by Tina Whittle
“You don’t think somebody’s trying to kill Nick?”
“I say this with the utmost compassion, but he’s crazy. As the proverbial bedbug. Have you ever heard of Munchhausen syndrome? Where people do terrible things to themselves to get attention?”
“I have.”
He tapped his temple. “That’s Nick.”
“His diagnosis was paranoid delusional disorder.”
He made a noise. “Pfft. That boy’s got diagnosis on top of diagnosis. Crazy covers all the bases. I’ve been with this company for five years now. Nicky’s dragged it through a swamp of failures. This boondoggle, that fiasco. Getting him started in make-up was cheap, just a few buckets of latex and some fake scabs.”
I tapped out the ash on a nearly gatepost. “Why keep him in the business then?”
“You’ve met Quint. He is not the most charismatic of men. He’s got looks, money, but not a single asset in the charm department. People adore Nicky, though. They throw their dollars at him. Hell, Addison liked him enough to fall in love with him and stay in love with him even when he was accused of murder.”
He said the word “murder” with relish, hitting its notes like an opera singer. I imagined we made a very noir-ish scene, he and I—wreathed in smoke at the edge of a graveyard, moonlight cutting across our features in white ribbons.
Oliver jabbed the cigarette at me. “Now you, Ms. Randolph. You may be here strictly for professional reasons, but your friend, the tall, dark not-a-director-of-parking? He’s got more of an ax to grind, I imagine. Considering his history with the Talbots.”
I didn’t bite. Oliver laughed.
“Yes, I know who he is too. This is my first time coming face to face with him, though.” He leaned closer, his eyes alight with juicy malice. “He’s gonna break Nicky’s alibi for Jessica’s murder, isn’t he?”
“What if I told you Mr. Seaver was convinced of Nick’s innocence?”
“I’d say Nicky’s got him fooled too.” He ground out the cigarette. “Look, I don’t care what Addison says about him being clean. I don’t care what Quint says about him being a harmless nut. Do yourself a favor and do as I do—stay the hell away from Nick Talbot. For your own good.”
I kept my voice casual. “Is that what you and Quint were arguing about the other night? At the guest house?”
Oliver froze for a split second, then he smiled, but it was a plastic smile, as convincing as a toupée. “Well. You have finally managed to surprise me. I didn’t know I was under surveillance.”
I gave him a smile back, just as saccharine. “You didn’t answer the question.”
“No, I did not. Very astute of you to notice.” He rubbed his hands together as if dusting them free of dirt. Still smiling, though. “Goodnight, Ms. Randolph. Be careful out here. You never know who you might meet in the dark.”
Chapter Forty-two
I found Nick and Addison at their cabin, the waiter who was not a waiter posted up at the door. He checked my ID, but wouldn’t let me enter. Behind the door, I heard Addison and Nick talking. Eventually Nick came out, shutting the door behind himself, cigarettes in hand. He gestured toward the back patio, and I followed.
“Addison hates it that I smoke,” he says. “I have to sneak these.”
He offered the pack, and I took one. My second transgression of the hour. He extended his lighter, and I lit up, deciding that at least my addiction was serving a larger purpose.
“I know the feeling,” I said. “You two okay?”
“Sure. The wedding was a formality. We got married this morning nice and official.” He held up his hand where a platinum band now gleamed. “We’re leaving Talbot Creative. I’ve had an offer from Pinewood, and Addison has some nibbles from agents about her bio-pic. Many agents, many offers, not just the fake one from Hammershein.”
I paused with the cigarette halfway to my mouth. “You know about that?”
He grinned at me. “Portia’s machinations? Of course. But the screenplay will sell better if everybody thinks I don’t, maybe even spawn a bidding war.” He looked at me, his eyes burnished by the cigarette. “I know about all the things, Tai. About Addison’s history with Diego. About Bree’s spying. About the fact that Addison wasn’t at home the night I was shot. She was meeting with an even bigger agent than Hammershein.” He put a finger to his lips. “Hush hush.”
“Portia said Talbot Creative will sue if she moves forward with that.”
“They won’t. It’s my story, I own it, not them, and they know it.” He let smoke trickle out the side of his mouth, holding the cigarette at his hip. “Portia will be pissed as hell. She comes off terribly in the story, big surprise. But she’ll have her hands full with Season Two, so—”
“Luna survives?”
“Of course. You think the board would put that cash cow out to pasture just because Hammershein promises her a big-studio movie back in L.A.? Hell no. She’s stuck for the rest of her three years.”
“You’re saying Portia wanted to be killed?”
“Portia wanted out of her contract, she didn’t care how. But that’s not going to happen.”
I finished my inhale, let the smoke linger in my mouth. Some exotic brand I didn’t know, toasty and rich and brain-swimmingly potent. I’d pegged Nick as cute but dumb, a massive misjudgment on my part. He’d been playing everyone, Trey and me included. But then, we’d been playing him as well. I thought of Trey’s apartment, now an evidence lab. He had his own motivations—he’d cobbled guilt and vengeance and maybe even justice into a machine capable of steamrolling right over Nick if necessary. We were none of us innocent. No, not one.
I blew the smoke toward the sky. “Story fodder. All of it. The secrets, the wedding, the drama. Getting Trey involved, and me. Plot points and narrative arcs.”
He shrugged. “I used to be a producer, remember? I know what sells.”
“And the shooting? And the accident?”
“Oh, those are very real. Sometimes stories get away from you. That’s why I agreed to all the bodyguards.” He stared at the burning tip of his cigarette. “I’d just put one of these between my lips when the shot rang out. Now I think about that every time I light up.”
“As well you should.”
He looked at me. “I know you think I’m being flippant about that, and the accident. Or maybe you think I’m crazy too. Or lying. But there’s nothing like almost dying to remind you of how alive you are.” He examined the cigarette again. “Probably why I smoke. Courting death with every inhale. I’ll tell Addison that. She’ll like the metaphor.”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “It’s a good one.”
“Yeah.” He examined me through the smoke. “You believe me, don’t you, about the important things? The accident, the shooting?” His face was somber. “Jessica.”
“I do.”
“Because Trey said so?”
“Yes. But I think I would have anyway.”
He nodded solemnly. “They say it was that burglar. Now that you’ve seen the evidence, what do you say?”
I thought of Keesha driving south in the night, headed for the panhandle of Florida, just beyond the Georgia line. She wouldn’t stop except to get gas. She’d drive straight through.
“I say you might be getting some closure there real soon.”
“Really? That will be…I don’t know what that will be. It wasn’t as if Jessica and I were happy. And then I met Addison.” He examined me seriously. “You ever been saved, Tai? I mean literally.”
The memories came flooding in all at once. Gabriella at Trey’s door with a pot of soup, Garrity in a blizzard with a helicopter. Rico telling me not to go with Jeremy Fuller the night he crashed his truck right into the Altamaha River and they didn’t find it, or him, for weeks. My father—yes, he would always be my father no matter what that envelope revealed—pulling
me to the surface after the riptide got me. And Trey holding me against his chest in the dark while sirens wailed in the distance.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve been saved. Many times.”
Nick nodded. “Then you know what it is to owe your life to another person.”
I could see that his eyes were bright, even in the dark. He believed what he’d just said. I thought hard about my next words, thought about myself, and Trey, all of us.
“I know this much. Nobody ever really saves you. They show up for you. They offer their hand. But in the end, you have to make the choice to take it. In the end, you always save yourself.” I shrugged. “Or not.”
He looked at me strangely. “Yeah. I guess.” Then he sighed, a deep exhale that released a lot of pent-up energy. “Thanks for talking. I gotta get back to my wife now.” He handed me the still-burning cigarette. “Ditch this for me? I don’t want to spend my wedding night in the doghouse.”
Chapter Forty-three
Once I got back to my cabin, I slipped my .38 into the bedside table drawer, still holstered. This was the out-of-town procedure—safe from accidental discharge but otherwise accessible. I undressed in the dark, the moon illuminating the space like a lamp. I stretched out the knots in my shoulders, leaving my clothes in a heap in the middle of the floor, then pulled on one of Trey’s old tees. I’d barely gotten my head through the neck hole when my phone started screeching, the screen flaring red, strobing in time to the blaring security alarms.
I snatched it up. According to the interface, every single alarm had triggered simultaneously. Front and back door breaches, window breaches, maybe even a breach from above. That couldn’t happen unless there was an army outside. I listened. No army. I reached into the drawer just as the alarm stopped.
I held my breath, phone in one hand, the other wrapped around the revolver, unholstered now but still in the drawer. All quiet. I knew that shouldn’t have happened either. The alarm required a code to go all clear, and only two people had the code—Trey and me—and I had my finger poised on his speed dial when he called me first.
I spoke quickly. “Trey! There’s something—”
“False alarm. My apologies.”
“What?”
“Come onto the patio and I’ll explain.”
I let go of the gun and unlocked the back doors. A night breeze riffled the hem of the tee shirt and pulled my hair into my face. After a few seconds, I spotted Trey standing at the edge of the woods. He looked left and right, then came closer.
“I’m sorry about that,” he said, his voice low. “I was making a final perimeter check, and I accidentally triggered…everything.”
I folded my arms. “Making a final check on me, you mean.”
He didn’t argue. He’d given up on the suit jacket, which he had folded over his arm. His white shirt was the only thing that kept him from blending into the darkness.
“You could have used the front door,” I said. “You know. Knocked.”
“I was trying to be discreet.”
“You were trying to be sneaky.”
His voice rose. “I was trying…” He exhaled in frustration, pitched his voice lower. “I was trying to text you to tell you to switch off the system and let me in. But I had the access screen pulled up at the same time, and I triggered the live test simulation by mistake.”
“I could have had the gun out. I could have shot you.”
“You’d already put your gun away.”
I flung a hand in the air. “So? I could have had it aimed your way in less than three seconds.”
“Yes, but you’re trained to aim only at an identifiable target with clear background, neither of which you had.”
I was still annoyed. So was Trey. And he was something else too, though I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You show up outside my room at midnight—”
“Eleven-fifty.”
“After coming over the river and through the woods—”
“Around the woods.”
“—alone in the dark, without letting me know, just because you wanted to assess the security system?”
Another shrug, this one lightly tossed off, barely moving his shoulders. “Of course.”
I examined his face, but the interplay of moonlight and shadow concealed his emotions. So I stood on tiptoe and looked him right in the eye. Up close I could catch it—the deliberately steady gaze, guileless and innocent. Trey rarely lied, but when he did, this was what it looked like.
I tilted my head. “Trey?”
“Yes?”
“How did you know I’d already put my gun away?”
He blinked at me, not saying a word. I stepped even closer, the grass cool under my bare feet, Trey warm in front of me.
“You stood there and watched me undress,” I said.
He put his hands on his hips. “You left the curtain open. I’ve warned you many times—”
“About perverts lurking, yes, you have.”
He narrowed his eyes at me, but didn’t defend himself. I laughed, which earned me another sharp look. He put one finger to his lips, but that made me laugh harder.
“You gotta work on your peeping tom game,” I said, and then utterly lost it. I laughed until I was weak in the knees, hiccupping, tears in my eyes. Trey endured the spectacle without comment. Eventually, I pulled myself together and wiped my eyes on my sleeve.
Trey’s voice was stern. “Are you finished?”
I swatted his arm. “Don’t act prissy. It’s not like anybody’s still asleep after that unholy noise you unleashed.”
“It was an accident. I was distracted. There’s no reason for you to compound the…whatever.”
I caught it in his voice then. Sheepish amusement. He still had his hands on his hips, but his mouth was kinked at the corner. I couldn’t tell in the dark, but I knew he had to be blushing. He couldn’t help it. He had an Irish complexion and an altar boy soul.
“Are you off duty now?” I said.
“Technically. I’m still on call, though, so I have to be back at the station in an hour.”
I smiled. “That’s okay. We can do a lot of debriefing in an hour.”
He exhaled softly, let me take his hand to lead him inside. But then he stopped. “Tai?”
“Yes?”
“How did you find out?”
I looked up at him. The night was sweet with late summer, the moonlight clear and potent as liquor. In the dappled shadows, it was easy to forget that there was any world beyond the circle of us. Mayhem raged, some of it barely a hundred feet away. But with Trey, there was sanctuary. He created it as deftly as any defense system.
“Do you really want to know?” I said. “Because if you do, I’ll tell you. If you ask the right way.”
He didn’t move for another fifteen seconds. Then he slipped his hand from mine, not breaking eye contact as he retrieved the radio from his pocket.
He pushed the call button. “Seaver here. I’ve completed the perimeter patrol.”
A hiss of static, then a voice. “Got that, sir. You going ten-ten?”
“Affirmative. You have the radio for the next hour.”
A voice crackled back. “Copy that, sir.”
“Seaver out.”
He slipped it back in his pocket, pulled off the earpiece and tucked it in his pocket too. He ran his gaze over my eyes and mouth, my throat, the rest of me. I didn’t move, stood stock-still in the cool silvery light as he took my hand and turned it palm up, then pressed a kiss to the thrumming pulse point at the inside of my wrist. The breeze quickened as he snaked his other hand under the tee, from the small of my back up the curve of my spine, trailing goose bumps and shivers, and I literally—literally—got so dizzy with the blood rush I thought I might fall out on the patio.
>
I wrapped my arms around his neck. “That is definitely the right way to ask.”
He laughed lightly, in the back of his throat. Laughter was new from him, rarer even than that dazzling roguish smile. And I felt a deeper thrill, one beyond sensation, one that came from the understanding that in the tangled web of his past, present, and future selves, Trey was simply Trey. And he was all mine.
I kissed the center of his chest, right above his heart. “You think sixty minutes is long enough to get all the details?”
“Most likely. Accounting for the typical variables.” He canted his head. “But there’s no rush, is there?”
I reached for his belt buckle. “There might be.”
Chapter Forty-four
He dressed in the dark, sitting on the edge of the bed. I stayed naked under the sheets. I’d hoped to entice him to stay, but duty called. Or something like duty. Whatever it was pulling him back into the night.
He turned his head sideways. “How did you convince Mac to tell you the rest of the story?”
“He got the idea I was mad at you, and that worried him. So he explained. Everything.”
Trey slipped into his shirt. “I’m waiting for your commentary.”
“On what? That you got fired because you were offering gigolo services on the side?”
“I was not! That is exactly—”
I laughed. “Hush. I’m messing with you. Mac explained very clearly that that wasn’t what happened.”
Trey shot me a somewhat mollified look and continued dressing. The lawyer had been a regular at the hotel, Mac has said, a business traveler. If Trey was on duty, she’d ask for him, tipping him a hundred to personally care for her Porsche. And then one night, she’d written her room number on that hundred, and Trey—young and broke and one hundred percent heterosexual male—had gotten off work and gone up to that spectacular suite. And then he got fired the next day when one of the other valets accused him of being, in Mac’s exact words, a rent boy. But Mac told the lawyer what had happened the next time she showed up, and she threatened the HR department with many nasty lawsuits. In the end, Trey’s supervisor at the Ritz not only hired him back, he sent Trey and Mac both to executive training as a bonus/bribe/apology. And once Mac opened his gym, Trey ever after taught a weekly self-defense class there, gratis.
