“Riley. Get real.” She brandished her dead-fish mic. “We have no cameras. Someone might notice when the director yells, ‘Action,’ and there’s nothing for the cameramen to hold.”
Hold it together. Don’t let on you know who did it. Not yet. “We can figure it out. There’s a couple of places in town that do TV production support. I researched them when I was . . . um . . .”
She raised one eyebrow. “Cyber-stalking Logan?”
“When I was developing the story.” He walked back into the other room, mustering as much dignity as he could manage with a foot of chrome-plated steel doing its best to merge with his flesh. “I told you I didn’t know he was here.”
Julie followed him. “Whatever. We . . .” She poked him in the shoulder until he faced her. “Why are you limping?”
“It’s nothing. My leg’s a little stiff. Now don’t worry. I’ll take care of this.” All of it. One way or another.
“I told you. We’re in this together.”
“Not this time.” He spun her around, propelling her out of the room with both hands planted on her shoulder blades. “Don’t you have a shoot schedule to revise? PAs to terrorize? A slacker showrunner to coddle?”
“Yes, but—”
“Jules. Go do your job. This is my job, remember?”
She scowled at him from the middle of the hallway, her arms wrapped across her stomach. “You’re the researcher, Riley. Not the janitor.”
He shrugged and managed a half smile. “So you say. But we know the television truth. Go on. I’ll be fine.”
He closed the door before she could charge back in.
“That’s right,” he told the pile of ex-cameras. “Production Bitch to the rescue.”
Logan finished mopping up the spill from the damned leaky keg and turned off the lights behind the bar when a fusillade of knocking erupted from the back.
“I’ve got it, Bert,” he called. His boss had been barricaded in the office nearly all day, and the only thing that made him grumpier than paperwork was after-hours visitors. Nobody needed that shit—not the clueless time-challenged person and certainly not Logan. He balled the soiled bar towel in his fist and strode down the hallway. When he hit the panic bar, the door flew open.
Riley.
Damn it. He thought he’d soaked that bridge with enough gasoline to burn it to ash. Logan stepped back, bunching his fists against the urge to grab Riley’s arms and kiss the holy fucking shit out of him.
But Riley muscled in, shoving Logan’s shoulder, throwing him off-balance.
“How far, Logan? How far will you go to get your own way?”
Ah. Perfect. His spooky stories must have hit folklore pay dirt. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You want to get me fired, fine. But what about Julie? The rest of the crew? We’ve got obligations. But you wouldn’t know about that, would you? When the stakes get too high, you just leave.”
“Shut up.” Logan glanced over his shoulder at the office door. Although Bert had been holed up in there most of the evening to avoid the toorists, he could emerge anytime. If he’d booted Riley out on his ass once, he probably wouldn’t hesitate to do it again, and Logan wasn’t sure whose side he’d take in that particular altercation. He grabbed Riley by one arm and hustled him toward the door.
Riley wrenched his arm out of Logan’s grasp, yanking his jacket off his shoulder. “Don’t touch me.”
The edge in his voice, the disgust twisting his mouth, caught Logan like a sucker punch to the gut. But this was what he wanted, wasn’t it? Riley so pissed at him that he’d stay safely free of Logan’s personal blast zone. So why did he want to wipe the hatred off Riley’s face, tease a smile from him instead? “You can yell at me all you want, but not here.” Logan pointed at the back door. “Outside.”
Riley shrugged his jacket back on and nodded curtly. Logan followed him into the alley and wedged the door open with the bar towel.
“Right.” Logan leaned on the brick wall next to the door, his arms folded. “What’s the problem?”
“The pwoblem?” Riley pulled a long metal object from under his jacket. “The problem is this.” He slapped the thing—hard—on Logan’s chest.
“Ow. Jesus, Riley. That’s gonna leave a bruise.” Logan looked down at Riley’s hand splayed against his shirt. He’s touching me. Damn it. Focus, Conner. “Hey. How’d you get my wrench?”
Riley’s lips thinned into an unforgiving line. “The scene of the crime.”
“What crime? Substandard equipment? A boss who won’t spring for his own tools? Bert’s skinflintedness is revolting, but not illegal, unfortunately.”
“No. You—”
The door creaked open, and Bert loomed in the shadows of the hallway. “Logan. What’s the—” He stepped into the wan light of the alley. “You. I thought I told you to stay out of my place.”
Great. Logan pushed himself off the wall, ready to intervene.
Riley shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans and hunched his shoulders. “Not in your place, am I?” He refocused his death glare on Logan. “Why did you do it, Logan? Did you think we’d give up on the story because of your terrorist tactics?”
“Oh come on. Terrorist?” Logan couldn’t fight his grin. Christ, that had been fun. “The guy hunts ghosts for a living. You telling me he can’t handle a few spooky stories?”
“Stories? What stories? Your vandalism is going to cost—”
“Hold it.” Bert took another step outside. Shit. Logan shifted his stance to shield Riley from his boss’s uncertain temper. “You part of that bunch that’s aiming to film at Balch Creek?”
Riley lifted his chin and squared his shoulders. “At Witch’s Castle. Yeah.” He glared at Logan. “And we’re still filming, no matter what happens.”
“You don’t say. Well. That changes things, don’t it?” Bert cackled like a demented hen. “Where’s your hospitality gone, Logan?” He jerked his thumb at the door. “Offer the man a drink.”
Riley’s gaze bounced between Logan and his boss. Yesterday, he’d had no doubt which man belonged in the hero’s camp and which one sided with the villains. Now, in the face of a friendly Bert, and with damning evidence of Logan’s dark side, his judgment was seriously in question.
Was this why Logan had chosen to work at Stumptown Spirits—because he was colluding with Bert? Why? And how could sabotaging HttM possibly benefit them? For once, Riley wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
“No. Really.” He backed away. Slowly. Don’t startle them. You clearly have no idea what they’ll do. “I’ve got to go.”
“Come back tomorrow. Bring your friends. Burgers on the house.”
Logan’s head whipped around, and his dumbfounded expression told Riley the free-food offer wasn’t SOP.
“Bert,” Logan said, “I’ll be back in a minute to lock up.”
“Take your time.” Bert shot one more speculative look at Riley, and returned inside, trailing a rusty chuckle.
Yeah, that wasn’t ominous in the least. Riley edged farther toward the street, wiping his damp palms on his jeans. Although the light above the door still shined, the alley seemed darker than it had before, the sidewalk behind him too empty.
Logan scowled at the door, tossing the wrench end-over-end. The slap of the metal hitting his palm was the only sound in the night. Just two more steps and I’ll be on the sidewalk. As Logan flipped the wrench once more and snatched it out of the air, Riley’s heel collided with an empty beer can, sending it spinning across the pavement with a hollow clatter.
Logan’s head snapped around. “Not so fast. I’m not done with you.” He strode toward Riley, the wrench clenched in his fist, and Riley flinched, stomach plummeting, and raised his hands to ward off the blow.
The shock on Logan’s face was almost comical. He glanced from Riley to the wrench. “Seriously? Christ, Riley. You really think I’d hit you? You know me better than that.”
“It’s pretty evident that I d
on’t know you at all.”
Logan swore under his breath and carded the fingers of his free hand through his hair. “Listen, last time I saw this, it was hanging on a nail under the bar. I keep it there to fix our leaky keg, but anyone could’ve taken it.”
“That’s not where I found it. I know you don’t want us to film this story, but did you have to destroy the equipment?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. I haven’t destroyed anything.”
“Yeah? Where were you earlier tonight then, when the crew was at the bar?”
“I was serving them more beer than was good for them, if they have an early call tomorrow.” Logan grinned, a goddamned shit-eating grin so familiar, so Logan, that the last of Riley’s earlier fear and uncertainty vanished, replaced by the urge to grab the stupid wrench and smack him with it. “That guy, Max. He can’t hold his beer as well as he thinks he can.”
“Sometime today, between about four o’clock and eleven, someone vandalized Max’s suite.”
Logan’s grin faded. “You think I had something to do with that? I told you. I was here.”
“What time?”
“My shift started at six.”
It would have been close, but he could have pulled it off. “Someone broke into the equipment suite too. Destroyed both our night-vision cameras. That,” Riley pointed to the wrench in Logan’s hand, “was on the scene.”
“Then I must be guilty. Why even ask?” Something in Logan’s tone said danger, and fear fizzed in Riley’s veins again. God, why couldn’t he have fallen in love with some nice geeky gamer? He so wasn’t cut out for dealing with this alpha shit.
He gave it his best shot, poking Logan’s chest with a stiff forefinger. “Your wrench didn’t walk there by itself.”
“Maybe it did.” Logan advanced another half step, trapping Riley’s hand between them. “You should investigate. The Case of the Walking Wrench. Film at eleven.”
Riley stared at Logan, at the way his lips tucked in at the corners, at the slight lift of his left eyebrow. “Are you laughing at me?”
“You hear me laughing?”
Riley’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a virtual laughter. The kind you expect me not to see. The kind at my expense. The kind you share with your friends and aim at me like some kind of cool-guy weapon.”
Logan dropped the wrench with a clank and grabbed him by the shoulders. “That’s not the weapon I want to point at you. And I damn well don’t want to share you with my friends.” His hand shifted to the back of Riley’s neck, and his lips came down in a bruising kiss with a tongue chaser.
Riley wanted to resist, to salvage some shred of his pride. He tried. God, he tried, clenching his fists and holding them tight against his thighs. But the heat of Logan’s mouth, the way his body fit against Riley from chest to knees . . . Screw it. He moaned into the kiss.
But before he could wrap his arms around Logan’s waist, Logan disengaged, holding Riley at arm’s length. “But I still don’t want you to run with that story. Go home, Riley. Stay away from me. Stay safe.”
As Riley gaped at him, swaying on his feet, Logan turned and disappeared back into Stumptown Spirits.
Riley raised shaking fingers to his lips. “Well shit.”
Logan let the metal door clang shut behind him, the panic bar snicking into place. He leaned his head against the door and closed his eyes, willing his dick to stand down.
Christ, he was a fucking idiot. A weak fucking idiot. How could he convince Riley that the feeling between them was dead when his own body betrayed him, refusing to support the lie? Riley wasn’t stupid. If he’d somehow overlooked Logan’s giant fricking mixed signals before, there was no way he’d missed that kiss.
What was it the shrinks said about near-death experiences or about facing a final battle? The urge to mate roared in and took control, a last desperate attempt to pass on DNA before the end. No wonder Logan wanted to fuck Riley every time he saw him. Didn’t matter that Riley couldn’t do anything with Logan’s pathetic DNA. The primal instinct reared its damned head anyway.
He opened his eyes and nearly fell on his ass. Bert stood at the other end of the hall, the light from the kitchen casting shadows on his angular face, turning him into a Cubist’s nightmare.
“He a friend of yours?” Bert stepped forward, and his face assumed its usual form, except for one thing.
He was smiling.
“You could say that.” Logan picked up his discarded bar towel to avoid Bert’s scrutiny. “That TV crew nearly drank us out of the local microbrews. If they’re coming back tomorrow, we should reorder.”
“You reckon they’ll be back?”
“You offered them free food. What do you think?”
This time Bert didn’t laugh, thank God, because that was too creepy for words, but he was still smiling, which was almost as bad.
Logan was damn glad he wasn’t bartending tomorrow. Between a grinning Bert and a bar crowd that was bound to include Riley, he’d never survive the night, and an unscheduled demise was not part of his plan.
Riley hadn’t gotten over his pissed-at-Logan-and-the-world attitude by the time he’d schlepped back to the hotel. Why couldn’t the man pick an attitude and stick with it? All this seesawing made it freaking hard to believe anything he said. Had he trashed Max’s room and the equipment? The evidence pointed that way, despite his denial.
But that same bone-deep disbelief that had made him doubt Logan’s motives for disappearing five months ago cautioned him to check his assumptions at the door. He’d told Logan he didn’t know him, but he knew enough. Sure, Logan was physically capable of destroying the cameras, although the care he lavished on his motorcycle and every appliance they’d ever owned made it seem unlikely—he respected technical craftsmanship too much. But shredding Max’s photographs? That was just . . . petty. Logan might have a flash-point temper, but he was never, ever small-minded.
Riley stomped down the dim corridor to his shoebox of a room, jammed his key card in the slot, flung the door open, and hit the light switch.
“Jesus, Riley.” Julie’s muffled voice emerged from a mound of blankets on his bed. “Throw in a little C-4 and a hand grenade. You’ll make less noise.”
“Crap. Sorry. I forgot you were here.” He killed everything but the bathroom light so he wouldn’t maim himself on the furniture, and tiptoed to the dresser.
“Don’t bother playing cat burglar now. That ship has sailed.”
“I’m pretty sure cat burglars don’t sail.”
“So I mix metaphors. Sue me.” Julie sat up and pushed the blankets down to her waist, her curly blond hair smooshed on one side, and the Marx Brothers T-shirt she slept in twisted around her torso. “Where did you go?”
“I . . . um . . . had an errand to run.”
“I guessed that much, doofus. What errand?”
“Just, you know, things.”
“Jesus, you cannot dodge for shit. My four-year-old niece is a better liar than you.”
“It’s my business.” He pulled a pair of flannel sleep pants and a T-shirt out of the dresser. “You don’t have to worry about it.”
“The hell I don’t. Come on. Tell me.”
Riley sighed. “Julie—”
“If you don’t, I’ll sing ‘Copacabana’ all night until you cave.”
God, why did he ever think it would be fun to work with his best friend? At least if he worked with strangers, he’d be able to hold on to a vestige of privacy, not to mention dignity. “Fine. I went to see Logan.”
“Good lord. Why?”
“Because . . .” He still wasn’t sure whether to believe Logan’s denial, but he also wasn’t ready to share his suspicions with Julie. She’d never forgive Logan for sabotaging her show, even if he hadn’t actually done it. Julie could carry a grudge further than a Republican congressman, and with as little justification.
She punched her pillow, and he winced. “Cut the bullshit, Rile. I know what’s going on.”
Crap. How had
she found out? Had she seen him stuff the wrench in his sock? Followed him to Stumptown Spirits? He braced himself for the Wrath of Ainsworth.
“You’ve still got the hots for that ass-bite dick-monkey, haven’t you?”
He exhaled a giant breath. Two days ago, this was the worst thing he could have had to admit. Today, he had so much more to hide. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
Too bad it wasn’t a lie.
Under her lopsided hairdo, Julie’s face hardened into the expression she reserved for conversations about Logan. “Shit, Riley. Why—”
“Jules.” His shoulders slumped, and he scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Can we leave it for tonight? Please?”
“Oh.” She blinked at him in the half-light, clearly having trouble rewriting her retribution agenda. “Sure. But . . .” She plucked at the corner of the pillowcase. “I’ve got some more bad news for you.”
God, worse than trashed equipment? He clutched the ball of clothing to his belly. “Is everyone . . .” He gulped. “Everyone okay?”
“Mostly. But your prime witness bailed tonight. I got the call about an hour ago.”
“But—but he was so adamant about his experience, and pissed that no one believed him.”
“Yeah.” Julie wrinkled her nose. “Too bad he suddenly discovered an emergency visit to his Great-aunt Tessie in Bozeman.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Unfortunately, no. He really said that.”
Riley sank into the squeaky desk chair. “What are we going to do, Jules? That reduces us to a single witness whose experience is restricted to mysterious fog on her shots of the Castle.” And it wasn’t as if Logan—who’d felt the real impact of the ghost war—would get anywhere near their cameras. “Not exactly compelling television.”
“I have another idea.”
Over the years, Riley had learned when Julie used that overly reasonable tone of voice, she was about to spring something on him that would make him wish he were in a six-year coma.
“What?”
“Don’t sound so suspicious. Don’t you trust me?”
“Since you ask? No.”
Stumptown Spirits Page 12
