Physically, the two couldn’t be more different. The first was a huge man, his suit not quite tailored enough to hide the roughness of his frame. Griffen had never actually seen anyone who truly didn’t have a neck. It was as if he were a barrel someone had stuck a bucket head onto.

The other was tall, slim, well built, and seemed polished compared to the rough man next to him. Somehow he seemed more real than the other. His tan was rich, as if he had never spent a day without seeing sunshine. His jaw was square with an easy smile, his hair wavy with just a hint of tousled wildness. The first man wasn’t smiling; he seemed to be just baring his teeth and forcing his words through them.

The two stopped whatever they had been discussing in hushed tones as the rough man’s eyes fell on Griffen, still standing out on the street. He hushed the other, who turned and didn’t hesitate to beckon Griffen in. There was no reason for Griffen to refuse the invitation, but still he approached warily. Despite the man’s warm smile, his eyes were a bit too keen. As if he was seeing every detail, analyzing each in turn.

“Mr. McCandles, welcome,” the polished man said, nodding, no question in his voice.

“This is him?” said the other man. He was either uncaring or unable to hide his surprise.

The other’s eyes flicked briefly, not actually rolling, but the slight change in expression spoke volumes. There was very little respect here. The rough man noticed and seemed to hunch in on himself, head receding a bit more into his shoulders, eyes narrowing. He reached out a hand and took Griffen’s, applying much more pressure than was needed for a handshake.

“Skinny, ain’tcha? You ever do something that doesn’t involve sitting on a bar stool?”