Nightlife (Cal Leandros #1)(17)

"Senses your outer sarcastic imp is more likely." A knuckle knocked lightly on my forehead. "The only monster in there is laziness. It's more than voracious in its own right, however."

"Pick up your socks. It always comes back to that, doesn't it?" Scooping up the stained paper plate, I smothered a yawn. "Finish your juice, Grandpa. Then come help me at the bar. This is the first time I've had to actually work since I've had this job. It's killing me."

"And there's the monster," he said dryly, shaking his head.

For the next few hours he worked with me slinging booze and refilling the bowls with cheap, generic pretzels. He spent a lot of time dodging Meredith too, but I'd take that out of his tips. I was wrestling with a new keg when I heard a newly familiar voice. "The new help isn't quite as pretty as the redhead."

Looking up, I saw Niko raise his eyebrows at Samuel and say gravely, "My ego is shattered." The words were joking, but his gray eyes were cool and distant, a frozen layer of unconcern over a lake of mistrust. I might be running out far in front, but I didn't have the corner on suspicion. Niko was smart as hell and wary as shit, and that had kept us alive. Had kept me free.

But now would be the time, wouldn't it? This was the moment I would step up and say Samuel was okay. He wasn't a Grendel in the world's best human suit. Wasn't a crook. He was just your average Joe, a good guy, one I'd enjoyed talking to. So I should tell Nik that, right?

Shit. Not in this lifetime.

Yeah, Samuel seemed like he was all right, but realistically, I didn't know him from Adam. Snap judgments? I'd gotten over those about the time I was toilet trained. Swore off diapers and faith in the human experience all in one week. You had to admire my efficiency. "Niko, this is Samuel. He's with the band," I said neutrally before adding slyly, "Minion to the leather god."

Niko kept pouring pretzels into a bowl, precisely to the rim, no less, no more. The Zen of pretzel arranging—it's long been a lost art. "Ah. The singer that time forgot. To be more exact, that the eighties forgot. His hair spray bill must be staggering."

"You've got a lot of room to talk, Rapunzel," Samuel pointed out. "You're not exactly going for the brush cut look yourself."

I grinned and reached over to tug on Niko's braid. "He's got you there."

Samuel took a handful of pretzels, disturbing Niko's pristine sculpture of bread and salt. "You two brothers?"

Niko gave him a narrow-eyed look, then repaired the damage. "That obvious, is it?" he asked blandly.

"Oh yeah. You boys are just two sides to one coin." Samuel chewed with a marked lack of enthusiasm. "Man, Where'd you get these? Dumpster? Sawdust factory?"

"How'd you know? You play the best joints; you get the best grub," I grunted. After serving some beers and a shot or two, I turned my attention back to Samuel. "You guys are pretty good. Retro, but harder than I'd have thought, Genghis's leather pants aside."

Niko gave an inaudible humph. Inaudible, but heavy in the air nonetheless. "Yeah, yeah, Nik. It's not the Beatles, I know. No 'Long and Winding Road.'" I raised my eyes toward the empty, sterile heavens. To Niko there had been one band in existence; the rest was just derivative noise. "You were born old, you know that?"

"Their work is timeless. It transcends the bubblegum pap that passes for music now. A Beatles song is a flawlessly executed kata. Anything else is simply wrestling in Jell-O," he returned with disdain.

I snorted, "You're only hurting your argument there. Jell-O wrestling is even better than the mud kind." Behind Samuel, who was following our discussion with interest, the crowd parted like the Red Sea and the leather god himself appeared.

A tousled mass of bleached blond hair was tossed a la Fabio over an overly muscled shoulder that had to owe something to steroids. A red silk, or its white-trash cousin polyester, shirt hung open to show a broad hairless chest with only one or two razor cuts. Manly sweat coated chiseled features as flame-hot blue eyes seared the air. Granted, the eyes were closer together than your average weasel found attractive, but otherwise Genghis knew how to take care of business. Business being fronting a band and keeping the horny little girls happy. A rough life, but someone had to lead it. The *.

A hand tanned a suspiciously orange color slapped the bar. "Who the hell do I have to screw to get a beer in this place?"

I considered and tilted my head toward Niko. "That," my brother commented coolly, "is almost as humorous as my fist inserted into your left nostril."

Giving up the taunting while I was still mobile, I fetched a brewski for leather boy. "There you go, Mr. Khan. No whoring of your body necessary."

Offset eyes gave me a disinterested once-over. After all, I wasn't a band babe. Hell, I wasn't even a woman. No record exec, no one who could advance his career in the slightest… just Joe Blow bartender, so far below the radar that I didn't even register.

His next beer I'd spit in.

He took a swig of the beer, wiping off the foam mustache with the back of his hand. "Friends of yours, Grainger? You're sure spending enough time over here. Thought we were going to do another sound check."

"We've done ten, Roy," Samuel said with only a glimmer of a strained quality to his patience. "The equipment's fine." Then he added under his breath, "It's your voice that's the problem."