The Lame-Assed Doppelganger Page 6

  She reared back to slap me again, and I put up a protective arm.

  She fumed, but didn’t strike.

  “Six words or less,” I told her.

  “It’s fewer, you stupid asshole.”

  “Tell that to all the grocery stores with express lanes.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Are we good to go here?”

  “Do you know the songs?”

  “Nope.”

  She closed her eyes and shook her head.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said.

  Teddy came up beside her and tentatively leaned closer. “Are you all right, Sabrina?” he asked.

  “I’m fine, Teddy.”

  “If there’s anything I can do to help, please don’t hesitate to ask. I’ll do anything you need without question. Can I get you a drink? Maybe a rose?”

  He held out a single red rose, which he must have kept in his pocket.

  “Really, Teddy?” I asked, slapping his hand down before Sabrina saw the flower.

  “What?”

  “Go buy her a glass of wine.”

  “Okay,” he said and shuffled off.

  “What was he saying about a rose?” Sabrina asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “He’s kinda weird.”

  “He’s socially inept.”

  “I think he likes me.”

  “What was your first clue.”

  She shrugged. “He’s nice and all, but he’s … boring.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have called things off with Michael.”

  “I didn’t call things off. He did.”

  “He said you were pissed.”

  “I was, but it was just a fight.”

  Chuck approached us. “Hey, Brett,” he said. “Thanks for the tickets, man. That was really thoughtful of you. The wife and kids loved the circus.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about. The other me gave him circus tickets?

  “Uh, okay,” I said. “No problem.”

  “Your guitars are set up just the way you like them.”

  “Guitars? Plural?” I glanced over at the stage, and sure enough, a row of guitars stood on stands behind the speakers. Two Fender Stratocasters, and two acoustics.

  “Yeah. Open tuning on the right.”

  So the other Brett didn’t use any magic to play at all? I had my trusty magic pick in my pocket, so I figured I’d be okay, but I felt like a fake now. The other me had practiced. I was a cheater.

  Most folks had no idea, but for some reason it bothered me now.

  I moved to the side of the stage to get away from everyone, and saw that Chuck had helpfully taped a set list on the back of one of the speakers. Cool.

  He wouldn’t have done that for me a few months ago.

  Of course, he wasn’t doing it for me. He was doing it for the other Brett.

  Imposter syndrome settled on my shoulders.

  Someone handed me a beer, and I drank it. People wandered into the bar and took seats at tables scattered here and there. An open dance floor separated the tables from the stage.

  Michael found me as I set my empty beer glass on the bar.

  “You ready?” he asked.

  “Sabrina says you broke up with her.”

  “What does that have to do with being ready to play?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Ask her.”

  “We’ve barely spoken in ages, Michael said”

  “You sound nervous.”

  “I am nervous.”

  “Some big tough vampire you are.” I chucked him on the shoulder to let him know I was joking, and he nodded.

  “I can handle things that go bump in the night, but my ex-girlfriend makes me nervous.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “Remember what Gregor said.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m a target. Kinda hard to forget that.”

  And then it was time to take the stage.

  I bit the inside of my cheek to draw blood, and focused my magic as I grabbed one of the electric guitars. Was it open tuned or normal? I strummed it. Normal. All good.

  Chuck banged out a beat and kicked us off. I trusted the set list written before me, and the magic in my pick to hit the right notes and chords. I bit the inside of my cheek and cast a spell to help me with the lyrics.

  The words floated over the crowd where only I could see them.

  “Cheater,” Sabrina said.

  Okay, where only wizards could see them.

  Now I could karaoke the shit out of the songs, and with my focused magic, I knew I could get through the set. It would simply take concentration.

  The first six songs went well.

  Teddy broke a string at the end of the song, and he only had the one guitar.

  “Go change the string,” I said to him away from the microphone. “I’ll improv.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  I moved the microphone back to my mouth and said, “Technical difficulties, folks, but here’s a little ditty I wrote last year that burned up the charts for a few months. It’s called ‘Napping My Life Away.’ Hit it, Chuck.”

  We played my song. People still liked it enough that a couple sang along, and I didn’t need to cheat, so I felt pretty good about the performance.

  Michael gave me a nod part way through the song to tell me he approved of the way I handled it. He gave me another nod, and I nodded back to tell him I knew I was doing fine.

  Teddy jumped back on stage before the song was over, all good to go.

  I bit my cheek, tossed the words back into the air, and a man in a white suit stepped out of the crowd. So Michael wasn’t telling me I was doing well, he was telling me to watch out for the assassin. The guy in white motioned toward the words, and they shattered.

  I was in the middle of singing. Oh shit. I sang, “Tides of indecision carry you away, but I don’t know the words now so it’s a song we cannot play.”

  Michael looked a question at me, and I launched into a guitar solo.

  The man in white stepped right up to the stage, pulled out a gun and aimed it at my face.

  “Time to die, Mr. Masters,” he said, and pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  If you’ve never been to Texas, there are some myths people believe about the state that should probably be set right.

  First, not everything is bigger in Texas.

  Second, not everyone loves country music.

  Third, not all Texas women have big hair, though I’ve certainly been with a few who did.

  About now you’re asking yourself why I’m telling you all this when some asshole just took a shot at me.

  Well, obviously, the son of a bitch didn’t kill me or I wouldn’t be telling the story to you. I mean, duh.

  At the risk of being anticlimactic, Michael jumped in front of me and took the bullet. Yeah, you probably saw that coming. Vampires can’t be killed by bullets unless they’re made of wood, but who would go through the hassle of making a wooden bullet?

  Getting back to my point about myths of Texas, one myth is closer to the truth than most.

  That myth is that everyone in Texas owns a gun. That’s not true. Some people don’t. But a metric fuckton of the people in Texas definitely own guns and whenever they go out, they’re packing. It’s one of the reasons so many Texans are so friendly. The whole, an armed society is a polite society adage holds true. You’re less likely to get shot if you’re being nice.

  And if you pull a gun in any business establishment, you need to realize that most of the people around you are armed.

  The dipshit in white didn’t think of that, so after he took his shot and Michael intercepted, the would-be assassin looked around to see fifteen handguns aimed at his head. If not for the danger of crossfire taking out other patrons, he’d have been riddled with bullets, and that’s no joke.

  He wisely raised his hands and let his pistol dangle. Someone snatched it away from
him. The bouncer took the man in white off the floor and threw him down in the back office while the bartender called the cops.

  Gregor sat at the end of the bar and gave me a slight nod.

  I looked around. Chuck and Teddy peeked up from behind the drum kit. Sabrina had jumped behind the speakers, and looked hesitant to come out, but torn because Michael was down.

  Michael lay on the stage. I crouched to check on him.

  “You okay, dude?”

  “Give me a minute,” he said. He reached up, plucked the bullet from his forehead and tossed it aside. It clattered on the stage. His wound sealed itself in less time than it takes to tell you about it, and he sat up.

  “Thanks for saving my ass,” I said.

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” He wiped blood from his forehead.

  “So many things do.”

  “Yeah, you were supposed to move closer to me to make it easier to protect you.”

  “I was singing.”

  “Right. Well, I gotta hand it to you. Under the circumstances, you did okay on the songs.”

  “I cheated.”

  “End result is what matters for the show.”

  It took a good ten minutes to get things calmed down after the shooting. Sabrina went to the restroom to throw up. Gregor disappeared. Teddy and Chuck approached the front of the stage.

  “Did you get shot?” Teddy asked Michael.

  “The guy missed,” I said.

  Michael got to his feet and gave them a smile. “All good,” he said. “I just slipped on some spilled beer.”

  “You guys okay?” I asked.

  “I need to change my shorts,” Teddy said. “And my heart is still racing. This shit only happens on TV. It shouldn’t happen to me.”

  “No one hurt,” I said. “Nothing to worry about.”

  “You’re awfully calm.”

  “It’s over,” I said.

  “Okay. Are we gonna finish the show?” Teddy asked.

  “I think we’re done,” Chuck said.

  “Thank God. I don’t think I could play right now.” He held up a shaking hand. He tried to steady it, but it didn’t work.

  “Cops will have questions,” Chuck said.

  “True, but I was serious about the shorts.”

  Chuck raised an eyebrow. “With all the confusion, we can slip out the back.”

  He was right. Michael and I stayed in the bar to keep an eye on our equipment. Some people were freaked out, others thought it was exciting. I needed a drink.

  Two cops came in to take the bad guy into custody. The bartender pointed them to the office where the bouncer had the asshole pinned down.

  More officers came in to ask questions of the audience. They tried to get things done in an orderly fashion, but it was like herding cats.

  The two cops brought the shooter out of the office in handcuffs. He was grinning.

  The man in white looked over at me.

  “Your time is nigh,” he said.

  “Keep moving,” one of the cops said, and shoved him.

  As soon as the cop’s hand touched the man’s back, the man burst into a puff of smoke. The handcuffs dropped to the floor.

  “What the hell?” the cop asked.

  Michael looked at me. “You might want to watch your back when we get out of here.”

  “No shit.”

  Then Michael made a big deal out of looking around the bar. “Hmm,” he said. “No sign of Gideon. Imagine that.”

  I was trying to think of a witty comeback when the cops pulled me aside for an interview.

  I didn’t tell them anything useful. Michael talked to another officer. Eventually, they cut us loose. I checked my phone and saw two text messages waiting. One was from Gideon saying he was running late, but would be here soon. The other was from Sabrina saying she was waiting for us out back.

  Michael and I packed up our equipment and lugged it out the back exit. Sabrina was sitting in the open doors of Chuck’s van. She looked up at us when we came out.

  “I’m still shaking,” she said, holding her hand out to show us she was telling the truth.

  I thought about telling her Teddy had the same reaction, but went for the joke instead.

  “Want me to sing a Jerry Lee Lewis tune?”

  “Big Maybelle recorded ‘Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On’ before him,” Michael said.

  “But if I’d said Big Maybelle, Sabrina wouldn’t have gotten the joke.”

  “What joke?” she asked.

  “Never mind,” I said.

  “You two are the music geeks,” she said. “Use a song from within my lifetime and maybe I’ll get it.”

  “If it’s a pop song,” I said.

  “Yeah, so?”

  “I’ll try to go with Destiny’s Child or Ed Sheeran next time.”

  “And if I hadn’t just been traumatized, I might even laugh,” she said.

  “The guy wasn’t shooting at you,” I said.

  “This won’t even make the news,” Michael said.

  “Can you get up so we can load the van?” I asked.

  “You have no empathy,” Sabrina said.

  “Again, the guy wasn’t shooting at you. And you’ve been through worse. What about Sinclair freezing you and damn near killing you? What about the junkyard in Houston?”

  “Magical attacks I can handle. Guns freak me out.”

  “Then you’re living in the wrong country.”

  “Show a little sympathy, Brett,” Michael said. He stepped up to Sabrina and put a hand on her shoulder. “You’re safe, Bri. No worries.”

  She rose and fell into his arms. He held her and rocked her back and forth.

  “I’ve got you,” he said as they swayed. “I’m not going to let anything hurt you.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  I sighed. “If you two can soothe each other three feet to the left, I can start loading our shit.”

  Sabrina flipped me off.

  Michael shook his head, but he slowly moved her to the left three feet.

  I loaded the van.

  And just as I put the last case into the van, Gideon stepped out the exit into the alley.

  “Did I miss the show?” he asked.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “That’s the best you’ve got?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?” Gideon asked.

  Car headlights speared him, and he stepped closer to the van to get out of the way. Gravel crunched beneath tires, and a black Nissan slowly rolled by.

  “Are you testing me?” I asked.

  “I repeat my earlier inquiry. What do you mean?”

  “Someone tried to kill me tonight.”

  “Well, you knew that was going to happen.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because I was hired to guard you.”

  “And you were conveniently absent when some clown makes an attempt on my life?”

  “An actual clown or are you being facetious?”

  “Some wizard dude dressed like Tom Wolfe.”

  “I don’t know who that is,” Gideon said.

  “You’re a movie reviewer, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you see Bonfire of the Vanities?”

  “A long time ago.”

  “How about The Right Stuff?”

  “About the astronauts?”

  “Yeah. Those movies were based on books written by Tom Wolfe. The guy always wears a white suit like a southern gentleman.”

  “And because I’ve seen movies, I should know about the author of the books?”

  “My father was at a party with him once,” I said.

  “Did your father know who he was?”

  “He must have. He told me about it.”

  “How exciting for him.”

  “Guys,” Michael said, “that car is coming back.”

  “What car?” Sabrina asked.

  “Listen.”

  We fell silent. Gra
vel slowly crunched under tires.

  “Get behind the van,” Gideon said, and pushed me.

  “Hey,” I said.

  He kept pushing me until I was behind the van. When he stepped up beside me, I moved to the left to give him some space.

  He grabbed me and pulled me toward him. “We need to stand here. We’ll crouch in a moment, but we need to be behind the engine block.”

  “Why?”

  “Because bullets will punch through the rest of the vehicle. Crouch!”

  I crouched.

  Sabrina said, “Bullets? Forget that,” and tried to go back into the bar. The door was locked. She worked a quick spell, and opened the door. “You guys coming?”

  Michael shook his head. “I’ll stay out here in case they need me.”

  “That’s stupid,” Sabrina said. “There’s still time for everyone to get inside.”

  The Nissan crept into view. “Not anymore.” Michael closed the door and moved behind us.

  “What are you doing?” Gideon asked. “Vampires can’t be killed by bullets.”

  “I don’t want holes in my clothes.”

  The Nissan slowly rolled past, but nobody opened fire.

  “It’s a set up,” Gideon said, looking up at the rooftops. “Shield us.”

  “What?”

  As soon as I spoke, the crack of gunfire sounded.

  Bullets rained down on us. Michael took three shots to the shoulders. “Goddammit, I like this shirt.”

  He shoved me under the van.

  Gideon raced around to the other side. He wasn’t the target. I was. I kept myself positioned under the engine.

  Bullets sparked the pavement.

  “I didn’t sign up for this shit,” I said. “Wizards are supposed to attack with magic, not guns!”

  “Use your magic to stop them,” Gideon said, hiding behind the front wheel on the driver’s side. For such a tall guy, he sure managed to hunker down well.

  “I don’t want to get shot!” My voice cracked, but in my defense, someone was shooting at me.

  “All the more reason to stop them.”

  “Someone must have called the cops.”

  “By the time the cops get here again, we’ll be dead.”

  “Except for Michael,” I said. “Where is he? I can’t see him.” I hoped I didn’t sound as scared as I felt.

  “He’s pressed into the doorway to the bar.”