The guy seemed eager, which was a good thing. Sam took it in stride, leading the other toward the door, his comment getting a hearty, warm laugh from Sam's throat. This could be good. Really, good, actually, and he didn't want to screw it up. As a hunter, chances like this were slim to him and worse than not scoring at the bar, was scoring at the bar then not being able to stomp home plate once out of there.

The night carried a chill but Sam barely felt it. His fingers slid down to the man's back, keeping between his strong shoulders. He wondered if he worked out. "I'm Keith," Sam lied, the name one he'd used often enough to not slip. It would be easier to recall the dark-haired young man if there was a name tied to it. "I'm that black Impala over there, back of the lot."