by Noah Harris
“I hope you enjoy your drink. We’ll be landing in about fifteen minutes.”
“Alright, thank you,” he said again, and she skipped off to gossip with the other stewardess, who he noticed had been standing at the end of the aisle watching them talk. He raised his glass to her with a smile, and she giggled and looked at her friend excitedly. If only they knew he had absolutely zero interest in them; another hurdle he’d had to overcome from his youth. He’d been the nerdy teenage heartthrob, so it had to be disappointing for all his fans when he’d come out. Apparently, some people still didn’t know, or maybe they didn’t care. It had done wonders for his mental health, but not so much for his career. He took another sip of his drink.
Ronnie hadn’t been in a real relationship for probably his entire life, even the flings with his female co-stars that had gotten their pictures splashed across the front of tabloids and websites had been make-believe. Lonely, is what he was. Deeply lonely, and this stalker, or, potentially–he shivered–murderer, made him feel even more isolated. If he’d had a boyfriend, he might’ve found it easier to cope with all the death threats. Or at least he would’ve had someone to support him.
He knew why he didn’t have one, of course. He was flighty, annoying and vapid. That’s what all the men he’d found himself being thrown around by had said after they grew tired of him, anyway. Most guys only had an interest in him, at first, because of his past fame. Then, once they could say they’d slept with Ronnie Redcliff, they got bored. Either that or they had no idea who he was, and once they found out insisted they thought he was a nice guy, really, but they didn’t want to be involved with Quizboy Ronnie from Valentine’s Weekend. He couldn’t blame them, what a terribly boring title for a terribly boring and stereotypical teenage romantic comedy.
Ronnie finished his drink right as the same stewardess approached him.
“We’re landing now, sir.” He handed her his empty glass with a forced smile, then looked out the window as he started to feel the plane’s descent in his stomach. “A taxi will be waiting for you.”
Holding his bags and looking up at the manor, Ronnie realized Fiona hadn’t been kidding, it was enormous, it was beautiful, and she was lucky to work there. The street it was located on made him feel strangely safe as if there was a protective bubble surrounding it. He’d come all the way from Los Angeles, and even though the threat of his stalker was still looming over his head, the distance and Drake Street’s kind and protective environment made him feel more like his normal self.
He smiled happily at the topiary as he walked up the path, dragging one bag along the uneven stones, the other slung over his shoulder. The bushes had been trimmed into the shapes of various animals; wolves, tigers, bears, stags…and, surprisingly, dragons. He wasn’t sure what dragons had in common with the other animals, but they were a strangely nice touch, giving the garden a bit of magic. He reached the door, complete with huge bronze knocker in the shape of a snarling dragon’s head, and dropped his bags. Looking around a final time, he took a deep breath. You’re safe here, and Fiona will take care of you. He reached up and rapped the heavy knocker on the door a few times, then picked his bags up and plastered a grin on his face easily. He really was excited to see Fiona, even under these dire circumstances.
The door swung open, and instead of Fiona with her multicolored hair and expressive eyes, there stood a hulking, dark man. His shaggy hair was nearly black, almost reaching his shoulders. His chin and chiseled cheekbones were covered in shadowy stubble. Ronnie stared up at him, speechless.
“H-Hi there,” he said, reaching a hand out. His stomach felt strange, like it was being pulled in many different directions. He couldn’t look away. The man looked down at him, his eyes serious. Ronnie noticed a scar cutting through one of his thick eyebrows, and another on his chin.
“You’re Ronnie,” he said, more of a statement than a question. Ronnie smiled in what he hoped was a charming way, and the man finally took his hand. Sparks shot up his arm, and he nearly jumped backward.
“Static,” he breathed nervously. Instead of shaking Ronnie’s hand, the huge man pulled him inside, grabbed his bags, and slammed the door shut. He pulled his hand out of Ronnie’s grip the moment he got inside, quickly and harshly.
“We don’t want you standing out in the open any longer than we need to.” Ronnie nodded, rubbing his hand absently and looking around the inside of the manor. Where was Fiona?
“Of course not,” he agreed absently. “Could get a sunburn.” The bodyguard stared at him blankly for a moment, and Ronnie’s grin wavered. Apparently, this guy didn’t enjoy jokes.
“Fiona’s in the study with Clara. I’ll go grab her.” Ronnie nodded with an awkward, tight smile, and watched the man walk away. His shoulders were mouth-wateringly broad, rippling with muscle under his long-sleeve shirt, and despite his cold demeanor, Ronnie felt a strange stirring in his chest, like a spreading warmth. He hadn’t felt that kind of random, sudden attraction in years. Maybe that’s why it felt so mind-bendingly strong; it had just been a while.
Fiona was in the study with Clara. How involved was Ms. Anaheim, with his whole situation? How much did she know about it? And who was this guy? The guard they’d assigned to him, or just the guy that guarded the house itself? He looked around the manor once more, this time taking it in properly. There were lots of rooms, and he noticed some of the walls seemed to have subtle raised panels. Secret passages?
“Something to drink, Mr. Redcliff?” He turned around and saw a woman, older, wearing a plain outfit, a button-up shirt and dark pants. She had come out of the kitchen, which he could see into past the enormous doorway.
“Just…do you have lemonade? I would love a lemonade.”
“We have lemonade, tea, beer, sparkling water,” she said. “We also have sugar-free lemonade.”
“Sugar-free sounds great,” he said gratefully.
“You’ve got it. You can go sit in the parlor to wait for Jack and Fiona.” He nodded silently, turning around to follow the finger she was pointing in front of her. He looked back and smiled at her, then headed into the parlor. So the man’s name was Jack.
Ronnie and Jack, a little voice in the back of his mind whispered, and he blushed even though no one was around. Don’t be stupid. He sat down lightly on the couch that looked well-worn. There were also a few chairs, but he figured the couch was the safest bet. Everything in the house looked like it was part of an art collection, ancient and valuable. He got the feeling many people who had needed Clara’s help had sat on this very couch.
“Your lemonade,” the woman had entered soundlessly and placed his lemonade on a side table.
“Thank you.”
“They’ll be out soon.” He nodded and picked up the glass, ice cold. He smiled at her and took a sip while she watched him.
“Delicious,” he said, and her chin jerked, a sign of satisfaction, he thought. Then she left. He looked around the room, noting a few pine needles in the corner. Leftovers from the Christmas season, he supposed. The fireplace mantle was covered in picture frames, a different person in every one. A man with a bushy salt-and-pepper beard, hand-in-hand with a striking gap-toothed man. A young girl like a wisp, ethereal with long black hair and striking seafoam-colored eyes. She was in a bodysuit, with shimmering green-scales, and her pointe shoes had been dyed black. Then he saw Jack, the bodyguard, dressed in a very different outfit, a dress shirt and pants, standing awkwardly behind a woman who looked like a bodybuilder. She had long, dirty-blonde hair and was grinning at someone off-camera. There were many, many more.
His phone rang suddenly, and he jumped, his lemonade sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the glass. He put it down and fished in his jeans for his aggressively vibrating phone. The sound of the ducks quacking, a funny ring tone that normally made him chuckle, sounded obnoxious in the quiet of the parlor, and he hurriedly answered it, not checking who was calling.
“Ronnie,” came a voice, feminine and dramatic. Lucy
Lazenby.
“Lucy, what’s up? I’m a little busy,” he said in a low voice, and she huffed.
“Well, I’m sorry, Ronnie, but it’s kind of life-or-death.” He rolled his eyes. Everything with Lucy was life-or-death. She was like his more-dramatic alter-ego. It made sense, they’d grown up together. They’d been two of the three popular teen-stars of his time, closer to each other than the third one, Travis Caulfield. He’d dropped off the map recently, and now it was just him and Lucy. Even then, it wasn’t always the two of them together. She was far more successful than him, and it had affected their relationship. This was the first call he’d received from her in months.
“I’m sure it’s not life-or-death, Lucy.”
“I heard you flew out of L.A. this morning.”
“That’s why you’re calling me?” Lucy groaned over the phone, it sounded metallic.
“Of course not. I’m calling you because of why you flew out. It’s because you’re getting letters, right?” Ronnie stared at the opposite wall, trying to think how she could’ve found out.
“How do you know that?” he asked, suspicious.
“Because I’m getting letters, too, Ronnie,” her voice dropped to a whisper, and he leaned into the phone.
“What do you mean you’re getting letters, too? What do they say?”
“What’s going on in here?” Fiona had walked in, Jack behind her. He stood by the doorway, arms folded over his chest. He’d carried Ronnie’s bags in. His biceps were drool-inducing, but Lucy’s heavy, anxious breathing on the line was more urgent.
“Lucy Lazenby is getting letters,” he told Fiona, covering the mouthpiece. Lucy was frantically reading them on the other end of the line.
“I’m going to find your mother and father, and I’m going to kidnap them and take them to your house at 4131 Carriage Court, LA, and I’m going to shred their bodies into nothing and leave them on your front lawn for everyone to see. I’m going to be waiting at your home, one day, soon, but not too soon, but soon, when you least expect it, and I’m going to wait until you go to sleep and I’m going to take all the knives in your kitchen and drive them into each of your limbs until the neighbors can hear you screaming.” Ronnie held the phone away from his face, his stomach turning as Lucy read letters that sounded eerily familiar to the ones he’d been receiving. Disturbing, disgusting, hate-filled, psychotic. Fiona was watching him. Jack’s eyes looked wide, staring at the floor like he could hear what Lucy was saying over the phone.
“Lucy, you can come here,” Ronnie said, cutting off her panicked reading of the letters. “I’m with Fiona at the house where she works, she’s got people protecting me.”
“I don’t think…” Fiona looked back at Jack, and Ronnie watched him swallow whatever words he was about to grumble out. Then she turned back to him and nodded insistently.
“You can come here. Fiona has your number?” he asked, looking questioningly at Fiona. She nodded as Lucy answered in the affirmative. “Okay, she’s going to contact you. It’s going to be okay, Lucy. Don’t panic.”
“I’m already panicking, but thanks,” she said, her tone halfway between a snap and a whimper. “I’ll see you soon.” Then she hung up. Ronnie threw his phone on the couch beside him and rubbed his face.
“I don’t understand why this is happening.”
“I still don’t think this is a good idea,” Jack grunted, and Fiona shushed him. Ronnie looked up at him, feeling stung.
“We’ve known each other almost our entire lives, we’ve worked together with the same manager on the same movies for a decade. I’m sorry if this is inconvenient to you, and I appreciate your help, but I can’t in good conscience turn her away.” Jack stared at him and then looked away, irritated. His jaw was set.
“I’m going to call Lucy and set everything up. Jack, can you show Ronnie to his room?” Fiona asked, and Jack nodded gruffly. He walked over to the wall, holding Ronnie’s heavier bag like it weighed nothing, and pressed on one of the panels, it sprung open.
“I was right!” Ronnie said, jumping to his feet. Jack and Fiona looked at him in confusion. “The panels. The walls look like they have hidden panels.”
“Congratulations. Let’s hope your stalker isn’t as observant,” Jack said, then headed through the passage the panel had revealed. Ronnie grabbed the bag Jack had left behind and followed him down.
Ronnie followed at a distance, feeling that he’d severely pissed of this enormous, terrifying man who he felt a burning, constant desire for. It was hard to ignore, even though Jack seemed to be his complete opposite. He was quiet, standoffish, and a total stud. Ronnie was in good shape but skinny, freckled, always laughing or at least trying to maintain a good outlook on things. It seemed to him that they might be a good pair if they could make some compromises. The longer Jack walked swiftly turning corners without a word, though, the less stock Ronnie put in this idea of them pairing up to complete each other. He always thought of that myth, humans were born with four arms, four legs, two heads, two hearts. Then the gods split them in half, and each half spent their entire lives trying to find the other.
“Here’s your room. Right near mine, just in case,” Jack said, opening the door and setting Ronnie’s bag inside. It was nearly bare, with only a bed and a nightstand with some drawers for his clothes. “There’s a portable charger in the nightstand so you can charge your phone at night. You’ll have to charge the charger itself during the day. It’s going to be different from what you’re used to.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine. I’m pretty flexible,” Ronnie said with a quirky shrug.
“Right. I’ll be in my room, then.” Jack walked away, and Ronnie watched him leave. He was surprised to see that his room really was right near Jack’s, only a few feet away, in fact, and he could see right into it. It looked just as sparsely decorated as his temporary room, and he felt a pang of pity. Jack seemed miserable, distant and cold, but maybe it was because he was lonely. Just like Ronnie.
He moved his bags against the wall and pulled out some of the books he’d brought with him. He put them on the nightstand, stood back up, and looked around the room, then out into the hallway. Jack was digging through a bag that clanked and dinged metallically. Guns? Ronnie swallowed nervously.
Jack was a complete stud, but he was also mysterious and scary, and it was completely possible Ronnie was incorrectly interpreting him; a bad guy that could be turned good. Maybe he was just a bad guy, and that’s why he did this job. He sat heavily on the bed.
Ronnie didn’t want to push Jack farther than he already had. Fiona was busy. Clara was a witchy old woman who he didn’t want to meet without Fiona by his side. As far as Ronnie knew, those were the only people in the house. He also didn’t want to go out alone in this new place, regardless of how nice the street seemed and how friendly its inhabitants were, according to Fiona. His only option was to sit in his room until he went to bed, sleep fitfully, and wake in the morning feeling more tired than he had before.
He heard a shuffling down the hallway and leaned over to look down it. Jack was still in his room, but his shirt was off. His shoulders were even more muscular and toned than Ronnie had imagined, the contours of the muscle visible from where he was sitting. His back was covered in scars. Ronnie watched as he unbuttoned his pants and wiggled his hips ever so slightly, enough to make his mouth water. Then the pants fell to his feet, and he stepped out of them. Jack’s legs were thick, corded with muscle, and his boxers seemed tight on him. Ronnie watched him, feeling his burgeoning erection press harder and harder against his pants as Jack turned around. The boxers hugged his package tightly, which looked big even in his unaroused state.
Then he looked up and saw Ronnie watching him. Their eyes met for a moment, and Jack seemed to press his lips together grimly, stepping forward and dropping his gaze as he shut the door silently. It wasn’t an angry slam, more like a disappointed click.
Ronnie leaned back and shook his head, rubbed his face, willing his e
rection to go away. He felt embarrassed, they hadn’t even known each other for a few hours before Ronnie had acted like a total creep. He stripped and quickly got under the covers, shivering from the cold of the underground tunnels, and listening to the sounds of the household winding down for the night. No matter what he did, though, he couldn’t stop thinking about Jack’s scarred body.
Officially Locked-Down
Jack
“Are you positive you activated the bars on Portia’s windows?” Frankie asked, for what felt, to Jack, like the thousandth time that day.
“It’s the first thing I did, J, you’ve got to relax,” he replied with a sigh. She glared at him, her eyes lined heavily today, something she did when she met new people. They walked down the stairs together, the first time Frankie would be on the ground floor that day, and also the first time she’d be meeting Ronnie. Jack tried not to think about him, lithe and freckled, his hair short and looking like he had a tendency to run his hands through it, his scent of fresh citrus and nuts; pistachios, maybe, or walnuts. He also tried not to think about the “static” spark between them the previous day, something that had felt vaguely different from the electricity he was used to after walking around on Clara’s many antique Persian carpets with his old ratty socks. He definitely tried not to think about turning around, half-naked, to see Ronnie watching him with something akin to pure and unadulterated lust.
Frankie had never looked at him like that. He didn’t think he’d ever looked at anyone that way. It had filled him with fear and a feeling of uncomfortable vulnerability, and, worst of all, a return of the lust which was so apparent on Ronnie’s face. He’d closed the door, heart in his mouth.
“You must be Frankie J,” Ronnie said when they reached the kitchen, holding the hand that wasn’t holding a mimosa out to shake Frankie’s. His hair was sticking up at the back, and his cheeks were flushed. Jack averted his eyes, instead, watching Frankie take his hand unemotionally, shake it, and drop it.
