Chapter 5
The motel room was too quiet.
That was always the problem with coming down from a jump. The high lasted maybe an hour, just long enough to get through the interview, dodge the medics, and escape back to wherever he was staying.
And then silence.
Dustin tossed his keycard on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed. The room was generic. Beige walls, beige carpet, a painting of a field of yellow flowers. He'd stayed in a hundred rooms just like it.
He pulled out his phone to play some music. Something loud.
He spotted three texts from his manager about tomorrow's schedule and one from the Apex PR team with “talking points” for the duck incident, which they were apparently spinning as a “hilarious behind-the-scenes moment.”
Fucking hell.
There was also an email from someone wanting him to promote protein powder.
And one missed call from Mom.
She hadn’t left a voicemail. She never did. Her MO was to call, let it ring once or twice and hang up. Like she was checking to make sure the line still worked. Making sure he still worked.
He should call her back.
He looked at her name on the screen for a long moment. Cathy. He'd changed it from “Mom” a few years ago, for reasons he couldn't quite articulate. It felt less heavy that way. Less like an obligation he was failing.
She'd probably just ask how the jump went. He'd say fine. She'd say that's good. There'd be a long pause where neither of them mentioned Tyler, and then she'd say she should let him go, and he'd say yeah, and that would be it.
Tomorrow. He'd call her tomorrow.
Tonight was for not thinking.
Dustin dropped the phone on the bed and headed for the shower.
An hour later, he was ready to go out.
He wore clean jeans, a black t-shirt, and the leather jacket Tyler had savagely mocked him for buying four years ago. He’d said it made Dustin look like he was trying too hard.
That wasn’t true anymore. Dustin never looked like he was trying. He made shit look effortless.
His brother would be proud if he could see him now. Wouldn’t he?
He checked himself in the mirror. Ran a hand through his hair.
The city had to have a decent bar somewhere. Somewhere loud, with bad decisions on tap and people who would ask him about his tattoos and nothing else.
He grabbed his keycard and walked out the door.
The bar was called something like Venom or Viper or Voltage—one of those aggressive single-word names that promised bad music and worse decisions. In short, it was perfect.
Dustin pushed through the door and let the noise wash over him. Bass thumping through the floor. Bodies packed tight. The smell of sweat and alcohol and cologne signaled that this was a place where thinking was optional.
Which was exactly what Dustin had been looking for.
He made his way to the bar, ordered a glass of whiskey with a single ice cube, and leaned back to survey the room.
Not bad. A group of women in the corner kept glancing his way, one of them with a smile that suggested she wasn't here to make good choices either. A guy by the pool table caught Dustin looking and raised his beer in acknowledgment. Nice arms. Nicer butt.
Options. Dustin liked options.
He was mentally calculating the logistics of introducing himself to both parties when he saw…
Clipboard guy.
He was standing by the emergency exit like he too was keeping his options open, except that he needed one of those options to be disappearing from this place as quickly as possible.
He was wearing the same thing he'd been wearing earlier too, a tie, button-down, slacks… and that clipboard.
Who brought a clipboard to a club?
Dustin watched him for a moment. Had this dude followed him from the shoot?
A woman bumped into clipboard guy on her way to the bathroom and he apologized so earnestly that she looked almost concerned.
He stuck out like a nun at an orgy, and Dustin couldn’t quite tear his gaze away.
Downing the rest of his drink, he decided to approach.
He crossed the room, weaving through the crowd. Pool table guy tried to catch his eye as he passed. Dustin shot him a wink and a “hold that thought” gesture without breaking stride.
He stopped directly in front of clipboard guy. Up close, he looked even more out of place. He had those wide eyes and that nervous energy and a face that had probably never told a lie in its life. He was kind of cute, actually, in a “has never been to a party before” sort of way.
“Well, well.” Dustin smiled. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Clipboard guy made a startled noise. “I—you—hello.”
“You didn’t expect me to come talk to you?”
“No, I mean… why would you?”
“Why would I?” Dustin leaned one shoulder against the wall, angling closer. Not enough to crowd him, but enough to make a point. “Because you were at my shoot this afternoon. And now you're at this bar. Which kind of suggests you're following me.”
“I'm not—I'm conducting research.”
“Research.”
“Yes.”
“At a nightclub.”
“Yes?”
Dustin let his gaze drift down clipboard guy's body, slow and deliberate, before dragging it back up to his face. The guy's cheeks went pink.
Oh, this was going to be fun.
“And what exactly are you researching?” Dustin asked. “I'll warn you, I charge extra for private sessions.”
“I—what? No. That's not—” Clipboard guy looked like he was short-circuiting. “I’m here on official business.”
“You're at a club called Voltage holding a clipboard. How professional could it possibly be?”
“It's—” He faltered, licked his lips, then tried again. “I'm a reaper.”
Uh-huh. That was a new one.
Dustin waited for a punchline.
None came.
“A reaper,” he repeated.
“Yes. I collect souls. Guide them through the transition from life to death. It's sacred work and I take it very seriously.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You were supposed to die today.” Clipboard guy—the reaper, apparently—looked genuinely distressed.
“The file said so. The inflatable duck was supposed to kill you.
But it didn't. And that's never happened before.
And my supervisor says I have to fix it but I don't know how, and I've been standing here for twenty minutes trying to understand why you're still alive and I still don't have an answer.”
He said all of this very fast and very earnestly, like he believed every word.
Dustin stared at him.
Greg had made a tactical error.
Several, actually. Coming to this establishment had been error number one.
The noise was overwhelming. A relentless thump that seemed to vibrate through his entire being.
The lights kept changing colors for no discernible reason.
Someone had offered him something called a “J?gerbomb” and he still didn't know what that meant but the name sounded threatening.
He'd materialized so he wouldn't freak Dustin out if the mortal saw people slide right through him. He’d thought he could hide in plain sight. He’d thought that he could blend in.
He was not blending in.
He was holding his clipboard and watching Dustin from across the room and trying to formulate a plan, because Morrith had said fix it and Greg had no idea how he was going to do that. He needed more data. More information.
And then Dustin was walking toward him.
No. Not walking. Prowling. There was no other word for it. He moved through the crowd like he owned it, like everyone else was just scenery, and his eyes were locked on Greg with an intensity that made something in Greg's chest malfunction.
He winked at someone as he passed, didn't even slow down.
And then he was right there, leaning against the wall, smiling like he knew a secret Greg didn't.
“Well, well. Fancy meeting you here.”
Greg's voice abandoned him.
This was fine. This was fine. Dustin didn't know anything. He'd just seen Greg at the shoot—as a visible, normal, human person. There was no reason for him to suspect anything. Greg just had to act natural.
How did natural people act?
“I—you—”
Not like that.
The conversation that followed was a disaster.
Dustin asked why Greg was following him. Greg said research. Dustin asked what kind of research. Greg's mouth, operating independently of his brain, said “I'm a reaper.”
And then—because the disaster was already in progress and Greg had apparently decided to commit fully—he explained everything.
The file. The duck. The failed collection.
Morrith's orders. All of it, spilling out in one panicked breath while the bass thumped and lights flashed and Dustin stared at him like he'd grown a second head.
When Greg finally stopped talking, Dustin was quiet for a long moment.
“Okay,” he said. “First of all—the duck? Really? That's how I was supposed to go out?”
“I don't choose the method. I just collect.”
“A twenty-foot inflatable duck sponsored by an energy drink. That's what the universe picked for me.”
“Death comes in many shapes.”
“Apparently.” Dustin shook his head. “Second of all—and I cannot stress this enough—what the fuck?”
Greg didn't have an answer for that.
Dustin studied him for a moment, eyes narrowing. Then, abruptly, he laughed.
“You're serious,” he said. “You actually believe this.”
“It's not a matter of belief. It's my job.”
“Your job is to kill people.”
“To collect people. After they die. I don't—” Greg faltered. “I'm not supposed to cause deaths. I just... I'm supposed to be there when they happen. Except yours didn't happen. And now I don't know what to do.”
He sounded pathetic. He knew he sounded pathetic.
Dustin tilted his head, something shifting in his expression. Less amused. More... curious.
“So let me get this straight,” he said. “You're the grim reaper—”
“A reaper. There are many of us. It's a whole department.”
“—and you were assigned to collect my soul, but I didn't die, and now you're following me around a nightclub with a clipboard trying to figure out how to fix it.”
“Yes.”
“And 'fix it' means...?”
Greg swallowed. “I don't know.”
Dustin watched him for a long moment. Then he pushed off the wall.
“Okay, grim reaper,” he said. “I'm going to get another drink. You look like you need one too.”
“I don't—reapers don't really—”
Dustin was already walking toward the bar. He glanced back over his shoulder. “You coming or not?”
Greg hesitated.
Then he ran the other way.