14. Inferno
“At least it hasn’t been over a hundred years.”
Glaring at Acid, I growl. “Not helping.”
My date with Emmy is tonight and to say I’m freaking the fuck out is an understatement. Not only has it been years since I’ve done this, but it’s Emmaline Daniels.
I can’t fuck this up.
“I’d give you better advice, but I’m pretty sure women nowadays have different standards than they did back in my time.”
“You could always ask Viking,” Demo suggests. “He’s got Makayla, so he knows how to do something right.”
“He probably peed on her and then marked her with his blood,” Reaper says with a chuckle. “Isn’t that what Vikings do?”
“You’re an idiot,” Viking says as he strolls into the room. “I did not pee on Makayla, nor did I smear blood on her. But I do know men who’ve done both.”
“See!” Reaper exclaims. “Weird shit went on back then.”
I pound the bar. “None of you are helping!”
“Dude, just be yourself.” Demo slaps me on the back. “You’ve got this.”
“How am I supposed to be myself when I’m dead? Pretty sure that would scare her to, well… death.”
“At least you’d really get to be together then,” Acid comments.
“Again, not helpful,” I snarl.
They continue to offer advice, none of it worth taking. Eventually, I just walk away, and they don’t even seem to notice because their discussion on dating doesn’t stop.
When I reach my room, my cell rings. I pull it out of my cut and glance at the screen, groaning when I see the name flashing.
“Hey, Rave. What’s up?”
“Got some more intel on Emmaline Daniels,” he says.
“Hit me.”
“So far, only one of her clients has red flags, but they”re popping up all over the place with him.”
“Who?”
The sound of rustling paper comes through the line. “Name’s Jack Porter. He’s a relatively new client, but he’s got a rap sheet that screams trouble.”
I recognize the name from when I snooped through Emmy’s files back on day one of working as the janitor. As I recall, nothing about him jumped out at me at the time.
“Run it down for me.”
“He’s got a history of assault, domestic violence, possession of a firearm by a felon, and two stalker accusations that didn’t stick because the women recanted their stories.”
“How is he not in jail?” I snarl, enraged that the system has let a guy like this on the streets.
“I’m guessing he’s had a good attorney,” Rave says. “His family has money, so he doesn’t have to rely on a public defender.”
“Anything else you can tell me about him?”
Do I need to know more?
“The last woman to file charges against him looks an awful lot like Emmy. Same hair, same build.”
“So, he’s got a type.”
“That and an ax to grind.”
“Why’s that?”
“Not only did she press charges against him, but when they didn’t stick, she tracked him down and kidnapped him. Took him to some cabin and tortured him. Real crazy shit,” he says.
“Good for her.”
“Agreed. But not necessarily good for you or your girl. He’s pissed, and I’m guessing he’s stalking Emmy to get revenge on the other chick.”
“She’s not my girl,” I insist, unable to think past that.
“Whatever, man,” Rave drawls. “Your girl or not, she’s who Odin sent you here for. And I think Jack Porter is the threat.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“No problem. Good luck.”
Before he can hang up, I blurt, “Wait a sec.”
“What?”
“When’s the last time you went on a date?” I ask, not giving myself the chance to back out of my inquiry.
“Why?” Rave asks suspiciously.
“I’ve got a date with Emmy in a little bit, and I’m freaking the fuck out. I don’t know what to do, and the guys here are no help.”
“Just be yourself,” he suggests. “Well, maybe not the whole producing fire thing, but other than that, you should be good.”
“I thought you hated me, hated us.”
“I don’t hate you. But even if I did, Odin sent you here for a reason. If I don’t believe in you, I believe in him.”
“Thanks, man.”
“Now, can we quit all the feelings shit so I can hang up?”
I chuckle at him. “Yeah. Keep us posted if you find anything else.”
“Will do.”
Rave disconnects the call. He’s not the first person to tell me to be myself tonight so that’s what I’m going to do.
Without telling her I’m dead.
Three hours later, I’m standing on Emmy’s porch, a bouquet of flowers in my hand—women love flowers, right?—and an itchy feeling beneath my skin.
No fire, no fire, no fire.
I repeat that mantra over and over again as I knock on the door and wait for her to answer.
No fire, no fire, no fire.