Freaks (Dirty Nasty Freaks, #3)

by Callie Hart

“Master Felix,” a voice called down to us. “I didn’t know you were coming. I nearly called the police.” “You’re meant to be at home,” Fix growled. As I climbed the final step, I found myself standing in front of a tall, reedy-looking man with eyes that might once have been brown but were now clouded and milky with cataracts. His wrinkled skin looked paper-thin and was a beautiful dark bronze color, and his top lip was capped with a snowy white moustache. His hair was short, salt and pepper curls. It was just after four in the morning, which explained the red, worn dressing gown hanging over his shoulders, but not the crisp white button-down shirt he was wearing beneath it, or the neat black dress pants. The old man’s hands shook a little as he gestured to Fix, beckoning him to step into the light. “This is my home,” he replied churlishly. “Your home’s four miles away. Remember? That three-bedroom villa by the water? With its own private dock?” The man, Richard, gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Psshhaaw. That place? Haunted. As. Fuck.” He hefted his considerable, bushy eye brows up toward his hairline. “Told you not to buy it. Told you I wan’t gon’ live in it. Might as well sell it again, you brat.” The very last thing I expected to be doing at this end of the car ride we’d just taken was laughing, but I couldn’t help it. Fix? A brat? If anyone else had called him that, they’d have been nursing a broken jaw. Fix just scowled at the old man, and then he scowled at me for...