Page 8 of Fire
Jake huffed out a laugh. “Sure. But you know I can handle myself against some asshole nosy reporter.”
“I’m more worried about what might happen to him,” Tobias retorted.
Jake flipped open his cell phone without dignifying that with a response. “Let’s see what the snoop wants.” He punched in the number, then put the call on speaker, setting the phone on the motel dinette table.
It rang twice before a man picked up. “Yo, this is Gordon.”
“Hey, Gordon.” Jake’s voice was warm and friendly, even a touch playful, while his eyes on the phone were flat and cold as a switchblade. “I hear you’d like to get to know me. It’s your lucky day.”
Tobias had never feared Jake’s ability to pull on a persona, to lie to a mark or a monster until the knives came out. Even as he knew he was safe, chills crawled down his neck.
Grant Gordon, who had never looked Jake Hawthorne in the eye, was stupidly thrilled at the idea of a meet. He suggested a bar, and Jake countered with a cafe he and Tobias had scoped out earlier. The mom-and-pop joint with a collection of ceramic cat clocks lining the walls was the least likely public location in Hutchinson for hunters to casually gather. Plus there was parking across the street where Toby could watch, worry, and wait.
Or, Tobias thought grimly, step in if it looked like Jake was going to teach Grant Gordon why he shouldn’t meddle with hunters named Hawthorne.
* * *
Jake could admit—tohimself, at least—that he was hoping for a fight. His knuckles itched for another go at Bentham, who’d gotten away far too lightly. So okay, yes, the responsible move was for Toby to keep an eye out from a reasonably safe distance.
Grant Gordon was exactly the kind of loser he had expected. Too thin and pale, like he’d come straight from his mom’s basement, with thick glasses and box-dye black hair sticking up over his head in overly gelled spikes. He looked like a wannabe Clark Kent.
“Jake Hawthorne,” he said, stopping a few feet away from where Jake leaned against the mural-painted brick wall next to the cafe. Gordon had a fancy-ass camera slung over his neck, a ridiculous skinny reporter’s notebook in his hand, and he looked both astonished and—to his credit—nervous.
Jake bared his teeth at him in the pretense of a smile. “Take a seat.” He lightly kicked one of the light metal patio chairs toward Gordon.
The man hesitated. “I can get us some coffee?—”
“Nah. Take a seat,” Jake repeated, and Gordon sat down.
Jake sat across from him in another rickety patio chair, his legs extended away from the table, his body loose and easy and ready to commit violence in an instant. His Bowie knife was strapped in its sheath, and his handgun tucked in the back of his jeans. Overkill for some civilian human, sure, but he wasn’t going to be caught unprepared anytime soon.
“So you’re looking for a scoop, Gordy? Where you from?”
Gordon stared at him, mouth slightly open. With a visible effort, he shut it and swallowed. He named a tabloid known for chewing up and spitting out celebrities. “Look, you’ve never gotten to tell your story, right? Isn’t it time to let the public hear from Sally Dixon’s son?—”
“That isn’t her name,” Jake said. His voice sounded calm. “But I don’t want to hear you say it.”
Gordon froze. He seemed to finally key into the idea that Jake might not be his prey. “O... kay. Whatever you want, man.”
Jake leaned in. “Oh, I’ll tell you what I want. The first thing I want is to know why you’ve been asking about unidentified freaks in a place like the Crossroads Inn.”
The reporter swallowed. “Yeah, so. Let’s back up a little.” He held up his hands palms out, like that would soothe the wild beast. “I’m on your side, man. I want to represent you. I think you’ve got a story to tell, and I’m here to help you broadcast it. That’s all I want.”
Jake was tempted to flip the patio table onto Gordon’s head. He didn’t do it, but he could feel the rage simmering. “Get to the point and answer my question.”
Gordon eyed him. “Look, I’ve got a cousin who’s a hunter. Rachel Morton?” As Jake didn’t react, Gordon hurried on. “So there’ve been rumors... well, about you. And an, um...”
Jake raised his eyebrows. “A what?”
“A... an accused supernatural. Supposedly, someone who used to be in the FREACS facility.”
Gordon wiped a bead of sweat off his forehead and continued. “But he’s unidentified. That’s the rumor. So maybe he was never meant for the camp, you know? If true, that’s a travesty of justice. That should be a national story. If the ASC made a mistake?—”
Jake stood up, and the reporter’s chair screeched as he pushed backward.
Jake didn’t let his eyes flick toward the Eldorado across the street. Toby had been there a minute ago, and he would be there when Jake walked away from this fame-hungry muckraker. Jake would never betray Toby in any situation, not even with a glance.
He studied Gordon for a long moment, forcing his hand to relax from his knife, waiting for the dangerous surge of adrenaline to fade. When he was calm again, or calm enough, he sat carefully on the edge of his chair, leaning forward with one arm—not his knife hand—on the patio table. “Those are the rumors. So what do you know, Gordon?”
