her. Even after all these centuries wandering the world, Dweezil was in a category all by himself. At least, she hoped so—she
hated to think there were more Dweezils running around somewhere.
“Nah, too easy for him to try to sneak out the back door. I’ll just go in and wait.” She headed for the closed door.
“What do you mean that car wasn’t clean? My fuckin’ cars are cleaner than your arse!” The growl that greeted Jazz was as pleasing
to the ear as fingernails on a chalkboard. The faint burnt almond scent that always clung to Dweezil’s leathery olive-green
skin stung her nostrils. That was another reason why she tried not to piss him off. The angrier he grew, the more burnt-almond
stench came off his skin. “You’re sayin’my people don’t clean the cars so you can get out of paying the bill. You don’t pay
the bill, you never use one of my fuckin’ cars again. You got it?” The sound of cracking plastic indicated the call was finished.
Jazz dropped into the leather chair placed in front of the L-shaped mahogany desk meant to impress and intimidate anyone who
ventured into the inner sanctum. A wide variety of vintage sex toys graced a floor-to-ceiling cabinet and erotic artwork lined
the walls. Jazz hadn’t been daunted the first time she’d seen the collection, although she wondered about the bedlike antique
vibrator a woman had to lie on in order to use. She wasn’t curious enough to try it though. Dweezil had offered to loan her
the device as long as he could watch. She wasted no time turning down his oh-so-generous suggestion.
She returned his glare with a sunny smile.
“What the fuck is your problem?” Dweezil’s voice was a combination of growl, rusty cough, and ground glass. He dropped the
broken phone into the wastebasket and pulled out a replacement from the bottom drawer. Several phones lay there in wait for
his next tantrum.
“You really need to work on your interpersonal skills, D.”
“Why should I change what works for me?” he growled.
“Yeah, why bring in more business when you can so easily drive it away with your charming personality?”
The skeletal creature known as Dweezil—whose last name was unutterable by any human tongue—was a good seven feet tall and
immaculately attired in a charcoal Armani suit. When she called him olive-skinned, she did not mean someone of Mediterranean
heritage, but a preternatural creature with skin the color of a ripe green olive. While it was a good look for the fruit,
it wasn’t all that good for anything remotely humanoid. An unruly thatch of mud brown hair flew every which way on top of
his football-shaped head. As if he wasn’t ugly enough with the thin skin stretching over his bones—at least she thought they
were bones—the overbite of yellowish-green teeth didn’t add a thing to his lack of looks. His black eyes snapped at her, showing
his usual ill humor.
Even though Jazz had worked for Dweezil for almost five years, she still hadn’t been able to figure out his lineage. He was
too short to be a giant, not ugly enough to be a troll, and most definitely not a goblin. She settled for seeing him as a
combination of all three. She had heard rumors he paid his tailor extra to make sure his third arm was well hidden from the
world. Gossip also hinted there was a second dick hiding somewhere in there too. Confirming the rumors wasn’t anywhere close
to the top of her to-do list.
“Damn vampires. First they complain my cars aren’t clean, and then they demand some kind of protection ’cause so many of ’em
have gone missing. Like that’s my problem?” he grumbled. “Everyone knows they’re not missing. They took some kind of weird
cure and became mortal again.
They’re all probably at the beach working on their tans. Plus, they want any kind of protection, they’re gonna have to pay
for it, and it won’t come cheap either.” He looked up with his usual glare.
hated to think there were more Dweezils running around somewhere.
“Nah, too easy for him to try to sneak out the back door. I’ll just go in and wait.” She headed for the closed door.
“What do you mean that car wasn’t clean? My fuckin’ cars are cleaner than your arse!” The growl that greeted Jazz was as pleasing
to the ear as fingernails on a chalkboard. The faint burnt almond scent that always clung to Dweezil’s leathery olive-green
skin stung her nostrils. That was another reason why she tried not to piss him off. The angrier he grew, the more burnt-almond
stench came off his skin. “You’re sayin’my people don’t clean the cars so you can get out of paying the bill. You don’t pay
the bill, you never use one of my fuckin’ cars again. You got it?” The sound of cracking plastic indicated the call was finished.
Jazz dropped into the leather chair placed in front of the L-shaped mahogany desk meant to impress and intimidate anyone who
ventured into the inner sanctum. A wide variety of vintage sex toys graced a floor-to-ceiling cabinet and erotic artwork lined
the walls. Jazz hadn’t been daunted the first time she’d seen the collection, although she wondered about the bedlike antique
vibrator a woman had to lie on in order to use. She wasn’t curious enough to try it though. Dweezil had offered to loan her
the device as long as he could watch. She wasted no time turning down his oh-so-generous suggestion.
She returned his glare with a sunny smile.
“What the fuck is your problem?” Dweezil’s voice was a combination of growl, rusty cough, and ground glass. He dropped the
broken phone into the wastebasket and pulled out a replacement from the bottom drawer. Several phones lay there in wait for
his next tantrum.
“You really need to work on your interpersonal skills, D.”
“Why should I change what works for me?” he growled.
“Yeah, why bring in more business when you can so easily drive it away with your charming personality?”
The skeletal creature known as Dweezil—whose last name was unutterable by any human tongue—was a good seven feet tall and
immaculately attired in a charcoal Armani suit. When she called him olive-skinned, she did not mean someone of Mediterranean
heritage, but a preternatural creature with skin the color of a ripe green olive. While it was a good look for the fruit,
it wasn’t all that good for anything remotely humanoid. An unruly thatch of mud brown hair flew every which way on top of
his football-shaped head. As if he wasn’t ugly enough with the thin skin stretching over his bones—at least she thought they
were bones—the overbite of yellowish-green teeth didn’t add a thing to his lack of looks. His black eyes snapped at her, showing
his usual ill humor.
Even though Jazz had worked for Dweezil for almost five years, she still hadn’t been able to figure out his lineage. He was
too short to be a giant, not ugly enough to be a troll, and most definitely not a goblin. She settled for seeing him as a
combination of all three. She had heard rumors he paid his tailor extra to make sure his third arm was well hidden from the
world. Gossip also hinted there was a second dick hiding somewhere in there too. Confirming the rumors wasn’t anywhere close
to the top of her to-do list.
“Damn vampires. First they complain my cars aren’t clean, and then they demand some kind of protection ’cause so many of ’em
have gone missing. Like that’s my problem?” he grumbled. “Everyone knows they’re not missing. They took some kind of weird
cure and became mortal again.
They’re all probably at the beach working on their tans. Plus, they want any kind of protection, they’re gonna have to pay
for it, and it won’t come cheap either.” He looked up with his usual glare.
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