Devil Take Me

by Jordan L. Hawk

  Signs flashed, and the sheep around me applauded. Onstage, they trotted out a guest star, some mom-type you see in all the made-for-TV movies. She and Helen shared some quiet banter about how much they loved to bake while a crew member, off-camera, filled the prop countertop with a bunch of carefully arranged ingredients.

  The bodyguard gestured for one of the security guys, then pointed to me and whispered in his ear. The guy with the Taser on his belt slipped around back so as not to alarm the audience, eased his way up the aisle, and tapped me on the shoulder. I could’ve refused to go with him and caused a big scene. But even after all these years, my curiosity still got the best of me sometimes, and I wanted to know what would happen next.

  Without a word, I followed. He led me through a side exit, down a twisting hallway, and up to a door with a frosted glass window and ornate hand-painted lettering that spelled out Green Room.

  He rapped on the door. “Boss? He’s here.”

  The door opened… and up close—damn. Helen’s bodyguard was a walking, talking wet dream. “That’ll be all,” he said.

  The guard turned and walked away, but I stayed put. I was riveted to the spot while we sized each other up, the bodyguard and me.

  Finally he broke the silence, casually, as if he hadn’t even noticed it was getting uncomfortable. “So. Looking to spruce up a tired sweater with vintage doilies?”

  I almost laughed. “Hardly.”

  “Good, ’cause you missed the spot. That was last week’s show.” He cocked his head toward the room. “Come on in and help yourself to the spread. You look like you could stand a bite. No? The stuffed mushrooms are drying out, but the crostini shouldn’t be too soggy yet.” He snagged an hors d’oeuvre from a platter of fancy grub—one of several trays, all of them untouched—and swallowed it in two careless bites. “I’m Adam. You?”

  I considered lying, but why bother? “Johnny.”

  He strolled the room with his hands in his pockets, surveyed the space like a prince in his kingdom, and paused in front of the makeup station. The mirror was tall and reflected the room. It made the wasted food look twice as copious and the flocked wallpaper doubly garish. I joined him, not because he wanted me to, but despite him. I don’t do anything for the sake of pleasing anyone but myself. And yet, there was the strange impulse to ingratiate myself to some man who’d only just introduced himself to me.

  Our eyes met in the mirror. “Hazel?” he said. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

  Eyes may be the window to the soul, but their reflections tell you nothing… nothing but a sorry glimpse at what you’d never be again. Adam’s eyes were a brilliant clear blue, striking as a tree-framed winter sky against his thick black lashes—at least as far as the sheep could see.

  He watched me watching him for an unhurried pause and then said, “You don’t know, do you?”

  “Know what?”

  He turned toward me, still moving with that sinuous grace, and somehow managed to flow right up against me, almost touching but not quite—eye to eye, chest to chest, and groin to groin. Our bodies hovered there, too close to slip so much as a hand between us, close enough that it seemed like a magnetic pull was dragging us together. “Your eyes…. How long have you been stockpiling, Johnny? Years? Your eyes are so dark—your reservoir is so full of unspent favors—I can’t even tell where you’re looking. What could you possibly get out of holding back?” He leaned in even more so his breath played across the stubble on my cheek. “And who knew it would be such a turn-on?”

  “Awfully cocky of you to get all up in my business if you can’t read my expression and see which way I swing.”

  “Your eyes might be blacker than my onyx cufflinks, but your body language isn’t exactly cryptic.” Adam took an expansive breath, and his chest brushed mine. It was as if he’d lit a match and then touched it to the rest of the book. “If you were straight, you would’ve stepped back by now.”

  Desire ripped through me like flame, and when my breath caught, our bodies grazed each other again. The sensation wasn’t blunted by familiarity the second time through, not even a little. I backed up half a step. So much time spent building up my reserves, only to find myself vulnerable to something as common as desire.

  “I didn’t come here to get cruised,” I said. “I want to meet Helen.”

  If I expected him to be put out by that, I’d have been wrong. He wet his lips—damn, his lips were almost as distracting as his eyes—and smiled. “And you think I can make that happen?”

  The Green Room door burst open, and Adam eased off, so casually that it looked like he’d only been strolling past me, not hovering in front of me, daring me to close the deal.

  A security guard barreled in and said, “Boss, come quick. Supermom’s got a psycho-stalker down in the lobby.”

  A grin teased at the corner of Adam’s mouth as he flicked a knowing look my way. “Dinner, then? Eight o’clock. And don’t dress up on Helen’s account. It’s surprisingly difficult to shock her.”

  He didn’t even bother to wait for my reply. He just turned and glided out of the room, leaving me with a tableful of stale food and the feeling that I’d just been blindsided.

  Chapter Five

  ADAM

  CALVARY’S FINEST might be a little jaded from picking vermin from the city’s underbelly, but as a rule, they’re not stupid. It can be a challenge to differentiate a stalker from a fan, since adoration can turn to vengeance at the drop of a hat. The toothless man who was ranting about the multimillion-dollar actress owing him a pair of used panties, however, was clearly not the type of fanbase my mother’s cohorts would encourage.

  Calvary PD had sent two officers to deal with the situation. One was Chosen and one was not. Normally I’d take aside my brother in sin and ask him to do me a favor—keep it quiet, ensure nobody makes a scene. But after seeing this Johnny character’s ebony eyes, dark as a moonless night and twice as intoxicating, I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe I’d been exerting arcane influence where a simple request might have sufficed.

  While the Chosen officer was busy getting a statement from my ground-floor security, I took the other one aside and said, “Thanks for getting here so quickly. I’m hoping this issue can be handled without drawing any undue attention.”

  The cop was a good dozen years older than me, paunchy, with the look of a guy who’d rather be propping up a bar. He gave me such a long, assessing look, I wondered if he could read my Mark. But when he smiled, low and nasty, I realized I’d misjudged him.

  “Gotcha,” he said, “I’m happy to make sure word don’t get out.” He rubbed his fingertips together in the universal signal for money. “Must be pretty important to keep up your show’s reputation.”

  Never in my life had I stooped to giving a bribe—not because I couldn’t afford it, but because the mere thought of it disgusted me. I expected the rabble to serve me willingly. I shouldn’t have to pay a police officer to do his job any more than I’d pay someone to suck me off.

  I considered telling him exactly where he could shove his bribe. And then I saw a paparazzo lingering just across the street, lighting one cigarette off another, as though he planned on being there a while.

  Helen was feeling edgy enough lately without adding a perfectly avoidable scene to her worries. I peeled a few twenties from my money clip and handed them to the crooked cop. Then I leaned back and watched as he hustled the panty sniffer out the alley door in cuffs.

  The other officer, the Chosen one, was just wrapping up statements. I gestured him over, waited for my guards to step out of earshot, and said, “Care to do me a favor?”

  We sized each other up. He wasn’t a physically imposing man, but he had the calm demeanor of someone either Chosen or on quaaludes. His reserves were greater than mine, but he had plenty of room to stockpile more. One hand has been washing the other since time began. The air between us thickened in anticipation of a primordial exchange.

  “Sure,” he said. “Why not?” />
  With his acquiescence a connection was forged between us. Auras? Electromagnetic fields? Souls? I wouldn’t begin to guess. Whatever it was, our word was literally our bond, and when the verbal contract was signed, our energies linked together.

  “Your partner needs to be taken down a few pegs,” I said. When the cop grinned, I added, “And make sure it’s profoundly humiliating.”

  As my request was heard, a thread of power danced through our connection and leached from me to him. It’s dizzying, both to send and receive. Some folks get addicted to the sensation, I’m told, and they find it practically orgasmic. Others feel it like a full-body whack to the funny bone and become reclusive shut-ins to avoid that unsettling surge of energy. For me it’s neither here nor there, an indication that the system is still working.

  A means to an end.

  Once the light-headedness cleared, I followed the Chosen cop out into the alley, where the stalker was trussed up in the back seat of the black-and-white. The cop who thought he’d coerced something out of me gave me a parting look of smug satisfaction.

  I could barely stop myself from returning the smirk.

  Chapter Six

  1961

  JOHNNY

  “THE ONLY people who waste their time wishing life was fair,” I told the old man, “are snot-nosed kids and has-beens.” I felt pretty clever about that comeback.

  I had no idea how stupid I was.

  He relaxed into his plush leather seat and smiled. “You’re awfully young to be so jaded.”

  I wasn’t even sure what the word jaded meant, but it sounded like it might be a compliment. Maybe. “Listen, you don’t need to butter me up.” I gestured toward his lap, hoping for ten bucks and wondering how sorry it would look if I settled for five. “You want something from me? Name your price.”

  “That particular proposition is wasted on me,” the old man said. “However… we can still do business. What would you say if I told you I knew who skimmed that tip?”

  I shrugged. “So what? What’s done is done, and by tomorrow night, it’ll be old news.”

  “But what if you were guaranteed that your swindler would pay for what he’s done? The idea of someone getting their just deserts holds no appeal whatsoever?”

  I didn’t want it to, but if I thought about it, really thought… then, yes. Deep down inside me was a tiny glimmer of hope that perked up over his little story, at least until I saw it for what it was—fiction.

  “I’m just a busboy. No one will give two shits if I blow the whistle.”

  “Ah. So that’s what you’re after. Clout.”

  Was I? It sounded awfully vague. I shrugged.

  “You give me what I want,” he said, “you get what you want, and your swindler gets what he deserves.”

  “What is it you want?”

  “Patience, my boy, patience. Rest assured, your end of the bargain is a mere pittance… nothing you value at all.” He leaned in eagerly. “What do you say?”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  From the shadows he extended his wrinkled hand. “Very well. Shake.”

  It was when I touched him and felt my immortal soul abandon me that I realized I was in seriously deep shit.

  Chapter Seven

  1979

  JOHNNY

  MOST CHOSEN squander their favors on stupid things—by that, I mean anything you can do without or anything money can buy—anything at all, when it comes right down to it. It’s all stupid.

  The Cross estate was impossible to reach by foot, and city buses didn’t run in that neck of the woods. I slipped on a pair of mirrored shades and hailed a taxi.

  In the rearview mirror, the driver’s eyes looked normal. But when I told him where I was headed, he said, “That’s one hell of a long trip,” and turned around. Black clouds scuttled across his eyes. “Show me your money.”

  He used the tone most of us take when we’re ordering around sheep. It didn’t faze me. The dumb kid who’d sell his soul for a flicker of respect was long dead.

  I flashed a pair of twenties and told him, “Drive.”

  He drove.

  It took nearly an hour to get there. We maneuvered through city traffic and onto the highway. That leg of the trip was quick enough, but once we got off in the boonies, it was all blind curves, switchbacks, and dirt roads. I was beginning to think the driver was just hauling me around to make sure he tapped out all my cash when he pulled up in front of an imposing iron gate and rolled down his window.

  He pressed the intercom button and said, “What’s your name, pal?”

  “Johnny.”

  He snickered, then announced me to the faceless voice on the other end of the speaker, as if he was fully expecting us to be turned away. Maybe someone with more clout would feel satisfied with themselves when that gate swung open. Me, though? I was just numb. The old man had sent me to end someone, and faced with the reality of his orders, I was beginning to suspect I was nowhere near as tough as I made myself out to be.

  The front drive was so long, the taxi meter turned over another click as we rolled up to the front door. A man stepped up—one of Adam’s guys, I guessed, since he looked more like security than household help—and opened the taxi door for me. Teenage Johnny would have gloated over the welcome, at least a little. I just tossed the fare at the driver and headed in.

  The entry hall was a massive affair—three stories high, marble floors, polished wood, and gleaming brass, with a grand staircase front and center. Adam stood at the top, hands on hips. It might’ve been his job to protect Helen, but he lorded over the place like he owned it. He looked marginally more casual, in that he wore loafers instead of wingtips and he’d lost the suit jacket, but he was still better dressed than I’d been since the last funeral I’d suffered through.

  “Welcome to our humble abode,” he said dryly. “I take it you found Briarwood okay?”

  A smarter man would’ve practiced a few pleasantries on the long ride there, but I’m no rocket scientist. I slipped off my mirrored shades and looked up.

  Adam froze—just a flicker—and his breath very nearly caught. He recovered, then glided down the stairs and threaded an arm through mine. More quietly, he said, “Helen’s busy in the kitchen, and dinner will be a few minutes, so why don’t I give you the grand tour?”

  “She’s cooking it herself? Doesn’t she have people to do all that menial stuff?”

  “Absolutely. But if she doesn’t have her hands in something, she can’t trust that it’s perfect.”

  He recited the mansion’s history as he walked me through a bunch of big, showy rooms. Old-fashioned decorating with lots and lots of wood. Traditional, but with a feminine touch—fresh flowers instead of dusty taxidermy. Maybe newly done, maybe phenomenally well-preserved, from the days when gentlemen waxed their mustaches and women sipped laudanum to cure their hysteria. I didn’t much see it. I was too busy stewing on the task I’d been sent there to carry out.

  “War is hell,” Adam said lightly. “This wing was added later, after the man of the house came back from the trenches shell-shocked, and the rest of the family decided it was best to keep him out of the way so they couldn’t hear his screams.” He opened a set of french doors with a flourish. “And now it’s my private domain.”

  Passing through that doorway was like stepping through a portal into the modern era. The structure was still the same—wood and moldings and marble—but the decorating was different. Plush white shag stretched underfoot. Huge blurred black-and-white photos of people backlit by streetlights covered the paneled walls. Glass-topped tables glittered with chrome. The room didn’t just look and feel different either. It smelled different.

  It smelled like Adam. Citrus and earth.

  The door swung shut behind us. He turned to face me, grabbed my belt loop, dragged me up against him, and angled in for a kiss. I turned my head, and it landed on my jaw. Even so, the touch of his lips tore through me like electrical current.

  “What is it?”
Adam said lightly. “You don’t kiss on the mouth, or you haven’t been sufficiently wooed?”

  “I didn’t come here to get laid.”

  “No, you came here to meet Helen over dinner.” He gave a little grind against my thigh, and I felt a distinct bulge. “But you’ve got to admit, a taste of my secret stash would make one hell of an appetizer.” Off in the distance, a bell tinkled, and Adam let go of my jeans. “I’d point out that you were saved by the bell, but clichés are so tedious.” He leaned in as if to tell me a parting secret, then trailed his tongue across my earlobe. A carnal shiver raged down my spine. “We’ll take this up later… Johnny.”

  Outside his chambers, Adam dropped the touchy-feely act. And even so, he managed to skewer me with his eyes. Maybe he didn’t know exactly where I was looking, but his security guards did. They were sheep. And maybe I was holding on to more useless pride than I realized if I cared whether or not they saw me cruising their boss.

  Even with Adam’s expansive personality sucking all the air out of the room and leaving me light-headed and distracted, I still felt it when the reigning queen of homemaking made her entrance. Her presence was magnetic, and her charisma was palpable. And while her eyes were nowhere near as black as mine, they churned with enough power to lay low anyone stupid enough to get in her way.

  Helen Cross was a sturdy blonde woman in her fifties—maybe not delicate enough to be called beautiful, but like her mansion, well-preserved. She wore a dove gray sweater set topped by a checkered apron she’d probably sewn herself, if all the hype was anything to go by. And she seemed totally at ease serving a lowlife like me.

  “Johnny,” she said warmly, “a real pleasure to meet you. Please, have a seat.”

  The long mahogany table, I noticed, was set for three. Obviously, Adam was more than just an employee. The housing arrangements had made that pretty plain. No matter how sprawling your country estate is, no one gives a hired gun his own wing. Under Helen’s watchful eye, servants trooped a multicourse meal out of the kitchen and then left the three of us—Helen, Adam, and me—to our own devices.