Hell You Say (Adrien English Mysteries 3)

by Lanyon, Josh

  The others began arriving at that point, so there was no further chance for discussion. The group now numbered eight members. Of the eight, about four were serious about writing (read: willing to “compromise their art”), and of the four, three showed what I considered real promise. This opinion was based on years of bookselling, not my own unexpected and slight literary success — although ironically it was my “cred” as a published writer (however inexperienced), and not as a bookseller, that was valued by my partners in crime.

  They were a nice group, though, supportive of each other’s efforts, cheering on the triumphs and commiserating over the rejections. Tonight our married writing team, Jean and Ted Finch, were reading from their magnum dopus Murder, He Mimed.

  I poured a cup of coffee, snagged a couple of oatmeal cookies to make up for dumping my frozen dinner down the garbage disposal. The cookies were nice and crunchy, which effectively drowned out Jean’s reading. I turned the pages when the others did, my thoughts on whether — should the situation deteriorate further — I could track Angus through his girlfriend, Wanda. I didn’t think it would be necessary. Even if he was on the periphery of this stuff, it didn’t necessarily mean he’d know anything useful beyond rumor and conjecture. Jake’s instincts were usually good, but his view of humanity was jaded.

  I’d assumed Wanda had left town with Angus, but maybe not. I tried to remember if he’d listed anyone as an emergency contact, I thought he might have put her down. As far as I knew, Wanda lived at home with her parents, so maybe there was a lead there.

  I realized Jean had stopped reading. The group was ready for discussion. The Finches have been working on this monsterpiece for the past two years. The latest revision had to do with turning a relatively minor character, Avery Oxford, into the protagonist. I had a lot of problems with Avery, not so much because he was a gay stereotype, but because I feared he was based on me. True, he was a Hollywood gossip columnist, but he was thirty-three, five-eleven, slender, had black hair, blue eyes, and a friend on the police force named Jack O’Reilly — and he kept showing up in my clothes. In the scene I’d just read, he was wearing “a favorite pair of faded Levi’s and a black lambswool sweater over a crisp, white T-shirt” — pretty much what I’d worn to last week’s meeting.

  I said, trying to be tactful, “I could be wrong, but I don’t think turning Avery into the protag is a good idea, Jean. I think you should stick to the original plan. Kill him off in chapter seven. Or even sooner.”

  “I don’t know,” Max mused. “He’s an amusing twerp.” Max was a rugged forty, with yellow shaggy hair and yellow shaggy beard. Attractive, I guess, if you don’t mind a guy who sees deodorant and razors as a threat to his masculinity. He was aggressively heterosexual and made a point of dating every unattached woman who joined the group. Since his regular pillow pal was Grania Joyce, another of our partners in crime, it made for an interesting dynamic.

  Ted turned to Jean, whose face had fallen at my words. She faltered, “We’ve already rewritten those first nine chapters to reflect the new character dynamic.”

  “I don’t think he’s a strong enough character.”

  “You could go with the cop,” Chan suggested. “O’Reilly’s a strong character.”

  “If you don’t mind the testosterone overload,” Grania sneered. Grania was tall and rangy, with an unruly mane of sorrel hair: your basic warrior princess model.

  “I got no problem with it,” said Chan.

  Their gazes locked. They did this dueling lightsaber thing, which I hastened to interrupt. “But you see, that makes more sense,” I said quickly. “It’s more believable that a cop would get involved in solving these murders. I mean, you’re talking about writing a series. How believable is it that this Hollywood gossip columnist is going to keep stumbling on all these murders?”

  “That’s the problem with the amateur sleuth in general,” Grania pointed out. Grania, naturally, wrote about a kick-ass female PI. “It’s totally artificial.”

  Chan said reasonably, “I don’t know. A lot of kinky shit goes down in Hollyweird. A gossip columnist could get sucked into that.”

  “Hey, you’re writing about a gay Shakespearean actor solving mysteries,” Max pointed out to me. “You sold the series to some lunatic fringe publishing house.”

  Ted said, “How believable is it that a bookseller and mystery author would get involved solving mysteries? But you’ve been involved twice in murder cases, Adrien.” Jean nodded eagerly. “You’re like a real-life amateur sleuth. So it does happen. Truth is stranger than fiction.”

  “Let them write what they want to write,” Max said irritably. “What do you care?”

  “I don’t think that Avery’s…likeable.”

  Jean looked like she was going to cry, like I’d insulted her precious prune of a newborn. “You don’t like Avery?”

  Ted glared at me.

  The entire circle stared at me.

  “Not a terribly constructive comment, Adrien,” Grania observed.

  * * * * *

  When the group at last broke up, I cleared the chairs and crumbs, made sure the side and front doors were secured, and climbed the stairs to my flat.

  I poured myself a drink and tried to think of an entertaining way to fill the rest of the evening. I don’t think of myself as a loner, but it’s a fact that my friends generally do the calling. And I’ve never been able to get into the whole club scene. I don’t like crowds. I like reading.

  I’d carried a stack of books upstairs. I lazily skimmed a copy of Rick Copp’s The Actor’s Guide to Murder. I noticed a lot of these gay amateur sleuths have cop boyfriends. And I noticed that none of these cops seem particularly closeted. I also noticed that they all seemed amazingly agreeable about sharing privileged information with their non-cop boyfriends. It was a shame Jake didn’t read these books.

  I was getting into a scene in which Copp’s protag was once again being scolded by his (yikes!) hazel-eyed, brawny cop boyfriend for sticking his nose into a criminal investigation, when I noticed the answering machine blinking. I pressed the button, listened to a stiff Professor Snowden telling me I could call him at a certain number. I picked up, dialed the number he’d left.

  He answered on the fourth ring, sounding as preoccupied as if I’d caught him correcting final exams.

  “Hi, it’s Adrien English.”

  There was a pause. “Oh. Er…hello.” Pause.

  I opened my mouth to say hello again — it seemed to be one of those conversations — but Snowden said carefully, “I’ve been unable to get in touch with the person I thought might know about our mutual friend’s difficulty.”

  The guy sounded like he worked for the CIA. Or Charles Dickens. I said, “Well, not to pressure you, but some joker painted a pentagram on my front step last night. The folks at Dragonwyck seemed to think this was not good.”

  Silence stretched on the other end.

  “Perhaps we should meet,” he said finally.

  I had no problem with that, provided it was in a public place in broad daylight, not Eaton Canyon at midnight. “Sure,” I said. “When and where?”

  * * * * *

  Wednesday morning brought fitful sunshine and Lester Naess. Lester was about my age, very heavy and a talker. He smelled of cigarettes and astringent. By midmorning I’d heard about his first divorce, his second wife, and his kidney operation. On the bright side, he wasn’t afraid to deal with the customers. The fear was all on the side of John Q. Public.

  Before lunch, Lester had updated me on his gallstones, his second divorce, and his current girlfriend. Immediately following lunch, he had what he described as “a nicotine fit.” When he recovered, I slipped out for a Starbucks and a quick nervous breakdown. I phoned Guy Snowden to tell him I’d have to reschedule our meeting.

  “Has something happened?” he asked warily. Possibly it was my tone.

  I assured him all was cool, although I couldn’t help wondering: If God works in mysterious ways, why sho
uldn’t the Devil seek temporary employment in a mystery bookstore?

  After lunch Lester told me about his angina, his IRS audit, his first heart attack, and his girlfriend’s lousy teenagers. I decided that another day of Lester, and I’d also be having chest pains.

  I called the agency once more.

  * * * * *

  Jake dropped by that evening with Chinese takeout and the Alien vs. Predator DVD. I had closed shop on the ponderous heels of Lester and was trying to drape miniature Christmas lights along the ceiling. I had the McGarrigle sisters’ Christmas CD playing in the storeroom, so maybe that’s why I didn’t hear him using his key in the side door.

  A floorboard squeaked, I glanced down, and for once, there really was a shadowy figure coming at me.

  “Jesus!” I yelped, nearly overbalancing the ladder.

  “Christ!” finished Jake, who also jumped, but managed to make it look more like someone leaping into battle mode and less like someone about to rocket through the roof.

  These tender greetings out of the way, he ordered me down from the ladder, took my place at the dark beams. I carried the takeout upstairs, emptied out the soggy containers, put the food into pans to heat later, and briefly studied the DVD cover.

  “My money’s on the aliens,” I called, starting back down the staircase.

  “Nah,” Jake returned, seriously. “No way. All the aliens have is acid blood. The predators have body armor and invisibility.”

  Ah, yes. I saw why Jake was voting for the predators. Nothing like invisibility when you need it.

  He had already managed to string the lights all along the back partition of the shop. I dug fake pine garland out of the dusty cardboard boxes and draped it artistically over the faux fireplace.

  We worked for long, companionable minutes. No mention of his case load, no mention of my straying off the reservation. The music filled in the silence.

  “Rufus Wainwright?” he inquired when the song “What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve” whispered through the canyon of bookshelves.

  “Yeah.”

  He grunted disapprovingly.

  “Hey, you think you’d want to go to this wedding?” I asked casually. “I could use the moral support.”

  He didn’t speak for a moment. I couldn’t see his profile; the upper half of his body was in shadow.

  I qualified hastily, “I mean, as a regular guest. As a friend of Lisa’s.” Meaning not as my personal guest, meaning his cover would not be compromised.

  “Uh, sure,” he said vaguely. “I could do that.” He glanced back at me. “How does this look?”

  “Great.”

  He tossed me the extension cord. “Try plugging that in.”

  I found the wall socket behind the tall mahogany counter which had once served as the hotel’s front desk. I guided the prongs into the wall socket and felt a weird rippling jolt wash through my body. The cord dropped out of my hand, though I don’t think I consciously moved my fingers.

  “Shit! It shocked me.” I sat back on my heels, heart pounding way too fast, thinking, shit, shit, shit. Not good…

  “Are you okay?” Jake jumped from the ladder, came around the counter, squatting down, face tense.

  I waited for my heart to start skipping and stuttering. It continued to gallop away, trying to outrun the threat.

  “Okay, baby?”

  I took an experimental breath, nodded.

  He rested a callused hand against my cheek, tilting my face so that our eyes met.

  “Sure?”

  “I think so.” From his expression, he was thinking what I was, that any minute the electrical shock would send my own funky heartbeat out of sync.

  “Why don’t you sit back?”

  I lowered myself the rest of the way and leaned gingerly against the base of the desk. I took another careful breath. My heart began to slow. I decided that I was okay, just startled. My hand still tingled. I flexed it.

  “You’re lucky you dropped the cord. That doesn’t always happen.”

  I nodded. Lucky I dropped the cord. Not so lucky I got shocked. I thought of that pentagram on my front step.

  Jake eyed me like there was a defect in the manufacturing. I gave him a lopsided grin.

  “Take it easy.”

  I nodded. “Sorry. I sort of scared myself.”

  “No shit.” He frowned. “What did you do?”

  “Nothing. It wasn’t anything I did. Nothing anybody did. The wiring’s old, that’s all.”

  His mouth twitched.

  I clarified, “The building’s. Not mine.”

  That night the fucking felt like making love. So slow and so sweet. We spent a long time stroking, petting, kissing. Hands threading hair, bringing faces closer, the taste of lips and tongues, gentle bites and soft breaths and languid sips. The friendly bump of noses, the flickering of eye lashes, the slow, quiet exchange of breaths. A little cocoon of sensual delight — and maybe something more.

  But at last we began to thrust against each other, pleasure knotting into hunger and passion and the need that always felt close to anxiety. I wrapped my arms around his broad, muscular back, arching against him, feeling the hard probe of his dick against my belly. No questions here, the answers being self-evident.

  Jake muttered against my ear, “My God, I…”

  “Me too.”

  I scooted back, smiling despite my tiredness, knees splayed, fingertips grazing the flat hard planes of his chest, reaching for him again.

  Instead he pushed me back without roughness into the pillows. “Nah. Just relax.”

  Nah? “But…”

  “Just…shut up…” He leaned over me, found my mouth, kissing away the sting of that. “And…relax.” His lips trailed softly down my naked flesh, pressing tiny melting kisses on my chin, my throat, collar bone, breast bone, belly, the sensitive joining of groin and inner thigh. I shivered. He’d never…was he going to…?

  “Very pretty, Adrien,” he whispered. “Every inch of you.” And he kissed the head of my cock, which, embarrassingly, seemed to be reaching up for that very thing.

  I laughed shakily, the laugh dying in the back of my throat as his wet, hot mouth closed around me. My hands fluttered to my sides, half protest — though what the hell was there to protest in this? — half supplication, clenching in the duvet.

  Jake’s tongue traced the slit, tasting. I caught a ragged breath, amazed, afraid to say a word that might break whatever magic spell this was. His lips tightened around my shaft, and I stopped myself from bucking up. I felt him smile, felt his fingers cup my balls and squeeze.

  I did arch then, gasping, “Jake!”

  “Right here. What’d you need?”

  Oh, I didn’t want him talking. Couldn’t bear to be teased. Couldn’t bear for that febrile slide down my dick to stop.

  I moaned and was promptly enveloped in that slick, sucking heat. That sweet pulse of pleasure as his mouth dragged on my length, drawing me in deeper. The pressure of his tongue on the sensitive underside of the head of my cock. He took me all the way in, sucking hard, and my hands moved to his shoulders, squeezing, urging.

  But Jake took his time, like we had all night, gentle and relentless, and in the end the intensity of feeling was so powerful it brought tears to my eyes. Coming was an exquisite shock of release, with me pushing up hard into the grip of lips and mouth, pumping out what felt like my life’s blood in hard, long strokes.

  I rested my forearm over my face so he wouldn’t know, but Jake drew me into his arms, found my mouth. He tasted like me and like himself.

  All I wanted to do was sleep, but I forced myself to mumble the words, “What about you, Jake?”

  “I’m good. Go to sleep,” he said, settling us more comfortably. He rested his face in the curve of my neck and lay very still.

  Chapter Six

  Morning had broken — apparently over Gabriel Savant’s aching head.

  Unshaven, eyes red-rimmed, he wore expensive, wrinkled trousers and silk
shirt. He looked, in my opinion, more like the victim in a horror novel than the dapper celebrity who penned them.

  “I was hoping that you might have found that disk.” His smile looked like it hurt.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I told Friedlander that I don’t think you could have left it here. I’ve looked a couple of times.”

  Hollow-eyed, he continued to smile twitchily at me. “It’s very important that I find it. Bobby is very upset.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you. If you want to look around —?”

  He took out a pack of clove cigarettes and lit one. His hand shook. “There are things you don’t understand.”

  Well, yeah, starting with the popularity of reality TV and moving on down to adult men who wear Capri pants.

  I said, “I gather it was research for a project you’re working on?”

  His eyes seemed to start from his head. “Why would you say that?”

  Paranoia: it’s not just for dinner anymore. “I’m guessing,” I said kindly.

  He continued to stare at me, then relaxed a fraction. Nodding, he blew a stream of smoke out his nostrils. “Bobby and I meet people. In the course of our work.”

  “Sure.” I had to wonder about his relationship with Friedlander. I’d had the impression that Friedlander was sent as an author escort from the publisher, but that seemed to be incorrect. Was Friedlander maybe Savant’s assistant? I considered that diamond stud winking away in Savant’s shell-like right ear, but I didn’t get the feeling Savant was gay or even bi.

  He continued, “We take notes. You never know what will be useful. We have a book due every nine months, see?”

  “That’s got to be tough.” Surely the hundreds of thousands that he earned in royalties was some compensation.

  “We don’t use it all, naturally. Some of our research material is fairly…sensitive.”

  Were they blackmailing people? What was the deal here? I must have looked perplexed, because he said, “If you help me, I will help you.”