Change of Heart

by Jenna Bennett

  Of course, that brought me full circle, back to thinking about Rafe again, and about where he was and what he might be doing. After thirty minutes, I was ready to start clawing holes in the furniture. That’s when I decided to hell with it: if he wasn’t here, I’d go to Chaps without him. It was barely past seven o’clock. It wasn’t even full dark outside. And I was traveling at most twenty minutes from home. The place I was going to was a legitimate business in a decent neighborhood. I didn’t need his protection. I was a grown woman and I could take care of myself. I didn’t need him.

  So I marched downstairs and got into the car and headed for the other side of town, and imagined the look on his face when I walked back in at home later with the information that I’d found Tim and talked him into turning himself in to Detective Grimaldi.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I knew the address already, and Chaps turned out to be just about where I expected. A block or two closer to where interstate 40 bisected town, separating downtown from midtown, than I’d thought, maybe, but in the same general area.

  It was a big warehouse-looking building: one story tall, all brick, with no windows, catty-corner from the Hustler store on the corner of Church and Interstate Drive. For a nightclub, it was pretty big. For a bar, it was enormous. It was clearly the right place, though. The name was written on a discreet sign high on one wall, illuminated by a spotlight from above. Best as I could make out, the script was supposed to look like a rope, or I guess maybe a lariat or lasso.

  The entrance turned out to be around the corner, on the side street, directly opposite from a big parking lot where I left my car.

  The lot was less than half full, and the vehicles that were there, were a mixture of old and new, expensive and economy priced. There were no small blue Mini Coopers with white stripes in evidence.

  What there were, were a couple of Harley Davidsons parked in one corner, and for a second my heart skipped a beat. Maybe Rafe had beaten me here. Maybe he was already inside. Maybe he’d been thinking to spare me the trouble, and the discomfort, of investigating the place myself.

  But as I walked closer, I noticed subtle differences. One bike was red, while Rafe’s is black. One had tall handlebars, while his are normal. And one had big saddlebags, which his doesn’t.

  I’d never thought I’d see the day when I’d be able to differentiate one motorcycle from another, but I guess you live and learn.

  At any rate, he wasn’t here. Nor was Beau Riggins, it seemed. Nor Tim, unless he was driving something other than his usual baby blue confection.

  My heels clicked on the pavement as I hustled across the street, my shoulder bag bumping against my hip. The entrance to Chaps was a single heavy door under a small awning, with a single spotlight shining down. I’d driven around the block looking for another way in, otherwise I might have suspected that this was the back door, not the front. But there’d been no other way into the building, so this had to be it, no matter how unassuming it looked.

  There was no guard or bouncer on duty, and no entrance or cover fee. I could just push the door open and walk in.

  I did, into a long, narrow corridor with doors on either side. Music was thumping loud enough to make the floor vibrate. It seemed to come from the room at the end of the hall. It looked big, and it was dark and a bit smoky and I could see shadows moving back and forth through the gloom. The place smelled weird too; a little bit antiseptic in the same institutional way as the old Milton House, where the smell of heavy duty cleaning supplies tried and failed to mask other, less pleasant odors.

  Not that there’s anything pleasant about industrial strength Pine Sol in enough quantities to make your stomach lurch.

  Mine did, and I swallowed hard. Between the smell and the vibrations from the music, not to mention the flashing of the strobe lights in the other room, I’d be working up a migraine if I were prone to such things.

  Part of me wanted to turn around and leave. Just give up. Go outside and wait for Rafe to call, which he surely would when he came home and found the apartment empty.

  But the other part, the proud and stubborn one, refused to accept defeat. So what if the place made me feel uncomfortable? What if it wasn’t what I had expected? I was a big girl. I could take care of myself. And someone here might know where to find Tim.

  So I squared my shoulders and crept forward, toward the music and the moving shadows.

  About halfway down the hall, I passed a niche, and jumped when I saw the outline of a figure out of the corner of my eye. Tall, dark, menacing, with a raised arm.

  It was only a couple of seconds before I realized I was looking at a statue, but by then my heart was beating doubletime all the way up in my throat, and it took a while to get it back down where it belonged. Long enough for me to get a good look at the thing, and to realize that it was naked except for a leather vest and a pair of chaps. The latter perfectly framed the statue’s larger-than-life-sized personal package.

  I averted my eyes, of course, as soon as I realized what I was looking at. But by then it was too late, and I was blushing furiously. It was also dawning on me that perhaps I wasn’t in a country and western joint, after all. The music certainly didn’t have the steel guitar twang I’d come to associate with the style, and it was a lot heavier on the bass.

  But I was here, so I made myself go forward, leaving the niche and the statue behind.

  Another couple of yards took me to the doorway to the big room, and I peered in, cautiously.

  It was, as I had expected, a bar-cum-nightclub. The dance floor was mostly empty now, although a handful of people were gyrating to the beat. Between the darkness and the flashing of the strobe lights, it took me a few moments to realize that they were all men. And they were dressed in leather pants. Some of them had shirts on, some didn’t. One guy wore some sort of harness and another wore a leather cap.

  And it wasn’t because they’d all ridden motorcycles. There’d only been three Harleys in the parking lot. There were a lot more than three guys on the floor. The others must have gotten here by car. Staid Volvos, zippy little Neons, and big, black trucks, to name a few of the vehicles I remembered from the lot across the street.

  Some of what they were doing on the dance floor didn’t look much like dancing, either. They were dressed, to enough of a degree that they couldn’t really be doing what it looked like they were doing, I realized that... but it still looked like they were doing it. And the fact that they were all men made it even more shocking.

  I’m not a prude. In spite of my upbringing and my numerous well-bred hang-ups, I’ve never had a problem with Tim or his lifestyle. It isn’t for everyone—specifically, it isn’t for me—but it’s his life and he can choose to live it any way he wants to. I’ve worked with gay people, on both sides of a transaction. It was just a few weeks ago that my clients Aislynn and Kylie had closed on the house I’d helped them find in early December.

  So I don’t have homophobia. Or any other kind of phobia, unless we’re talking about cockroaches or giant spiders.

  Most of the time, though, when I’ve found myself around gay people, they’ve acted just like straight people. Tim has swooned as ardently over Rafe as any number of women I’ve introduced him to, and Aislynn and Kylie don’t French kiss in front of me any more than mother and Bob Satterfield do. (Supposing they kiss at all, of course, but I assume they do, in private. My mother and her gentleman friend, I mean. I’m sure Aislynn and Kylie do. Mother and the sheriff probably do too. The point is that they don’t do it in public, any more than Aislynn and Kylie.)

  Such was not the case here. These guys were rubbing against each other like they were in the privacy of their own bedrooms, and nobody seemed to think anything of it. Nobody except me, who blushed to the roots of my hair and didn’t know where to look.

  “First time here?” a voice like audible honey asked, and I spun to face the speaker, almost tripping over my own feet.

  He was close enough that I could get quite a goo
d look at him, even in the semi-dark, and part of me wished he wasn’t.

  Not that he was hard on the eyes. Not at all. Just a bit taller than me, and barely out of his teens, with big eyes with long lashes, a buzz cut, and smooth, baby-soft skin. Lots of it. As it turned out, that statue I’d encountered in the hallway outside? It was modeling the Chaps employee uniform. The guy in front of me wore the same black leather vest and black leather chaps belted around his waist. I’m sure he had something on his feet, as well, but after the first automatic glance down, I kept my eyes firmly anchored above the neck.

  He grinned. “Think maybe you took a wrong turn somewhere, doll?”

  I wish.

  “I’m looking for a friend,” I said. Or yelled, rather, over the music that was still thumping.

  He tilted his head. “We’re kind of empty. It’s a Tuesday, and early.”

  Sure. I hadn’t really expected Tim to be here. Hoped, maybe, but not expected.

  “Do you know Timothy Briggs?”

  My new friend giggled. “No. Should I?”

  “He was here last Friday night.”

  “So were a few hundred other people,” my companion said with a graceful shrug that set into motion a chain reaction of muscles under the black leather.

  “He’s about six feet tall, thirty-some years old, with blond hair. Real estate agent. Drives a blue Jaguar. And I wouldn’t think he’s a regular.” I had a hard time imagining Tim in a place like this at all. He wore tailored suits and brightly colored shirts—aubergine silk and lavender cotton—and the idea of him decked out in leather pants and a dog collar boggled the mind.

  And anyway, if he came here every weekend, he wouldn’t have had a need to write the appointment on his calendar, would he?

  My new friend shook his head, and the little stud in his ear sparkled in the strobe lights. “Can’t help you.”

  “Did you work on Friday night?”

  He hadn’t.

  “Is there anyone here tonight who did?”

  He shot a glance over his shoulder in the direction of the bar. “Earle. But I don’t think he’s gonna wanna talk to you.”

  “I’m just looking for my friend,” I said. “He’s been missing for four days.”

  Not strictly true, since I’d spoken to him—sort of—this morning. But it did the trick. My companion got pale under the tan. “Missing?”

  “Since the early hours of Saturday. After he washed off the blood.”

  “Blood?” At this point he looked ready to pass out.

  “I probably shouldn’t talk about it,” I said apologetically. No joke, either; I knew I shouldn’t. But it served as a handy excuse for why I couldn’t say more. “I’m just hoping that someone saw him Friday night. And maybe noticed who he left with.”

  He swayed. Literally, back and forth. “Are you... from the police?”

  I stared at him. “No.” Did I look like I was from the police?

  When he didn’t say anything else, I added, “I’m just a concerned friend. Who’s Earle?”

  “The bartender.” He turned to watch me as I walked away, in the direction of the bar. It seemed to take him a moment to realize what I was doing, and then he trotted after, equipment bobbing. “But you can’t...”

  On the contrary. I skirted the dance floor and slid up to the bar, where Earle was busy filling glasses with beer.

  He was an older guy—mid-fifties, maybe?—with a shaved head and a full beard, and a pirate ring in one ear. He was dressed in the same leather vest as my young friend, but the effect was quite different. Where the young man had smooth, hairless skin—maybe he waxed—Earle had a furry pelt covering his chest and stomach, and beefy arms with tattoos running from his wrists all the way up to his shoulders. Snakes or maybe vines twined. The lower half of him was mercifully hidden behind the bar, and I was glad, since I didn’t want to know whether he also wore chaps and nothing else below the waist.

  My tentative smile was met with a scowl. Obviously Earle wasn’t as happy to see me as his young friend. They probably didn’t get a lot of female visitors. Maybe he was afraid of me.

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m Savannah.”

  He grunted something.

  “She’s looking for a friend,” the young man said over my shoulder, almost apologetically, “sir.”

  Earle glared at him too, and I could almost feel him wilt.

  I turned back to the bartender. “Tim Briggs. Do you know him?”

  He shook his head without meeting my eyes.

  “He was here Friday night. To meet someone. Nine o’clock.”

  I thought something might have flickered in his eyes, but it was hard to say for certain when he wouldn’t look at me. Instead he pushed the two tankards of beer across the bar and grunted to the young man beside me, “Table five.”

  “Right away, sir.” My new friend took the drinks and scurried off, leaving me to the mercies of Earle. I had hoped that maybe, with just the two of us, he might be more forthcoming, but he didn’t say anything more. Just grabbed a rag and proceeded to mop the counter where the drinks had stood.

  “He’s been missing for a few days,” I said, since it had worked last time.

  The wiping checked for a second, albeit not quite long enough for me to be sure it was in response to what I’d said. Could have been a coincidence.

  “His calendar said he was meeting someone here Friday night.”

  Nothing.

  “You were working then.”

  He looked up, finally. Met my eyes for a second. “Don’t know him.”

  “How do you know? You haven’t even asked me what he looks like.”

  No answer. I felt movement behind me, and glanced over my shoulder. Another couple of men had come up to flank me. They didn’t say anything, just stood there and looked menacing.

  Funny, but up until now, I’d always thought of gay guys as soft. Like Tim. Glossily handsome, with bleached teeth, perfectly coiffed hair, and elegant clothes.

  There was nothing elegant about these guys, and certainly nothing soft. They were big, they were butch, and they wore leather. They looked like they could break me into a couple of pieces with their bare hands, and they also looked like they wouldn’t mind trying. It was like having a wall of bikers at my back, closing in.

  My heart was beating uncomfortably hard when I turned back to Earle. “I’m not looking for any trouble. Just my friend.” My voice even hitched a little, and that was in spite of still having to talk over the loud beat of the music.

  He glanced up again, and opened his mouth. And then his eyes flickered to the side, over my shoulder. His expression changed, and that was the only warning I had before an arm slipped around my waist. I felt the heat of a hard male body at my back, and a hand splayed possessively over my stomach.

  I think my heart stopped for a beat or two before it picked up the rhythm again, staggering along at a much more rapid pace.

  “Don’t ever,” a voice murmured in my ear, “do that again.”

  I sagged, and he’d probably figured I would, and that’s why he stood so close with his arm around me, so he could take some of the weight and my collapse wouldn’t seem so much like what it was.

  The atmosphere had changed. Nobody moved, visibly, but there was a sort of emotional backing off I could feel. A cessation—or maybe just readjustment—of hostility. Maybe they realized they couldn’t intimidate Rafe as easily as they intimidated me, or maybe they just recognized another alpha male and withdrew from what was clearly staked territory.

  Or maybe they were simply too busy staring. I’ve had occasion to watch Rafe work a (small) gay crowd before—Tim and a handful of his friends—and he’s just as effective there as he is with straight women. The fact that Tim imagines him naked doesn’t seem to bother him any more than the fact that I do... along with any number of other females.

  He didn’t seem uncomfortable now either, in the midst of this crowd of aggressively masculine gay men who were probably wishing they co
uld rip his clothes off. He just kept an arm around me, and his focus on Earle. “Thanks for your time. We’ll be leaving now.”

  I drew breath to protest—I hadn’t learned what I came here for—and had it squeezed back out of my lungs again when his arm tightened. He practically lifted me off my feet to turn me around. We faced a wall of leather and bare skin, and rather more erect penises than I was comfortable with. Truth be told, I was barely beginning to become friendly with Rafe’s, and to see a half-dozen others saluting me—or more likely him—was beyond disconcerting and well into mortifying.

  I had no idea where to keep my eyes as the moment lengthened. Then finally someone moved. The ranks drew apart, leaving a pathway to the door. “Go,” Rafe said in my ear.

  I went, and although I hoped it looked like an ordered retreat, I’m afraid it came across more like I was running for my life. I just hoped they weren’t laughing at me behind my back. Although if they were, I wasn’t about to say anything about it.

  Rafe followed, but not immediately. I ended up scurrying all the way to the back door before I realized I was alone, and then I ended up standing there for a minute, waiting for him, dithering between braving the outside on my own or staying where I was.

  When he came down the hall, it was unhurried, and nobody was following him. He didn’t linger at the door, though, just gave me a push. “Go.”