Chapter 2
Chapter Two
“You. Are. Shitting me.”
Amara snapped her fingers at her best nemesis / worst friend. “Pay up. Fired by noon, twenty-eight days in. Well, twenty-seven and a half.”
Gray let out a sigh. “He only held off that long because he thought he could get in your pants. Let’s get supper at Houlihan’s.”
“You expect me to have an appetite after you put that image in my head?”
“I’ll pay you in drinks.”
“Good call, since that’s the only tender I’ll accept.”
Twenty minutes later, she and Gray were sucking down virgin mules served inexplicably in regular glasses. Were the copper mugs in the dishwasher? Or oxidating in a cupboard? Perhaps she expected too much from a chain.
“Ka-boom!” he chortled. Graham Gray was currently growing out his buzzcut; as usual, he managed to look disheveled and put-together at the same time.
He was dressed in dark blue shorts and a long-sleeved polo shirt in a primary color (today’s was jack-o’-lantern orange).
As it was March, he was wearing socks with his battered loafers.
The long-sleeved shirt wasn’t just in deference to the weather; it hid some of the scars.
If you judged him simply on appearance—long, strong legs; swimmer’s shoulders; pale green eyes; dark hair—you’d think he never felt fragile for so much as a nanosecond. That no one who looked so good could ever feel so bad.
“Another temp job bites the dust,” he said with a snicker. “Pun intended.”
“And not a minute too soon. Another day and I was going to set his man-bun loose and use the scrunchie to strangle him. It would have been tough, but you’d be surprised how resilient cloth-covered elastic can be.”
Gray chuckled. “That’s the only thing I like about you, Amara. Ordinary people burn bridges. You’re the human embodiment of the Viet Cong.”
“It’s not the only thing. Plus, the Viet Cong was actually made up of humans, you delightful dope. And they preferred to be called the People’s Army of Vietnam.”
He ignored facts. “You blow them up and then stomp all over the smoldering remains. And then piss all over ground zero for good measure, ne’er to return.”
“Thank you? What can I say, I don’t do long engagements. Sometimes not even short ones.”
“I still don’t get how you do it. Or why, but that’s a conversation for another time. You’re always so vague when I try to pin you down.”
“I just read the paper and . . .”
“Annnnnnnd?”
“And get a feeling.”
“From reading the newspaper.”
“Yes.”
“Specifically, the obituaries.”
She shrugged. He was doing that thing where he knew the answers but asked anyway.
“It doesn’t happen every time. But now and again I get .
. .” A need. An urge. A compulsion. “A feeling. Billy’s mother died last month and I felt .
. . I just had the impression that he was an asshole doing asshole things.
So when he advertised for an assistant .
. .” She shrugged again. “And it’s a little alarming that you’ve got such an interest in my employment history. ”
“Aw, c’mon, after the way we met? I made a PowerPoint,” he said brightly. “Which I’ll be updating tonight. You should come back to my place and see the updates in real time. This has gotta be a new record for you.”
She took another sip. Fresh lime juice, excellent. “Your PowerPoint must be missing a slide: my twenty-two-day stint as a hoser of hounds and catcher of cats.”
Gray shook his head. “Doesn’t count. You did that for fun and you never got paid. And you had to leave when the full-time gal got back from maternity leave.”
“Mmmm.” She did have to, but not for the reason Gray assumed. The full-time employee brought her baby to the no-kill pet shelter, which is when Amara realized the infant would be dead before the leaves started to turn. She hadn’t wanted to be in the room with either of them after that.
Gray must have seen something on her face, because he leaned back to scrutinize her expression and put down his drink. “Listen, Mar, your deal is your deal . . .”
“Don’t get philosophical on me, you doof.”
“And maybe this is a dumb question . . .”
“I’m confident it will be.”
“But have you tried warning them?”
“It’s not just a dumb question, it’s one you’ve asked before. I’ll tell you now what I told you then: It. Doesn’t. Work.” So she had learned, in the most brutal manner after too many attempts to get in fate’s face. “When it’s your day, it’s your day. And no man knoweth the hour. Shouldn’t, anyway.”
“What?”
“‘Take ye heed, watch and pray: for ye know not when the time is.’” Fine advice which few could be bothered to heed.
Not that she was a Bible pusher. Or any sort of pusher.
But given that every religion featured her father, she’d made a point of reading all sorts of religious texts: the Bible, the Tipitaka, the Quran, the Torah.
And once she’d met Persephone, Greek mythology.
Which was . . . stupid, really. Why study for a job you’ll never have?
She rejoined the chat. “Are you rethinking our agreement?” Early in their friendship, he’d made her swear never to tell him the time and manner of his inevitable demise.
“Good God, no.” Gray downed half his virgin mojito in one gulp, then clutched his head and regretted everything as he waited for the brain freeze to pass. “Don’t you dare spoil the surprise!”
“Your death will definitely be a surprise,” she muttered into her glass.
“It will? Why—wait. What? No! Don’t say anything—okay, a good surprise or a bad surprise? Dumb question, obviously a good surprise . . . do I drown in a vat of DQ ice cream? Don’t answer that!”
“Calm down.” Time for a subject change. “Drink your drink, honey.”
“Honey! You only call me that when you’re trying to calm me down or asking if I wish to acquire honey.
It just . . . it sounds like it’s soon. Is it soon?
Don’t answer that! Is it now? Ten seconds from now?
Or ten years? Don’t answer! But you can tell me when Elon Musk’s gonna bite the big one.
Make my decade and tell me it’s this week. ”
She chuckled. “No idea. That’s not how it works.”
“Okay, how ’bout our waiter?”
“February 2065. Complications from pneumonia.”
“Jeez,” Gray muttered, then couldn’t look at the waiter when he came back with fresh drinks.
“Well, he’s gonna live to be a geezer, so that’s something.
But how can you stand it?” he whispered.
It was unnecessary; they were surrounded by the noisy lunch rush.
But some things, Amara knew, should be spoken of in low tones.
“You already asked me that, too.” She didn’t mind.
Friends who knew about her family’s, um, long record of service but stuck around anyway were rare.
To be honest, she only had one. The trick was finding a chum who didn’t give a shit about dying.
Who might even be inclined to speed things up if they thought Death was being a slowpoke.
And then rescue them, even if they didn’t want to be rescued.
And keep them safe, as best you can.
“God, that must be . . .” Gray was still staring after the waiter. “How can you even think about it?”
“I don’t,” she replied. She clinked her glass with his and took a healthy gulp, filtering the ice out with her teeth to avoid Gray’s mistake. “At all. When I have a choice.”