Page 30 of By the Pint

He nodded cheerlessly, like he expected nothing less from me.

9.

Casey

Midnight Cleaners and Co would be at Chez Killian at one-thirty. I’d finally managed to turf Claus and Gobby out, plus a couple of pixies I’d found asleep in a bathtub on the third floor. I’d spat on all the clothing that needed spitting on, ready to be collected by the dry cleaners. I’d showered, shaved, applied all my night-timely anti-aging stuffs, donned lounge pants and a bamboo cotton sleep tee, and closed my door to my master for the night.

Killian had gifted me the top floor of the east wing of his mansion. Mostly because I wouldn’t agree to work for him until he did. So, I had several rooms. Bedroom, guest bedroom — not that I ever had guests — lounge, kitchen space, study, small gym area, and two bathrooms, which were all out of bounds to any of Killian’s house guests. They were also infinitely cleaner, and nicer, and there were no creepy taxidermy tapdancing foxes and whatnot.

I pulled on my slippers and crossed from the bedroom to the living space, flopping onto the sofa as though it’d been the longest day in living history. Which, to be fair, it may actually have been.

It didn’t surprise me that Killian knew Dima. All vampires essentially knew each other. One way or another. They had such long lifespans and memories that it was a given there would be at least some crossover. Even if just a friendlyhello, or hey,you stole the last can of O neg. But what I couldn’t get out of my master washowhe knew Dima. I got the feeling it was all folded into the reason they were no longer speaking, and I’d already decided I didn’t want any part of that.

Despite … everything, I liked Killian. He was more or less my only friend, and I didn’t want that being tainted by the ugly truth. Whatever that might be.

What I wanted to find out was how they knew each otherbeforeKillian fucked everything up. Like, in what capacity? Friends? Acquaintances? Robber and his unwitting victim? And was it entirely Killian’s fault? I couldn’t imagine Dima being at blame. Couldn’t imagine the beautiful, smiling man I’d met yesterday causing a three-century long rift. But then, he had fled the scene after sleeping with me, and I still had no clue what was going on in that mind of his.

He’d had some kind of barrier pulled up. In retrospect it wasn’t like Killian’s barriers. They were more like fogs over the parts of his mind he didn’t want me to see. Dima’s was like nothing I’d ever experienced. Full shut out. I could forgive myself for not recognising it immediately.

I’d unpacked Dima’s book and propped it up on my shelf, but maybe it wouldn’t hurt to look over his ‘photos’ once more and remember what happened this morning.

It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours, and already it felt like a fever dream. I took the book over to my desk, poured myself a ready-mixed AlaeMart brand Mai Tai, and sat down.

Pages eighty-six and seven. Dima’s nude. I’d memorised the number from earlier and opened it straight to the spot. I rubbed the heel of my hand down the centre crease to help keep the paper flat, and I let out a lungful of air.

What to make of Dima Black?

I wasn’t a person who understood relationships. Never had any kind of relationship with anyone beyond fuck-buddies. Never had a boyfriend or girlfriend, never fallen in love. I’d never even had a friend that had stuck around longer than a few years. Besides Killian I supposed. But Killian was paying me to stick around, and there were other, greater reasons I hadn’t fucked off yet.

Teammates? Sure, if the Barracudas were winning. Spoiler alert, we were always winning while I was playing. Uni mates? Meh, I guessed. Hard to be friends with the guy that aced every final yet never bothered to show up for lectures. School friends? One-hundred-percent no.

The trouble with making friends was why bother? What was there to discover about a person when I heard every one of their thoughts? Saw every one of their memories. Their secrets. Knew, before we’d even said our hellos, that they only wantedwhatI brought to the table, rather thanwho.

There was nothing for me to discover, not when I telepathically knew everything about the other person, but that wasn’t why my friendships never went beyondAlright? Yeah, you?It was because the other person never wanted to discover anything about me.

They would get through their perfunctoryHow are yousandNice to meet yous, and sometimes it would go beyond that into infinitesimally deeper questions, usually with a camerapointed in my face, and usually about wingball or my love/sex life. But nobody cared what was beyond that. All they cared about was what they received from the relationship/friendship/hook-up/interview/any form of interaction.

They wanted my signature on a jersey. My wingball connections. To be famous by proxy. Be the guy or girl on my arm and therefore on the pages of the magazines. To post about it on their social media accounts. To brag to their friends and family. They wanted the likes, and shares, and the jealousy it inspiredforthem, and stories they would tell for years to come.

Remember that one time I fucked Casey Freckleman?

They wanted to show me how much their kid loved wingball. And could I help with their scholarship application? Could I fund their scholarship? Could I donate to their charity? Save the bees, save the trees, save the whales, save the East Borderlands Horny Licking Lizards. Save the church roof, save the local wingball pitch, save the parking lot of Bouncy’s Doughnuts.

They wanted the answers to the pop-quiz, because I was the ‘smart guy’. They wanted help with their dissertations and finals, and even the professors wanted me to write their fucking lectures for them. They wanted the classroom gossip. Who was cheating on who, with whom, because that was another thing I seemed to have in mysterious abundance. They wanted me to stab at the scores for other sports championships like I was some kind of future predicting octopus.

Nobody wanted to find out anything about me. Go deeper than Casey the A+ student, or Casey the famous wingball star, or even Casey the advertising prop.

Nobody cared to find out what I liked. How I took my tea, what my favourite dessert was, what my dreams or aspirations were, how long I wanted to stay in wingball. Unless they could somehow use it to their advantage.

Nobody.

Not even my favourite colour. It was red. Like Winter Fest stocking red, or the red of oxidised blood, or the red of Dima’s eyes.

Even my parents kept their distance. Gave me a puppy at age four because they didn’t want me to be lonely and were worried they’d create more ‘freak’ kids. They didn’t say any of this aloud, at least to me. But it didn’t stop it from being true.

Jackie, my puppy was called. A black Labrador. She lived to be thirteen.

Eventually, I learned not to care. If people didn’t want to know me, why should it matter if I was nice to them? I learned to adapt. To find the most efficient and effective ways to get what I wanted. Sometimes that meant buttering someone up, but more often than not, I found the quickest way to get what I wanted was fear and submission. Their fear and submission. I was a powerful person. I realised that early on, too. I held everyone’s secrets, and their fears, and their desires in the palm of my hand.

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