“Do you know,” his dad had shouted, “how long I’ve worked to make people forget we’re related to a psycho murderer?”
“But, Dad, don’t you get it? Granddad wasn’t either of those things. He was telling the truth.”
“Yeah? How do you plan to prove that?”
Logan pulled out his phone. “I took a picture of one of the ghosts. See?”
His dad squinted at the screen. “That? Looks like a guy on his way to a Halloween party.”
“He wasn’t a ghost then. He was real. As solid as me. But he’s a witness, right? If we find him—”
“Do you hear yourself? Your grandfather claimed he had a witness too, and it got him accused of murder.”
Logan fought the sob clawing its way up his throat. God, he was stupid. Why hadn’t he thought to take pictures of the other ghosts when he’d had the chance? “We could go back tomorrow. Take the video camera.”
“Try that, and you’ll look like a chip off the old loony block. Your grandfather pulled a dozen different people into that park before they locked him up. Nobody ever saw a damned thing.”
“But—”
“Care to explain your shirt? It’s covered in blood. You telling me ghosts bleed?”
Logan glanced at the red Rorschach on the tail of the T-shirt below the waistband of his hoodie. “It’s not Trent’s. It’s mine. I cut my hand on a bottle.” He’d forgotten. He held out his palm, the gash still oozing. “Do I need stitches?”
“Forget that. The hospital would ask for details. They might connect the injury to Trent. I’ve got butterfly bandages that’ll work fine.”
He trailed after his father into the bathroom, the pain in his hand awakening now that he was back in familiar surroundings. “But Dad, I need to tell them. The police, school. God, Trent’s family. They need to know.”
His father slapped the first aid kit onto the counter. “They only need to know three things. One, you were here with me all night. Two, you cut your hand on a bottle. Three, you haven’t seen Trent since yesterday. End of story.”
“Dad—”
“I mean it, Logan. You don’t want this following you the rest of your life.” He dug a wad of bandages out of the kit. “And my candidacy will never survive another scandal.”
But even though Logan had caved at first, following the party line and covering up Trent’s fate, the incident had caused a breach with his father that had never healed. A gay son his dad could stomach because it had made him approachable and earned him some liberal constituency cred. But a crazy son had no place on his conservative party platform.
As far as Logan was concerned, a father who sacrificed an innocent kid to political expediency didn’t deserve his loyalty. In spite of his dad, Logan had searched for a way to make things right. To atone. Then, like a goddamn idiot, he’d let his libido take the wheel a year and a half ago.
He should have moved on once he’d realized Riley was more than a quick fuck. If you’d done that, dumbass, you’d never have learned the answer. Yeah, without Riley, he’d never have learned that this year was his best chance to rescue Trent unless he waited another seven fricking years. But with Riley? Admit it, asshole—you’d just as soon wait forever.
He’d let his desire overrule his conscience again, as soon as Riley was within reach. You should have done a better job keeping him out of reach. If he’d been crueler. Said something unforgivable rather than just disappearing. Screwed some random guy and arranged for Riley to catch them in the act.
But unable to bear laying the tracks of another man’s hands over his body where Riley’s had been, he’d hedged. He’d tried to give the appearance of cheating without the actual deed.
He should have known it would turn around and bite him on the ass.
Goddamn fucking consequences.
“Logan?” Riley’s tentative tone shoved another spike of guilt into Logan’s gut.
“Yeah?” He located his jeans, his boxer briefs still inside them, and pulled both on at once. “What?”
“You don’t mean that. Do you? It wasn’t just a pickup line, I know it.”
“You don’t know shit about it, and that’s the way we’re keeping it.” His T-shirt was rank with half-dried semen. Rather than put it on, he shoved his arms into his jacket and zipped it up over his bare chest. “I’m out of here.” He pocketed his keys and wallet and tucked his helmet under his arm.
“But this is your chance, don’t you get it? We can prove the ghosts exist. Clear your grandfather’s name and—”
“No.” Logan bunched his T-shirt in his fist and pointed at Riley. “You don’t get it. I want this story buried along with my grandfather. I don’t want you or Julie or even that idiot Max Stone anywhere near it. Stay the fuck away from Forest Park, Riley.” Logan shoved his T-shirt in the pocket of his jacket on his way to the door. “And stay the fuck away from me.”
What the hell just happened?
Riley wrapped his arms across his bare stomach. Logan was lying. Again. That muscle in his cheek had twitched in time to the frantic flutter of Riley’s heart as soon as Riley had pushed him about his grandfather. Just. Freaking. Swell. He’d found another of Logan’s buttons, but had no idea why pushing it had launched Logan back into flying douche bag mode.
But even though Logan had bolted—again—Riley didn’t have the slightest urge to curl up and whimper in a corner this time. For one thing, he had a job to do and a production-crazed best friend who wouldn’t stand for it.
But for another, Logan wasn’t as good at hiding his emotions as he thought. He still cared, dang it. Every stroke of his fingers on Riley’s skin last night, every kiss, every long slow thrust into Riley’s ass while he murmured endearments had said so, as clearly as if he’d shouted it in the middle of Pioneer Courthouse Square.
Besides, Logan may not have said the words, but his actions just now screamed, “It’s not you, it’s me.”
This might be the first time in the history of forever when that excuse made anyone feel triumphant rather than eviscerated. Oh yeah. His stubborn Galahad was back on his white horse, and in order to boot him out of the saddle and save him from his own stupid honor, Riley needed to figure out why.
He scrambled out of bed and into the shower, his brain abuzz with the thrill of intellectual pursuit. While he washed his hair and scrubbed the scent of sex off his body, he cataloged possible sources in his mind, each new idea spawning others like the hydra sprouted heads.
When Logan had originally told him the story of his grandfather’s experience, he’d kept it so generic that Riley had focused only on the ghost war legend in his research. Clearly that had been wrong, wrong, wrong.
There was more to this story than frontier tragedy, and Riley would find it. Because degree or no degree, he could be totally freaking relentless tracking down the connections, the answers, the reasons why.
This time, he had something to go on. This time, he had a name. This time, he knew there was something to find.
And this time, he had one hell of an incentive to get it right.
All the way home, Logan mentally kicked his own ass for being such a clueless loser. He’d dedicated himself to his purpose, and he should be strong enough to stick to it. He had no business indulging himself, especially at Riley’s expense.
As he climbed off his bike behind his apartment building, his cell phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen. Deke, one of his old trucker buddies.
“Yo.”
“Logan. I been trying to reach you all night.”
“Sorry. I was—”
“I saw that guy.”
Logan’s stomach plummeted. That guy. The ex-ghost in the picture. The one he’d been searching for for almost seven years. Fuck it to hell and back. What unbelievably shitty timing. “Where?”
“Truck stop in Chehalis.”
“You pick him up?”
“Nah. He was scavenging food in back of the Burger King, but he bolted
when I got close, maybe heading for the train station. Might be riding the rails. No way any trucker I know would let that guy in his rig. Stinks like month-old fish dipped in piss.”
“Nice image, Deke.”
Deke’s deep chuckle rolled over the line. “Call ’em like I see ’em. Anyway, I spread the word. Everyone’ll be on the lookout for him. Hell, you’d be able to smell him coming from across the state line.”
“Thanks, man. I owe you.” Not that Logan would be around to make good on that debt. Maybe he’d leave Deke the Harley. The guy had always had lousy taste in bikes. “Later.”
He climbed the stairs, entered his craptastic furnished apartment, and tossed his helmet onto the threadbare recliner on his way to the bathroom. After splashing cold water on his face, he stared at his hollow-eyed reflection in the spotty mirror. What the hell had he been thinking last night? He was old enough now to tell the difference between a good idea and total fricking disaster.
Not like back then. In his first year of college, he’d been the typical stupid teenager masquerading as an adult, adjusting to the heady freedom of college after growing up with his father’s image-conscious rules. He’d scored a jackpot with his roommate—a seriously gorgeous gay guy who had his own family drama. He and Trent had bonded over contraband beer and controlling-asshole-dad stories, and transitioned to fuck-buddy status within the first week.
That night, the night that had changed the course of his life, he’d been studying in a half-assed way, waiting for Trent to return from the final auditions for the winter production of Blithe Spirit. Trent had been confident he’d land the lead, and Logan had plans for a suitable celebration. Who knew? Maybe they’d take their relationship up a notch. Boyfriends? He wasn’t sure he was ready to go that far, but hey, anything was possible.
A key rattled in the lock, but instead of bursting through the door and posing in his own virtual spotlight as usual, Trent stalked into the room with a script rolled in his fist and face-planted on his bed.
“Trent?” Logan set his book aside and got up to close the door. “You okay, man?”
“Understudy.” Trent’s voice, muffled by pillows, lacked its customary confidence. He tossed the script on the floor with a flick of his fingers.
“What?”
“I didn’t get the part.” He rolled over and flung one arm out and the other over his eyes. “Un-fucking-believable. Three callbacks. My chemistry with the rest of the cast was off the charts. The director told me it was the best audition he’d seen in years.”
“So why didn’t you—”
“Because I’m a freshman. I have to pay my duuuuues.” He smacked the side of the bed. “He made me the understudy, like it’s some kind of reward.”
Logan sat sideways in Trent’s desk chair, his knees against the bed. “Well, what is it you theater geeks say on opening night? Break a leg? You could always hope the lead guy actually does.”
Trent peered out from under his arm. “Dude. Do not mock the sacred traditions of theater.”
“Sorry. So who got the part?”
“Wayne fucking Peterson. Just because he’s a senior. Asshole.”
Logan frowned. “But isn’t he a friend of yours? Part of that club that spends all its time hanging out in cemeteries?”
“We don’t hang out in cemeteries.”
“You so do. Three times in September and once already this month.”
“We reenact. We don’t ‘hang out.’”
Logan chuckled and poked Trent in the ribs. “Right. You’re . . . what? Spirit stalkers? Ghost groupies?”
“Legend trippers, dickhead. As if you didn’t know.”
Yeah, some people liked bungee jumping or skydiving or extreme sports. The thing that turned Trent’s crank was hanging out in cemeteries, hoping to get goosed by a ghost. Go figure.
“Can’t say I see the appeal, but whatever.”
Trent toed off his trainers and turned on his side to face Logan. “It’s the adventure, dude, a total rush, like real-life theater. If we do it right, we could raise the legend.”
“Raise it?”
“Make it happen again.”
“Have you ever succeeded?”
“Not here. Not yet. But people legend trip all over the world. A group in France actually saw a werewolf.”
“You mean they saw someone shift from man to wolf?” Trent shook his head, but didn’t offer an explanation. Fine. Guess we’re pulling teeth then. “Vice versa, wolf to man?”
“No, but they saw the wolf.”
Logan raised his eyebrows. “And that means it’s a werewolf . . . how?”
“Dude. The last wolf in France was shot in 1947. It had to be a shifter.”
“Or else it was somebody’s German shepherd.”
Trent sat up and propped his back against the wall. “Fine. Be an asshole. But I’ve witnessed something myself. Back home, this one college had a ouija board door.”
“You mean a door with a ouija board on it?”
“No. You’d ask it questions, and it’d slam once for yes and twice for no.”
Logan snorted. “Seriously?”
“Hey, it was right for me, both times.”
“Yeah? Did you ask it if legend tripping was a bogus waste of time?”
Trent threw a pillow at him. “No, asshole.” He ducked his head, tracing a pattern on his blanket with a finger. “I asked it if my parents would be cool with me coming out.”
“That didn’t take a haunted door to figure out. From what you’ve told me about your folks—”
Trent’s face closed up shop, his usual sparkle completely snuffed. Just fucking great. As if Trent wasn’t already bummed enough about the play, Logan had made him feel worse. “Shit, man. Sorry.”
Trent shrugged. “You know the worst thing about losing the part to Peterson? Other than, you know, not having the part? That asshole will get major tripping points.”
“Points? Your club has points?”
“It’s not a club, dude. We’re serious about this.”
“And points are serious? How can he get points for a Noël Coward play? It’s not like the thing is based on an actual ghost story.”
“It still counts. He’ll be reenacting the story, re-creating it every night. He gets points.”
“Who made that stupid rule?”
“Peterson did.”
“Figures.”
Trent’s mouth drooped. “I know, right?”
Logan’s chest tightened with the need to do something, anything, to reignite Trent’s spark, but it wasn’t as if he could magically give him the part in the play. But maybe there was another way to cheer him up, even if it made the hair stand up on Logan’s own arms.
Yeah, he and Trent had shared some family history, but Logan had never told anyone about his grandfather, not after the lessons his father had pounded into him about the fragility of public opinion.
So don’t tell him the whole story. He’ll only care about the ghosts anyway. Leave Granddad out of it. He could give Trent a harmless thrill, let him score off Peterson, and then they’d come back here and banish the rest of his depression with some leisurely sex.
“Know what, man? Fuck your parents and fuck the director and fuck Noël Coward.”
A smile wavered on Trent’s mouth. “Might have gone for it with Coward, if he, you know, wasn’t dead, but I’ll pass on the others, thanks.”
“Noël Coward ghosts aren’t real ghosts, dude. Too mannered and polite. Real ghost stories are raw. Messy.” He dropped his voice into Cryptkeeper range. “Daaaangerous.”
“Oh, and you’re an expert, I suppose?”
“Hey. I’m a Portland native.”
Trent hugged his knees. “Non sequitur much?”
“So sadly ignorant.” Logan shook his head, pasting a pitying look on his face. “I’ll cut you some slack, since you come from one of those little bitty New England states—some island or other, wasn’t it?”
Trent shoved Logan’s knee wi
th his foot. “Fuck you.”
“You can’t be expected to know the really big stories from really big places like Oregon.” Logan grinned. “Ever hear the story of Danford Balch?”
“What do you think?” Trent scowled at him, crossing his arms over his chest. “Get on with it.”
“Well then. Just warning you, I plan to be an architect, not a singer.” Logan cleared his throat. “‘Coooooome and listen to a story ’bout a man named Dan. A poor pioneer and a tortured fam’ly man.’”
Trent barked out a laugh. “Dude. Is that the theme from The Beverly Hillbillies?”
“If you don’t recognize it, my singing’s worse than I thought. God knows the stupid tune’s been stuck in my head after you made me watch that marathon with you last week.”
“It was for your own good. You young people today have no appreciation for the classics.”
“I’m only two months younger than you. And excuse me—classics? The Beverly Hillbillies?”
Trent flipped off his script. “Beats Noël Coward.”
“Then get a load of this.” Logan grabbed a pen off the desk and held it like a microphone. “On this very day in 1859, Danford Balch was hanged for murdering his son-in-law. But did he stay dead? You be the judge.”
He told the whole story—leaving out references to his family, of course. “And they say the two families still battle it out on the banks of the creek that bears Balch’s name—ghosts locked in a bloody feud—forever.” He bowed his head. “The end.”
Trent nudged his knee again. “Anybody you know actually witness this?”
“Let’s say . . .” Logan swallowed, his stomach clenching. Don’t mention Granddad. “. . . a friend of a friend.”
“Dude, that’s a quintessential hallmark of a true urban legend.” Trent’s blue eyes sparkled. “Come on. Tonight. Let’s do it.”
Logan peered out the window. It was raining, the businesslike showers of October in Portland. Had he really thought this would be a good idea? “Maybe we could wait until it’s not raining?”
Stumptown Spirits Page 8
