Chapter Twenty-Five
. . . the Dead Man kept Reece the empath pinned to the hood of the Smart car. “I know just about everything there is to know
about empaths,” said the bigger man. “Except this: Is it true you can feel what people are feeling all the time . . . even
in bed?”
Reece squirmed on the car hood. “Why?” He smirked. “Would you let me go if I said yes?”
The Dead Man tightened his grip. He was supposed to be an empath hunter, but he wanted to hunt Reece right into the nearest
bedroom.
(continued in the next comment)
—Excerpt from Hunting for Love, an empath/empath hunter fan fiction
Between the snow, the icy road and the Hayabusa engine, Grayson had had to drive like a snail. Finally, though, he made it
to the closed Empath Initiative facility outside the Port Angeles city limits, where it stood alone on the several tree-covered
acres originally planned for expansive research facilities.
Of course, after EI had decided it’d be easier to funnel taxpayer money into a private institution than jump through all the government hoops to keep their own research aboveboard, Stone Solutions had taken over research and development, moving all operations to Seattle and shuttering this facility.
It felt as unused as it was, the lights off and graffiti on one wall—not the good kind, with bright colors and art, but some smeared black spray paint spelling out four words.
We don’t want empathy!
The painter probably hadn’t even realized the irony.
The old parking lot was blanketed in a thin sheet of undisturbed snow. Grayson inched the Smart car into the lot, pulling
into a spot at the edge, under pine branches. The snow was still coming down, and harder now; he’d need to move fast, because
it wouldn’t take much for him to come back to the little Smart car buried in snow.
He climbed out from the car and ducked under the edge of the tree line, following it along the parking lot, although stray
flakes of snow still landed on his hat and shoulders between the branches. He skipped the front of the building, heading for
the entrances at the back, where he found a door already loose on its hinges, so that Grayson was able to nudge it open and
slip inside.
It opened to a small foyer with a linoleum hall heading toward the building’s core. There was no furniture to be seen and
the electricity had been turned off, or maybe never connected, making the interior cold and dim, lit by only the light that
made it through the windows with their years of grimy buildup.
The abandoned feeling was even stronger inside. But as Grayson started forward to the hall, he heard the softest sound above
his head.
Not a mouse or other rodent visitor.
Footsteps. One floor up.
Grayson pulled out his gun. Keeping his own footfalls silent, he traversed the hall until he came to a large staircase heading up and out of view. After one flight, a large landing opened to the second floor, the stairs continuing up to the third and fourth floors above.
Following his memory of the floor plan, Grayson stepped out onto the carpets of the second floor. Similar to EI’s Seattle
office, the center of the floor was a mazelike run of basic cubicles with half-height walls, and the perimeter was lined with
office doors, all of them closed.
Except one, at the very end of the hall.
Eyes sharp and gun at the ready, Grayson crept down the hall, to the door with its plaque reading Director. It was cracked open just a few inches.
As silently as he could, Grayson inched closer. He raised the gun and then, in one smooth motion, shouldered open the door
and spun into the room.
The office was empty.
Grayson’s gaze darted around the space, ears pricked for any more sounds. But it wasn’t his eyes or ears that picked something
up. It was his nose.
Because as Grayson inhaled, he caught a faint scent he’d noticed at McFeely’s: his own shampoo.
The empty EI building was silent around Grayson, like it was holding its breath. As quietly as he could, he pulled out his
phone.
Grayson: Marco
He sent the text and waited.
A few seconds ticked by.
Then, somewhere on the third floor over his head, he heard the unmistakable chime—the sound of an empath who’d forgotten to
silence his phone.
Grayson was off the mark like a sprinter. Above his head, footsteps were racing down the third-floor hall. Grayson tracked them, following as the footfalls on the ceiling sped back to the stairs. He reached the stairs first, tucking himself out of sight behind the wall.
Just as the footsteps hit the second floor, he spun back out onto the landing, putting himself right into the intruder’s path,
gun aimed straight at them.
“Freeze.”
Reece did.
Silence fell around them, broken only by Reece’s panting breaths. There was a flush on his cheeks, a light sheen of sweat
to his skin. “Polo,” he finally said through clenched teeth.
Here they were again, the Dead Man versus a corrupted empath.
He might be corrupted because he sacrificed his pacifism for a chance to save your life, said a voice in Grayson’s head. Because he chose you over himself, just like he did before—
Grayson couldn’t afford those thoughts, not right now. “You didn’t answer my texts.”
“Yes, and I realize that’s probably a new experience for someone as hot as you.” Reece was still breathing hard from his run.
At his sides, his bare hands were balled into fists. “But gunpoint is a little extreme, don’t you think?”
“Actually, I think gunpoint is right where we’re at these days.” Grayson didn’t lower the Magnum. “What are you doing here?”
“Aren’t you going to tell me to put my hands up before you start the interrogation?”
“Why would I? You’re not carrying a weapon; you are the weapon. It just doesn’t work on me,” Grayson said. “And I asked why you’re here.”
“Scoping out the real estate,” Reece said. “Your brother wants a new evil lair.”
“You’re gonna sass me now? Right now, when I have you isolated and at gunpoint?”
“I think we’ll have to cross this location off the list, though,” Reece said. “Where would we put our moat of emotionally
enslaved sharks—”
“Did you come here for Victor Nichols’s research?”
Reece’s eyebrows went up. “Why would it be here, and not tucked away in—oh, say, a safe-deposit box back in Seattle?”
They eyed each other for a long moment.
That had been a very specific thing to say.
“You know something you ought to tell me?” Grayson said.
“Aw, baby,” Reece said with cloying sweetness. “You really got to accept that I’m never gonna tell you shit.”
Silence fell again around them, and really, what had Grayson thought was gonna happen? That Reece would confess he’d used
insight to save Grayson’s life? That Reece would say let’s work together, Evan?
Maybe the old Reece had saved Grayson’s life, but that Reece was gone, and this new Reece didn’t care if Grayson lived or
died. It didn’t matter how Reece had become corrupted; what mattered was that he was corrupted, and the Dead Man needed to take him somewhere that he couldn’t hurt anyone else. Needed to knock Reece out. Nice
and easy. Right now.
“If you like,” Grayson heard himself say instead. “But the way I see it, it’s pretty simple: Either you answer my questions,
or I search you, and we both know what’s gonna happen if I put my hands on you. Seems like you might prefer to stay conscious,
but what do I know?”
Reece’s eyes narrowed. “We’ve touched plenty of times already. Every time I’ve gotten more immune to it. So you don’t even
know if your touch will still knock me out.”
“Want to find out?”
Reece’s jaw tightened. But he didn’t answer.
Grayson’s gaze darted over Reece’s body, the close-fitting hoodie and jeans. Plenty of pockets to hide a small item, though
Grayson probably shouldn’t think too hard about what else was under Reece’s clothes. Something a lot more fun than a flash
drive, at any rate.
He gestured with the gun. “Now I need you to put your hands up.”
“Why?” Reece said suspiciously.
“Because I said so. And either you follow directions or you take a little nap and wake up behind bars. Up to you, sugar.”
Reece rolled his eyes but stuck his hands in the air.
“Take three steps backward,” Grayson said. “So your back is against the wall. And keep those hands up.”
With obvious reluctance, Reece obeyed, never taking his eyes off Grayson.
Grayson transferred the gun to his left hand, lowering it but keeping it at his side. He stepped within arm’s reach of Reece,
close enough he could scent the shampoo again. Close enough he could feel the warmth Reece always radiated.
Reece raised his chin. Grayson was more than a head taller, dwarfing him this close, so that Reece fit like a puzzle piece
into the small space between Grayson’s body and the wall. “I’m trying not to touch you, but you decided not to wear gloves.
Which means if our hands brush, it’s bare skin.” Grayson had lowered his voice without planning to. “So unless you’re itching
to pass out on this floor, keep those hands nice and high and out of the way for me.”
Reece exhaled, and Grayson felt the air skate over his collarbone. He was hyperaware of Reece’s lips, his own lips suddenly
tingling with the memory of just how good their one stolen kiss had been. He’d be lying if he pretended part of him wasn’t
aching to lift Reece right up against the wall and steal another.
But the more they touched, the more they risked Reece becoming immune to his knockout ability. Grayson slipped his hand in the hoodie’s left pocket, finding nothing. “Don’t tell me I’m gonna have to go into your jeans,” he said as he checked the second pocket and found it empty too.
“Not like it’s your first time.” Was it Grayson’s imagination, or had Reece’s voice also gone lower and more strained?
Grayson rested his hand on the wall, just to the side of Reece’s hands, as he eyed the jeans in question. “You couldn’t’ve
worn them looser?”
“I thought you liked tight fits.” Oh, Reece’s voice was definitely lower, and he was still breathing too hard. His hands remained up against the wall, on