Stumptown Spirits

by E. J. Russell

  But to stage a scene like that and disappear? It was so out of character. As if Sir Galahad had suddenly turned as devious and cruel as Mordred.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Julie said. “If I didn’t hate his guts, I’d probably fall at his feet and thank him. If it weren’t for that douche bag, you’d be ass-deep in the Balkans by now and I’d be stuck excavating my career from under Max Stone all by myself.”

  “Speaking of our star,” Riley muttered, “he’s arrived.”

  “Fabulous.” Julie retrieved her clipboard and hugged it to her chest like an acrylic breastplate. “I’d planned on at least two stiff drinks before I had to face him.”

  “It’s your own fault. Never say his name. It conjures him. He’s like a malevolent djinn.”

  She shifted to face Riley, her back to the entrance and the approaching show host. “Listen, Rile, I know he’s a total asshat, but please—”

  “I know, I know. The star is always right.” He patted her arm. “Don’t worry, Jules. I won’t blow your gig.”

  Max Stone sauntered to the center of the hotel lobby, directly in the path of the grips wheeling crates full of equipment, and struck a pose, the same one he used before the first commercial break in every Haunted to the Max episode.

  None of the crew paid any attention; they just navigated around him.

  Totally business as usual.

  Without the attention of an adoring audience, though, Max had an unfortunate habit of zeroing in on the nearest flunky to torment. Too often, Riley was the flunky du jour—his title might be runner/researcher, but he might as well have Production Bitch tattooed on his butt.

  “Well, if it isn’t Wiley.” Max always made a point of mocking Riley’s R-W lisp. He held a finger in front of his lips. “Sssshhh. Be vewwy, vewwy quiet. We’w hunting wabbits.”

  Yeah, like that never gets old. Riley felt the telltale heat in his cheeks. He drew a breath to retort—with words containing no Rs whatsoever—when he caught Julie’s pleading look. Right. Placate the star. He settled for a teeth-gritted smile instead. “Hello, Max.”

  Julie mouthed, Thank you, then pasted on a giant fake grin and faced Max. “Welcome to Portland. Is there something you need?”

  “Yeah. I need you to book an episode in someplace less goddamn boring. What about Vegas? Miami? New York? Do ghosts only haunt the sticks?”

  “Portland isn’t exactly the sticks.” Julie’s knuckles whitened on the edges of her clipboard. “It’s got a population of over half a million in the city alone.”

  “It doesn’t matter how big the population is,” Max boomed, “if they’re all losers.”

  Mr. Tact, that was Max. The woman behind the concierge desk glowered at them, and the bellmen stationed by the front door gave them the side-eye. Riley caught Julie’s gaze and jerked his head at the PR disaster in the making.

  “It’s a natural for you, Max,” she said, with a subtle jab in Riley’s ribs. “The most haunted city in the Pacific Northwest.”

  “Yeah? Next time, book us a gig in the most haunted city in Monaco. Because this place sucks.” Max heaved his own duffel—leather, with his name and HttM monogrammed on both sides in gold—onto the overfull cart, triggering an avalanche of luggage onto Riley’s high-tops, then swaggered off to the elevators.

  Julie sighed and pretended to tick something off the list on her clipboard with a flourish. “Max’s first tantrum. Check.”

  “Does this happen at every shoot?”

  “Of course it does. I think it might be in his contract.”

  Riley heaved the bags back onto the cart. “In that case, I’m glad I’ve never rated a location assignment before.”

  “Never mind Max. You’ve got to admit this is more interesting than being stuck in the office on phone duty.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I know so.” She squeezed his arm. “And I’ve got a surprise for you.

  He eyed her warily. “You know I hate those.”

  “Don’t be like that. This is a good thing. Scott wants you to do the briefing at the production meeting tomorrow morning.”

  Suddenly Cerberus grew a fourth head and chomped down hard on Riley’s middle. “This can’t be Scott’s idea. He doesn’t even know my name.”

  “Exactly. And he never will if you don’t speak up. This is the perfect opportunity to show him what an asset you are to the show.”

  Riley hugged the last duffel to his chest. Once upon a time, he could face anyone. He’d had the regard of his advisor, the offhand respect of the students in his TA sessions, and against all odds, the hottest boyfriend in the Western hemisphere. But getting dumped by Logan had stolen Riley’s self-confidence as surely as if Logan had packed it on the back of his motorcycle.

  Riley had no desire to alter the HttM status quo. Production Bitch might not be a glamorous gig, but at least it was low-profile.

  “There’s no point, Jules.”

  “There is too. It’s your story, doofus. You deserve the kudos.”

  Riley fumbled the bag and knocked two others off the cart.

  She stared at him, and he saw the instant when the penny dropped. “Shit, Riley. Are you afraid of them?”

  He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket and stared down at the toes of his black high-tops. “I’m not exactly Hollywood material, Jules.”

  “Bullshit. Besides, you used to lecture to an auditorium full of freshmen three times a week. This should be a piece of cake.”

  Not the same thing. Not even close. In the lecture hall, he’d been secure in the knowledge that no matter how the students felt about the class, they needed it—and needed him to get through it, because the professor was freaking scary.

  It was his turf, and he’d ruled it. The classroom. The library. The internet.

  The insanity of a Hollywood production company? Not so much. These guys valued sensationalism, not scholarship. Ratings, not research. Riley’s ability to remember their arcane coffee preferences was more valuable to them than his folklore chops.

  “I’d really rather not.”

  “Too bad.” She whacked him on the arm with her clipboard. “It’s time. I refuse to let you hide your brilliance anymore. Now let’s grab some dinner. I have a meeting with Scott at seven, but we’ve got a couple of hours.”

  “Are you kidding?” His voice squeaked on the last word. “If I’ve got to prep a presentation, I need to crack the laptop and assemble my notes.” And he would—eventually. But he’d never be able to concentrate with the Logan elephant lurking in the room, shorting out his brain. It was like his thesis implosion all over again.

  So before he got started—and despite Julie’s undoubted disapproval—he intended to finally force a closure conversation with Logan. And if getting the man to talk required a nail gun applied to his damn motorcycle boots? Riley was totally on board with that.

  “I’ll pick up a sandwich and eat in my room.” He avoided her gaze and replaced the fallen luggage, expecting her to activate her best-friend ESP and scream Liar! at any minute. But when he dared a glance, she was staring at her clipboard, chewing on the end of her ponytail.

  Guilt wormed its way into his belly. Wake up, you jerk. You’re not the only one with a stake here. This job was important to her, and whatever happened with Logan, she was still his best friend. He needed to hold it together, for her sake as well as his own.

  “Jules.” He put an arm across her shoulder. “What’s wrong? What’s got you so stressed?”

  “Oh, you know. The usual suspects.” She shrugged, but the worry wrinkle between her brows didn’t disappear. “The budget. Max. The lack of any on-camera proof of paranormal activity in any of our episodes ever.”

  “Trust me. This is a good story.” He grinned at her, feigning confidence, and gave her a squeeze. “Look at it this way. If nothing manifests, it won’t be any different than any other HttM episode, and if you’re lucky, that haunted hairbrush will be just as lively when we get back to LA.”

>   Logan Conner wheeled another stack of Widmer IPA cases through the back door of Stumptown Spirits. Of all the shit jobs in the bar, inventory control—schlepping booze around the dank stockroom, checking deliveries against the shipping manifest—was in his bottom five.

  Which was why he always volunteered to do it, along with every weeknight bartending shift, when the patrons drank for vocation not recreation, and the tips were lousy.

  He didn’t need tips. In little more than a week, he’d never need money again.

  He tossed the packing list on the shelf next to the stacks of snowy bar towels, ready to spend one of his last nights on earth working for his old neighbor and childhood nemesis, who was more than happy to employ Logan—for half what he paid the other bartenders.

  Perfect.

  Heather, one of the servers, stopped in the doorway, tying the strings of her black apron around her waist. “Hey, Logan. Good thing you’re on tonight.”

  “Why’s that?” Unfortunately, he liked Heather, so he always tried to dodge her, but she was remarkably persistent. He picked up a bundle of towels. “The boss in a mood?”

  She snorted and tucked a pencil behind her ear. “When is Bert not in a mood? No, there’s the cutest guy sitting at the end of the bar. You should check him out.” She singsonged the last word, waggling her eyebrows.

  “Stop trying to set me up, woman.” He shooed her through the door. “You know nothing about what I look for in a man.”

  She fell into step beside him in the narrow hallway. “That’s what you think. I notice who you notice, and this guy is totally your type.”

  “I don’t have a type.”

  “Ha!”

  Shit. Guess he didn’t have as good a poker face as he’d hoped. He couldn’t deny it—as his personal Judgment Day approached, he definitely had Riley Morrel on the brain. Anyone who bore the slightest resemblance to his ex-lover caught his attention with a stomach-churning swirl of desperate hope and complete terror. Didn’t mean he had to admit it.

  “You’re hallucinating, Heather. Have you been breathing the fumes from that leaky keg?”

  She grabbed his arm, and he fumbled the bale of towels, dropping it right in the perpetual puddle that had seeped into the hallway from that same leak.

  “Damn it.” He kneeled down and blotted the beer with the towels. “Can you hand me the wrench from under the end of the bar?”

  “Since when do we have a wrench?”

  “It’s mine.” He’d relocated it from his bike saddlebag because the boss was too cheap to spring for his own fricking tools, let alone replace the keg. “If I tighten the hose connector—”

  “Oh, leave it, Logan. It’ll just leak again in half an hour anyway.” She shoved his shoulder when he tried to stand. “Stay down there. It’s only another foot to the end of the hall, and you’ll be less obvious if you scope out the guy from floor level.”

  “I don’t want to scope anyone— Ow!” He rubbed the back of his head where she’d smacked him.

  “Just look, you big baby. Twenty bucks says I’m right.”

  Logan heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. Easiest twenty I ever made.” He’d tuck it into her tip jar at the end of her shift.

  He crawled forward, avoiding the remains of the beer leak, Heather shuffling along at his hip. A bar patron snickered as he passed them on the way to the john, but Logan ignored him. Five months ago, he’d never have been caught dead in such a ridiculous position. Now, he didn’t give a shit how stupid he appeared.

  When he reached the corner, Heather held up two fingers in a peace sign, pointed at her eyes and then at the bar. He mouthed, Bitch, and she grinned.

  He rocked forward until he had a clear view of the far end of the bar. A bolt of fire shot from his throat to his balls.

  Riley.

  He scrambled back and fell onto his ass in the remaining beer puddle. God and the devil take it, what was Riley doing here?

  “Logan?” Heather hunkered down in front of him. “What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  A ghost. What a joke. Logan was doing his best to face up to becoming a ghost himself, and the only man in the world who could shake his resolve sat less than twenty feet away. He heaved himself to his feet, snatching a marginally dry towel from the sodden pile to blot his jeans.

  Heather propped her chin on his shoulder. “So. Do I win?”

  “Yeah. No. I . . . need air. Taking a break.” He retreated down the hallway, tossing the towel into the hamper inside the stockroom door as he passed. “Tell Jase I’ll take over behind the bar in—” Jesus. How could he work his shift tonight?

  He fumbled with the panic bar of the back door and escaped into the alley, drawing in deep breaths of air tainted with stale beer, urine, and garbage.

  How the fuck was this possible? Riley was supposed to be hacking around Europe on that folklore grant with his freshly minted master’s degree, not hanging out in Portland, and in Stumptown Spirits, of all the bad fucking luck.

  Luck? Who was he kidding? Luck and Riley didn’t coexist on the same planet, at least not where Logan was concerned.

  He crept down the alley and emerged on the sidewalk in front of the bar. The October chill hadn’t reduced traffic on the sidewalks of Old Town, but Logan didn’t spare a glance at anyone. He sidled up to the tinted window, glad for once that Bert refused to invest in any window coverings, and peered inside. Riley was still sitting at the end of the bar, his profile illuminated by the pierced copper lantern overhead.

  The downlight burnished his hair to a glow like polished mahogany. It highlighted the slope of his turned-up nose. Caught the upper curve of his ear where it protruded from the shaggy haircut he’d always insisted on because he was self-conscious about what he called “these open car doors on either side of my head.”

  Heather emerged from the hallway with her hands full of burger platters, and Riley tracked her, his head panning toward the window.

  Shit. Logan jerked back, chest heaving, and leaned against the rough brick wall. Had Riley seen him? He didn’t think so, although it would be hard to miss him once he started his shift. He’d be trapped behind the bar until midnight with Riley practically in his lap.

  No fucking way.

  He hunched below the window and duck-walked a couple of feet down the sidewalk before inching up to peek through the glass again.

  Riley wasn’t staring at the window, thank God. His head was bent, one fist clutching the hair above his forehead, which always made it stick up like a kid’s who’d just awoken from a nap. He was scribbling notes on a legal pad, probably in that crazy shorthand he’d invented for himself. The bar in front of him held a scatter of papers topped by a fat paperback.

  When Riley’s glasses slid down his nose and he pushed them up with the eraser end of his pencil, Logan nearly sprinted into the bar to rip the thing from his hand. Christ, did he want to poke himself in the eye? Riley wasn’t the most coordinated of men. Half the time he managed to fall up the stairs, for Chrissake.

  Someone nudged Logan in the ribs, and he glanced irritably to his left. A hefty twentysomething guy with a tribal neck tattoo and a leather jacket chinking with more chains than the average bike shop crouched next to him, breathing alcohol fumes in Logan’s face, his eyes avid.

  “What’s the show? Some chick with her tits hanging out?”

  Another guy, this one in fashionably ripped denim and a backward black ball cap, jostled him from the other side. Logan scowled at them and pulled his elbows in tight.

  “Don’t be greedy, man. Share.”

  They matched his stance and peered through the window.

  “I don’t see nothing,” Leather-guy said.

  Jesus. Logan ducked and flipped around, his back to the wall and his ass on the less-than-pristine sidewalk. Between the dirt and the beer soaking the seat of his jeans, he’d smell like the back alley by the end of the night, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

  Denim-boy stood up. �
��Place is a dump. Nothing but guys.” He looked down at Logan, the whites showing around his faded blue irises. “This ain’t one of them homo havens, is it?”

  “Christ,” Logan muttered, and levered himself to his feet and moved away from them, keeping low until he’d cleared the window.

  “Hey!” Leather followed him. “He asked you a question.”

  “Back off.”

  “You gonna make us?” Leather-guy shoved Logan’s shoulder, the jut of the idiot’s chin begging for a swift uppercut. Posers. Logan’s least favorite demographic.

  When Logan didn’t respond, Denim-boy strutted over but stayed safely behind Leather, out of first-strike range. “Like to see you try.”

  Posers and cowards. Perfect. Logan should spend the evening with these assholes, to remind himself why he wouldn’t miss his life.

  Except that Riley Morrel was within his reach, separated from him by one measly brick wall, rumpled and intent and infuriatingly oblivious.

  In other words, totally fricking adorable.

  So Logan did the right thing. He ran, the guffaws of Leather and Denim chasing him down the alley.

  He’d forced himself to leave Riley once. He could do it again, although the tension snarling his belly called bullshit to that, mocking him more successfully than the laughter of the losers on the sidewalk. You’re not as strong as you pretend.

  Five months. Five months of self-denial hell down the tubes. Five months since he’d touched Riley’s skin. Seen his eyes light up at some arcane mythological reference he’d managed to trace through the centuries.

  Five months since Logan had staged that callous scene and bailed like a coward before he lost his resolve. He’d thought he’d been cauterizing the Riley-wound in his soul while he’d marked time here, waiting for the end. But one glimpse of him and Logan was as raw as he’d been that day in Eugene.

  Goddamn it all to hell and back. It was way easier to get over the death of someone you hated than someone you loved. Logan knew that from experience. His cousin’s first serious boyfriend had died in a car crash when the two of them were only nineteen. In her mind, he was still perfect, and as far as she was concerned, nobody could ever measure up. She hadn’t even tried to get over the loss. Twelve years later, she still hadn’t moved on.