Part 2 (1/2)

d.a.m.n straight.

Chapter Two

”There you are, young man! We've been waiting all day for you. I knew the moment I saw him that he would be the one for you. Just look at his face!”

d.a.m.n. Some days, it was better to go anywhere but home.

Bree switched off his motorcycle and levered the kickstand down into place. Yeah, they'd b.i.t.c.hed at him about his ride at Money Now! too. He'd stood his ground about keeping the bike, because face it, even with a trade-in he couldn't afford a car.

Besides, the thought of a beige compact made his stomach do sick little flips. He could handle faking the clean-cut look, but no way would he sacrifice his beat-up Harley. Trouble was, it kind of advertised his arrival to the nutcases -- er, neighbors -- he lived with.

He could see Mrs. Jamison, who lived downstairs from him, waddling toward him fast as she could go, vast thighs rubbing together and a grin brighter than Times Square on New Year's Eve splitting the middle of her bulgy face. She always made him think of bread dough that had been left out too long: puffy, white, and kind of sticky-looking. Bread dough that had serious personal s.p.a.ce issues. And a fixation with small, furry animals. For some reason he had yet to figure out, she'd taken a s.h.i.+ne to Bree.

He had learned by then to either back up slowly or run away whenever Old Lady Jamison came after him with that kind of manic glee and her hands full of ... something.

Okay, I can handle this. Not taking off his helmet, he made to hop off his bike and breeze past her. Maybe she'll think I'm just a visitor.

Unfortunately, Jamison had gotten wise to the trick he'd pulled a couple of times before. She wagged a segmented-sausage finger in his face with a giggle. She jiggled with delight, every roll of her. ”Now, now, now, Bree! I know it's you in there. Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

Yep. Bread dough. Crazy bread dough. Even though he felt positive he'd regret it, Bree lifted one hand and raised the visor on his helmet. He took a careful two steps backward, only to have her take two steps closer, wiggling with obvious glee. ”Here!”

she declared, lifting her other hand. ”He's perfect for you!”

Something furry, with way too many teeth, peered at him from a distance of one inch and started up a h.e.l.lacious chittering noise punctuated by screeching. Bree let out a yelp to match it, volume for volume, and stumbled back against his bike. ”What the - - what the h.e.l.l is that thing?”

Jamison followed him, making playful jabs at his face with the Mini-Monster. ”Silly boy! This isn't an 'it.' He's a ferret kit.

Best of his litter. Look at that face! How could you resist such a cute little woobie doobie doo ...” She broke off to nuzzle the thing, which now that Bree had s.p.a.ce to get a good look in, made him think of a stretched-out rat. Right down to the beady black eyes and the nasty teeth. It was just way, way longer than any rat he'd seen before.

”Ferret?” he said stupidly.

”Oh, yes! Ferrets make the peachiest pets, Bree! You know I've been after you for ages to get an animal for company.

Animals are much better friends than people,” she said seriously, chins wobbling. ”I saved this one just for you. Here!”

Bree managed to choke back his yelp, but didn't even try not to jump out of the way, safely onto the steps leading into the cut-up house full of apartments. ”That's okay, really. You, um, you keep the ferret. Really.”

”But he wants to go home with you!” She pouted.

”Yeah. See, problem with that is our landlord's no-pets clause, right? You know how he fines you every month because of all your animals?”

”Pish-tosh and pocket change. It's worth it for my babies. You'll see. Here, take him!”

”No! I mean, thanks, but no, and hey, you take it easy now; have fun with the ferrets and all, but I'm gonna go upstairs now, all right?” Bree dodged the furry bullet one more time and -- to h.e.l.l with dignity or 'tude -- made a run for it through the old, squeaky front door. He didn't stop until he hit the first landing, where a quick peek back through the window showed him Jamison having a serious conversation with the ferret and smothering it with messy lipstick kisses.

Jesus.

Bree shook his head and plowed back up the stairs without looking -- straight into something that yelped and went down like a pile of broken sticks. Startled, Bree yanked off his helmet and looked down at the ragged carpet to see ...

”Hey, Bree!”

Jesus, help me, Bree prayed, even though he hadn't spoken to the Person in question for about ten years. ”Hi,” he said shortly, deliberately not offering a hand to the guy he'd knocked down, who was as skinny as Jamison was fat, with skeleton ribs and a concave belly that showed even through his faded bowling s.h.i.+rt. A shock of sickly, mouse-colored hair cut into a pageboy still managed to fall into his eyes, definitely unwashed for a few days. A face not even a mother or a ferret-fanatic could love, with the same creepy little black eyes.

Eustace.

Completely unfazed at being knocked off his feet, Eustace lay on the ratty stairwell tread as if it were an easy chair, beaming a huge, gap-toothed smile at Bree. ”I'm so glad to see you! You know, I heard the bike pull up, and I was sure it would be you 'cause no one else here rides a chopper, and I knew that Jamison was down there, but I figured you'd give her the slip real easy, and so I thought I'd come down and grab you before you got up to your apartment because you never answer the phone or the door, you know, not even when I bring up a ca.s.serole or some parfait or want to watch TV, do you?”

No kidding. Especially when I know it's you. ”I don't hear so good,” Bree lied. He darted a glance around the stairwell, but d.a.m.n it, Eustace's scarecrow arms and legs had sprawled everywhere, blocking his path.

Eustace was still going. Did he ever breathe? ”-- but, anyway, it's Sat.u.r.day night -- you do know that it's Sat.u.r.day, right? -- and I don't have any plans, and I know you never have any plans anymore after you dumped that GQ guy, and hey, way to go, slugger, I always knew he was no good for you, but anyway, I spent all day cooking stuff I've seen you eat, like fish sticks, only I used real fish and ramen noodles with some extra spices, and I even tossed a couple of hamburgers in a pan; plus I made these chocolate things that look just like snack cakes, and, oh, yeah, popcorn, and then I went and bought a few cartons of wine coolers because I don't like vodka, but that was the only thing I wasn't sure you liked, 'cause, you know, I keep an eye out on you, I mean for you, and there's a Queer Eye marathon on tonight, and I thought I could bring all the food up to your place, and we could watch it together, okay?” Beam.

Bree blinked. Half of his mind was still trying to translate the stream of nonstop babble, while the rest was telling him, Run, you f.u.c.ker, run! Step on him if you have to!

”Eustace, man,” he began ”Had a bad day, all right? I'm not --”

Eustace blinked. ”See, that's why I told you not to take that job. I mean, I go by the mall almost every day you work, and I see you in there, and you just look so miserable, and you're starting to get all washed-out, too -- oh, which reminds me, are you taking those vitamins I left for you?”

”Yup,” Bree lied again. Actually, he'd flushed the horse pills. ”Do you wanna move? I need to get to my apartment.”

”Move? Sure, I can move.” Eustace scrambled up. Looked like a scarecrow come to life for Halloween. But instead of moving out of Bree's way, he latched on with one dirty-fingernailed hand and hung tight. ”You know, you really are a big gloomy Gus, Bree, even if you don't feel like it. I know if we just hung out you'd loosen up, and maybe you'd start to smile even. I'd be good for you, Bree. I'd be anything you wanted. If you want me to change, just say so; I did that for my last boyfriend. I still have all the ties and that weird beanie yarmulke hat, too. Oh, hey, I could get something pierced, or we could get matching tattoos!”

Eustace's eyes gleamed. ”That would be fun! We can ditch the food, and you can show me where you get your ink done, and afterward, let's come back and sit on the couch and have a good, long talk.”

In. Your. Dreams. Your wet dreams, probably. Bree shook off Eustace's hand. ”Sorry,” he grunted. ”Gotta go.” Rude or not, he shoved past the skinny creep and vaulted up the stairs, two at a time.

Behind him, he could hear Eustace, still going. ”So, okay, not tonight, but what about tomorrow? I could make a cake; I know you like cake; I've seen you eat cake through your window a few times, and --”

Oh, G.o.d. Bree paused to rub his shoulder, where Eustace had touched him, against the grimy wallpaper. I'd rather stick my d.i.c.k in a blender than that freak.

Yeah. Definitely time to get home. Just one more flight to go. f.u.c.k, he was so gonna lobby for an elevator next time the pet.i.tion went around. Who cared if there wasn't a place to put one? d.a.m.n landlord could f.u.c.king build an elevator shaft. He'd give up his parking s.p.a.ce to make room.

One more flight. And, hey, he hadn't dropped his keys or absently shoved them into a pocket, either. They jingled in his hand as he practically ran for his door. Never could tell when Eustace or Jamison might pop up out of nowhere again like the freakin'

ghosts of Christmas Present. How they did it, he had no clue. If he believed in any of that paranormal s.h.i.+t, he'd be inclined to think they could teleport or some such bull.

But nah. Those two were just creeps. Ordinary, extra-creepy creeps, yeah, but nothing special. He could cope. He was Bree, after all.

He leaned against his door, battered and scarred from a thousand kicks and punches, some of them his own from when he was drunk and the lock didn't want to work. This time, the key slid in smooth as silk, the tumblers clicked over easy as pie, and he had his hand on the k.n.o.b, starting to turn it when -- ”Monsters!” a voice bellowed in his left ear.

Bree nearly jumped out of his skin. ”What the f.u.c.k!” he yelled, corks.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around, hands already clenching into fists. Enough was e-d.a.m.n-nough! Then he saw who had yelled and wilted. Aw, h.e.l.l. He could live with a lot, but not pummeling on a guy old enough to be his grandpa -- and a veteran, to boot.

Crazy Pete peered at Bree through his one good eye, the other long ruined by some kind of sh.e.l.ling damage. Vietnam, Bree remembered Pete bragging once. The old man leaned on his huge cane, one pants leg dangling empty below the knee. He wore one of his old uniforms, hanging off his bones, chockfull of medals, including a Purple Heart. His face reflected the serenity of wisdom, gathered through the years, and the knowledge that he spoke the truth.

It was all a little negated by the triangle hat made out of tinfoil, complete with antennae.

”Monsters,” he rasped, nodding emphatically. ”Whole city's full of them today. I heard it on the CIA broadband. The newspapers have been calling, but I don't give a rat's hindquarter about those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. Let them get eaten, for all I care. You, on the other hand, I'm warning to be careful.”