NightFall (NightFall: Book One) Page 6

Oh, no. The OVI was practically stealing funds to run their project out of the hands of people who honestly needed it to survive. She would never understand the government and their motivations to do whatever it is they do. They only thing they were good at was lying to the people. She hated politicians with their empty promises and false hope. And how did they get elected into office? By telling the people what they wanted to hear. Then they would do the exact opposite once put into office. They were no better than common criminals in her eyes. They were more crooked than the people behind bars. That’s why she always flat out refused to write pieces on them. She didn’t write garbage.

  But today was different. When she had mentioned her concerns over the wasting of tax dollars-no mincing words there-Mr. Hobbs said he wasn’t an official. He claimed he didn’t work for the government, saying that this was way over their heads. The OVI was not funded through them. It was run from private donations. He declined vehemently on revealing his sources, however. Although, he was more than willing to divulge information on vampires.

  Simone thought Mr. Hobbs was a little backwards. Why tell people you believe in vampires? Wasn’t he afraid of the fact that people would look at him as if he belonged in the loony bin? But he couldn’t reveal the person or persons donating the money? She wondered if it was because, in some way, it wasn’t on the up-and-up? No. That couldn’t be it. Mr. Brant wanted a story on Mr. Hobbs. If it was illegal, Mr. Hobbs definitely wouldn’t have breathed a word about any of it. Why give himself away? Telling a newspaper was certainly one way to get caught. If it was illegal, Mr. Hobbs would’ve kept his mouth shut. Simone was sure of that. He didn’t look like the type of person to take what he dished out.

  She really wanted to find out the source. Who was feeding him this stuff? And why did a grown man believe in such a myth? Vampires and dragons were the stuff kids daydreamed about when they were still in elementary school. A man in his forties should know better. Maybe Mr. Hobbs wasn’t all there. A screw was loose somewhere. Maybe his brain didn’t fully grow with the rest of him.

  Oh, but how she loved a challenge. She reveled in the idea of an unsolved mystery. It really got her adrenaline pumping.

  Simone had a good friend who could probably sway Mr. Hobbs into revealing enough for Simone to put the pieces together. Her friend, Indea Sky, with her dark hair and cat green eyes and svelte body, might make it happen. Mr. Hobbs was just a man, after all. They were weak in matters of the opposite sex. A bat of the eyelashes, a shake of the hips and they were putty.

  Simone had no problems in the men department either. At five feet eight inches tall and one hundred and thirty pounds, she had her share of devotees and lusty looks. A flick of her beyond the shoulder fire red waves of hair and a hazel eyed wink, men were practically on their knees. If she wanted it that way, that is. She preferred the less shallow way: be direct and just talk to a man rather than play the coy vixen. It just wasn’t her style. It never had been.

  Simone couldn’t use her feminine wiles on Mr. Hobbs any way. He already knew she was a journalist and would be using him to get her story. She wondered, though, if he would be smart enough to catch on if Indea wanted to know things. Of course, she wouldn’t flat out ask. She could find a way to get the information subtly.

  Oh, yeah. Mr. Hobbs would barter. That she was sure of. He had made it no secret during the interview that he found her attractive. She had a strong feeling that he would give her the whole story if she gave him her whole body. The thought made her sick. She wasn’t that kind of woman. A great story wasn’t worth whoring herself to any man. Or pretending to be someone she’s not.

  Nope, neither would wash with her.

  Simone wasn’t a gossip hound but she knew of some that do go undercover-literally-for information. That was their business but she preferred attaining her information while standing up, pen and paper, not something else, in her hand. She demanded respect. She wouldn’t get it that way. She didn’t think she would get it at all were she to forget her morals for a juicy story.

  Simone got up from the sofa and disposed of the finished yogurt container. She washed and put away her spoon. She went into the bathroom and shed her clothing and stepped into the glass door shower. The cool spray invigorated her. Then it hit her. She couldn’t very well talk about people who jumped into bed for a story and then ask

  Indea to flirt with Mr. Hobbs into spilling his hidden facts. She would be no better than they were. As she shampooed her hair she thought hard about what to do.

  No, she decided, scrubbing her hair into a lathery mass. This had to be on the up-and-up.

  She didn’t want to deceive any one in order to make front page of the ‘Alabama Reports’. She never used dishonesty before and she adamant about not using it now. Not ever.

  Her boss, Mr. Davis Brant, always congratulated her on a job well done without stepping on any one’s toes or falsifying information to get into the papers. She’s made front page a number of times with the God’s honest truth. That’s the way it was going to stay.

  Besides, she had a reputation to uphold. She rinsed her hair and poured conditioner in her palm and worked it through her tresses.

  She knew she had made a few enemies with her work ethics. She just chalked it up to simple jealousy and they knew she knew of their feelings about her. She didn’t give a rat’s patootie what they thought of her. She still got the job done with or without their green-eyed sneers.

  She rinsed her hair and grabbed her loofah sponge and poured a dollop of coconut scented body wash on it. She worked it into foaming bubbles and scrubbed her body from head to toe, inhaling the coconut essence deeply. The scent made her think of a luscious dessert.

  Maybe she should pick up a coconut cream pie for dessert tomorrow after work, she contemplated to herself, her stomach rumbling.

  Finished with her shower, Simone dried her hair and body and then studied her body in the full length mirror. Did she absolutely, positively need a pie? She worked out intensively enough.

  Yeah, she deserved a piece.

  She would settle on a salad for dinner tomorrow so she wouldn’t feel so guilty about the slab of pie she envisioned herself indulging in.

  Simone walked to her bedroom and found her favorite red bra and panty set. She donned those and then grabbed a pair of denim shorts and red tank top.

  She finished blow drying her hair when she decided to call Indea to see if she was home from her job as a sales rep.

  Indea answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Indea. What’s up?”

  Indea’s sultry voice floated through the phone lines. “Hello, Simone.” Indea’s accent was very unique and charming. Her background boasted of French and Native American-Cherokee. Her mother was from Chậtearoux, France and her dad was born right here in the U.S.A. Tennessee. It was a rather odd mix but when seeing the two together, you could understand why.

  Simone was somewhat opposite from Indea but they were the best of friends.

  Simone’s mother was Irish and her father was English. She had a hint of an accent but you had to listen closely to detect it. Living in the south, her accent took on a southern charm. But she thought of the French tongue as flowing and enchanting. Maybe she should ask Indea about setting her up with a true Frenchman. Indea would have no problem finding one. She was half French, after all. And right now, they were both in between relationships. They were twenty-four years old, months separating their ages. They were in the prime of their lives. At least, Simone thought so.

  Indea’s voice cut into Simone’s musings. “Well, I was looking through my fridge trying to find out what to have for dinner.”

  “If you’re dressed, how about meeting me at that new Chinese restaurant on Main?” Simone suggested. “My treat.”

  “That sounds great! I could go for some sashimi.” Indea made a rustling noise. “I’m putting on my jeans as we speak. Meet you in twenty.”

  Simone agreed and replaced the phone back into its cradle.<
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  She studied her face in the mirror. “A little mascara and lip gloss and I’m good to go.”

  Five minutes later, Simone locked her apartment door, got into her black Solstice, a car she’s wanted for years and worked hard for a long time to finally get, and headed downtown to the restaurant.

  *

  “Two, please. Non-smoking,” Indea told the waitress with a cheerful smile on her face. The restaurant was busy tonight, so the waitress quickly took their drink orders and showed them to a table near the windows over looking the beginnings of dusk.

  As usual, appreciative male eyes darted their way. Indea always looked great. She was wearing her dark denim flares with black boots and a skin tight dark jade sleeveless shirt. It made her green eyes ‘pop’ even more. A black belt and silver buckle emphasized her little waist. Diamond studs finished the outfit. Her shoulder length black hair hung down in waves. It reminded Simone of a satin waterfall. Her toned, tanned body continually got responsive stares wherever she went. She never let it go to her head, though. Most of the time, she was unaware of just how many glances came her way.

  Simone had her own male following and like Indea, she didn’t get a swelled head. It was nice being noticed. But it was another thing altogether to be stared at and drooled over. Her wavy red hair complemented her creamy skin and hazel eyes. Her body was muscular but femininely so. Both she and Indea worked out religiously. It gave them an excuse to pig out occasionally. And pig out time was now.

  Simone perused her menu, her mouth watering at the familiar dishes she’s tasted before. She heard Indea moan in delight. Simone raised her eyebrows in question.

  Indea put down her menu. “I just can’t decide. Everything looks and smells so good. I think I’m getting the dinner buffet. That way, I can sample everything. I’ve had a craving for Kung Pao Chicken lately.”

  Simone teased playfully. “Just where do you plan to put it all and how in the world do you handle that much heat?” Simone couldn’t handle extremely hot peppers. Jalapếnos, she could eat every now and again. But Thai chilés or other peppers they used in Asian cuisine? No way. Her face would end up matching her hair. She’d be breathing fire in no time.

  Indea’s mouth slanted to one side slyly. “I have a fast metabolism. Besides, we work out a lot.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “And you know I like it hot. It gets my blood a-movin’.” She laughed.

  Simone let out a rather loud laugh. She was rewarded with some odd stares but she could care less. “You’re too much.”

  “Okay, then. What’re you having?” Indea asked, a smirk on her face.

  “As a matter of fact, I’m having everything as well. I’m starved today. I’m going for the buffet.” Simone chuckled but then turned serious. “But what I want-even though you didn’t ask-I want a handsome, hard-bodied, mysterious Frenchman at my every beck and call. Know of any?”

  Indea took in a deep breath. “Mmm. An intriguing description. Unfortunately, I don’t know of any right now. I’ll be on the look out for a couple of them,” she informed.

  “Decided to get one, too, huh?”

  “I might just do that. But you know we probably won’t find any here in Alabama.” Indea became pensive for a moment. “Don’t you have some vacation time coming up soon?”

  Simone could practically see the wheels in Indea’s head turning as she formed a plan in her mind. “Umm, yes-s-s.” What was she up to?

  “Well, it just so happens, my parents have been wondering when I was going to visit them. They finally moved to Paris. They’ve been wanting to for a few years now. They would love to see you. They ask about you often. Besides, they would never forgive me if I didn’t invite you to go. They have a huge bedroom with your name on it.” Indea’s eyes lit up with delight. “Just think. Paris. The City of Lights. A city for lovers. Or for finding one.”

  The waitress came to bring their iced teas they’d ordered earlier and told them to help themselves to the buffet. It was packed tonight and Indea and Simone didn’t mind having to wait on service. It gave them time to talk.

  Indea and Simone headed for the bar, filling their plates to heaping while Simone thought about the tone in Indea’s voice. Indea’s intent was clear. Why not go? Simone’s never been to Paris. France was in Indea’s blood. Plus, her parents lived there now and in the spring, they journeyed to the states for Indea’s dad’s annual Cherokee Festival in Tennessee.

  Simone beamed as they both sat down to eat. “That sounds absolutely perfect, Indea.” She took a bite of her shrimp lo mein. She washed it down with some iced tea. “And what better place for finding a French lover than in France?”

  “Exactly,” agreed Indea, dipping her sushi into some soy sauce laced with wasabi and stuffing the whole thing in her mouth.

  The waitress came back to refill their iced teas and Indea and Simone toasted to their vacation and talked of the usual things like work, men, love and life in between going back up to the buffet for seconds and desserts.

  After paying for the food and leaving a tip, Simone and Indea went outside.

  “Dinner was wonderful.” Indea acknowledged outside the restaurant a few minutes later. “Thank you for asking me.” She hugged Simone then cracked a yawn. “Chinese food always makes me sleepy. I’ll sleep like a baby tonight.”

  “Me, too. And you’re welcome about the dinner.” Simone took the keys out of her purse. “I’ll call you in a few days and let you know what the plan’s going to be for the vacation.”

  “Great! Talk to you later, then.” Indea concluded before walking to her car, a seventies silver Mustang. She had a thing for old cars and antiques.

  They waved their good byes and went their separate ways.

  *

  Simone knocked on Mr. Brant’s door at work two days later. “Mr. Brant? Can I speak with you for a moment?”

  Mr. Brant looked up from his papers. “Simone. Come on in. Sit down.” He pointed to her article he had been reading. “This is great, by the way.”

  Simone closed the door and sat down. “Thank you.” Mr. Brant was a very nice man. A bit portly. Balding slightly. His brown eyes were kind but extremely sharp. He was very dexterous and that’s why they worked well together. He had an optimistic outlook on life given that he was widowed eighteen months ago. Simone came to love Carol Brant. She had become a second mother to her when her own mother passed away. But she didn’t even know who or where her real father was. Not really. All she knew was that her mother said he was from Canterbury near London in the U.K. Simone didn’t know if she wanted to even find her dad. He left right after her mother had given birth to her. Her mother had continually sidestepped the issue of her husband every time Simone had brought up the subject.

  Only on her death bed did her mother mention his last name and where he was from but not where he was at that present time. Simone wondered just how many people in Canterbury, or London for that matter, had the last name, Timms. It must be like trying to find the proverbial needle in the haystack. It was a vague description. She didn’t have that much to go on and even though she loved a good mystery, she didn’t know if she would love following the clues leading her to a man who probably never wanted to see her again or cared about her life at all.

  Simone wondered if it was worth her time and energy. She wanted to visit Paris, quite honestly. She didn’t need the unwanted detour into Canterbury, knowing full well he might not even be there or even be alive. It seemed like too much of a waste of her precious time. She wanted to spend her time with Indea and her parents, and some time looking for a Frenchman. That’s one of the reasons she was going.

  “What can I do for you, Miss Simone?” asked Mr. Brant, scattering Simone’s thoughts to the wind for the time being.

  Simone preferred that everybody who worked with her to use her first name only. She didn’t want to be referred to as her father’s child. So, no use of her last name. She might just change it later on if she had the guts.

  Even her rivals re
spected her wishes to omit the last name.

  Probably because they knew she would knock them into next week and that Mr. Brant wanted everyone to respect everybody at his newspaper office.

  “Mr. Brant, as you know I have some vacation time coming up. And normally I wouldn’t ask because I love my job,” Simone explicated. “But my friend and I are planning a trip to Paris. That is, if I get the time off. Even though it would be a vacation, I turned it over in my brain and thought I could write a small piece on the night life in Paris and my experience there. I could even e-mail it to you the morning after.”

  Mr. Brant grinned immediately. “Of course you can have your vacation, Simone. You are an exceedingly hard worker. You’re straight forward and get the job done,” he boasted proudly. “And you know you don’t have to work while you’re there, but I know you well….and….I know you will write something regardless of what I say.”

  Simone’s smile was unstoppable. “You do know me, Mr. Brant. Oh, I’ll have fun but I want to write something so I can always carry that experience with me. I can look back on it when I’m too old to move.”

  Mr. Brant chortled heartily. “You only need to finish out this week,” he studied his work calendar, “which is three more days. I want to go ahead and publish this piece you did on Mr. Hobbs before you leave.”

  Simone felt confused but nodded noncommittally, her face, impassive. It was an odd piece to begin with and work was work but Mr. Brant was going to publish it quicker that she would’ve anticipated.

  Mr. Brant looked at Simone and knew what she was thinking. “I know it seems like I’ve sent you on some sort of wild goose chase with this article but believe it or not, there are a lot of people who do believe in this. Some are down-right convinced of it. As far-fetched at it may seem, I think this story of yours has the potential to hook readers from the get go. They’ll be clamoring for more if I’m right about this,” he predicted. “I might even make this a monthly thing and put you on it full time. You’ll manage your own articles and your name will be under every title. This baby could be all yours. I just need to know if you want it. I have a few who are drooling for a chance to sink their teeth in.” He chuckled. “No pun intended. But I’m asking you first because I really want you to have it.”