An Eye For Danger (book 1)

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

I raised the bottle and swished the rum back and forth. About half-full.

“Then again,” said Sam, sinking onto the banquette, “we like those surprises.”

Max whipped his tail against Sam’s leg, like we were all playing a game. Sam’s eyeball chest stared at me and I nearly laughed but remembered his pride. From the fridge I pulled a carton of orange juice and smelled it. Good enough. A narrow vase from some past Valentine’s Day served as a highball glass. I set the glass in front of him, splashed juice, then poured rum. A lot of rum.

“That’ll do,” he said. “Kinda girlie. But the swelling’s killing me.”

Sam took the highball glass with a greedy hand and raised it toward me. I poured a teetotaler version for myself and joined him.

“On three.” He tapped his drink on the table three times, then slammed it back. Then panted. Gulped, then panted. Repeat. He drank like he’d not tasted water for days, but his body felt the worse for chugging the alcohol, judging by his fits of coughing and seizing in pain.

As he struggled for even the shallowest of breaths, I fixed him another drink, wondering if I could get him drunk enough to pass out so I could call the police. How exactly would I explain to Stone the part about undressing a fugitive and then toasting with him? Worse, Sam fascinated me. I’d made a career of interviewing bad guys outside the eyes of authority. Another hour couldn’t hurt.

Sam drank so fast he dribbled his drink between his pecs, causing the rum to trail toward his navel and darken the waistband of the gray boxer briefs that peeked from his open pants. He touched his belly, then licked the sticky residue from his finger. I averted my gaze, aware of the heat hitting my cheeks.

“Come here.” He waved me to his side. I refused at first. A crimp in his forehead came and went. “Give me a break, lady.” Still I waited. "Okay, okay. Please."

I relented, getting under his good arm and hoisting his sandbag body with my cardboard frame. Routine work by now, but still a struggle.

“That’s good, that’s good,” he said, breathier than ever. “Just let me—”

But I held on, pushing him forward before he collapsed and broke more bones. Nobody was dying on my watch, not this time. With some velocity, we punched into my sky-blue living room, which I’d converted into a master bedroom after Luke’s death. Cream curtains framed floor-to-ceiling windows that exposed a modest third-floor view of more polished neighboring townhomes, while the afternoon light washed my oak floors in sepia and highlighted the picture molding and glass doorknobs. I’d kept the room sparsely furnished—sleigh bed, short tan sofa, mule dresser, and double cherry bookshelves—so nothing stood in our path as Sam and I careened toward the corner bathroom.

Pivoting, I turned him to face the mirror set in the bathroom’s oak door. He whistled at the sight, but it was all air.

“We need to reduce the swelling,” I said. “I’ve only got ice, but I can go to the store—”