Chapter 2

The bartender is the same guy who reported the break-in. He's the owner, but the sheriff can't remember his name. It's on a report back at the station, he knows that much. He's not sure the guy can place him, though, because his eyes keep coming back, lingering. The sheriff feels like he's being studied and it's not helping his already frayed nerves.

He's been held captive by a darach, faced oni and stared into the empty eyes of the thing that inhabited his son. He's looked down the barrel of a gun too many times for this thing with Parrish to scare him.

And yet, he sits at the bar, nursing an imported beer, and tries to pretend that his palms are slick with condensation instead of sweat.

"What?" he says, the next time the bartender looks.

He's tall, thin. Dark, straight hair that falls to his shoulders. "I don't want any trouble," he says. There's a sharpness to some of the consonants that might be the lingering remains of a British accent. "I run a clean place. No one gets hurt. Everyone goes home happy."

The sheriff squints in confusion, then rolls his eyes. "For God's sake, man. I'm off duty, in case the lack of uniform didn't make that clear." He lifts his bottle. "I'm just a guy, having a beer, waiting for a friend."

The bartender narrows his eyes, and there's confusion there too for a moment. He cocks his head to the side, as if he's listening. He reminds the sheriff of Derek Hale for a second, until he smiles and the comparison ends. "A date," he says. He lifts his eyes, scans the ceiling. "And you chose my place by chance." He laughs.

"I chose it because I've seen your kitchen."

The bartender grins. "Our menu caters for the particular dietary needs of my clientele. It's unique."

The sheriff's face falls. "Oh god. Is it vegan or something? Because I was hoping for a steak."

The bartender barks out a laugh, throws his head back. "Oh, you'll get your steak, Sheriff. Though my new chef does an amazing vegetarian dish for one of my customers. Very high in iron." He almost winks, might have winked if the sheriff hadn't blinked right at that moment and missed it.

"Sorry, sorry, I'm late, I know—"

The sheriff looks up as Parrish slides onto the seat beside him.

"I couldn't find the place. Would you believe it's not listed in any directory? I drove in circles for ten minutes, was just about to call your phone—"

"It's okay," the sheriff says. He can't help but smile at the bright excitement in Parrish's eyes, at the pink flush on his cheeks. "Want a beer?"

---

"This is nice," Parrish says. They moved to a booth, closer to the front of the bar. It's not as dark here as it is further back, but not as bright as under the lights. "Quiet." He grins. "Is this as strange as it feels?"

The sheriff shrugs. "I don't make a habit of dating my deputies, if that's what you're getting at."

Parrish drops his eyes to his beer, both hands wrapped around the bottle. "Or men?"

"Or anyone. After my wife died, I got used to being alone." The sheriff drains his bottle, sets it on the edge of the table and waves at the bartender. "You're not the first man I've dated. Or even the youngest."

Parrish lifts his head. There's a curious smile on his lips.

"Of course I was in college at the time, and I'm not sure that what I got up to back then actually qualifies as dating."

A fresh beer appears on the table before him. He didn't notice the bartender walk over, and when he looks up, the man is already slipping back behind the bar.

The sheriff sighs and reaches for the menu, pushes it across the table. "Hungry, Parrish?"

Parrish looks up from the laminated card. "You should probably call me Jordan."

"Right. Jordan." The name rolls off his tongue naturally, like it belongs there. His face warms and he's glad for the low light to hide the flush of his skin. "I hardly hear my own name anymore. I think everyone's forgotten I have one."

"John," Parrish says, drawing the single syllable out into something warm and sensual, couples it with a look to match.

The sheriff blinks and swallows hard. "So, what'll you have, Jordan?" He leans back on the seat, his pants suddenly a little too restrictive. "I have it on good authority they do a fantastic vegetarian thing."

Parrish gives him a quizzical look, then bends his head. "What are you having?"

"Steak. And not a word to my son. What he doesn't know won't hurt me."

"Sure." Parrish grins down at the menu. "Steak sounds good. I'll have that, too." He frowns. "There's some strange stuff on here for a bar. 'Iron fortified protein shake'? What's up with that?"

"Maybe they're trying to attract the gym crowd."

"I go to the gym three times a week and I've never ordered a protein shake at a bar."

The sheriff's eyes track across broad shoulders, taking in the way Parrish's shirt pulls across well defined biceps and a muscular chest. He's suddenly very aware of his own softness. "Obviously it's for the guys who go every day."

As he lifts his head to get the bartenders attention, the man pushes a large tumbler full to the brim with something creamy and white across the bar. There's a middle-aged man in a white business shirt on the other side. He has far more softness than the sheriff has ever had to worry about. "Huh," he says. "He look like a gym addict to you?"

Parrish lifts his head and narrows his eyes. "No, sir. He does not."

They turn to each other, stare for a moment. Then the sheriff shakes his head and laughs. "Are we really doing this?"

Parrish flushes. "I think we are." He drops his head, and when he lifts it, he's smiling. "Hey, at least it's not awkward silence."

---

They're half-way through their meal before the sheriff realizes he doesn't recall ordering. He stops, stares down at perfectly cooked steak and the spinach salad that looks like something Stiles would serve him. He looks at Parrish's plate, the slight pink of medium rare in contrast to his own well done. He recalls discussing their orders, but has no recollection of the bartender coming to take it.

"Huh," he says.

"Sheriff?"

"John," he corrects. "Nothing, more weirdness. Maybe I'm losing my mind."

"No," Parrish says. "No, I don't think you are."

John looks up. Parrish's eyes are on the back of the bar, focused and intent. He resists the urge to follow Parrish's gaze, years of experience guiding him to act natural. He lifts his beer to his lips, lets it hover there. "What is it?"

Parrish's eyes flick to John's face. He brings his hand up to hide his words. "This place, you've got no idea what's going on here?"

The sheriff shakes his head, a tiny movement that could be anything, but which he knows Parrish will understand. He takes a drink from his bottle, puts it back on the table.

"Good," Parrish says. "Because I'd hate to think you brought me to a sex club on purpose."

The sheriff coughs, chokes on beer, barely avoids spraying it across the table. "It's a what?" he says, all concern for staying unnoticed gone in his shock.

Parrish gives him a look, then shifts down to the end of the table. The seats curve around to become one at the wall. Parrish beckons, a smile on his face that isn't quite him.

The sheriff follows.

When they're side by side, Parrish leans in, brushes his lips over John's cheek, and then whispers in his ear. "Look around. People disappear in twos and threes into the back. I've seen a couple of them go back there twice, with different people."

The sheriff scans the room with his face lowered. It's hard to concentrate on what he's seeing with Parrish's breath warm on his neck. A woman drains her glass and seems to steel herself to rise and approach a man sitting alone at a table with nothing on it.

He stands, takes her by the elbow, and leads her into the back.

John watches for a few moments more, then he wraps his hand around the back of Parrish's neck and pulls him close. It's not real, just an excuse to whisper to him, but when his lips brush over Parrish's mouth, he can't help the tiny gasp that escapes. He swallows, closes his eyes, tries to calm his breathing. "It's a brothel," he whispers. "The workers don't have a drink in front of them, it's a signal. They never leave. I didn't see them come in, either. No wonder the owner was so shifty."

Parrish's reply is breathy and stilted. "They don't look the type, though. One of them looks like someone's mom."

They need to leave. John needs to settle the bill and apologize to Parrish for the ruined date, so they can spend the rest of the night writing reports.

He hesitates. It might have been easier to move if they weren't so close. Parrish's skin is warm under his palm, his lips, parted slightly as he takes labored breaths, are flush and inviting.

John leans in the half-inch he needs to bring them into contact. He closes his eyes and lets out the softest moan as Parrish's mouth opens for him. For a brief few seconds, he forgets that they've walked right into a case and apparently he can't get away from work no matter what he does.

Someone clears their throat.

Parrish jerks back, slides across the seat so there's a good foot between them. The sheriff lifts his head.

"It's not what you think," the bartender says.

The sheriff lifts one eyebrow. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

The bartender smiles, showing his teeth. "Yes you do," he says. "I can assure you, there's no sex on the premises. It's one of the rules."

The sheriff gives up the pretense. "'I run a clean place,' isn't that what you said? 'Everyone goes home happy'?" He flicks his eyes toward the back room. "If I go back there, are you telling me I won't find people having sex?"

"I imagine you'd be very surprised to see what happens in the back, Sheriff. When you came in tonight, I assumed you already knew. We know you have connections to the new alpha—"

The sheriff gives him a look, and the bartender's eyes flick to Parrish and back again, so quick the sheriff almost misses it.

"I see," the bartender says.

Parrish lets out a heavy sigh. "John," he says. "It's okay."

The sheriff looks at Parrish in alarm. "You know?"

Parrish shrugs. "Weird things happen in this town."

The sheriff leans back in the seat and sighs. He looks back at the bartender. "What the hell is going on here, Mister..." He searches the recesses of his mind for the man's name, but he still can't find it.

"Anton," the bartender says. "I thought you might have worked it out on your own by now. You know things exist that can't be explained. Your problem, Sheriff, is that you don't want to believe what your instincts are plainly telling you."

"Sheriff," Parrish says, reaching out and holding John's forearm in a white knuckled grip. His breath rushes out of him. "They're vampires."