashing through puddles.
He still couldn’t explain why he’d told Reece he needed to see him. And he definitely couldn’t explain why, as he’d been leaving the studio, he’d grabbed his own Texas hooded sweatshirt, the one he’d once given to Reece. He was wearing it now, zipped up under his coat, the hood pulled up over his hat to keep the rain off his neck. Reece wasn’t gonna notice. Hell, maybe Reece wasn’t even gonna show.
It was exactly 10:58 p.m. as he approached the historical building that hid McFeely’s. More cars now lined the streets, though he didn’t see his F-150 anywhere, and faint bass was floating out from the upstairs window. As he approached the double doors under the green awning, a thick white man with a goatee waved him up to the front of the line.
“Evan Grayson?” When Grayson nodded, the man pointed at himself. “Rocky. Reece said you were coming. You’re his boyfriend, right?”
“Actually, I’m his—his—Reece is here already?”
“Got here maybe an hour ago.” Rocky spoke with the comfort of a man who clearly no idea what kind of empath was now in his club. “How’s Diesel? Never the same without him, but it sounds like he caught a hell of a flu in Vancouver. He said you were letting him crash at your place in BC.”
“He can stay long as he wants,” Grayson said. “Where did Reece go?”
“He mentioned he was going to find Ben.” Rocky was sizing Grayson up with a professional sort of air. “You’re not the jealous type, are you?”
“The what?”
“My man, you’re the size of Godzilla,” Rocky said patiently. “I gotta know if I’m going to be breaking up your fights.”
“My... fights?”
“I get it,” Rocky said. “Pretty dude like you—you’re used to being the one people want.”
“Well—”
“But in here, they got a specific taste. And no offense, but that taste ain’t you.” Rocky said it real kind, like Grayson’s ego needed to be let down gently. “This crowd comes for the empaths, and they will be all over Reece.”
Oh. Grayson cleared his throat. “He’s, um—kind of a handful, actually. These days especially.”
“No, see, that’s not going to turn anyone hereoff.” Rocky patted his shoulder sympathetically. Grayson was beginning to understand why he worked at an empathy-themed club. “Look, I get it: Every asshole in here wants to take Ben home. Do I love that? Of course not. But I deal, right? I process my feelings like a grown-up. So you gotta deal too, especially when we’re short a bouncer without Diesel. If someone hits on Reece, I need to know that my new friend Godzilla won’t start swinging.”
“I do try to avoid violence in front of empaths,” Grayson said.
