Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 10

need you to come to me."
    George curled into a ball. Squeezing his knees to his chest, he dug his fingers into his jeans, unable to close his mind to the horrific visions racing through his head. Not his usual visions, where he saw young soldiers he knew being blown apart by IED's, but every bit as sickening.
    "I guess the gay porn channel was asking too much?" he groaned. Then everything went black.
    ****
    "The printer's on the fritz again?"
    Slitting his eyes against the brightness of the overhead fluorescent tubes, George tried to figure out how he'd ended up on the floor. The commercial tile felt cool against the fading pain in his back. He could finally breathe, and he gulped in a lungful of air. The hallucination came flooding back. Oh, yes, the fury of an angel scorned. He wondered whether the Winged One was taking estrogen shots.
    Fuck you, too, Lucien. I have enough shit going on in my head without your shit barging in.
    Bare toes prodded his ribs. "George, I know you can take this printer apart in the dark, but seriously, don't you think it'd be easier to fix the damn thing with the lights on?"
    Rissa stood over him, wearing an oversized t-shirt and nothing else, but George turned his head to look at the walls and ceiling. The cream-painted sheetrock was bare of the spattered and dripping blood he'd seen so clearly only moments ago.
    Rissa knelt. Her hand felt cool on his forehead. "George? You look pale, but you're burning up. Are you sick? I came back for another donut and heard a bang. Did you hit your head?" She probed at the knot he could feel rising on his forehead. Why did women do that? Poke at a man's wounds?
    Pulling away, he struggled to sit. Pressing his back against the wall, he tensed involuntarily for a pain that didn't come. Exhaling cautiously, George ground the heels of his hands into his aching eye sockets. "I think I'm okay." The momentary shaft of pain in his back disagreed.
    Once Rissa left him alone, George righted his chair, swallowing hard as he closed the door and turned off the light. He sat down and changed into a fresh pair of gloves, staring at the negative image of a cherubic-faced boy missing both front teeth. Determinedly, he began to print, carefully dusting off each negative with a blast of air.
    When he stepped out the back door of the studio, tucking the large envelope for the detective agency under his arm, he'd had the vision twice more, but not the pain. Lighting a stale cigarette with shaking hands, George leaned against the metal door and watched the sun rise, squinting through the smoke as he murmured a prayer for active-duty Marines, and all the other poor bastards about to run into tragedy as soon as his watch ticked off another second.
    ****
    Max let out a long whistle as he scrutinized the photos. Grinning, he looked up. The tie hanging loose down the front of the detective's spotless striped shirt looked to George like a noose waiting to be tightened around some guy's neck. "Nice work. I got a job for you if you want it, George. Lady thinks her man's fucking around on her with another guy. Rissa's gonna stand out like a sore thumb where this guy hangs out."
    George figured he knew where Max's next victim hung out, and he gave the detective a one-fingered salute. "You don't deserve Rissa, and you can't afford me. Later, asshole." But he stood there, because leaving Chandler's scruffy office meant he had nowhere to go but home, with no one to keep him company but Lucien's angel.
    Max facetiously placed a hand over his heart. "I'm hurt, Georgie boy. I pay Rissa real good for what she does."
    "You turn art into dirt, Max."
    Max shook his head, beginning to wrap the loose ends of his tie together. "You got it backwards, Hot Shot. I give her dirt; she turns it into art." Every millimeter Max pushed the knot towards his throat seemed to make the detective's smile crueler. "Rumor has it that you used to have that ability. Let me know if you want the job. Pays five hundred on delivery."
    George looked at the photos scattered over the leather-topped desk, regretting such beautiful images were only going to cause pain in Max's hands. He'd once specialized in painful images, but this was one job he wasn't yet desperate enough to take.
    Guilt blew seductively in his ear. Connie could use the money. "No, thanks." George wheeled and stalked out.
    He was almost to his battered pickup when another vision blocked his sight. Stumbling into a car, he held onto the warming metal