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“I . . . Ah . . . Uh huh. We need a property service for some fact-checking. Time’s ticking.”
Hunter rolled back and fanned an arm out. “Lead the way, Marc.”
Chapter Four
Marc.
Hunter’s soft utterance of my name followed me the rest of the evening. It felt promising. Like maybe I could start with a clean slate.
I stared at my computer. Did I dare go back on Demon-Slayage?
I groaned as I clicked into the game. I wanted to be on here. Badly.
Nervous butterflies hit my stomach. Hunter was already online.
DaMage: You’re back!
Me: I’m not sure this is a good idea.
DaMage: In light of us knowing each other?
Me: It was more fun when you didn’t know the real me.
DaMage: Are you worried I’m judging you?
Me: Aren’t you?
I tapped my desk nervously, waiting for his reply.
DaMage: Maybe it’s not a bad thing?
Me: Finding out what a shit I am in real life?
DaMage: Finding out there are other sides to you.
Me: Other sides. Right.
DaMage: We’ve been gaming together all summer. I’ve noted a couple redeeming qualities.
Me: Like my stunning ability to lead us into a demon trap, only to lose my sword and depend on you to magic our way out of it?
DaMage: For example.
I groaned and lounged back in my desk chair, staring at the chat screen.
DaMage: You’re also disarmingly funny.
I wrote a bunch of responses that I immediately deleted. I gnawed on my lip, typed out another reply, and hit send before I could second-guess myself.
Me: How did your date with Red Jeans go?
Maybe I should have second-guessed myself.
DaMage: Red Jeans?
Me: Yeah, were they colored or was it blood from being so damn tight?
DaMage: I should have taken them off for a better look.
Me: Next time.
DaMage: Maybe. Not sure there’ll be a next time.
Me: He didn’t do it for you?
DaMage: Maybe for a few no-strings fucks. But . . . We’ll see.
Me: . . .
DaMage: You asked.
Me: You answered.
DaMage: Kind of the way questions work. Got any others?
Yes. A lot, actually. None I knew how to ask.
Me: Let’s just find the Amulet of Redemption and be quick about it.
DaMage: I have a question. What’s in the Archie tin?
Me: I haven’t opened it yet.
DaMage: You’re killing me. OPEN IT.
Me: Help me with these venomous demons and I will. Hell, I’ll personally deliver it and let you do the honors.
DaMage threw a cluster of seriously powerful potions at our enemies. He must have been saving up for a long time because every demon in a five-mile radius froze.
Me: The fuck?
DaMage: 156 Walnut Ave, ground floor, apartment 2A.
DaMage: Wait, you don’t drive. What’s your address?
I burst upstairs into Uncle Ben’s apartment. He was sitting at the dining table in the glow of his laptop. Checking out my Scribe submission, no doubt.
He peered over the screen. “They’re pulling down the gazebo at Lover’s Loop?”
He knew the place? “Yeah. In three weeks. Where’s the vacuum cleaner?”
Uncle Ben lowered his screen, expression morphing quizzically. “The vacuum?”
“I want to clean.” I checked the grandfather clock adjacent to him. “Immediately.”
“Surely that means stuffing everything from the floor into your closet?”
Well, yes. But. “I need to do a thorough job. Vacuum the carpet. Run all-purpose cleaner over the bathroom . . .”
Uncle Ben scrubbed the surprise off his face. “The vacuum is in the hallway cupboard, along with sprays. You don’t expect me to help, do you?”
“Stop acting like this is the first time I’ve cleaned.”
“Voluntarily, it is.”
“Well, it might become a thing. Get used to it.”
“Sure. If the urge arises, my place can be used for practice.”
“Funny.”
“So, who is he?”
“Who?”
“Who you’re cleaning for?”
“It’s not enough to clean for myself?”
“At nine-thirty on a Thursday night?”
“You should have been a detective,” I mumbled, hoofing to the hall for cleaning items. Uncle Ben’s laughter followed me.
Back in my basement apartment, I collected my laundered but unfolded laundry and stuffed it into my closet, vacuumed the floor, and gunned all-purpose spray on every surface.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
Hunter: Any stairs to negotiate?
Me: Nope. On a hill though, path descends to the back of the house. I’m in the basement.
I stashed the vacuum, sprays, and half-eaten Cheetos bag in the closet with the laundry before dashing my hands through soapy water.
The doorbell dinged, and I swept open the door to a startled Hunter.
The sensor light glowed over his spiked hair, snug-fitting shirt, dark jeans, and bright blue Nike’s. He always carried himself with enviable composure, and now was no different. He sat tall, hands resting lightly on his wheels, bright eyes holding mine with a pleased twinkle.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hi.”
“Yep, heya.”
Hunter cracked a grin. “Going to let me in?”
“Sure. Just saying hello. In all its variations, apparently.” I held the door wide open.
He steered into the room, hauling in a deep breath. “Huh. Clean.”
“Yeah, that’s totally me,” I said, shutting the door on a chilled breeze.
