by Greg Herren
Brandon rolled his pretty eyes. “Does Eric like twinks? Does blood excite sharks?” He shook his head. “And always talking about wanting a relationship. Bitch, please. The stories I could tell…”
“It must be interesting working for him,” I said, frowning. I’d lost sight of Taylor and was trying to find him again without making it obvious. There’s nothing ruder than looking over someone’s shoulder while you’re talking to find someone better to talk to.
And then I saw him. His cheeks were flushed, and he was laughing.
He’s an adult, I chided myself. Stop acting like he’s a child.
Brandon rolled his eyes. “Did you see the movie The Devil Wears Prada?”
“The details of your incompetence don’t interest me,” I quoted, and we both laughed.
“I wish I were kidding,” he sighed. “I started years ago as his personal assistant, got promoted to assistant producer…but he still sometimes treats me like I’m his gofer.” He snapped his fingers and scowled. “Brandon, where’s my coffee? Brandon, have you seen my phone?”
“That’s got to suck,” I commiserated. Frank and Colin sometimes still treat me like the goofy stripper I was when we met. “How long have you been working for him?”
“I interned for him when I was in grad school, just when the shows were getting started.” He shook his head. “It used to be worse. At least now he…” He hesitated, then tossed back his martini and held the glass out to the bartender for a refill. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this”—then don’t, I thought, but people always do—“but he used to get kind of handsy and inappropriate with me. I put a stop to it, though.” His face was grim. “I was worried, you know, it might hurt my career with the network, but with all of the Weinstein stuff and everything else…I just jokingly called him Mr. Weinstein once and he stopped pretty damned quick.”
So, Eric was even worse than I’d thought. “I’m glad it didn’t, you know, affect your career.”
“Thanks. You know, I have the night off…” He rolled his eyes. “The first time in weeks I’ve had a night off. And he’s finally in a good mood. He’s been a real bitch to work for the last few weeks.”
“Since the Valences threatened to sue?”
His eyes goggled at me. “You know about that?”
“New Orleans is a very small town, Brandon. It’s about a block long and we’re all on a party line.”
“What?”
Sigh. He was too young to get the reference. “Never mind. Everyone knows everyone, is what I meant, and everyone talks.” I shrugged. “Everyone in town is talking about the Valence lawsuit.” A slight exaggeration—I’d only just heard about it—but I was curious to hear his response.
“Can you believe he actually wanted me to try to seduce Remy Valence?” He took his glass back from the bartender. “And set up hidden cameras!” The alcohol was clearly loosening his lips. “I mean, I want to get ahead in this business but I’m not going to whore myself out for the network.” He laughed. “At least without a guaranteed promotion. In writing. You can’t trust Eric. You always have to get everything in writing.”
“I imagine the cease-and-desist will be a pain to get around?”
He made a face. “No, Chloe and Remy signed a contract pretty much waiving all their privacy rights. The network lawyers made sure of that after the Malibu problem a few years back. It’s a nuisance, you’re right, but that’s all it is. But we have plenty enough footage that if we need to switch storylines and re-edit the season, we can. There’s always a lot of footage that’s never used.”
We chatted for a little while. It turned out he was originally from Birmingham, went to the University of Alabama like Taylor before going on to film and television school at Columbia. He seemed like a good guy, but I kept deflecting the flirty compliments and turning the conversation back around to him and his work. I saw Taylor walking through the crowd toward me.
“There’s the twink du jour right now,” Brandon said with an excessive eye roll.
I froze.
Taylor is the twink?
“Hey, Scotty,” he said, grinning. His cheeks were a little flushed the way they always got when he’d had a few drinks, but he wasn’t slurring and seemed fine. “Do you care if I go bar-hopping with some people after the party?”
“Who are some people?” I asked casually, noting out of the corner of my eye that Brandon’s jaw had dropped.
“Eric Brewer and some other people from the show!” Taylor was clearly excited to be included.
I had reservations about him going off to clubs with Eric, especially after everything Brandon had just said. But I also didn’t want to ruin his night. Maybe it wasn’t the most responsible thing to do as an almost-parent/sort of role model, but Taylor was a good kid with a good head on his shoulders, and he always made the right decisions. I could trust him to behave and not get into any trouble.
No matter who he was with.
“Okay. Try not to be too late.” I laughed. “And you know you don’t need my permission.” I touched his arm lightly. “Just be careful.”
“You’re the best!” He turned and disappeared back into the crowd.
“You’re the twink’s dad?” Brandon asked.
“More like an uncle, but—”
“You shouldn’t let him go with Eric.”
“Well, he’s an adult…it’s not like I can stop him.” I shook my head and masked a yawn. “It’s been lovely talking to you, Brandon, but I think I’m going to head home now. It’s been a long night.”
“I’ll tell you what,” he lowered his voice, “I’ll go along with them, make sure nothing happens to your nephew.”
“That’s very nice of you, but you don’t—”
“I want to.” His voice was grim as he pressed a business card into my hand. “I’ll make sure nothing happens to your nephew.” His dimples deepened as he flashed me that I wanna fuck you now smile that was hard to resist. “Give me a call sometime.”
I put the card in my coat pocket. “I may do that.”
The rain had stopped, but it was even colder when I went back out the front doors of the hotel. I put in my ear buds and cued up A Partridge Family Christmas Card on my phone. I turned up the collar of my trench coat and started walking quickly down Royal Street. The wind was brutal, but the magical voices of David Cassidy and Shirley Jones and some unnamed backup singers in my ears made it slightly bearable. I dodged tourists obviously from colder climates gawking at the lights and decorations. The Quarter was done up for the holiday—everyone in New Orleans loves the chance to decorate.
The only thing missing to complete the picture of a Christmas wonderland was snow—and the air felt cold and damp enough for that to not be entirely out of the question. I thought about stopping at Mom and Dad’s. Their lights were on and their shutters were closed, but there was no telling who was there—their place was a kind of salon at night, and I was kind of tired. I hadn’t made that up.
I kept trudging along in the cold.
My nice warm bed was sounding delicious.
To distract myself, I started thinking about whose Christmas presents I had yet to buy, and what might be the perfect gift.
It worked. Before I knew it, I was rounding the corner at Decatur.
I unlocked the gate and walked down the dark passageway to the courtyard. It was quiet back there as I started climbing the stairs, thinking, One thing I am definitely doing if we renovate is enclosing these stairs from the weather.
When I reached the third-floor landing I was surprised to see the door slightly ajar.
I distinctly remembered closing and locking it.
I took my phone out, cued up 9-1-1, and walked inside. At the end of the hallway I could see the lights in the living room were on and a pool of dark liquid—what looked like blood—was spreading across the hardwood floor just beyond the couch.
What the hell?
I crept down the hallway, and a body lying on the living room floor came in
to view.
Colin was standing beside it, his gun in his hand, his face grave.
He looked up when I cleared my throat.
“Hi, honey,” he said with a rueful grin as he relaxed and dropped his gun arm. “I’m home?”
Chapter Four
The Moon
Change and deception
In all fairness, it had been a while since Colin brought his work home with him.
Still, something you never get used to is seeing a dead body—or at least, I hoped not.
I’ve certainly had my fair share of experience with them, and it’s still unsettling.
Thank God Taylor went bar-hopping was my first coherent thought after the reality began sinking in.
I could feel myself starting to go into shock, so I bent at the waist, looked down at the floor, and took some deep breaths. It didn’t take long for the weird buzzing in my ears and the grayness on the edge of my vision to go away.
I took another deep breath, straightened up, and took an assessing look around.
Our living room was trashed. The television had been knocked off the entertainment center, connector cables ripped out of its back. The entertainment center itself looked like it had been kicked or something; the side panel was smashed and the whole thing was tilting dangerously. The cable box was blinking all red zeroes. The coffee table was also lying on its side, the glass top shattered, shards and glittering beads of broken glass scattered around on the faded and worn Oriental rug. The couch had been shoved out of line and the end table was in pieces. One of the easy chairs was on its back; the other had been knocked aside and was splattered with blood. The hideous, tacky cuckoo clock Storm bought me in Switzerland had been knocked off the wall and lay in the debris from the coffee table, smashed, the door open and the little yellow cuckoo bird dangling on its wire.
Everything that had been hanging on the walls in the living room was now on the floor, frames bent out of shape and the glass cracked. I couldn’t tell if any of the art itself was ruined—but that could wait.
And there was the blood…
There was a huge puddle of it spreading out from under the dead man’s head. He was on his side, his back to me. The way his head rested against the floor made it look like it had been smashed in on that side, and his neck looked broken. His thick bluish-black hair was soaked with blood. His head was turned away from me, so I couldn’t see the face. He was wearing what Colin called “cat burglar garb”—black pants, a black turtleneck, black sneakers.
“Glad I waited to put up the Christmas decorations,” I heard myself saying. I shook my head and took my first good look at Colin. I immediately switched over to caregiver mode. “Jesus, Colin, are you okay?”
Under normal circumstances, Colin was probably one of the best-looking guys I’ve ever seen—certainly in the top ten, at any rate. He is so handsome it’s almost absurd. He’s shorter than most people think or remember, because he’s so charismatic he seems taller. But he’s only five seven on a good day, with about 210 pounds of pure, defined, thick muscle packed on his frame. If he weren’t one of the top undercover operatives in the world, he could make a living as a fitness model. His olive skin tans easily, making his emerald-green eyes pop, and when his thick bluish-black isn’t cut buzz short, it cascades in Apollonian curls around his face. He has dimples in his cheeks, a strong square jaw, and perfectly straight white teeth beneath sensual thick lips. He can move not only quickly, but silently. He is ridiculously flexible and agile.
Once he’d rescued me when some bad guys had drugged and kidnapped me, and to make our escape he strapped me to his back and rappelled down the side of Jax Brewery.
It’s a long story.
Right now, there was a nasty-looking bruise on his right cheek and a huge discolored lump on his left forehead. His right eye was blackened and swelling shut. His big strong hands were covered in blood. His upper lip was also getting fatter as I watched, and there was some blood leaking out from both nostrils. His tight black T-shirt was ripped, the fabric hanging loose from his left shoulder. Angry red scratches, bleeding in places, ran down his chest, and his left nipple was also bloody. His dark jeans were soaked with blood.
“Um, I can explain,” he said. He put his hands on his knees and bent forward, trying to catch his breath. He straightened back up with a sheepish look on his face. “I’m sorry about the mess, but…” His voice trailed off.
I took off my coat and hung it on the coat tree. “Yeah, well, I’d been thinking about redecorating.”
I walked into the kitchen and got the heavy-duty first-aid kit I kept under the sink. I shook my head. Part of the cost of being in love with someone who does the kind of work Colin does is you have to patch him back together from time to time. “I assume this has something to do with whatever case you’re working on right now and you can’t tell me anything or you’ll have to kill me,” I said, walking back into the living room.
That’s another part of the cost.
You can’t ask questions, you can’t know anything, you just have to have blind faith.
Like right now. There’s a dead body in our living room and I may never know why.
Sometimes I lose sleep worrying about where Colin is or what he’s doing. That usually happens when Frank is off wrestling somewhere and I’m home by myself…and have probably smoked too much weed. I’ll lie there in bed, missing them both and imagining the worst.
Having a vivid imagination can be a curse.
But the sad reality is worrying doesn’t change anything. So, I just push those fears into a dark corner of my mind and forget about them. Life doesn’t give you anything you can’t handle, and should my worst fears come true someday, I’d deal with it then.
As Mom says, “Worrying is just borrowing trouble.”
“You’re dressed up,” Colin said, taking a step toward the couch. He winced and put a hand up to his ribs. “Where are Frank and Taylor?”
“Taylor and I went to the premiere party for the Grande Dames,” I replied, opening the first aid kit. “Frank’s wrestling in Pensacola and Taylor went out with some people from the party. Thank the Goddess for small favors.”
Colin gritted his teeth and made it to the couch, sitting down with a groan. “He was a really bad guy, Scotty.” He gestured with his head toward the corpse. “Believe me, the world’s a better place without him. If I hadn’t killed him, he would have killed me…and then you would have walked in here…” He closed his eyes and winced again. “I was terrified you or Frank or Taylor were here, or would come home, or…”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I sat down next to him on the couch and started dabbing at the bloody slashes on his chest. “Do I need to get you to a hospital? You don’t look so good, Colin. Seriously.” His face was pale beneath the tan. “I’ll get you a painkiller.” I had some leftover from an abscessed tooth situation I’d suffered through during the summer.
Rule number one: never discard medication, because you never know when it’ll come in handy.
“No, I’ll be all right.” He yanked down on his T-shirt, finishing the job of ripping it from his muscular torso. He wadded it up and tossed it on the floor. There was an even more hideous bruise running from the hip bone to the bottom of his rib cage. “He got some good licks in, though.” He started pressing on his ribs. “You know what? I think a painkiller would be terrific, thanks.”
Shaking my head, I carefully stepped around the broken glass and the debris on the floor and walked down to the bathroom. I found the bottle of pain pills, shook one out, and filled a Dixie cup with water.
“Thanks,” he said as he took them from me. I flipped the coffee table back up onto its legs. The cigar box holding my deck of tarot cards had been knocked across the room, spilling out cards in front of the wrecked television. I gathered up as many of them as I could—I’d check to see if any were missing later.
“I suppose calling the police isn’t an option?” I sat down on the edge of the coffee table,
retrieved some antiseptic wipes from the medicine kit, and touched them to the scratches on Colin’s chest. His chest flexed as I wiped the scratches clean. His nipple didn’t appear to be torn, just scratched. “Let me get some ice. That eye and your lip…”
He smiled at me. “Am I still pretty?”
I kissed the top of his head. “You’ll always be pretty.”
He’d managed to get his jeans off when I came back with the ice pack. There were bruises on his legs, too. He was wearing black Calvin Klein low-rise briefs. His leg muscles rippled as he bent his knees, checking for any breaks or fractures. He took one of the ice packs and placed it over his swollen eye.
“Brace yourself,” I said, putting a little pressure on Colin’s ribs with the other ice pack. “This doesn’t hurt?”
“Nothing’s broken, I was just a little winded.” He smiled. “I’ve taken much worse in the field when I didn’t have a sexy nurse to take care of me.”
I wiped the blood from under his nose, checking to make sure the bleeding stopped. I glanced back over at the body and felt another wave of nausea. Get over it, you can’t get sick, I told myself sternly.
I take great pride in being good in a crisis.
“But how did he get in?” After the last time someone broke in trying to kill Colin, we’d made the building more secure. We replaced the wooden door on the street level to the passageway with a steel door and had the frame reinforced. Razor wire was strung across the top. The vacant space on the first floor also had a reinforced and padlocked steel door into the courtyard. The shed at the back of the courtyard had a door to the parking lot, but it was also reinforced steel.
The parking lot was a vulnerable spot. If someone managed to get past the big steel garage-style door without a pass card or the entry code, they’d need a ladder to climb up to the roof of the shed and over into the courtyard. And the top of that wall had broken bottles embedded in concrete to discourage climbers.
