by Noah Harris
“So, we’re not positive about this, but there’s been some suspicious activity from your old manager,” Jack began. A vein in Ronnie’s jaw ticked, and he looked between Jack and Frankie.
“It’s Perry, isn’t it?” Frankie nodded, and Ronnie nodded jerkily. He sucked in a breath and let it go slowly. Jack felt his dragon stir, that familiar fire in his chest igniting. But this time, there was something more personal about it. The more he watched Ronnie, who, instead of calming down, seemed to worsen, the more restless his dragon got. He could almost hear it spitting in the back of his mind. Protect. Protect. Protect. Hurt. Hurt. Kill. He gritted his teeth and leaned in toward to Ronnie, who seemed surprised by his closeness.
“I’m…we’re going to get this guy,” Jack said slowly, and Ronnie opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, licked his lips. He looked Jack in the eyes, his face softening. Frankie cleared her throat and looked probingly at Jack.
“Can you tell us anything else about Perry Johnson?” Ronnie looked over at her. Jack watched him tear his eyes from staring at Jack’s face intently and nodded.
“Yeah, he’s a piece of shit. Oh, Portia, I’m sorry,” he said quickly, looking over at her. She waved him off, looking worried. “He’s just…a corrupt, capitalist, manipulative, disgusting pig. He’s the worst person I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting. He really…he took advantage of all of us, in a lot…a lot of ways,” he trailed off, his voice cracking. Frankie simply nodded, tapping away on her tablet, but Jack tentatively reached out and patted his shoulder. Ronnie looked at him, his eyes shining with held-back tears, and gave him a brave smile. There was more to Ronnie than met the eye, and it made Jack’s stomach hurt. He’d misjudged him when they first met, but he’d shown him today that there was more to him than his charming, teasing smile and his constant jokes.
“Well, don’t worry, Ronnie,” Frankie finally said, and he looked back at her, lip quivering. Jack kept watching him carefully and then noticed Portia watching him intently. When he met her eye, she wiggled her eyebrows at him and then looked back at her mother. Jack did the same and withdrew his hand from Ronnie’s arm, feeling exposed and embarrassed. What had gotten into him? “We’re going to keep digging. I’m pretty certain he’s our guy, but we’ll have to talk to him first. I’ll fly out as soon as possible.”
“No. I’m sorry, but I think…can you fly him here? Can you find him and fly him here?”
“Why should we do that?” Frankie questioned.
“I need to confront him myself. I need to look him in the eye.” Frankie looked at Jack for assistance, but he just nodded.
“I’ll take care of it. I’ll be back soon,” he said, and though Ronnie looked up at him in confusion, Frankie nodded cryptically at him, knowing exactly what he meant. Portia did the same, and stood up, intercepting him before he walked out. She threw her arms around him.
“Be careful,” she said, and he looked down at her, her little head nestled into his chest, and hugged her back tentatively, then more tightly. “I liked hanging out with you guys, today.”
“I did too, Poe.” He leaned down and kissed her head, his throat feeling tight, and then nodded at Frankie. “Don’t worry too much. I’ll be home soon.” He left the parlor and walked up the stairs to the entrance to the roof. It was a hatch that opened out, somewhat rusted and locked with three padlocks, which he unlocked and set safely aside. He then pulled his clothes off and stuffed them in his harness bag, then exited, naked, onto the roof of the manor.
The rain was heavy, beating on the back of his head as he walked out to what Portia called the “launch-pad.” Clara had always just called it take-off. He stood in the center and unraveled the huge ropes that would wrap around his wings when he shifted, looping the ends under his arms.
Then he looked into the sky, feeling the thunder and lightning shake the earth itself, and thought about Ronnie. He thought about Ronnie, and Perry, and whatever pain he had caused Ronnie in the past, and the pain he was causing him in the present. He felt his dragon rear up inside him, like a tiny creature breathing fire and steam into his lungs, and then he fell to his bare knees. He felt his spine elongate, his tail breaking through the skin, his wings cutting through the flesh of his back and sprouting, huge and inky black, the lightning flashing his slowly growing shadow onto the rooftop. He groaned, growled, howled, as his face tore itself open, his bones cracking as his snout grew and his teeth sharpened. His skin hardened and cracked, his black, shimmering scales covering his entire body, his fingers stretching and growing long, sharp yellowed talons. He stretched as his ribs popped and grew, his arms and legs growing until the ropes were tight around the base of his wings and he was roughly the size of an elephant.
Lightning crashed as he let out a roar, the sound and heat ripping from his throat so violently that the water falling in front of his snout evaporated in a cloud of mist. The rain, cold and soothing on his sore muscles and bones, fell harder, and he raised his wings in the air, feeling the animalistic rage of a protective alpha, and then beat them, hard, once. With that, he was off like a rocket, flying into the sky with his wings flush against his body.
Once he reached the clouds and the air got colder, he allowed himself to glide, lowering slightly so he could see the ground below him. The wind screamed under his wings, and he twitched them flawlessly, letting the wind carry him like a deadly omen.
Flying to LA wasn’t going to be an enjoyable journey, but it was worth it.
He decided to circle Fort Anaheim a few times before he left, to check for any holes in security, and to allow himself to settle into his giant form before he set off. He looked down at the sidewalk, gliding in circles like a deadly plague, his black form casting ominous shadows on the buildings below him. And then he saw it, a man, hunched over, soaking wet, with a familiar crop of thinning blonde hair. And he was heading toward the Fort. He growled, recognizing the tiny human for the monster he was, Perry Johnson. Looks like I won’t have to fly all the way to LA for this little scumbag, after all.
He descended a bit further, trying to catch the man’s scent, and once he was almost landing back on the “launch-pad,” he smelled him, soggy newspaper and cigars and rotting meat. He breathed out angrily, the steam catching him in the face when he flew through it, and then landed back on the manor’s roof.
He shifted back faster than he remembered ever having done before and pulled his clothes out of the bag as he stalked back inside, haphazardly putting his clothes back on without even bothering to dry off. His shirt stuck to his wet skin uncomfortably, but he didn’t even notice. He rushed down the stairs and into the parlor, where everyone was still sitting.
“What are you doing back so soon?” Frankie asked, standing up and walking over to him. “You’re soaked. What’s wrong?” Ronnie was staring at him appreciatively, but he couldn’t take the time to decipher what it meant. Portia looked like a deer in the headlights.
“Portia, in your room, door locked and bolted, now.”
“Dad…”
“Now, Portia,” Frankie said, and Portia looked regretfully at Ronnie, then stomped by Jack without looking at either him or her mother. Jack looked between Frankie and Ronnie.
“Perry’s here. He must’ve gotten a tip that we were looking into him. Did you mask your searches?” he asked Frankie, and she looked down at her tablet, then bit her lip, worriedly meeting his eyes. He sighed restrainedly, then nodded. Whether Perry was to blame or not, he was here, he was untrustworthy, and he was on Jack’s list.
Haunted Past
Ronnie
Ronnie waited with the others as Jack stalked outside to retrieve Perry, who hadn’t boldly walked up to the manor and knocked on the door like they’d expected him to. In fact, Jack’s word was the only reason they knew he was on Drake Street at all since he hadn’t made himself known.
“You got any weapons on you?” they suddenly heard from the lobby, and then the door slammed behind them, sucked closed by the wind.
/> “What the hell? Why would I have weapons on me? Who the hell are you? I have several expensive lawyers that will sue you for…for kidnapping, harassment, the whole shebang!”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Let’s go.” They rounded the corner and entered the room, and despite Perry’s waterlogged appearance, Ronnie felt his stomach drop through the couch cushions and land with a splat on Clara’s beautiful floor. His mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton balls. All he could think of was not Perry now, looking small, like a drowned hairless rat, but Perry from ten years ago.
Perry, hair fuller and eyes more maliciously shiny, looking down at Ronnie’s face which was in his lap. Perry fisting his hand roughly in Ronnie’s hair and bobbing his head up and down. Struggling to breathe with the dog-hair covered pillows smothering him as Perry rammed his hips against Ronnie’s. Bruises on his thighs, ass and ribs, his lips swollen and split, his throat sore and soundless. Perry threatening him with being outed, abuse, blacklisting.
“Ronnie?” Perry asked, hazel eyes wide. He looked back up at Jack, who was at least a foot taller than him, his thinning blonde hair plastered to his skull. “What’s going on here?”
“You’re Perry Johnson?” Frankie asked, tossing her tablet onto one of the chairs. Ronnie swallowed hard, Perry was staring at him in disbelief.
“What are you doing here?” Perry asked him, not answering Frankie. She huffed and stood between them, snapping her fingers an inch from his nose.
“Hello, fuckhead? You’re Perry Johnson? The one who stole millions from Ronnie, Lucy, and someone named Travis Caulfield? The one who’s selling their private information for profit? That Perry Johnson?”
“How…who are you? I prefer this one,” he said, jabbing his thumb back at Jack, who looked at Frankie in confusion. “He’s handsome, at least. You look like my lesbian niece if she were far more wrinkled.” Ronnie watched Frankie’s shoulders rise and tense, then she swung her hand backward before slicing it through the air and punching Perry in the face.
“Fuck!” he shrieked, covering his face. His eyes were squeezed shut, and he staggered backward, but Jack grabbed him by the shoulder and steadied him. Ronnie tried not to laugh, despite the emptiness in his non-existent stomach. “Bitch!”
“Sit down, Perry,” Jack said coldly, his entire existence a threat. Perry fell into the chair and then hopped up, pulling Frankie’s tablet out from underneath him. She snapped it out of his hands and stood on the opposite side of the room, squinting at him.
Perry looked back at him, and Ronnie averted his eyes, staring at the intricately patterned rug beneath their feet. He felt Jack’s gaze trained on him and darted his eyes up briefly. Jack looked worried, his eyebrows pinched together.
“So you found out,” he began. Ronnie looked back at him, and Jack and Frankie both stared at him as well, disgusted. “Was it Brockton?”
“What?” Ronnie said finally, shaking his head. “Who’s Brockton?”
“He’s this heavy that’s been on my ass for money. He knows where I’ve been getting it.” He gestured toward Ronnie. Frankie stepped forward, mouth open, but Jack raised his hand almost imperceptibly and crouched down beside Perry. Perry looked down at him with raised eyebrows. The punch to the face evidently hadn’t humbled him for more than a few seconds. “Quite the heavy are you, huh? But the right kind.” Jack didn’t react, but Ronnie felt his stomach return full force, nausea, and all.
“We know you’re a piece of shit. We just want to know if you’re the one who’s been sending the letters.”
“Letters?”
“Yeah.” He said nothing else, and Perry looked between them all.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m sure you don’t. If we do a bit of digging, any chance you’ll conveniently remember?” Jack stood back up and took the tablet from Frankie, tapping randomly on the screen. Or at least, Ronnie could tell he was just doing it for show, to make Perry crack. Ronnie felt Perry still watching him instead, though, and felt his fingers start to tremble. He was folding in on himself, he could feel it. Just like he used to. He looked toward the exit reflexively.
“I really don’t. I’ll admit it, okay, I’ve been namedropping to get some people off my back, selling some pretty unimportant information, but that’s really it. It’s not a big deal. I don’t know what letters you’re talking about,” he said it with an oily easiness that made Ronnie’s skin crawl, and he cleared his throat, feeling sick. “Ronnie will tell you. I don’t lie. Right, Ronnie?” Jack looked down at him, and he met his eyes desperately. Then Jack whirled around on Perry.
“Don’t talk to him. You understand me?” Perry leaned back, looking impressed, and then shrugged coquettishly.
“Yes, sir. I mean it, though. No letters from me.” He picked at the embroidery on the chair, and Frankie eyed him irritably, but Ronnie felt his nausea turning to anger. The familiar playful flirting sent him back in time, but it also made him feel revolted and protective and something else intense and bitter, which he couldn’t name and didn’t understand. He wanted to kick Perry back out into the rain after telling him to go fuck himself. He felt his hands shake, more than before, but realized it was from his fury.
“You are a liar, Perry,” he said suddenly, feeling the words burst from some hidden well of repressed rage inside his chest.
“Oh, Ronnie. I don’t think you remember how good you used to have it,” Perry said smoothly, and Ronnie stood up, feeling less than solid on his feet.
“I don’t think you remember what a shitty, trashy, horrible, abusive person you were, and probably still are, Perry. You might not be sending those letters, but it’s only because you’re a coward, not because you’re not capable of it.” Perry looked past him at Jack and Frankie, laughing in faux amazement.
“Child stars, right? I’m sure you know. How long have you been working with him?” Jack stepped forward, but Ronnie beat him to it, reaching out for Perry’s collar and lifting him to his feet. He remembered Perry as being much bigger, much stronger, but it was the reverse, now. Perry looked like a drowned rat and weighed about as much as one, too.
Perry’s eyes bulged when Ronnie lifted him up, and he stuttered. Then Ronnie twisted him around and shoved him out of the room into the lobby, toward the entrance.
“It’s time for you to leave, and take your mind-games with you, Perry,” he said angrily. His skin felt hot, his neck prickled. Perry looked back at him, staggering backward toward the entrance. Ronnie reached past him, leaning in close, so their faces were mere inches away. He hovered there for a moment, relishing the sweat beading on Perry’s acne-scarred forehead, and then backed up, opening the door in the same movement. “Get out.”
Perry scrambled outside into the rain, looking behind him in embarrassment, but Ronnie slammed the door and locked it behind him, the bolt scraping.
“Portia?” Frankie said, nearing the doorway. Jack followed her, and Ronnie stood in the lobby, quivering, as they stood together, deciding whether or not to chastise Portia or make sure Ronnie was okay. Frankie pushed Jack’s lower back, and he inched forward, but Ronnie closed the distance between all of them.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what got into me.” Jack looked down at him, his eyes shining with what Ronnie was sure he was mistaking for pride, and then Frankie sighed.
“Well, at least we’ve narrowed it down. Well, more like crossed our number one suspect off the list of…not many other people.” She looked down at her tablet and scrolled. Portia tried to peer over, but Frankie gave her a look. Portia raised her hands in surrender.
“We’re not any closer to finding out who this is, but we know there are people from your past, at least one, that we know of, on Drake Street. We’re going to move underground, all of us.” Portia grinned, and he glared at her, only half-angry. “Only because I don’t trust you to stay put, Poe, not as a reward for sneaking around.”
“I’ll take it for what it is,” Portia said happily, walking
by them and opening the panel that led underground. Jack ushered Ronnie back into the room, and then he and Frankie followed.
Following Portia down the stairs again, he was surprised she knew the tunnel system so well. It seemed like she knew it as well as Jack did. She led them all into a larger room, far away from Jack’s room and Ronnie’s temporary suite. It was almost a mirror image of the parlor upstairs, but it had more bunker-like preparations. The door, which shut behind Frankie after she walked in, was heavy and made of thick metal. There was canned food lining the walls, board games, lots of pillows and sleeping bags.
“Well, settle in everyone,” Frankie said. Ronnie took a place on the couch, but Portia curled up like a lanky cat on the armchair instead of sitting next to him. Jack sat awkwardly next to him. “I’ll be right outside. Service in here is no good.” She pulled the heavy door open effortlessly and then let it swing shut with a clang behind her.
“We could’ve handled that better,” Jack said after a few moments silence, and Ronnie looked at him regretfully. Jack was right, throwing him out in a huff was probably not the best course of action.
“Yeah. Sorry about that.”
“No, I don’t mean you. I mean me. I should’ve talked to him alone, I shouldn’t have involved you.” Ronnie shrugged.
“I’m glad I finally got to give him a piece of my mind.” Portia leaned forward in her chair to grab a blanket off a nearby table and stayed leaning forward on her legs.
“What did you mean by all that stuff? I didn’t know your career was so terrible,” she said, looking guilty. “It always looked so…glamorous.”
“Well, it wasn’t always photoshoots, brunches and parties. But you’re a little too young, Portia. Poe?” he tried, and Jack chuckled.
“My nickname for her. Makes sense for her name, and she also looks like an Edgar Allen Poe character, even when she was little.”
“Ugh, Dad,” she groaned, curling tighter under the blanket and tucking it under her chin. Ronnie looked at her more closely, the long, wild, wispy black hair, the wide, haunting seafoam-green eyes, the pointed chin, the delicate cheekbones. She looked like a graphite drawing come to life.
