Carlos

At the end of a long, somewhat traumatic day, John drives me over to the hotel where the department has set me up to stay.

It's not much to look at: an older style place with two stories and rooms accessed from the outside of the building. Rolling to a stop in the parking lot, John leans forward, peers through the windshield, and swears.

"Fuck. I can't leave you here."

"What? Why not?" I frown and give the hotel another once over. It's seen better days, but it's not that bad.

"It's not secure. One flimsy door between you and the world? I don't like those odds."

"Well, lucky you don't have to. I'll take 'em," I grumble.

John did all the real work today — managing a team of police and forensics specialists as they documented, investigated, and eventually cleared the scene of Lucille's demise — but I'm dead tired anyway. All I want is to fall into a bed, shut my eyes, and hope I don't dream about bodies under the floor or dead old ladies in bathtubs.

Thanks for the memories, Universe. Now how 'bout you send me something good for a change?

"Carlos, come home with me. At least my place is secure."

I lift my brows at him. "Is it? What happened to the angsty vampire spiel?" I do my best to imitate his growly Batman voice. "You're like a drug to me, Carlos. There is no 'us.'"

He scowls at me. "David did something to help me control my... urges. At least in the short term. And I'll keep my distance. Besides, with this new debacle and all the paperwork it comes with, I doubt I'll be home much anyway."

"What about David?" I ask. "Would I have to share a bathroom with him?"

John shakes his head. "He went home. He's a busy man, and he trusts me to handle things — at least in the short term. No one's going to force you to do anything against your will. Especially not me."

I waver. John's house is spacious and clean; the hotel looks cramped and questionable. John's house is removed from town and secure; the hotel is too close to the river park for my liking, and John has a point about those flimsy doors.

"The dogs miss you," he says, and I swear under my breath.

It's a low blow, hitting me with the dogs when he can tell I'm wavering.

Fine. Two can play that game.

"Kiss me."

"What?" He blinks.

"I said, kiss me. Prove that you can kiss me and not want anything else."

His eyes lock with mine, catching the evening light just right so they swirl with kaleidoscopic autumn fire. Then he blinks again and turns away with a sharply indrawn breath.

"I can't."

"Right. Well. There's that, then."

Sighing, I pop the door open and get out of the car, slinging my backpack over my shoulder and rolling my head to crack my neck. John gets out as well.

"What about your... other friends?" he asks. "Can't you stay with someone?"

I start walking towards the lobby entrance, and he follows me.

"Yeah, probably. At the moment, I'd rather be alone. I'll be fine, John. My connection to the case is dead, and if revenge was the motive, there's no one left alive to want it. My guess is the demon was too strong for Lucille. The first ritual opens the doorway. The second establishes the covenant. The third completes it. But demons don't like to be bound."

I fall silent as I open the lobby door and step through. A bored-looking receptionist greets me without looking up from his computer. I check in and collect my room key. John waits outside, watching unhappily through the glass until I rejoin him.

"So, what? You think the devil made her do it?" he asks.

I shrug. "Demons aren't interested in making pacts or stealing souls. Not the ones we're talking about, anyway. They're creatures of desire. They just want. Wannabe occultists like Lucille perform complex rituals in pursuit of knowledge, or riches, or eternal youth, or whatever they're after, but it's not really the ritual that attracts the demon. It's the wanting. They feed on it."

A shiver runs up my spine. The demon in the dark, where I saw Kyle, wanted... something. At the time, I was pretty sure what it wanted was me. Now, I'm less certain.

"Anyway, if a demon gains the upper hand, it'll take what it wants and give nothing in return, which is what I'm guessing happened to Lucille."

John looks unconvinced. "What about the Kyle problem?"

"Which one?"

"How he got up under the bridge. Lucille didn't do that alone."

"If she had an accomplice, he'll have split if he knows what's good for him."

"What about the detective, Sparks? How does he fit in?"

I shake my head. "I don't have all the answers, John. I just know I'm done with this case."

"And if it's not done with you?"

"Then it's a good thing I know a vampire who can track me from across town."

John huffs in frustration and rubs the back of his neck. "Carlos... I can't just leave you here."

"Could you leave McKenzie or Nguyen?"

"Yeah, probably. But I'm not..." He draws a breath midsentence, cutting himself off.

"You're not what?"

He locks eyes with me and speaks so quietly I can barely hear him.

"I'm not in love with McKenzie or Nguyen."

A tiny electric shock zaps my heart and a wave of dizziness washes over me. "In love?" I shake my head. "You can't be in love with me. We barely know each other."

"You don't think I doubt it? Love is something I've read about in books. I've never felt this way before."

John's tone is solemn, his gaze soft, and I realize he's let his guard down. This is the most vulnerable I've seen him, and I know my next words could make or break whatever this thing is between us.

It's hard, and it hurts, but the only fair thing is to tell the truth.

"I don't know how I feel, John. I need more time. I'm sorry."

He releases a breath and looks away, the tension in his broad shoulders easing as he accepts defeat.

"Fine. Fine, if you're sure it's what you want. Just... call me if that changes. I'll come."

I nod, unable to say more, and wave awkwardly as I walk to the corner of the building and unlock my room. John watches me until I'm inside and give him the thumbs up through the window. Then he gets in his car and drives away.

As his taillights vanish around a bend, I rest my forehead against the glass and sigh.

Right. This is why the Universe doesn't send you good things, Carlos. Because when it does, you push it away or ruin it. Way to go.

I give myself a minute to wallow in depression, loneliness, and regret, and then I acquaint myself with my new, temporary home.

It's not terrible, but it's not the Ritz, either.

There's a bed, a nightstand, a dresser and a TV; a mini fridge and a microwave; a tiny closet and a cramped bathroom with a tub that could kindly be called 'child sized.'

The wallpaper is a speckled beige, the carpet is a dark reddish brown that was probably chosen for its ability to hide stains, and the framed landscape on the wall is about as generic and contrived as a painting can be. All I really care about is the bed, though, and a quick inspection proves the sheets are clean and the mattress is passable.

It'll do just fine for me.

~ ★~

John checks in on me in the morning via text. I spend the day at the library, taking advantage of the free Wi-Fi and looking for a new place to live. I can't imagine my garage will be usable again any time soon, and who knows what will happen to the property, now that Lucille is dead.

In the meantime, I try not to think about John and his confession, or the questions that went along with it.

Did I love him, too?

Did I even know what love felt like?

I knew it when I saw it, like I saw it between Ian and Sam, but I wasn't sure I'd ever experienced it myself — at least, until now. But where was the line between like, and lust, and true love? How did I know what I felt for John wasn't just shallow attraction? Or some vampire mate-bond shit?

We were compatible in bed, at least — that was something — and he was easy to live with.

I think back on the week I spent at his house. I liked him, and I liked his dogs; I liked his sense of humor (on the occasions he relaxed enough to let it out), and I liked the way he made me feel: like I was someone worth the effort and worth caring about.

And yeah, I want him to kiss me again; I want him to do a lot more, too. The attraction between us is undeniable. But if I could never touch him again, would I still want his company?

I decide that I would; and maybe that's the difference. I don't just love John's body, or the things he does to mine; I love John.

Maybe what 'love' means can change over time, too. A couple who've been together for fifty years probably aren't 'in love' the same way they were when they first met, but they may love each other none the less.

Whether we would get the chance to find out if our 'love' could stand the test of time remained to be seen — and largely depended on John's ability to restrain himself and not literally love me to death. In the meantime, his confession deserved a reply.

After steeling my nerves and rehearsing in my head, I call him.

"John Turner's phone. Becky Wu speaking."

I choke on whatever I was going to say.

"Hello?"

"Uh... Hi, Becky. This is... that guy you saw at John's house. Carlos. Is John there?"

"Oh, hi, Carlos!" Becky giggles. "Sorry, he's in the shower. Can I take a message?"

My head swirls with reasons why John would be in the shower and Becky would be at his house, most of which don't make sense.

"No. Just tell him I called, and to call me back."

"Sure thing. He's been telling about this case you're on. Sounds like a real head-banger."

"Head-banger?"

"Yeah, you know. Makes you wanna bang your head on your desk."

"Oh. Yeah, I guess it does." I thought she meant a mind-fuck, but it's sort of the same thing, anyway.

"For real! First, one or both of the Peters kill Kyle's parents. Then they adopt Kyle. Next, Mr. Peters dies — my theory is he found out and Lucille killed him; John thinks he was the killer and had a guilty conscience, drank himself stupid and fell down the stairs." Her excitement translates clearly through her tone, and I can almost see her counting off the list on her fingers. "Fast forward to the present, and Kyle is killed. Lucille is a suspect, but she pays your hospital bills when you're injured. A deflection tactic? But when Kyle's parents' remains are found, Lucille butchers herself in the most bizarre way possible. Oh, and to top if off, she left her house to the gardener! What kind of murderer does that?"

"What gardener? Her yard is a disaster."

"Right? And then your only other suspect has an alibi for Daryl Spark's death — if a thin one."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, the first part of the night he was working at a bar — that's solid. But the second half he was with some girl, and she's the only one who can vouch for that. Believe me, the DA would tear that to shreds like a cat with a ball of catnip spiked tissue paper."

"A girl? Wait, are we talking about Alejo?"

He looked like the sort who'd call you maricón and beat the shit out of you if you looked at him wrong, but he couldn't get it up with a girl if he tried. Or so he'd told me.

"That's according to John," Becky says. "You'll have to ask him when he calls. I'd wait and talk to you in the meantime, but he's taking one of his 'stress' showers. He'll be awhile."

I frown at the idea that Becky knows more about John's habits than I do, even though it's obvious she would. They may not have been in love, but they were married and lived together for much longer than I've known John existed.

Unable to stop myself, I ask the burning question. "Um... what are you doing there, anyway?"

"Just picking up the dogs. John asked me to take them back for a few weeks while he moves."

"Moves? Moves where?"

"He hasn't told you? I guess this town just doesn't have the right 'vibe' for him, or something. He's thinking of taking another position in San Fran. He's got family there, you know."

I try and fail to think of something appropriate to say.

"Hello?"

"Sorry." I hold the phone away as I cough to clear my throat and remind myself to breathe. "Uh, no. He hasn't mentioned that."

"Oh. Well... I'll tell him you called." Becky's tone contains a wince, as if she's wondering if she's inadvertently said too much.

"Thanks. Um... and give Rick and Morty some belly rubs from me. I'm gonna miss those two."

"Sure thing, Carlos. Bye."

She ends the call. I stare at my phone. Then I pull up Alejo's number and call him.

He knows the shit on just about everyone — in certain circles, anyway — and he might know something about this 'gardener.' Moreover, I want to know about this 'girl,' because if Alejo was lying about his alibi, then we've still got a solid suspect on the line.

He answers on the first ring, barely giving me a chance to second-guess myself.

"Pendejo? Que va! I thought you were dead or something!"

"Oh? Is that why you never bothered to call me after I fell down a flight of stairs and broke my arm?"

"What?" Alejo laughs. "That cabrón didn't tell you? I rode to the hospital with you. I was there the whole way. Then he showed up and told me to fuck off. You didn't tell me you were serious with nobody."

"I'm... I'm not," I say, swallowing. "That guy... doesn't know what he's talking about. We're not together."

"Oh. So, you free tonight?"

Wow. Right to it, then.

"Yeah. That's why I called."

He chuckles; a low, soft sound that sends an unpleasant shiver up my spine.

"Come to the bar. I'm on shift until ten. Then we can have some fun."

"I'll be there."

"Can't wait." He makes a kissing sound that makes me cringe and hangs up.

I grab my wallet and keys and head for the door.

I've lost my home and my business. My aunt (and only living family member) is missing, and the only man I've ever loved has decided I'm not worth the effort, after all.

What else have I got to lose?

***

Notes
maricón = sissy (derogatory for gay, equivalent of f*g)
pendejo = fool (literally, 'pubic hair'; can be a friendly insult)
que va = no way
cabrón = bastard, asshole, fucker