Personal Demon
Page 13
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
“Full-blooded demons usually have special powers plus chaos sensors. Most half-demons get the powers without the sensors. I just get the sensors.”
“Huh.” He walked for at least ten steps in silence, which told me something was wrong. Before I could ask, he said, “The reason I’m bringing it up is that, well, Guy’s…not convinced.”
“That I am what I say I am?”
He nodded. “I wanted to give you a heads-up. He’s going to test you, and soon.”
HOPE: EASY RIDER
We cut through the pedestrian-only Lincoln Road Mall. The sun had set and the temperature dropped to a balmy seventy, though the humidity lingered. On the promenade, no one was pulling on warmer clothing. The barely-there bottoms, plunging necklines and bad boob jobs were on full display as the nightlife began to prowl, skirting the palms and umbrella tables as they zeroed in on their favorite club, hoping being early might get them inside.
Jaz kept up a steady travelogue, pointing out the sights along the way, including the drop-dead gorgeous guys lounging on tables outside Score, every one of them worthy of a magazine cover, and not one of them likely to return any female attention. There weren’t as many gay bars in South Beach as there had been, Jaz said. They’d revitalized the area, made it the hottest place in Miami, then moved on. Many others had moved on too, and South Beach no longer had the cachet of a few years ago, but that didn’t bother Guy. Less hip young things meant more tourists and wannabes, who made easier marks.
His club was a block off the Mall. Not prime real estate, but from the lineup outside, no one seemed to care.
Jaz said Guy liked us to work the line a bit as we came in—find likely marks and let them in, earning an easy excuse for an introduction later. But since this was my first night, Jaz figured they could skip that, and we headed up the other side of the road, cutting across as we neared the front of the line.
We jogged across the road, dodging slow-moving cars, Jaz’s fingers lightly resting on my waist to guide me. The smell of smoke wafted around us, some from exhaust, some from those in line getting in one last cigarette or cigar. A nervous laugh rang out over the murmur of the waiting crowd. Every voice seemed high-pitched, edged with forced fervor, as if they were trying to convince themselves that standing on the sidewalk was a very cool and fun way to spend an evening.
We approached the front of the velvet rope as a girl in a shockingly ugly gauze slip of a dress tried to convince the bouncer that she was the advance party for J. Lo and absolutely had to get inside right away because J.
wouldn’t stop by if her table wasn’t ready. The bouncer listened, eyes never bothering to meet hers, his mouth barely opening enough to direct her to a club two blocks over, where they might believe J. Lo was coming and, better yet, care.
When the bouncer saw Jaz, though, his granite mask of ennui shattered into a wide grin, revealing a missing incisor. He slapped Jaz on the back and greeted Sonny, who edged the hopeful girl back, letting me through.
Jaz lingered a minute, introducing me and making small talk as I felt the weight of stares on my back, and listened to the mutters of “Who are they?” in tones half curious, half contemptuous. Then the bouncer opened the doors and we stepped inside.
EASY RIDER WAS the club’s name, and now I knew why. “Born to Be Wild” blasted from the speakers.
Smoke swirled around a half-dozen pool tables. Two runways featured tattooed strippers with teased hair and torn fishnets. The female servers were clad in leather bikini tops and chaps; the guys got leather thongs and chaps. The tables were scarred and decrepit, the leather booths battered and torn. It looked like a biker bar, circa 1970.
It didn’t take long, though, to see past the illusion. “Born to Be Wild” was a dance remix. The “smoke”
around the pool tables was dry ice. Those tattooed strippers were gorgeous, and the tattoos probably came off with soap and water. The damage to the tables and booths was an artistic embellishment, not signs of age and misuse.
A club designed to make the young, wealthy and bored feel like they were wallowing in the grimy biker subculture without any danger of soiling their Pradas.
“Cheesy, huh?” Jaz whispered, his warm breath tickling my ear. “Works, though. They eat this shit up.”
“I see that.”
“Sonny? Can you take Faith to our table while I change?”
“Our table” was a booth with a view of the entire club. Bianca was there, with two guys she introduced as Tony and Max. Max was tall with a chiseled profile, a perfect tan and sun-bleached blond hair gathered in a small ponytail. Tony was about five six, compact and muscular, black hair cropped so short it was like a birthmark across his scalp. Both moved to give me room, Max shifting aside with a polite smile, Tony waving me in with a confident grin, as if I should be honored by the invitation. I slid in beside Max.
Having been to many clubs, I expected conversation to be impossible, but the booth must have been specially soundproofed. I still had to strain to hear, but could carry on a conversation.
Bianca set Tony and Max on a group of fortyish women trying hard to look twenty.
After they left, she turned to me. “Faith, I’d like you to—”
“Bee?”
Jaz appeared at her shoulder, dressed in a vintage wide-collared off-white dress shirt and black jeans.
“I thought I’d squire the lady around for a while. Introduce her to some people. Maybe take a tour of the dance floor.”
Bianca looked from me to Jaz. “You two should catch some eyes. Make sure you do—have fun, play it up.
You know the drill.”
I soon understood why Jaz had made it into the gang despite his weak supernatural type. The guy had phenomenal people skills. As we circled the room, it was nonstop “How’s the new job going?” and “Saw you in the paper last week” and “Hey, that girl you were checking out last time is here—without her boyfriend.” Most people would sound smarmy and false, but Jaz had such an aura of bouncy good humor he pulled it off.
“Can I stop now?” he whispered as we left yet another group.
I choked on a laugh. “But you seem to be having such a good time.”
“Not having a bad one but—” He shrugged. “Not my crowd, really. Any chance I can talk you into a break on the dance floor?”
“Huh.” He walked for at least ten steps in silence, which told me something was wrong. Before I could ask, he said, “The reason I’m bringing it up is that, well, Guy’s…not convinced.”
“That I am what I say I am?”
He nodded. “I wanted to give you a heads-up. He’s going to test you, and soon.”
HOPE: EASY RIDER
We cut through the pedestrian-only Lincoln Road Mall. The sun had set and the temperature dropped to a balmy seventy, though the humidity lingered. On the promenade, no one was pulling on warmer clothing. The barely-there bottoms, plunging necklines and bad boob jobs were on full display as the nightlife began to prowl, skirting the palms and umbrella tables as they zeroed in on their favorite club, hoping being early might get them inside.
Jaz kept up a steady travelogue, pointing out the sights along the way, including the drop-dead gorgeous guys lounging on tables outside Score, every one of them worthy of a magazine cover, and not one of them likely to return any female attention. There weren’t as many gay bars in South Beach as there had been, Jaz said. They’d revitalized the area, made it the hottest place in Miami, then moved on. Many others had moved on too, and South Beach no longer had the cachet of a few years ago, but that didn’t bother Guy. Less hip young things meant more tourists and wannabes, who made easier marks.
His club was a block off the Mall. Not prime real estate, but from the lineup outside, no one seemed to care.
Jaz said Guy liked us to work the line a bit as we came in—find likely marks and let them in, earning an easy excuse for an introduction later. But since this was my first night, Jaz figured they could skip that, and we headed up the other side of the road, cutting across as we neared the front of the line.
We jogged across the road, dodging slow-moving cars, Jaz’s fingers lightly resting on my waist to guide me. The smell of smoke wafted around us, some from exhaust, some from those in line getting in one last cigarette or cigar. A nervous laugh rang out over the murmur of the waiting crowd. Every voice seemed high-pitched, edged with forced fervor, as if they were trying to convince themselves that standing on the sidewalk was a very cool and fun way to spend an evening.
We approached the front of the velvet rope as a girl in a shockingly ugly gauze slip of a dress tried to convince the bouncer that she was the advance party for J. Lo and absolutely had to get inside right away because J.
wouldn’t stop by if her table wasn’t ready. The bouncer listened, eyes never bothering to meet hers, his mouth barely opening enough to direct her to a club two blocks over, where they might believe J. Lo was coming and, better yet, care.
When the bouncer saw Jaz, though, his granite mask of ennui shattered into a wide grin, revealing a missing incisor. He slapped Jaz on the back and greeted Sonny, who edged the hopeful girl back, letting me through.
Jaz lingered a minute, introducing me and making small talk as I felt the weight of stares on my back, and listened to the mutters of “Who are they?” in tones half curious, half contemptuous. Then the bouncer opened the doors and we stepped inside.
EASY RIDER WAS the club’s name, and now I knew why. “Born to Be Wild” blasted from the speakers.
Smoke swirled around a half-dozen pool tables. Two runways featured tattooed strippers with teased hair and torn fishnets. The female servers were clad in leather bikini tops and chaps; the guys got leather thongs and chaps. The tables were scarred and decrepit, the leather booths battered and torn. It looked like a biker bar, circa 1970.
It didn’t take long, though, to see past the illusion. “Born to Be Wild” was a dance remix. The “smoke”
around the pool tables was dry ice. Those tattooed strippers were gorgeous, and the tattoos probably came off with soap and water. The damage to the tables and booths was an artistic embellishment, not signs of age and misuse.
A club designed to make the young, wealthy and bored feel like they were wallowing in the grimy biker subculture without any danger of soiling their Pradas.
“Cheesy, huh?” Jaz whispered, his warm breath tickling my ear. “Works, though. They eat this shit up.”
“I see that.”
“Sonny? Can you take Faith to our table while I change?”
“Our table” was a booth with a view of the entire club. Bianca was there, with two guys she introduced as Tony and Max. Max was tall with a chiseled profile, a perfect tan and sun-bleached blond hair gathered in a small ponytail. Tony was about five six, compact and muscular, black hair cropped so short it was like a birthmark across his scalp. Both moved to give me room, Max shifting aside with a polite smile, Tony waving me in with a confident grin, as if I should be honored by the invitation. I slid in beside Max.
Having been to many clubs, I expected conversation to be impossible, but the booth must have been specially soundproofed. I still had to strain to hear, but could carry on a conversation.
Bianca set Tony and Max on a group of fortyish women trying hard to look twenty.
After they left, she turned to me. “Faith, I’d like you to—”
“Bee?”
Jaz appeared at her shoulder, dressed in a vintage wide-collared off-white dress shirt and black jeans.
“I thought I’d squire the lady around for a while. Introduce her to some people. Maybe take a tour of the dance floor.”
Bianca looked from me to Jaz. “You two should catch some eyes. Make sure you do—have fun, play it up.
You know the drill.”
I soon understood why Jaz had made it into the gang despite his weak supernatural type. The guy had phenomenal people skills. As we circled the room, it was nonstop “How’s the new job going?” and “Saw you in the paper last week” and “Hey, that girl you were checking out last time is here—without her boyfriend.” Most people would sound smarmy and false, but Jaz had such an aura of bouncy good humor he pulled it off.
“Can I stop now?” he whispered as we left yet another group.
I choked on a laugh. “But you seem to be having such a good time.”
“Not having a bad one but—” He shrugged. “Not my crowd, really. Any chance I can talk you into a break on the dance floor?”
