Lindsey needed a fucking drink. He'd managed to avoid Saerian so far, but he was getting jittery. Something had triggered his 'get the fuck out' instinct, but he'd be damned if he could work out what it was. Non-specific jitteryness had led him to work out as best he could in his motel room, go for a run, and only hit his room long enough to shower, change, and head out again.
So he couldn't exactly be blamed if he scowled, just a little deeper, when a voice intruded just as he was about to knock back his first shot of bourbon. He hesitated, only for a second, then threw the shot back.
"Doubt it," he muttered, chasing the shot with a gulp of beer before even turning to look at the guy that had spoken.
Hunh. He was pretty sure he was looking at a Winchester. Wolfram and Hart weren't too fond of them, as he recalled. Too many potential clients wiped off the radar for a while.