by P. A. Brown
Des had grabbed a table along the far wall and successfully defended a second seat, which Chris now slid into. Under a giant poster of a manic-looking Bette Davis, clichéd darling of the drag-queen set, tormenting Joan Crawford in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? , he leaned down over and kissed Des. He eyed Des’s Mojito sitting in a damp circle on the red and white chintz tablecloth.
“Been here long?” he shouted.
Des offered his familiar lopsided grin, the one that set off his white teeth perfectly against mocha-colored skin.
“Not that long,” he shouted back. He waved languidly at Ramsey, who held up two fingers and barely waited for Des’s nod before he grabbed bottles off the top shelf and began mixing Chris’s Cîroc martini and another Mojito. Des bounced to his feet. “I’ll get those.”
“Thanks,” Chris said when Des returned and handed him his drink. He leaned closer so he wouldn’t have to talk so loud. “Where do you want to—oh, shit, what’s he doing here?”
Kyle, the boyish, twenty-one-year-old dancer Des was hooked on like bad smack, appeared at the end of the bar.
“He asked to come.” Des sucked on his drink, avoiding Chris’s eyes. “His audition went sour. He didn’t want to be alone tonight. You know his parents threw him out when he came out. He didn’t have family like yours that left him expensive homes when they passed on.”
“Well aren’t you a fucking ray of sunshine. You know I never asked my grandmother for anything.”
“But you got it anyway,” Des said. “Just like my folks didn’t disinherit me. You ever think how it might have turned out if they had?”
“I got to school under my own steam. You could have, too.”
“And done what? I took philosophy and English lit, for Christ’s sake.”
“Then you’d have taken a different major if push came to shove.”
Des shook his head. “I’m not smart like you. The only thing I’m good at is retail. That would have meant minimum-wage rag jockey down on Melrose. At least Kyle has talent.
I want to see him make something of himself.”
Like that was ever going to happen. Hollywood was full of talented wannabes and never-weres. “There are better guys out there. Guys who can appreciate you—who don’t think you owe them.”
“And I guess you’d know that better than anyone, wouldn’t you, Miss Queen of the One-Night Stands.”
“Hey, not fair. They’re not all one-night stands.”
“Oh?” Des said. “When was the last time you went to bed with the same guy two nights in a row?”
Chris stared into his martini, groping through his memory for a rebuttal. “It happens.”
“You don’t remember, do you?” Des made a point of looking around them.
“If you really know where all the decent men are, why are we here?”
“Just because you like being alone,” Des said, “you think everyone does.”
Movement by the front door caught Chris’s eye. As though on cue, Bobby the actor made his entrance. A peacock couldn’t have strutted any prouder before a yard full of squawking hens.
“Is that one of those better guys?” Des jerked his chin toward Bobby. “Because I know what that one is, even if you don’t. You are such a hypocrite, Bellamere.”
Chris looked away from Bobby. He was startled by Des’s anger and was tempted to deny knowing the guy. But one look at Des’s face told him the lie would not fly.
“At least with Kyle I’m trying,” Des said. “You can’t see past a pair of tight jeans and a pretty face.”
“Des—”
“Rick, I was hoping to see you.” Bobby slid his hand down Chris’s neck, kneading the tight skin above his collarbone. “Spare a seat?”
“This one’s free—” Des stood up so fast his chair crashed into the table behind them.
A heavily rouged and hennaed drag queen shot them an evil look before going back to her Cosmo, her three-inch fuchsia nails beating an irritated tattoo on her glass.
Chris scrambled for the door, but Des was faster. By the time he hit the sidewalk Des had already snared Kyle and was walking down the boulevard toward Sunset.
Chris got in front of them and forced Des to stop.
“What are you doing?”
“Leaving.” Des walked around him, his hand firmly tucked into Kyle’s. “I’ve had enough of your lectures. I’m going home with the man I love.”
“Jesus, Des.” Chris eyeballed Kyle with a jaundiced eye. The look was returned.
“Let’s at least have dinner—”
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Des said.
Kyle squeezed Des’s hip and nuzzled his throat. “That’s if I let you out of bed, stud muffin.”
Chris watched them disappear behind a wall of jostling men. A shiver crab-crawled up his spine. Suddenly it was as if he was back in the disturbing dream he’d had the day after his Lexus was vandalized. All at once he didn’t want to leave the safety of the bar.
But he didn’t want Des to walk off like that.
Did he dare follow? Was he willing to risk his friendship with Des over a stupid argument they’d both forget the next day? Spinning around, he hurried back into the noisy, crowded Pit.
He squeezed past the press of bodies crowded around the bar. Bobby was sitting at their table, drinking what was left of Chris’s martini. He was already drunk.
“Shit, man.” He tilted the glass back and drained the last mouthful. “Why don’t you drink something decent like Bud?”
“Feel free to order what you want.” Chris snatched his drink back. He grimaced, put the glass back on the chintz tablecloth, and stood up. “On second thought, I’m going anyway.”
“Why don’t you grab some shooters while you’re at it?” He smirked. “Get me a blowjob.”
Chris had no intention of indulging in a game of downing shooters with this guy. If he got drunk he’d probably do something stupid like take Bobby home. He came back with the beer, another martini, and the Kahlúa, Bailey’s, and Amaretto concoction for Bobby, which he downed with smooth practice. Only then did Bobby seem to realize Chris had not indulged.
“Waiting for another emergency?”
Chris shrugged. “I’m on call.”
“Life sucks.” Bobby swallowed half his beer and burped. “And then you die. Well I’m not—on call that is, or dead.” He lurched to his feet, waving his shot glass. “I’m gonna have some fun. Hey, bartender, another one of these.”
Even half drunk, Bobby moved with a grace that was enviable. Chris sipped his martini and watched, remembering what Bobby looked like in bed. Naked and hungry.
All a brilliant fake-out.
Chris suddenly didn’t feel like playing the game.
“Most people come to these places to have fun,” the voice in his ear made him jump.
He swung around to find Trevor smiling down at him.
“You do not look like a man having fun,” Trevor said.
“You just don’t recognize extreme ecstasy when you see it.”
Trevor leaned down until his warm breath brushed Chris’s face. “Hmm, you’re right.
I don’t.” He slid his fingers through Chris’s short hair. Lowering his head, he covered Chris’s mouth with his.
After some serious tonsil hockey Trevor finally backed off. He straddled a chair and grinned across at Chris. Chris’s mouth was numb and his heart beat a rough tattoo. “Jesus, what was that for?”
Trevor ran his thumb over Chris’s lips. “I don’t need a reason. Do you?”
Chris shivered. He thought of what Des had said and wondered if there was any truth to his words. And would going home with Trevor change anything? It would be fun, but would it end up being just another one-night stand he regretted the next day?
“Hey, lover, let’s ditch this dump and go have some fun.” Bobby slid back into the seat he had vacated only minutes before. “I got some nose candy. Or I know where we can score some X, if you’re interested.”
&
nbsp; “He’s not,” Trevor said. He tugged at Chris’s ear and slipped warm hands up under Chris’s Izod shirt. “Let’s go back to your place. We can crack open another bottle of wine and compare notes.”
“Maybe,” Chris said, refusing to commit, tempted all the same by Trevor’s offer. He wished Bobby would take the hint and find someone else. Still, he couldn’t resist saying,
“Maybe I’ll go home alone.”
“That’d be a real waste,” Trevor said.
The noise level in the bar cranked up. A band was warming up on the tiny stage, and the sound check throbbed over the speakers.
It was retro night at the Pit. The band struck up the opening chords of ABBA’s
“Dancing Queen.” Chris leaned back, letting the noise and a warm haze of lust wash over him. Maybe this evening wouldn’t be such a waste after all.
The yelling sounded like it was outside at first. It quickly moved inside. A surge of bodies near the door broke apart as someone came hurtling in from the street. In the garish light from the stage the blood covering him looked black on his dark skin.
“Oh, God,” Des shouted. “They’re going to kill him!”
Monday, 7:10 pm, The Nosh Pit, Hyperion Avenue, Silver Lake, Los Angeles
David could still make out the words “cock” and “joto,” the Spanish slang term for faggot, on the whitewashed walls of the Nosh Pit. He stared at the windowless building with growing apprehension. Did he really want to go in there? More obscenities covered the sidewalk and the business next door. It looked like someone had wielded a sloppy brush in an attempt to cover up the nastier obscenities.
Joto was a term he’d heard all too recently, when he’d called Martinez to tell him he was going to check out the Nosh Pit.
“Better you than me, mi hermano,” Martinez had said. “Do me a favor, and don’t tell me all about it tomorrow, especially if some cute little joto hits on you.”
There was a knot of men crowding around the recessed entrance, and at first David thought it was a queue. Then he realized the tension in the crowd had nothing to do with waiting.
He heard the yelling and grabbed his radio, calling for backup.
A motley collection of four Latino teens had pinned a fifth man to the graffiti-covered wall. They had already given him a bloody nose and split lip. Ignoring David’s shouted warning they pushed their victim to the sidewalk and one raised a booted foot.
“Police,” David shouted, hand resting on the butt of his Glock. “Stand down. Hands where I can see them. Now!”
One of the teens looked at David and sneered. “Bastardo... joto... usted merece esto.”
When the black-and-white skidded to the curb, doors flying open before it came to a stop, the teens broke and ran. David grabbed one and slammed him against the wall, jerking his arm back and sliding out his cuffs all in one move. He snicked the cuffs in place and shoved the teenager to the ground. With a grunt he stepped sideways to avoid the man’s boot. He shot his left foot out and clipped a second one on the kneecap. The teen yelled and stumbled backward.
David was on him before he could recover his balance. Under a barrage of curses in Spanish and English, David cuffed him, then knelt by the battered man slumped against the wall, making a quick assessment of the victim. Blood from his face dripped onto the sidewalk, collecting in a dark pool. His lip had been split and already one eye was puffing out. In a few more hours he’d have a nice shiner. David flipped out his cell.
“I’m calling an ambulance, sir—” he said as he started punching in numbers.
“What the hell is going on here?”
Fingers still poised over the keypad, David spun around to find Chris Bellamere standing less than three feet away, arms folded over his chest. “Jesus. What’s going on here? You always bring this kind of trouble with you?”
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CHAPTER 11
Monday, 7:35 pm, The Nosh Pit, Hyperion Avenue, Silver Lake, Los Angeles
“HEY.” TREVOR SKIDDED to a halt beside Chris. “What the hell’s going on—”
“I’m not sure.” He turned away when Trevor slipped his arm around his waist. The guy was definitely into staking his claim tonight. “Des, are you okay?”
“Kyle! Oh, honey, are you all right—” A battered Des darted forward and fell to his knees at Kyle’s side. His lover’s normally pretty, perpetually sneering face was a mask of pain. He flinched when Des gently touched him.
“Excuse me, Mr. Bellamere,” David said. “You know these people?”
“Yes.” Chris shook off Trevor’s possessive arm. “Des, hon, why don’t you get Kyle to a hospital—”
“Ambulance is on its way,” David said. He snapped his cell phone shut.
“Thank you, officer,” Des said.
“While we wait, can I get a statement?”
“They just came out of nowhere,” Des said. “They started shouting, then one of them hit me. The next thing I know Kyle was screaming—”
From the ground Kyle protested, “I was not screaming.”
“Honey, it’s okay. They’re animals. We were both afraid.”
Chris studied the two shackled bodies lying on their stomachs on the sidewalk and the other two who had already been deposited in the back of the black-and-white. The grungier of the two, his nose a smear of blood from his abrupt contact with the pavement, glared up at them.
“Did you see anything?” David asked Chris.
“What good would it do if I said I did?”
“We take these crimes very seriously—”
“Sure you do. What are you doing down here anyway?”
A siren howl warned of the approaching ambulance. Des helped Kyle to his feet.
“It’s all over here.” Trevor squeezed Chris’s arm. “Why don’t we go back to your place?”
Two EMTs emerged from the ambulance and began a low-voiced conversation with Kyle. One of them flashed a light in his eyes and probed his head for the extent of his injuries.
“You should accompany us to the hospital, sir,” he said.
Kyle shook his head. “I’m fine.”
“Come on, Kyle.” Des tugged gently at his lover. “Go with them.”
“I just want to go home.”
David snapped his notebook shut. “I’ll drop you at your place. You can finish giving me your statement there.”
“Thank you, officer.” Des all but dragged Kyle over to David’s car. “We accept your offer.”
“I’m going with you,” Chris said.
Chris was sure David was going to protest. So when David jerked his shaggy head at his car he was surprised. Just then a second police car angled to a stop behind the ambulance.
After loading the two cuffed men into the back of the car, David spent another ten minutes giving a report while the uniformed cops eyed them all suspiciously. For a while Chris thought for sure they were all going to be arrested, then the cops took their prisoners and left.
Trevor tried one last time to dissuade Chris. He leaned in through the open car door and said, “Come on, man, these guys can look after themselves.”
Part of him wanted to go. He’d been looking forward to some fun before all this started. But he knew he’d feel like shit if he left now. “Des is my friend. I want to be there for him.”
“Chris—”
Chris spoke through clenched teeth. “Not tonight, Trev.”
Trevor threw Des a look of pure frustration before he stalked off. Chris sighed and slid into the front passenger seat.
David cranked the engine. “Where to?”
“North Palm Drive.”
“Sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?” David asked.
“We’re sure. They said there’s no sign of concussion,” Des said. “He’s just bruised.”
The house Des shared with Kyle in the flats of Beverly Hills was a well-tended two-story cottage that, according to Des, had once been owned by Imogene Coca. It was concealed behind a screen of trimmed boxwo
od and a towering jacaranda tree. While Des led Kyle into the living room, Chris ditched his jacket in the front foyer and went into the kitchen to prepare an ice pack.
Des eased the pack over Kyle’s swelling eye. The younger man winced. “Keep it on,”
Des said firmly when he tried to push it aside. “It’ll take the swelling down.”
David perched on the edge of the spindly-looking Louis XIV chair that matched the sofa Des and Kyle occupied. He had his notebook out. The cheap vinyl briefcase was on the floor beside the chair.
Chris made himself scarce in the kitchen. He fussed with the kettle and put a pot of coffee on, and readied a tray with mugs, cream, and sugar. He could hear the drone of voices from the living room.
David stood when Chris reentered the room. He left Des to comfort his lover. “Any idea what happened back there?”
Chris shrugged. “They left the bar together. Next thing Des is back, yelling that they’re killing him.” He studied David’s lean face, wondering what lay behind that enigmatic countenance. What was it with cops that they always seemed so cold? Were the unemotional ones drawn to the job or did they have to learn to be unemotional?
“What brought you around so conveniently in the nick of time?” A thought just occurred to him. “You weren’t following me, were you?”
Monday, 8:10 pm, North Palm Drive, Beverly Hills DAVID THUMBED OPEN his briefcase and pulled out one of the photos Richard Blake had given him earlier. It was a picture Richard had taken on a family picnic at the Los Angeles Zoo. It was the last family outing Jay had attended.
He passed the photos over. “I’m looking for information on this guy, Jason Blake.”
Chris took the picture and stared down at the head shot of the twenty-year-old Jason Blake. It was obvious he recognized the young man.
David’s chest tightened. He didn’t realize until that moment that he hoped Chris would say that he didn’t know him. The knowledge disturbed him. Maybe that was why his next question came out sounding harsh: “Where did you meet him? The Nosh Pit?
