Stumptown Spirits

by E. J. Russell

  “Why do you call him that?” Logan’s grin morphed into a scowl. He pushed himself off the wall and took a menacing step toward Max. “Does he do that all the time?”

  “Pretty much,” Riley said. “It’s not a big deal.”

  “It wouldn’t be a big deal if he was doing it out of affection, but for this guy, it’s about power and perspective. He makes you feel small so he’ll look bigger.”

  Riley stepped between the two other men. “Logan, now is not the time to go alpha-hole on me, okay?”

  “He should treat you with more respect.”

  “You could try the same for him. He’s standing right there.”

  “I know,” Logan muttered. “Damned cockblocker.”

  Ooookay. He turned to Max, who was gawking at Logan as if he’d just discovered the Ark of the Covenant. “I’m sorry about the hat and the jacket. I’ll talk to—”

  “That,” Max breathed, “is totally awesome. That attitude. That’s what I’m talking about. Hey, have you got a few? We’ll grab a couple of brewskis and you can tell me how you pump up your mojo.”

  Logan’s eyebrows rose. “‘Brewskis’? Seriously?” He shot a sideways glance at Riley. “Where’d you get this guy? A touring production of Footloose?”

  Riley shooed Logan into the corner by the desk. “Logan.” He kept his voice low, although given how Max was staring worshipfully at Logan’s face, he probably wouldn’t notice if Riley did a fan dance on the desk with a boa constrictor. “Remember the part about my ass? You’re not getting anywhere near it if you screw up my job.”

  “But he makes it so easy.”

  “Don’t think easy. Think hard.” Riley angled his body away from Max and pressed his hipbone into Logan’s groin. “Get it?”

  Logan clenched his teeth around a moan. “Got it.”

  “Good.” That’s right. Who’s laughing now, big boy? “Max, I’ll—”

  The door, still ajar from Max’s entrance, burst open, and Scott strode in, Julie and Zack at his heels. “Max. There you are. I’ve been texting you for the last twenty minutes.”

  Behind Scott’s shoulder, Julie’s eyes widened, gaze darting between Riley and Logan, who’d retreated to his spot against the wall, safely out of touching distance.

  “If this keeps up,” Logan said, “you’re gonna need a bigger room.”

  Max flapped the shredded jacket in Scott’s face. “Do you see this?” He pointed at the hat litter scattered across the carpet. “And that? I’ve been violated.”

  Scott’s bearded face split into a beatific grin. He looked like Zach Galifianakis on crack. “Outstanding.”

  “Outstanding?” Max’s voice quivered in outrage. “You think this is—”

  “I think it’s perfect. Where’d you find it? Put it back. Julie, we need footage of this ASAP. Zack, you’re on it.”

  “But . . .” Without his usual support from Scott, Max deflated. “My jacket. My hat.”

  “Exactly.” Scott tapped a cigarette out of the pack in his shirt pocket. He patted his pants as if searching for matches, but Julie snagged the cigarette and tossed it in the trash.

  “You’re quitting, remember?”

  “Damn.” Scott’s laser gaze lit on Riley. “You. Get me some Red Vines.”

  Riley sighed and retrieved his jacket from the floor where he’d flung it when he and Logan had arrived.

  Logan grabbed his arm. “Why you?” he whispered. “Aren’t you the research guy?”

  “This episode is supposed to prove they actually need a full-time research guy. Until then, I’m a gofer with one hell of a browser history. Excuse me.” He held Logan’s gaze. “Don’t go anywhere. Okay?”

  Logan eyed the group—which now included the best boy, two grips, and the second cameraman—crammed into the vestibule like sardines. “Couldn’t break through without a battering ram anyway.”

  Riley took that as agreement. As he threaded his way through the crowd, Charmaine and Grace squeezed in and edged between Riley’s bed and the wall. Jeez. Hope Logan’s not claustrophobic.

  Halfway to the elevators, Julie caught up to him, her eyes sparkling, breath catching.

  “Rile, can you believe it?”

  He shot her a sour look. “Believe that I’m the drug mule for Scott’s nicotine withdrawal aids? Why is that unusual?”

  “No, doofus. The coverage.”

  “What coverage?”

  “Scott found out about Max’s room.”

  “I thought you were keeping that on the down-low. Why else did I spend all that time cleaning the shit up?”

  “I was, but Scott was there when PDX Production Resources delivered the replacement cameras.” She buffeted his shoulder with her fist. “Good work on that, by the way.”

  Riley’s heart made a determined effort to climb up his throat. “He knows about the equipment?” Had any other evidence been planted? Would Logan be implicated?

  “Yeah. Then Max found his jacket and . . .” She flung her hands in the air and hopped in a circle in a crazy victory dance. “The rest will make HttM history.”

  He caught her shoulders before she could continue her impression of a whirling dervish. “Focus, Jules. Do we have to give a statement to the police? Will there be an investigation?”

  She laughed and hugged him. “Are you kidding? Scott’s not about to let the police interfere with his shooting schedule. He told the hotel staff it was an internal issue and they’re so pissed at Max that they’d probably refuse him a fire extinguisher if he burst into flames in the lobby.”

  Riley’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. “Thank God.”

  “Scott is totally pumped about this. Apparently, some bartender filled the crew full of stories about vengeful spirits, and Scott’s spinning it as a ‘cursed’ episode. He’s got national coverage lined up.”

  “You mean—”

  “Yeah.” She wrinkled her nose. “The show is now important to his career trajectory. An asset instead of a liability. He actually put his agent on hold for twenty minutes this afternoon.”

  “Shit, Jules. I’m sorry.” Since Riley had a pretty good idea the bartender in question was Logan, if he’d derailed her career plans, Julie now had another reason to resent him. Definitely not mentioning that little detail.

  “Can’t have everything in this business. I’ll find a way to work with it. We can totally come up with a plan to prove we’re brilliant and indispensable.”

  “I’ll get right on that.” He punched the elevator button with extreme prejudice. “As soon as I fetch the freaking Red Vines.”

  Logan eyed the crowd, calculating his chances on a bolt to the relative freedom of the corridor, but the place was packed tighter than a dorm full of frat boys on a bong bender. He crossed his arms, leaned against the wall, and settled in to wait. They had to leave eventually, and when they did, he was taking Riley to bed and keeping him there, no matter who knocked on the door next.

  “What am I going to do about the jacket, Scott?” Max Stone was still dithering in the middle of the throng. “My hat? I can’t appear on a national spot without my trademarks.”

  “Jesus, Max. It’s a leather bomber jacket and a fedora. We’ll get you replacements. Charmaine.” Scott pointed to a woman in owl-eye glasses and a hairdo out of an eighties music video. “There must be a Banana Republic in this town. Go. Shop.”

  Charmaine’s eyes gleamed behind her glasses. “Do I have a budget?”

  “Just make us look good. We’re booked on a couple of the local morning shows.”

  “Who’s ‘us’?”

  “Me. Max.” Scott ticked off the list on his fingers. “Julie.”

  “Got it.” Charmaine punched notes into her cell phone.

  Max sidled over to Scott. “Do you think the episode might be . . . you know . . . cursed?”

  “Hell no. But it makes for great PR. Our fans live for this shit.”

  Ah, fuck. Logan would’ve smacked himself in the forehead if it wouldn’t have attracted undue
attention to himself. This was a paranormal investigation show, for Chrissake, even if it was a lame one. If he’d wanted to get them to decamp, he should have told them the whole thing was a hoax, not fired them up with stories of untold horrors.

  “But this time, it actually happened. Isn’t it . . .” Max glanced over his shoulder as if he expected Freddy Krueger to leap out from under the bed, the only square footage of the room currently unoccupied. “Dangerous?”

  Scott draped an arm across Max’s shoulders. “Maxie. Be serious. Would I put you in danger? You’re the star.” He turned to Julie. “The locals have promised us a closed set, right?”

  She nodded. “Yes, but no police support at the Witch’s Castle site itself.”

  “Good. They’d just get in the way.” He disengaged his arm and thumped Max on the back. “We’ll contact a private security firm. Get a couple of big beefy guards. Put ’em in mirror shades.” He pointed at Charmaine. “Pick up mirror shades. And those temporary tattoos.”

  She nodded, thumbs busy on her cell phone. “On it.”

  “Aren’t you filming at midnight?” Logan asked. “What do the guards need sunglasses for?”

  “Good point. Charmaine, scratch the shades and pick up night-vision goggles instead.” Scott waggled his palm in the air. “Or something that looks like night-vision goggles. That’ll be cheaper.”

  Logan shook his head. Unbelievable. “How effective are guards who can’t see?”

  Scott, obviously a guy who wasn’t used to opposition, narrowed his eyes at him. “They don’t need to see. There’s never anything there. They just need to read well for the cameras.” He scanned the room, his chin dipping as if he was counting heads, then focused on Logan again. “Who the hell are you anyway? This is a closed meeting. Leave.”

  “I was here first.”

  “Why?”

  Out of the corner of his mouth, Max said, “He’s the bartender. The guy who told us about the curse.”

  Scott rounded on Julie. “Why’s a bartender in the meeting?”

  “This wasn’t supposed to be a meeting,” she said. “We’re in Riley’s room, not the company suite.”

  Scott peered around. “No wonder I feel like I’m jammed inside a film canister. Everyone up to the suite. Now.”

  Max hung on to Scott’s arm. “Scott—”

  “I’m telling you, Maxie, you’ve got nothing to worry about. Right, Julie?”

  “Absolutely. The city’s securing the site for us. Guards at all the trailheads that lead to the site. No one can get in unless they’re part of the crew.”

  Fuck me raw. Logan scowled, drumming his fingers against his leg. These jokers clearly had the resources to keep him out of the park. Regardless of what he decided to do about Trent and the ghost war, Logan had to be on deck to keep Riley from doing anything stupid. Riley might think he could take care of himself, but Logan wasn’t about to leave his safety to chance.

  He knew jack shit about TV production, but he didn’t need a fucking manual to figure out that getting in, getting in place, and making his move would be impossible with the police and the show goons patrolling the trails.

  The crew filed out, but Max didn’t release his hold on Scott’s arm. “I’m telling you, I’ve been targeted. I need special protection. Maybe a gun.”

  “No way am I letting you anywhere near a gun. Besides, if ghosts and demons really are haunting you, what good is a gun gonna do you?”

  “A bodyguard, then. Someone to watch my back.”

  Logan allowed himself a grin. The perfect answer. Maybe his luck wasn’t fucked halfway to hell after all.

  “Hey,” he called as Scott reached the doorway. “You need a bodyguard?”

  Scott turned. “Why? You know one?”

  “Sure. Me.”

  “Hmmmm.” Scott looked him up, down, and sideways, no doubt measuring him against Hollywood’s generic bodyguard stereotype. Logan stood straighter and took a surreptitious deep breath, expanding his chest. “You have experience?”

  “Nope. But I know the area and I’ll work cheap.” He yanked up his jacket sleeve to display his Celtic knot ink. “I’ve got my own tattoos.”

  “You’re hired.”

  Riley appeared at the door, breathless and clutching a plastic tub of Red Vines the size of his head. “Here, Scott. Sorry. I had to get the extra-large size.”

  “Bring ’em upstairs.” Scott charged out the door.

  “Upstairs? Why—”

  “Production meeting.” Scott’s voice carried down the hall. “You, too, tattoo bodyguard guy, whatever your name is.”

  “Tattoo bodyguard guy?” Riley’s voice held amused disbelief.

  Logan rolled his eyes in disgust. “Yeah. That’s me.”

  “I’ve been gone fifteen minutes, and now you’re on the crew? How’d that happen?”

  “Combination of Max Stone’s paranoia and my natural charm.”

  “Wait a minute.” Riley squinted at him. “Does this have anything to do with—”

  Logan cut off the question with a quick kiss. “How long do these meetings generally last?”

  “Forever, or until Scott has a nicotine fit, whichever comes first.”

  “Jesus.” He added a not-so-quick grope of Riley’s ass. “Can we be late?”

  “Not . . . God, Logan.” Riley writhed against Logan’s hand, and his breathing sped up again. “Not an option.”

  He nuzzled behind Riley’s ear. “What do I need to sacrifice to the Marlboro gods for a speedy intervention?”

  Riley took a deep, shuddering breath and pushed him away. “You don’t want to know.” At the door, he turned and stopped Logan with a hand against his chest. “We’re not done with this conversation.”

  “Yeah, well, better get going.” Logan urged him out the door with another ass-grab. “Wouldn’t want to be late.”

  The company suite was large enough to accommodate way more bodies than Riley’s room, and every single person had to go over some interminable list that as far as Logan could tell, had absolutely no bearing on the show.

  But what did he know? He was just tattoo bodyguard guy. Hired muscle. Might as well be wearing a red shirt.

  After a minimum hour and a half, Scott slapped his leg. “Good. Everyone’s on the same page. Max, you’ve got three local spots scheduled tomorrow. Two personal appearances and one TV interview.”

  Max was sitting in the biggest chair, fiddling with a worry bead on a leather thong. “I don’t mind the TV spot, but I don’t feel good about the others. Anyone could hide out in a crowd like that.”

  “So take your bodyguard. Charmaine, make sure this guy looks tough.”

  Charmaine eyed Logan. “I don’t think I could improve on the original.” She grinned and gave him a thumbs-up.

  As the rest of the crew scattered, Julie snagged Riley for some goddamned reason and towed him across the room. Logan dodged through the milling HttM staff to follow them, because if he had only two more days to live, he was damn well spending them with Riley, Julie’s agenda be damned.

  If he had longer than two days, then he intended to begin as he meant to go on.

  “Hey.” Max cut in front of him with a smirk and a swagger. “Since you’re putting yourself on the line to protect me, guess I should know your name.”

  “Yeah. You should.” Logan tried to ease himself around Max, but a knot of crew guys blocked his way. Max reoriented himself so he was front and center again. Christ. The asshole probably couldn’t resist upstaging anyone within a city block.

  “So. What is it?”

  “Conner. Logan Conner.”

  “So, Logan.” Max displayed more teeth than the average beauty contestant. “Willing to take a bullet for me?”

  Logan stopped craning his neck in an attempt to keep Riley in his sights. “Look. Max. This isn’t the Secret Service and you’re not POTUS. So no. I’m just another set of eyes, a guy with knowledge of the terrain and local history.”

  “What’s your
background? What’d you do before you became a bartender? Military? Special forces?”

  “I was studying to be an architect.”

  Max goggled at him. “How does that qualify you to protect me?”

  “How does posing in a pretentious hat qualify you as an expert on the occult?”

  Max puffed out his chest like an inflatable clown. Yeah. That hit him at his vulnerable point: his ego. “I’ll have you know—”

  Logan loomed over him, despite having barely an inch on the guy. But looming was all in the presentation. “You have no idea of the things I can do with a drafting pencil.”

  Instead of quailing or getting pissed off, awe dawned in Max’s faded-blue eyes. “Hey. That’s good. That’s exactly the kind of attitude the show needs.”

  “I’m not interested in appearing on the show.”

  Max guffawed and slapped Logan on the back. “Good one, man. Not you. Me. That’s the persona I want. The I don’t give a shit and if only you knew.”

  The room had cleared out, leaving no one but the giant walking ego in front of him and Riley, standing by the door with the knowing half-smile that never failed to get Logan’s motor racing.

  “That’s pretty much Logan’s life’s creed, Max. Very insightful. I’m impressed.”

  Logan met Riley’s amused gaze over Max’s shoulder. “That’s what you think? That I don’t give a shit about you?”

  Riley didn’t back down, but his expression shifted to dead serious with a hint of sadness in his eyes. “The thing that bothers me, Logan, is that you don’t give a shit about yourself.”

  “See?” Max’s voice vibrated with excitement. “That’s the look I’m talking about. Women go nuts for that bad-but-vulnerable crap.”

  Logan rolled his eyes. “Max, you moron. I’m gay.”

  “So? It works on guys too. Wiley over there is practically panting at your feet. Come on.” Max grabbed Logan’s arm and attempted to tow him across the room, but Logan dug in his heels next to Riley.

  “Know what would help that? For you to trust me. Trust me to make things right.”

  Riley held his gaze, his eyes somber. “Always taking care of everyone else, aren’t you, Logan? Who takes care of you?”