by Rhys Ford
THE FIRST time Rook’d seen Sadonna Swann, he was fourteen, heartbreakingly scared, and on the run. A job he’d been pulling went south, and he’d been left twisting in the wind by the supposed adults on the heist with him. With an ocean of cops on his ass, ducking into a sci-fi double feature when a theater employee went back in from a smoke break was a surefire way to save his own skin.
He’d already known he was different. The skimpily clad women working the sideshows did nothing for him, even when they rubbed up against his admittedly a bit too skinny teenaged frame, but the strong men and the male crew working setup made parts of his body tingle where they hadn’t tingled before. Talking to his mother, Beanie, was out, mostly because she’d been AWOL for over six months by then, and everyone he’d had around him was scattered to different carnivals, an inevitable destiny for people who worked for an embezzling con artist with more greed than business sense.
Left to drift, he’d taken up with the first show who’d have him, an unfamiliar circuit with a few of the sketchiest carnies he’d ever known. He’d already done a few jobs in California and found he loved the spice it brought to his blood, but this time it was different. This time he’d been thrown under the bus by the people who were responsible for extracting him, and even if Rook knew how to get back to the field where the carnival set up, he wasn’t sure he wanted to.
The cool dimness was a welcome relief after the bone-melting San Antonio heat, and he’d climbed up to the top row of the theater, slouching down to avoid notice. He was alone, lost, and in a city he didn’t know, traveling with a road crew he didn’t like. With his heart pounding an erratic, scary beat in his ears, Rook’d tucked himself up into a ball and breathed a sigh of relief when the lights dimmed and the movie began to play.
Sadonna—like Madonna but with an S—Swann oozed sex. And not just any kind of sex but molten hot, burn your tongue on her wit and cocky smile sex. For all of his apathy toward women, when Sadonna Swann burst onto the screen wearing a dark blue military-style trench over a cleavage-revealing white shirt and a pair of hip-hugging black pants tucked into brown riding boots, Rook wondered if he was falling in love. It could have been her chewing through the scene with a snarl and a wink or even the double tap-tap of her laser pistols as she blew alien brains all over the screen in a fourth-wall-breaking splatter on the camera, but no matter what it was about the slightly crass flaxen bombshell, he’d lost a piece of his heart that day.
And when he’d discovered she was married to his asshole cousin, Harold, he’d briefly mourned his one-sided love affair with the only woman who’d made him rethink if he really liked dick as much as he had before he’d seen her.
“I didn’t kill him,” Sadonna rasped, her trembling fingers raking back her trademark thick blonde mane. “Sure, sometimes I wanted him dead, but I didn’t kill him. You’ve got to believe me, Rook.”
For an aging sex kitten, she normally didn’t look a day over thirty, but the murder wore her down, and the jail’s harsh lighting didn’t do her strained features any favors. Her wrists were swollen and red from the cuffs the cops slapped on her during her arrest, probably on too tight and too long judging by how she rubbed at them as she talked. They’d either taken her clothes or she’d been arrested wearing a tight gray T-shirt and black sweats. Her lush body was a promise of heat and sensuality, but her beautiful face with its sad, tired sea-green eyes whispered tragedy and regret.
Sadonna Swann was everything Charlene, his former assistant, had wanted to be. Successful enough to be recognized, but not so popular as to shut her life down every time she stepped out the door. Her acting range was tighter than most headliners, but there was something about Sadonna’s retro bombshell body and classic beauty that drew the eye. Getting older in Hollywood was the kiss of death, but she’d managed well enough, embracing her past roles and playing up any parts she could pry out of stingy directors’ cold, clammy hands.
“I didn’t think you did. This is insane, babe.” Rook looked around, uneasy at the thick Plexiglas wall separating them and the armed behemoths holding court behind him. “I didn’t think they’d lock you up. Figured Vicks would do to you what he did to me: catch, threaten, and release.”
The detention center was fairly decent, although Rook didn’t have much experience in them. He’d not actually made it behind formal bars. Other than a stray hour or two at a police station’s holding cell, he’d never truly lost his freedom. There’d always been a way to slide away from the noose tightening around his neck or someone he could socially engineer to release him before he earned an overnight stay.
Sadonna hadn’t been so lucky. Archie’s refusal to sic his lawyers on the LAPD stymied Sadonna’s release, and her own lawyer, a decent man who dealt more with entertainment contracts than criminal charges, hadn’t delivered Sadonna a golden ticket out the front door. She needed assholes and bulldogs, but instead she’d brought a pigeon to the bargaining table to do battle with the court, and he’d been chopped up and served as stew nearly from the moment he’d come through the door.
“That asshole!” Anger curled her lip, throwing a bit of ugly into her words. “That’s someone I’d like to see hit by a bus—”
“Hold those kinds of thoughts until we get you out of here. Or do you want to have all of your mail forwarded to Century?” Rook tapped at the glass, and the guard standing near the door cleared his throat with a menacing rumble. “I’ve got Archie’s lawyers to take a stab at getting you out of here.”
“God, he must love the fuck out of you, kid.” She eyed him. “Because that man would sooner watch me rot on a hot tin roof than help me out. He’s still mad I didn’t give him any great-grandkids, but there was no fucking way in hell I was going to start shooting out babies. Especially not with Harold.”
“I’m not even sure why you married Harold in the first place.” Rook grinned at her pained grimace.
“It seemed like a good idea at the time.” Sadonna wrinkled her nose. “I might have been a little bit drunk. And we were in Vegas at a wrap party. Next thing I know, I’m married and he’s puking in the bathtub at the MGM. Then we stayed married, because well, Archie told him to. And if Archibald Martin told Harold to jump, Harold would climb the tallest building he could find and pitch himself off of it.”
“Well, Archie was pissy about the lawyers, but I reminded him it looks shitty to just let you rot, especially since I’m the one who probably put you here.” He wasn’t good at handling the guilt nibbling at him, and looking at Sadonna through a thick pane of Plexiglas wasn’t helping his stomach settle down either. He had a plan, one he’d thought on as he walked through Hollywood and read the names on the stars beneath his feet. “And he does like you. It’s why he wanted you to have kids with Harold. Thinning out the Martin bloodline is a dream of his. It keeps him up some nights.”
“Maybe you and I should have a kid, then.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him, guffawing when he instinctively recoiled. “Yeah, I didn’t think so.”
“Mostly because I don’t want a kid, not because… shit, don’t pull me into that game.” He tsked. “Last time I talked to the head suit, they’re going to get you bail, and Archie’s either going to post it or I will. Either way, you’re getting out.”
“And go where?” Her sculpted brow arched up, the beauty mark on her cheek lifting when she quirked her mouth. “They’ve frozen my assets, remember? I’m a flight risk, and I sure as hell can’t go home. And don’t tell me Archie’s going to take me in. You and I both know he’d sooner see me selling pencils on a street corner than let me into that house.”
“Actually, that’s exactly where you’re going. Lurch the Lawyer said it would show the family supports you and help with your case. I don’t know about Harold’s parents, but after Archie got some sleep and bacon, he eventually agreed with me that you didn’t kill the idiot. Hold on.” His phone burbled in his jacket pocket, and a quick check made him grin. “They’ve got you bail, and Archie said he’d pop for it.”
“So now he’s dying and wants into Heaven?” She leaned her head back, rolling her shoulders until they touched the chair’s firm metal back. “Sorry. I’m just… I don’t know how to process any of this. It was a joke. Harold was supposed to be playing golf not… lying there dead.”
“Yeah, I know. Vicks is going to keep hammering at you. I know his type. Only way you’re ever going to be free of him is if someone confesses to killing Harold.”
“Or if I leave the country,” Sadonna muttered darkly, then rubbed at her wrists again. “I’m kidding. I’m not going to go anywhere. Not until this is resolved, but living with Archie, I might have more peace if I stay here in jail.”
“No can do, babe. I need you out here.” Rook stood up when a guard approached Sadonna, murmuring she was scheduled for release. “Because I’m going to prove you didn’t do it. And I’m going to ask Dante to help.”
Six
FROM THE moment Dante Montoya saw Rook Stevens through a one-way glass window in one of Central’s interview rooms, he’d known the cat burglar was trouble, the kind of bad-boy trouble anyone in their right mind would have tossed into a bin and walked away. Problem was, too many people had done just that, and now Dante was dealing with being crazy in love with a man who’d lived on scraps of affection and rotted dreams.
There were times when it hurt Dante to look at Rook. His heart couldn’t take the rush of conflicted emotions, and torn between wanting to shake some sense into his lover or swaddle him and drag him under the covers to spend the rest of the day in bed, Dante knew he could do neither. Rook fought being controlled, raged at being hemmed in, and even stiffened when hugged. A little piece of Dante died every time he watched as someone Rook cared for touched him, his heart breaking in that moment between touch and relaxation when Rook’s fears urged him to run.
Rook’d stopped running, but the instincts remained, a wild soul caged by the invisible threads connecting him to the people he’d learned to love, and now he was pacing the length of the loft’s living space, eating up the wooden floor in long strides.
Spanning the length of the post-Art-Deco building, the loft apartment’s polished wooden floors and high ceilings were a reminder of its time as a dance studio, its three golden brick outer walls lined with nine-foot-tall mullioned crank-levered windows Rook’d fitted blackout curtains over to combat Los Angeles’s unrelenting sun and the neon signs lining the streets. The living room was big enough to swallow up three eight-foot couches and a large-screen television hidden in a free-standing credenza. Old movie posters and kitsch decorated the main space, splashes of color on the mellow brick. A galley kitchen, built-in cold room for vintage costumes, and enormous bathroom ran down the left side of the space, while a long wall of ten-foot-tall black lacquer bookcases cut off the rear third of the loft, creating a room for Rook’s soft king-sized bed and antique Asian chests.
It was a long space, perfect for Rook to move around in, and he took advantage of every inch, slowly bouncing from spot to spot in the nearly spartan living room until Dante snagged him by the waistband on his fourth or fifth pass.
“Cuervo, come here.” He dragged Rook down, folding him into an embrace. “You’re making me dizzy, and you said you wanted to talk, so let’s talk.”
Rook didn’t fight him, but the rigid stiffness dug into Dante’s ego, scooping out a piece of his pride with a savage bite. It was only a moment, maybe two, but it was enough, and Dante held on tight, refusing to let Rook go. One exhaled breath and Rook gave in, his joints and muscles relaxing, spilling him into a sprawl over Dante’s lap.
Burying his face into Rook’s hair, Dante simply held his lover, taking him all in.
He’d changed. Dante saw it in the little things, minute shifts in Rook’s behaviors. Some Rook explained when Dante asked, while others he filed away as signs of Rook unfurling, growing into someone who wasn’t constantly looking over their shoulder or waiting for the other shoe to drop.
There was time spent cooking, or rather in Rook’s case, attempting to cook. Sips of wine, usually followed by a grimace, were shared between them, oftentimes ending with Rook’s glass being dumped into the pasta sauce because he didn’t like reds. They took walks in the evening, sometimes catching a movie at an old drive-in while stretched out in the back of Dante’s truck. Swap meets and fresh-air markets tickled Rook’s fancy, and he plunged eagerly into bins and junk tents, ferreting out odd treasures Dante couldn’t make heads or tails out of.
There were gaps in Rook’s knowledge, a slice of life in between rarified objects d’art and street smarts, and Dante slowly discovered Rook’s challenging of the norm came from curiosity about things he’d never experienced growing up on the sideshow and carnival circuit.
His new soap was scented with cinnamon, curry, and sugar, an extravagance he reveled in now he could carry a scent. There were parts of Rook’s life he was beginning to shed, slivers of ash flaking from who he was, caught in a wind of change. He’d sublimated odd bits of his life, things Dante never would have considered until he’d fallen in love with a reformed cat burglar. Odors drew dogs and tickled a human’s senses, a dangerous event when sneaking past security. The richness of life was open to Rook—everything from onions and garlic to vivid colors creeping into his wardrobe.
Rook laughed more, made noises and unspooled a bit of the tension he wore around his spine and chest. There was a bit more teasing than in the beginning, something Dante welcomed as a change to the almost edged-steel banter they’d flung at each other before. The differences were subtle, a casual intimacy building between them. Nothing delighted Dante more than Rook stealing a tortilla chip from his nachos or handing Dante a cup of coffee—two sugars, black—in the morning before they headed their separate ways.
But the biggest, most incredible change of all was Rook giving his heart to a cop.
They lay with Rook’s back to Dante’s chest, and he cradled Rook against him, sliding a hand over his heart. Rook’s beat fluttered, racing as quick as his thoughts, then after one shuddering breath, began to slow. Then Dante waited, letting Rook choose his words and moment.
“You’re probably pissed as shit at me.” A hint of defiance rolled under Rook’s smooth tone. “Didn’t mean to leave you with that crap downstairs. I really left Manny a message not to come in. Figured I’d take care of it when I came back.”
“Not a problem. Gave me something to do, and well, you know Manny. He likes bossing people around.” Dante kissed the back of Rook’s head. “He’s really damned proud of that sign he made on the sheet. I don’t get it, but he’s damned proud.”
“I can’t believe you’re even related to him. That sheet’s perfect. He even got the I assure you we’re open perfect.”
“You’re going to make me watch another movie, aren’t you?”
“I’m so going to make you watch another movie. Dude, you’re literally Dante! You’re not even supposed to—never mind. We’ll catch you up.” Rook leaned his head back, twisting slightly in Dante’s arms so he could see his face. “Really not pissed? ’Cause I’d be pissed.”
“I’m a humble and noble man,” he teased, not surprised when Rook snorted. “Now tell me why you left like a bat out of hell this morning.”
“I fucked up. This morning. Leaving you instead of talking shit out.” Rook’s expression closed, and Dante watched while his lover fought a brief internal battle. Then his mismatched eyes brightened again. “I’m sorry about that. Just needed to walk some stuff out in my head because… hell, I can’t shake the feeling that I screwed Sadonna over, Montoya. Then I got caught up in some tangled shit about women, and… I figured out I don’t fucking trust women, babe. Especially after Charlene. I just don’t trust them.”
“To be fair,” he replied. “You don’t trust anyone, Stevens.”
“I trust you.”
“Fair enough,” Dante conceded, fighting a silly grin spread over his face. “Talk to me about the trust thing.”
“There’
s a lot of… I don’t want to say baggage, because it feels more like fishing lines with those teardrop lead weights on them, but they’re hooked into me, dragging me down.” Shoving his bony shoulder blades into Dante’s chest, Rook made himself comfortable, stretching his long legs out over the couch. “I needed to see Sadonna. Talk to her. Because my gut says I owe her, but then there’s a part of me that thinks… maybe she did this. Or had a hand in it. So I begin second-guessing.”
“How so?” Shifting slightly, Dante eased Rook into a more comfortable position. “Explain.”
“When I was younger and doing… things you don’t want to hear about, one of the hard, fast rules was you never walked away from the team you hooked into. Yeah, sometimes it went to shit, but I always stuck by it. And I judge people who bail.” Rook’s voice got softer. “Beanie… my mom… bailed all the time, and I told myself it didn’t matter because I had other people at my back. But Charlene… and a couple of others… shook me, Montoya. I sat there in the back of the cab taking me over to where they were holding Sadonna and it hit me. I felt like I’d set her up. She had my back on getting into the house to get back at Harold. She could have tossed me to the wolves and said she didn’t give me the alarm codes, but she didn’t. Sure, I got Archie to get her out and post bail, but this crap’s still hanging over her.”
“And you feel like it’s your fault?” Stroking Rook’s stomach, Dante mulled over the conversation. “Okay, so now what?”
“Now’s when I beg you to help her get loose of the charges.” Rook sat up when Dante rumbled an objection. “Wait, hear me out.”
“You hear me out first.” He held still, letting Rook turn around to face him. “Okay, I can’t stick my nose into an investigation. Especially not with someone like Vicks. There’s hardly any evidence against her—”
