by Lou Harper
Dedication
This book is dedicated to the city of Hollywood, with all its grime and glory.
Chapter One
Karma cursed me because I called her a bitch.
Ms. Karma Jones worked for the Los Angeles Department of Transportation, and she’d had my car towed because of unpaid parking tickets. She’d only been doing her job, but I’d seen her actions as a personal fuck-you. I’d been too full of myself—and several legal and illegal substances—at the time. I’d said some very rude things to her, and in response, she put a curse on me. I should’ve known not to mess with a woman wearing a uniform and magenta hair—such an ominous color.
Ever since I could remember, I’d had a thing about colors. They talked to me—not literally; that would’ve been crazy, and I was not a fruitcake. A bit superstitious, but who could blame me? Colors had moods and personalities that changed shade by shade. For example, black was the color of secrets and mystery. I used to be the black sheep of my family, but these days I got to be as beige as the next guy—except for the black mark I carried on my skin, hidden out of sight. Everybody hides something, stuff they’d rather not have others know about. I was no different.
Dark blue exuded the musk of power. No wonder the inky hue of LAPD uniforms and their starched lines were irresistible to many people, including me.
I spotted the hunky cop guarding a film set on my way to work, and the sight woke up in me all the instincts of a kamikaze moth. I could hardly wait for my first break to slip out for a closer look. Fortunately, the shoot took place only a block down from Fred’s Trade Post.
In this town, only newcomers and tourists gawk at movie sets; Angelenos remain blasé, and so did I. Honestly, I couldn’t care less what movie or TV show they were shooting with the cop standing there. His shirt stretched over a sturdy chest, clearly all muscle, no fat. The short sleeve of the shirt strained to hold his biceps. Totally butch. The dark hair on his arms begged to be touched, but I held back my urges. Petting cops in public can get you in trouble. I gave him a casual smile, and he returned it with a stern, move-it-along-now glare. I saved one last eyeful of him for later use before hoofing it back to work.
I’d always had a terrible memory for names and faces, even before a building fell on me and temporarily scrambled my brain. Too often I’d run into someone who’d greet me like we knew each other, but I couldn’t for the life of me place them out of context. Damn embarrassing, if you ask me. You can grin like an idiot and avoid calling the other person by name only so long before they wise up to you. In the old days, I’d solved this problem by calling everyone “handsome.” However, that was too colorful for me now.
I wouldn’t have recognized the cop again out of uniform if he hadn’t come into the store the very next day. Fred’s Trade Post—aka Fred’s or FTP—was a local grocery-store chain specializing in a blend of imported foodstuff and local produce. We carried lots of organic products to satisfy the progressive denizens of Hollywood and the hills above, but we weren’t half as snooty about it as some other places. Thanks to our selection of healthy, quick meals, we had brisk traffic at lunch time every day.
It was my turn to man one of the cash registers when he walked up with his Chicken Caesar salad. He wore a gray suit with a tie the same shade of blue as his police uniform. I had a strong impulse to reach out for a feel of silk under my fingers. Of course, I didn’t—I kept my hands firmly to myself. Looking into the man’s eyes from barely two feet away, I saw they were blue too, although several shades lighter.
The color jogged my memory. “You’ll need more protein than that, Officer.”
His right brow twitched up, but his expression remained impassive.
“I saw you the other day in uniform—at the movie shoot,” I explained.
“Ah.” A glimmer of his eyes got my gaydar pinging like crazy. We shared a flash of confidence, but then the eyebrow reclaimed its regular spot. Being so close, I noticed a nick in that brow, like an old scar. At least that would help me place him if we ever met again. If we did.
Contrary to popular heterosexual belief, batting for the same-sex team didn’t mean instant attraction. Not on my cop’s part, for certain. He paid and left without another word. Well, that was par for the course. For a reasonably good-looking and generally pleasant guy, my love life sucked. I couldn’t click with anyone. As if I was cursed. Because I was. Literally. It might have happened years ago, but I’d been living with the consequences ever since.
So I was more than a little surprised when my cop came back again that week, dressed casual this time, buying a whole basketful of groceries. We had a cordial, albeit brief exchange about food and weather, and I learned his name—Nick, like the gap in his brow. Of course, he knew mine. It was on my nameplate: Jeremy. Although, everyone called me Jem.
Detective Nick Davies became a regular and kept coming in, two, three times a week, always between noon and two, when it was my turn at the register. He had me confounded because our conversations never strayed to a territory more personal than the best use of the chicken cilantro mini dumplings—in a soup or sautéed. However, he picked my checkout line every single time, even when the “less than twelve items” line stood empty and all he had was a microwavable turkey pot pie.
I found myself smiling a whole lot and complimenting him on his choice of fruit, saying things like, “I had those peaches myself—they’re sweet and finger-licking juicy.” I might have even lowered my voice a little and given him a suggestive look.
A twitch in the corner of his mouth was the only response I got, and that was more than usual. I consoled myself with the thought that lack of facial expression must have been a professional attribute for a cop. Unfortunately, I liked him a little more every time I saw him. God knows why. Fine physique notwithstanding, he was plain—brown hair, unremarkable face. And so damn solemn. When he cracked a smile for the first time, I nearly dropped the gorgonzola crackers. Then I felt ridiculous for it, getting flustered like a teenager. Especially since I’d been unflappable that age.
“You should ask him out,” said Olly one day, during lunch break. The break room was a small, windowless space with a Formica table, chairs, fridge, and a shabby brown-and-yellow couch—a color that reminded me of cow patties. Olly peered at me through the blond bangs flopped over his eyes, in vintage Jonas Brothers style. I was friendly with all my coworkers, but Olly was the only one I counted as an actual friend. We could talk to each other more unbuttoned than with the others. He’d barely entered his twenties and I was inching closer to thirty, but we didn’t let that get in our way.
I unwrapped my sandwich. Ham and cheese on sourdough, with fresh cherry tomatoes on the side. I felt a pang of guilt because only the tomatoes had come from our store. The Italian deli in my neighborhood sold better cheese and cold cuts. “Ask who out?”
“The slab of hunk you flirt with.” Olly contemplated his salad before impaling a chunk of lettuce. He watched his figure. All hundred and twenty pounds of it. With his boyish good looks, he could’ve worked in GAP or one of those trendy boutiques on Melrose, but he chose to fling groceries instead. He’d said he preferred having health insurance and reliable hours. Olly was way too mature for his age.
“I don’t flirt,” I said, biting into my sandwich.
“Uh-huh.”
“And even if I did, I’m sure Fred’s Trade Post discourages hitting on customers.”
“Hm. True.” Folds of concentration appeared on his baby-smooth face as he stabbed bits of his mixed greens. “Maybe you could casually let him know when your shift ends? That would put the ball in his court.” A piece of spinach wobbled at the end of his fork as he pointed it at me. “You need to get laid.”
In my heart, I agreed with him 100 per
cent, but I didn’t want to be pitied. “Didn’t you say once that flagrantly promiscuous gay men only enhance negative stereotypes? Or something along those lines?” I reminded him.
“Sure, but repression’s equally bad. Just look at the Catholic Church and their sex scandals. If you bottle up all that libido, sooner or later it’ll explode. Jem, if you keep up like this, soon you’ll start molesting the watermelons. You’re like a monk. It’s not healthy. Live a little!”
Like most young people, Olly thought he knew everything better than everyone else. Sadly, he was spot-on in this case, but he didn’t know about my curse. I couldn’t possibly confide to him that Nick had been the star of my sexual fantasies since I’d first seen him. He’d been with me in the shower every morning, and in the bed every night, only not in the flesh.
I didn’t want Olly to know how pathetic I really was, so I deflected. “I have lived enough already.”
“Yeah, right. I’m serious. You haven’t dated anyone since I’ve known you.”
“You’ve only known me for a year.”
He rolled his eyes, as far as I could tell. The hair obstructed my view. “Okay, when did you last go out with a guy?”
I took a defensive position. “Define going out.”
Olly sighed but didn’t give up. “He likes you too.”
“How do you figure?” I hated to admit it, but I was curious.
“Body language.”
I snorted into my juice. Carrot and orange—my favorite.
“Don’t laugh, I know my stuff. I don’t take all those acting classes for nothing.” By his own admission, Olly wasn’t sure if he wanted to be an actor, but the lure of Hollywood had its claws in him. With his know-it-all attitude, he might even find his place there. He kept lecturing me. “He’s into you, I can tell. You shouldn’t let him slip by—you’re not getting any younger.”
“I’m twenty-six!”
“In gay years, that’s practically middle age,” he said snootily. “You’re still in good shape, despite all the carbs you eat, but you should find yourself a man before you turn into a wrinkled old pumpkin. Your hunk probably lifts weights or something to look so yummy. He must be over thirty. You two need to get busy before you’re put out to pasture.” He pursed his lips, probably to smother a grin.
“In six short years, you’ll be my age,” I reminded him.
“Doesn’t matter, because by then I’ll have found the man of my dreams, and we’ll grow old together.” Olly had plans and an unwavering optimism about the future. I envied him. I wanted to believe there was someone for me to grow old with.
“Aren’t you a bit too old-fashioned for your age? What happened to free love, living it up and all that stuff?” I said to steer us away from the touchy subject.
He pushed his empty salad container away. “Oh please. I saw enough of that growing up. You forget, I had a couple of free-loving, stoned-out hippies for parents.” He shuddered.
Unlike me at that age, he wasn’t partying 24/7, doing recreational drugs and generally acting like there was no tomorrow. An irony, considering his parents were flakes and mine were fine, upstanding citizens. Or maybe not—being responsible must have been his form of rebellion.
When Nick didn’t show on the following Tuesday, I felt far too disappointed for someone who hadn’t been flirting. But then, as I was leaving for home, I saw him waiting outside the back door, and my heart did an unwarranted little hop.
“Hey, there, Officer,” I said. “Got lost?”
He stepped closer. “Detective. Hello, Jeremy. I didn’t want to get you in trouble by asking you out for coffee while you worked. Not to mention my embarrassment if you turned me down in front of witnesses.” That humble bit in the end was charming, but I doubted anyone had ever turned him down.
The woody scent of his aftershave tickled my nose. I resisted the urge to lean closer for a better sniff. Too soon. “Did you just ask me out on a date?”
“I believe so.”
“Call me Jem. Everyone else does.”
So we went to Starbucks down the block. I ordered one of those caffeinated extravaganzas with all the trimmings. He had coffee, black, with one package of sugar.
“Sweet tooth?” he asked, gesturing at my paper cup.
“I like my coffee sinful—loaded up with all the stuff that’s bad for you. I see you’re more of a purist.” I wondered if this was a sign of incompatibility.
He shrugged. “I was on patrol for a decade. Usually we got our joe from gas stations and quick stops. Fancy was not an option.”
I could see that. “And I bet it would hurt your street cred being seen drinking a caramel macchiato with whipped cream. The bad guys would never respect you after that.”
He pursed his lips. “You have a point. By now I can drink anything, as long as it’s strong and hot. How about you?” he asked, lifting his cup.
I kept my eyes on his mouth as it attached to the hole on the plastic lid and he sucked the coffee down. “I like strong and hot.”
His lips curled. “Yes, I figured that much.”
Ha! So my non-flirting hadn’t been in vain. I hid my smirk in the mound of froth on top of my drink. I came up for air a bit later with a foam mustache. After licking it off, I took the opportunity to ask why he’d been in uniform when I first laid my lustful eyes on him. Needless to say, I left the lustful part out of my question.
He let out an embarrassed laugh. “That was Kurt’s fault—my old partner from my street-patrol days. He’s retired now but makes nice money on the side by doing movie-set guard jobs. He had to pull out of this one at the absolute last minute and couldn’t find anyone else to fill in on such short notice.”
“Oh. That makes sense. Come to think of it, others I’ve seen on sets before were older.”
He nodded. “They’re all retired cops.”
Nick proved good at asking questions and listening—useful skills in his chosen profession. I can blabber on once started. We chatted about movies, weather, family, the usual stuff. I learned that Nick worked robbery and homicide at the LAPD Hollywood division. He’d made detective only a couple of years ago after close to a decade on street patrol. He didn’t share details of his job, but robbery and homicide is not exactly first date material.
Skipping over the misspent years of my youth, I gossiped about life at FTP, coworkers, customers and trade secrets. “You know those chicken cilantro mini dumplings you like so much?” I asked.
“How do you know how much I like them?”
“Well, you keep buying them week after week. Three bags last time.”
“You got me. What about them?”
I leaned forward for a conspiratorial whisper. “You can buy them cheaper at Costco, if you don’t mind getting three pounds at once.”
“Really?” he asked, surprised and too loud.
“Shh! Keep your voice down. If Fred learns I gave you the secret, he’ll make me walk the plank.”
“Is Fred real?”
“As real as Santa Claus,” I said solemnly.
We both knew Fred was as fictional as Aunt Jemima, but Nick remained attentive while I prattled on about Fred’s supposed exploits, traveling to faraway lands in pursuit of exotic TV dinners. I made them all up on the spot.
In the end, we exchanged phone numbers and met again later that week for lunch. It was a casual affair at a sandwich shop next door, since we both had jobs to get back to. I’d been on edge the whole time waiting for the first shoe to drop. My dating history of the past years had been littered by disasters so ridiculous they could’ve filled a Mr. Bean movie. If Mr. Bean was gay, and I would’ve totally bought that.
I’d eliminated the obvious hazards from my dating menu—like bikers with neck tattoos and unemployed artists, actors and musicians, but that didn’t help. How could I have known that the seemingly straitlaced investment banker had a hard-on for a certain purple dinosaur? He’d wanted me to don a furry suit and have a “play date” with him. He was going to dress
as an oversized yellow bird. I hadn’t been opposed to a bit of kink, but that had gone over the line. Not to mention, purple and yellow would’ve clashed so badly. He’d only been the tip of the iceberg.
I didn’t tell any of this to Nick, but if he ripped his face off like a rubber mask to reveal the exoskeleton of an insect-like alien, I wouldn’t have been the least surprised. But instead, he became more likable. He could even be funny.
Nick regaled me with a story from his uniform days. “So the guy finally pulls into a Ralph’s parking lot and stops. We got out of the patrol car, me taking the lead and Carol, my partner, hanging back.”
“Wait, I thought your partner was a guy.”
“This was after Kurt retired.”
“Oh, okay. Go on.”
“I would’ve just given the guy a ticket for running the stop sign, but he was acting squirrelly, and I thought I smelled pot. So I signal Carol and ask the guy to step out of the car and pat him down. Sure enough, I find a joint in his pocket, but it doesn’t seem to bother him much. I ask if we can look into the trunk, and he cheerfully agrees.”
Our waitress chose this moment to show up with the appetizers. I smiled politely and resisted the urge to shoo her away. She left at last. I ignored my warm salad, but Nick had already started on his steamed mussels.
“Don’t you dare take another bite until you finish the story,” I growled at him.
He unhurriedly chewed, swallowed and dabbed his lips with the napkin. I could tell from the crinkles in the corners of his eyes he enjoyed making me wait. Controlling bastard. He dropped the napkin back into his lap. “Right. So the trunk opens, and I hear Carol gasp. Meanwhile my guy says ‘oops’.”
Nick picked up his fork again, but I grabbed his wrist. “What was in the trunk?”
“One and a half dead bodies.”
“No!”
With my jaw dropped, I watched him devour one mollusk after another. When the last one disappeared, he pushed his plate away. “So I radio it in and put the asshole in the cage. He keeps saying he can explain, but I tell him to save it for later. And then Carol, who’s been staring into the trunk, starts laughing like a hyena. I thought she’d lost her mind. Are you gonna eat that?” He gestured at my salad.
