Dying for a Living (A Jesse Sullivan Novel) Read Online Free Page A

football stars. I thought they knew each other from past military days and that’s why Brinkley set him up as my mortician when we relocated from St. Louis. Whatever his past, Brinkley was more like a cop than a soldier now, given his work with FBRD—The Federal Bureau of Regenerative Deaths—but his graying hair and sour face said it all. He’d seen some things in the world that he hadn’t liked and he’d been dealing with them ever since.
    I often felt like I was one of those things.
    “Do you want to know something really funny?” he asked, entering the softly lit room. He was in jeans today and a collared T-shirt. Even when it was ninety degrees outside, I’d never seen him in anything but pants. I wonder if his legs were as pasty white as the rest of him. “I just got another batch of your reviews.”
    Brinkley waved a thin stack of post-replacement survey cards at me before tossing them for me to catch. They were held together by a rubber band and their rough edges each sported a different color ink and handwriting.
    “My personal favorite and I quote,” he said, through tight lips. “Ms. Sullivan is like a human Chihuahua who barks at anything that moves.”
    “I don’t bark.” I flipped through the cards.
    “I believe it’s a comment on your constant sarcasm,” Brinkley said and slipped his hands into his pockets. “Not that any of us have had the pleasure of experiencing it.”
    “My commentary is not constant,” I argued. I flicked the card. “That woman is just mad because I called her a hoarder. She had, like, two million creepy dolls.”
    Kirk grunted, suppressing a laugh. “What kind?”
    “Porcelain—and some of them clowns,” I answered and tried to get a crick out of my neck by stretching it long, left then right. My neck muscles ached like I’d spent the night head-banging. “If I really was a mean person I would’ve said something about that stain on your pants.”
    All of our eyes went to Brinkley’s crotch and the dark stain about four inches below his gun.
    I arched an eyebrow. “I could say—”
    Brinkley stopped me, ears bright red. “That—” He refused to look at his crotch, which resulted in his pointing at it. “—is your fault.”
    “I’d remember making you piss blood.”
    His tone turned dangerously even. “When we picked you up from the hospital, they missed a piece of glass. When I pulled it out, you squirted on me,” he said, jaw still tight. “It would seem even your corpse is a sarcastic little shit.”
    Kirk, whose eyes had merely gone back and forth between us as we argued, gave a polite cough.
    “If you’ll excuse me,” Kirk said, squeezing my shoulder. Kirk and Brinkley did a male nod thing before it was just Brinkley and I left standing in the back room. We’ve worked together for the last seven years, yet I still found being alone with him awkward. Maybe awkward wasn’t the right word—uncomfortable.
    “I’m scared to even ask how it went with Mr. Reynolds,” he asked, relaxing his shoulders a little. “I hope you gave him a nice impression of Necronites. We pay him to make you look good.”
    “I saved his life,” I said. “If that even counts.”
    “That’s only part of the job.”
    “The hard part,” I mumbled. “The part I don’t even get thanked for.”
    “You have to comfort them. People need to feel safe,” he said, as if he hadn’t said this fifty times before.
    “They aren’t safe.” I thought of all the ungrateful jerks I’ve had to deal with. How many lives had I saved? Sixty-seven. Sixty-seven, yet I could count on one hand the people who’d actually thanked me for it. “If they were safe they wouldn’t need me to begin with.” I made a big show of flipping through the survey cards without actually looking at them.
    “If you don’t improve your people skills, I’ll have to fire you.”
    “Bullshit.”
    “You’re replaceable.”
    “Am not,” I said. Sure, I dreamed about quitting my job twenty