Another little snippet of Infected: Paris

Roan is really good at being an asshole. (Posted unedited, without total context.)

**

Roan dropped his phone back in his pocket, but didn’t say anything until he joined George in his office and closed the door. “Why the act? You know exactly who I am.”

He scoffed as he retreated behind his desk. It looked like a big box warehouse special, a cheap metal desk with a couple of nicks and dents in it. There were some papers piled on one side, a computer monitor and keyboard, a phone, nothing else. The walls were surprisingly bare, with his just his framed detective license on it. “Sorry guy, I don’t know every private detective in town.”

Roan sighed, doing his best to rein in his temper. But the urge to growl was almost overwhelming. “If you’d done your homework on me, you’d be aware that I am currently the only human legally awarded bloodhound status by the courts. Do you know what that means?”

George sat down heavily, the chair settling with a slight pneumatic hiss, as he chuckled. “You’re a dog?”

“I have access to a whole range of a scent language most humans can’t possibly know. To simplify it for you, I can smell lies. And you’ve been lying since you’ve come out of your office.”

“Oh really? Please, tell me what lies smell like.” He said it in the most patronizing manner possible, not bothering to hide his smirk. But the metallic scent of his sweat went up a notch. Despite his appearance, he was as nervous as hell.

“Like sweat, but more sour, more panic based. Yours smells a bit like burnt aluminum with an undertone of Fritos. And … did you have asparagus this morning?”

All humor fled his expression, and he scowled slightly. “Are you following me?”

“No. But I can smell it through your pores. Laugh all you want, but I’d be perfectly content to rattle off every kind of product you’re wearing, what you last ate and drank, until you become convinced the courts knew what they were doing. It’s not a status they hand out to just anyone who claims they can do it. Now, are you going to stop lying, or do I start the list?”

“Look, just ‘cause –“

“Portman’s scalp wax, Old Spice aftershave, Degree anti-perspirant sea breeze scent, Cruex anti-itch powder, Suave body wash honeydew melon scent, Crest whitening morning fresh flavor, a topical antibiotic cream – amoxicillin, right? – coffee with three sugars, a full shot of non-dairy creamer, and a slug of cheap whiskey you’re keeping in a flask inside your jacket –“

“Fine,” he interrupted loudly, slamming his hands down on his desk. “You’re either a stalker or really good at smelling. Whatever.” He sat forward, trying to gather up a modicum of dignity. “I have done nothing illegal –“

“Lie.”

George glared at him. “- and I can’t divulge my clients. I’d think, as a detective, you’d know better than to even ask.”

“You had an omelet with ham and asparagus for breakfast, along with a side of white toast with margarine, and several cups of coffee, not all Irished up, but many. Recently, although not today, you spilled wine on your sleeve –“

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he interrupted, a flush crawling up his neck. “This is the creepiest party game ever. Will you shut the hell up?”

“I dunno. You gonnna start telling the truth?”

George slumped in his chair, looking defeated by his own growing irritation. “You’re an asshole.”

“At least I admit it.”

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