One Jonas
One
Jonas
I’ve already acquired the loans for the taqueria, the coffee shop, and the laundromat. The dog groomer and the baker are considering our offer. I mean, ‘offer.’ It’s not really optional. That leaves… I look down at my list. The accountant, the record shop, and the garage.
Yeah, I work for the Emerald Moths, one of the three crime rings in San Hades.
But we’re one of the good ones. Rosalind, my boss, has been buying up loans all over the city for years now.
Aside from favors owed, she drops interest rates, is forgiving on payments if business slows, offers business workshops, and, most importantly, takes that money out of corrupt banks.
I shove my hands into my pockets. My attire has really improved since we met Wren, my now-seamstress. It’s rather hard to buy off-the-rack as a seven-foot-tall minotaur. I look up the street as my tail swishes mindlessly.
The door to the coffee shop jangles happily as I step inside.
“Morning, Morrie!” I greet the smoke demon behind the counter. His energy coalesces, giving him more of a face, showing me that he’s smiling.
“Hey Jonas, how are you? I signed up for that networking event at The Spire next month.”
“Great! I’m sure you’ll make some solid contacts there.” I smile as I rub my horn.
“What do you want? On the house,” he offers as his smoke dissipates into other parts of his body form.
“Caramel macchiato, please. And heavens, no,” I add, slapping down a twenty.
Sipping my coffee, I head down the street.
The first of the businesses is an old car shop, with a fresh, bright sign declaring ‘M’s Repairs.
’ I push open the door, and a computerized version of the first few bars of that famous space movie plays loudly.
Biting down a smile, I think, I love that series.
“Jus’ a sec,” a woman yells through a doorway that opens into the garage. I turn and inspect the office-slash-waiting room: two older couches covered with granny-square knit blankets and a little table covered in kids’ toys and coloring books. Cute.
The front desk is vintage, maybe even from a library. It’s polished and neat, topped with a couple journals and an electronic POS system.
Good, this guy is up-to-date on technology. The old, technology-resistant fogies are always the hardest to convince to come into the fold of the Emerald Moths.
“What can I help you with?” a friendly voice says.
I turn and look into the deepest brown eyes I’ve ever seen. My nostrils flare. Her intoxicating scent, something floral and dark, dives directly to my groin. I feel my sheath stir, and I shake my head hard, trying to control myself.
I’ve found my destined. My mate.