Shimmer
A Charley Davidson Christmas Story
by Darynda Jones
Reyes Farrow, the rascal from next door, looked away from the flames curling around the blackened logs in the fireplace and leveled his powerful gaze on me. “A reporter?” he asked.
I blinked at the cynicism in his voice. It hurt. Okay, not really, but it did leave me flummoxed. And I wasn’t easily flummoxed.
Ye of little faith.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I don’t want to be just a reporter. I want to be an investigative reporter.”
He fought a sexy grin that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “So, being a private investigator, the owner of an apartment complex, part owner of a bar and grill, a consultant for the Albuquerque Police Department, part-time bartender, and the only grim reaper this side of the universe isn’t enough?”
Ah. Suddenly, I understood his doubts. His misgivings. I put down my pen and notebook, placing them carefully on his slate coffee table, and turned back to him. This would take some explaining. Some finesse. And some more coffee because my cup was almost empty.
“That’s my professional life. Professional . This is my personal life. I’ve decided to become a reporter more as a hobby. Because, you know, how hard can it be?”
He cleared his throat. “You do realize you just offended every reporter alive. And probably many who aren’t.”
Finesse. Right. I forgot the finesse part. “You have a point, but seriously, I know people.” I leaned toward him. “Think about it. I could interview famous people no one else can get to. You know, the dead ones. Imagine the assignments I could get. I mean, did Abraham Lincoln really talk smack when he was a champion wrestler? What was it like for Jane Austen when she was a senior officer in a women’s battalion for the King’s Royal Hussars? Was Hitler really the father of meth and thus directly responsible for one of my favorite shows on the planet: Breaking Bad? The possibilities are endless!”
When I finished my pitch, Reyes leaned back into the corner of his thick sofa and stretched out his legs. He held a glass half-full of an amber liqueur. Long fingers balanced the goblet loosely on a jean-clad thigh. The other set of long fingers rested against his temple in thought. With his elbow braced against the arm of the sofa, his shirt had tugged open, straining the top button over the expanse of his chest, allowing a delicious glimpse of exposed skin underneath.
I fought the urge to crawl on top of him, to bury my fingers in his thick, dark hair and my tongue in his sensual mouth. But I had a job to do—no, wait, a hobby—and no amount of sexiness was going to divert me from my mission. I was, after all, vying for the interview of the century. The one where the son of Satan tells all for no one’s benefit but my own.
I wanted so much to know more about him, about his pasts, the ones on both Earth and in hell. So I came up with an utterly ingenious, if I did say so myself, plan that involved me writing an article about him for the New York Times. And/or the National Enquirer. It could go either way.
He cast a sparkling gaze from underneath his lashes. Placed an index finger across the seam of his mouth. Slowed his heartbeat and studied me like a predator studies its prey. “If you keep looking at me like that, this is going to be a very short interview.”
His intent, his hypnotic allure, mesmerized me. It took a long moment before I could tear my gaze off him. “Right,” I said, clearing my throat and reaching for my pen and notepad again. “Right. So, does this mean I can ask you some questions?”
“You can ask me anything.”
Of course, I could. Didn’t mean he’d answer. “Let me rephrase,” I said, tapping the pen against my chin. “Does this mean you will answer my questions?”
After a thoughtful moment, he said, “I’ll answer anything you ask.”
No way. A giddy, whimsical kind of happiness raced up my spine and
A Charley Davidson Christmas Story
by Darynda Jones
Reyes Farrow, the rascal from next door, looked away from the flames curling around the blackened logs in the fireplace and leveled his powerful gaze on me. “A reporter?” he asked.
I blinked at the cynicism in his voice. It hurt. Okay, not really, but it did leave me flummoxed. And I wasn’t easily flummoxed.
Ye of little faith.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I don’t want to be just a reporter. I want to be an investigative reporter.”
He fought a sexy grin that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “So, being a private investigator, the owner of an apartment complex, part owner of a bar and grill, a consultant for the Albuquerque Police Department, part-time bartender, and the only grim reaper this side of the universe isn’t enough?”
Ah. Suddenly, I understood his doubts. His misgivings. I put down my pen and notebook, placing them carefully on his slate coffee table, and turned back to him. This would take some explaining. Some finesse. And some more coffee because my cup was almost empty.
“That’s my professional life. Professional . This is my personal life. I’ve decided to become a reporter more as a hobby. Because, you know, how hard can it be?”
He cleared his throat. “You do realize you just offended every reporter alive. And probably many who aren’t.”
Finesse. Right. I forgot the finesse part. “You have a point, but seriously, I know people.” I leaned toward him. “Think about it. I could interview famous people no one else can get to. You know, the dead ones. Imagine the assignments I could get. I mean, did Abraham Lincoln really talk smack when he was a champion wrestler? What was it like for Jane Austen when she was a senior officer in a women’s battalion for the King’s Royal Hussars? Was Hitler really the father of meth and thus directly responsible for one of my favorite shows on the planet: Breaking Bad? The possibilities are endless!”
When I finished my pitch, Reyes leaned back into the corner of his thick sofa and stretched out his legs. He held a glass half-full of an amber liqueur. Long fingers balanced the goblet loosely on a jean-clad thigh. The other set of long fingers rested against his temple in thought. With his elbow braced against the arm of the sofa, his shirt had tugged open, straining the top button over the expanse of his chest, allowing a delicious glimpse of exposed skin underneath.
I fought the urge to crawl on top of him, to bury my fingers in his thick, dark hair and my tongue in his sensual mouth. But I had a job to do—no, wait, a hobby—and no amount of sexiness was going to divert me from my mission. I was, after all, vying for the interview of the century. The one where the son of Satan tells all for no one’s benefit but my own.
I wanted so much to know more about him, about his pasts, the ones on both Earth and in hell. So I came up with an utterly ingenious, if I did say so myself, plan that involved me writing an article about him for the New York Times. And/or the National Enquirer. It could go either way.
He cast a sparkling gaze from underneath his lashes. Placed an index finger across the seam of his mouth. Slowed his heartbeat and studied me like a predator studies its prey. “If you keep looking at me like that, this is going to be a very short interview.”
His intent, his hypnotic allure, mesmerized me. It took a long moment before I could tear my gaze off him. “Right,” I said, clearing my throat and reaching for my pen and notepad again. “Right. So, does this mean I can ask you some questions?”
“You can ask me anything.”
Of course, I could. Didn’t mean he’d answer. “Let me rephrase,” I said, tapping the pen against my chin. “Does this mean you will answer my questions?”
After a thoughtful moment, he said, “I’ll answer anything you ask.”
No way. A giddy, whimsical kind of happiness raced up my spine and
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