Chapter 14 #2
“Earlier. You said you might tell me how you started jumping off cliffs for money.” Greg set down his sandwich. “I'd like to know. If you're willing.”
Dustin's appetite flickered.
He could deflect, change the subject or make a joke about how his tragic backstory cost extra. Greg would probably accept it. He didn't seem like the type to push.
But Greg had just told him about his weird little notebook.
Dustin felt like he should give something back. “I had a brother,” he said. “A twin, actually. Tyler.”
Greg nodded. “I know.”
Dustin stopped with a fry halfway to his mouth. “You know? Fuck, of course you know. You’ve been stalking me. How could I forget? You're obsessed with me.”
“I'm not obsessed with you.”
“No?” Dustin ate his fry. He didn't feel like talking about his backstory anymore, about Tyler, about any of it.
Not when Greg had already snooped on him and admitted to it so openly, like it was no big deal that—
He didn't let himself finish that thought.
Instead, he guided another fry to his mouth and caught the reaper who was—allegedly—not obsessed with him watch his lips move as if he wanted to be that fry.
Something sparked inside of Dustin. Maybe it was his rebellious streak, maybe it was the part of him that refused to sit still with discomfort, but he picked up another fry.
And he held Greg's gaze as he dragged it through the ketchup—deliberate and unhurried—and brought it to his lips.
Greg's ears went pink.
Dustin bit down slowly, letting his tongue catch a spot of ketchup at the corner of his mouth.
The pink spread to Greg's cheeks.
Dustin smiled.
Not obsessed my ass.
There was something Greg wanted that didn't have anything to do with being a reaper or notebooks or even greasy salty food.
Something he would likely never ask for.
Idly, Dustin wondered if death could be corrupted.
He wondered what it would sound like.
“You're staring,” Dustin said.
Greg's blush deepened. “I wasn't… I was just observing.”
“Uh-huh.” Dustin licked his lips. Greg's eyes tracked the movement. “And what exactly are you observing?”
“The... um… the mechanics of human eating. So I can get even better at it.”
“Greg.”
“Yes?”
“You're a terrible liar.”
Greg looked down at his plate. “I don't know how to lie,” he said quietly. “It's not something reapers do. Death is honest.”
“Sounds inconvenient.”
“It is.” Greg picked up a fry of his own, not looking at Dustin. “Especially right now.”
Silence followed those words. Dustin let it stretch just long enough to be uncomfortable.
Then, because he couldn't help himself: “Do reapers fuck?”
Greg choked on his fry.
Dustin waited, enjoying the way Greg's face cycled through various shades of red.
“I—that's—” Greg grabbed his milkshake and took a long drink. It didn't seem to help. “Why would you ask that?”
“You said you were given bodies. The Bodily Needs Mandate, right? Eating, drinking, bathroom breaks.” Dustin leaned back in the booth, arms crossed, watching Greg squirm. “You said you were fully equipped.”
“I am, but that's not…I mean…” Greg set down the milkshake. Picked it up again. Set it down. “The mandate was intended to help us understand mortality. To make us more relatable to our clients.”
“So?”
“It's—the equipment is—” Greg's voice dropped to a mortified whisper. “Functional. Technically. But it's not something we—I've never—”
He stopped. The red had spread all the way to his neck.
Dustin grinned. “You've never?”
“There's no reason to. We don't reproduce. We don't form attachments. We exist to serve the natural order, not to—” Greg gestured vaguely, helplessly. “—indulge.”
“So you've got all the parts but you've never taken them for a test drive.”
“Must you phrase it like that?”
“Yes.” Dustin picked up another fry, watching Greg track the movement. “Absolutely I must.”
Greg was quiet for a moment, still flushed and flustered. Then he said, “I want to ask something too.”
“You want to know if I fuck?”
“No. I mean—that's not—” Greg took a breath. Steadied himself. “Why do you have so much metal in your face?”
Dustin blinked. That wasn't where he'd expected this to go.
“It's very distracting,” Greg continued, not quite meeting Dustin's eyes. “The lip ring especially. What's it for? Is it decorative? Functional? Some kind of human mating display?”
Dustin ran his tongue along the ring inside his mouth. So Greg liked his piercings, did he?
“You think it's a mating display?” Dustin repeated.
“I've read that some human adornments serve to attract potential partners.” Greg's brow furrowed. “But metal through the face seems like it would be a deterrent, not an attractor. It looks painful.”
“It wasn't that bad.”
“But why?”
Dustin opened his mouth to give his usual answer—because I wanted to, because it looks cool, because fuck you that's why—but something about the absolutely puzzled look on Greg's face gave him pause.
“Because I like how it feels,” he said instead. “The needle, the healing, the weight of it after. I like taking control over my body and the way I look.”
Greg was quiet, processing this.
“Also,” Dustin added with a slow smile, “it drives people crazy.”
“What kind of crazy?”
“The good kind. The kind that makes you want.”
Greg's blush, which had started to fade, came roaring back.
“That seems manipulative,” he managed.
“I'm not manipulating anyone. I'm advertising.”
“Advertising what?”
Dustin grinned. “Would you like to find out?”
Greg's mouth gaped open as if he were a fish.
No sound came out.
Dustin watched him struggle, enjoying it more than he should, enjoying the images his mind was painting him—of how easy it would be to unravel this beautifully honest creature.
To wreck him.
All he needed was a flat surface and a locked door—and the latter was optional.
“I—” Greg started.
“Yes?”
“That's—you're—”
“Use your words, sunshine.”
“I don't have words for this.” Greg's voice came out slightly strangled. “This isn't—I wasn't trained for—you're my assignment.”
“Is that a no?”
Greg didn't answer.
That was interesting.
That was very interesting.
“Relax,” Dustin said, letting him off the hook. For now. “I'm just messing with you.”
Greg exhaled. His shoulders dropped. “Oh. Right. Of course.”
Was that disappointment?
Dustin filed that away for later.
When the check came, Dustin paid.
Greg watched the transaction with obvious fascination, eyes tracking the way Dustin pulled out his card, the way Samantha ran it through a machine, the way numbers moved from one place to another without any physical money changing hands.
“That's like magic,” Greg observed.
“It's also how they track everything you buy, but sure. Magic.”
“Who tracks it?”
“Banks. Credit card companies. The government, probably.” Dustin shrugged. “Anyone who wants to know what you're up to.”
Greg considered this. “I guess the movements of currency should be tracked by someone, but maybe not everyone.”
“No, probably not.”
Samantha brought the receipt. Dustin signed it, left a tip, and slid out of the booth.
Greg followed, clipboard tucked under his arm.
Outside, the night air was cool and the parking lot was mostly empty. Dustin stopped by his truck.
“So,” he said.
“So,” Greg echoed.
“I guess I'll see you at the hospital tomorrow.”
Something that almost looked like pain flickered across Greg's expression. “You're still planning to interfere.”
“Yup.”
“Dustin...” Greg hesitated. “This one is different.”
“Different how?”
“Marco Reyes-Ybarra is sixty-seven years old. He's in the hospital.” Greg's voice was careful. “I don't know exactly what's going to happen, but there may not be anything you can do.”
Dustin didn't let himself be distracted by possibilities. “I won't know until I try.”
Greg shot him a dismayed look. “Just… If he does pass and I have to collect, please don't interrupt that. It would be very unsettling for the spirit.”
Dustin studied him for a moment. Greg looked genuinely worried. Not about the assignment, but about the person. About doing right by someone in their final moments.
“Fine,” Dustin said. “If it happens, I won't get in your way.”
Greg's shoulders dropped with relief. “Thank you.”
“But I'm still going to try.”
“I know.” Greg clutched his clipboard a little tighter. “I'm starting to think that's just who you are.”
Dustin didn't know what to say to that. So he didn't say anything.
He climbed into his truck. Greg remained in the parking lot, looking faintly lost, like he wasn't sure what came next.
Dustin rolled down the window. “Hey.”
Greg looked up.
“Get some sleep. Do reapers sleep?”
“Sometimes.”
“Well, get some rest. You look like you need it.”
Greg's lips twitched. Almost a smile. “Goodnight, Dustin.”
“Night, sunshine.”
He pulled out of the parking lot before he could think too hard about why he'd used the nickname again. In the rearview mirror, he watched Greg stand there for another moment—then step through the diner's front door and vanish in the process.
Right. Reaper.
Dustin shook his head and drove back toward his motel, the taste of coffee still on his tongue and something he couldn't name sitting heavy in his chest.