Fucking customers. The trouble with druggies was they didn’t care what kind of life other people led, let alone whether those people got any damn sleep. They only cared about their next fix.
“Mikey?”
“All right, all right! Keep your fuckin’ hair on, brah!” The stubble on his cheek scritched his palm, and he rubbed it some more as he wrenched the front door open and squinted at the late afternoon light.
He’d managed to sleep in all day?
Garrett shoved past him and into the house. “‘Bout fuckin’ time, dude.”
Mikey grit his teeth as he closed the door, and took a moment to wake up properly before he followed Garrett through to the kitchen. “What can I do you for, brah?”
Garrett was a lanky piece of shit. He hadn’t been back when he started on H, naturally, but three years in and he was like a stick insect. His matted brown hair was superglued into dreads that hung like rat-tails halfway down his back, and his equally gross beard was almost as long. Mikey didn’t remember the dude wearing anything other than his stained cargo pants and the same Metallica T-shirt for months.
God, he fucking hated his life.
“Same as always.” Garrett’s laugh was the braying of a donkey, and it grated on Mikey’s nerves in ways it hadn’t last week.
“No change, huh?” Mikey nodded. “Eat in, or take out?”
“Dude I been comin’ back all day. I need it now.”
“Surcharge,” was all Mikey said.
“Whatever.”
He sighed and gestured to the kitchen table. “Take the weight off. Gimme a minute.”
Garrett groaned as he pulled out a rickety chair and sat at the table. His only other response was to pull a fistful of dollar bills out of his pants pocket and start flattening them out with the side of his hand to count them.
Mikey turned away before his disgust showed. There wasn’t any point letting Garrett see it; the guy only wanted his H then he’d peace out on the floor until he was ready to leave. There’d probably be five of the fuckers in his kitchen by sundown. Why bother fighting it?
He stalked back upstairs to his bedroom and opened the safe, counted out fourteen of the pre-filled little balloons, then locked up and headed back to the kitchen.
Garrett had already got everything ready. Teaspoon, lighter, rubber tube, needle. Mikey counted the money before he put the handful of balloons down, and he walked away to stuff the cash in his safe while Garrett started cooking.
The acrid stink of black tar chased him up the stairs, and all he could think was if he took Frederick’s offer, he’d never have to smell that shit again.
CUSTOMERS CAME and went long into the night. By five in the morning Mikey was cranky and tired, and he had a kitchen full of sketchy fuckers he wanted nothing more to do with.
Fuck. Just one hour with that Frederick asshole and he was ready to walk out of his own life. It was crazy. He didn’t know the guy. Didn’t know who he was, what he did, and sure as hell didn’t know whether he wanted to fly off around the world with a mind reader.
Except Frederick was way more than that, wasn’t he? He didn’t just read. It was sketchy as fuck the way he could take control of people, drive them around like drones, put entire other worlds into their minds, then act like he was so bomb, like his shit didn’t stink.
Fucking asshole.
God damned fucking hot British asshole.
Mikey groaned and retreated to his bedroom. If he could get some sleep, maybe by morning he’d have his head screwed on right and be able to think this through better, ‘cause right now all he could come up with was walking right out of this dead-end life and cruising over to the Palomar.
He sank down onto a bed that was harder than a rock and twice as uneven and settled into the one position which didn’t dig into his side too bad, and as exhaustion claimed him he wondered whether Frederick had ever slept in anything less than a four poster bed made of clouds.
HE BOLTED upright at the sound of footsteps creaking up the stairs. It was a slow, hesitant noise, like someone was trying to be stealthy but was too fucked to know how loud they were.
Mikey took breaths to calm his panic and checked his phone. Almost three hours’ sleep before someone woke him. That had to be a new record. He rolled out of bed and pulled his sneakers on, then checked he looked vaguely alive before he unlocked the bedroom door and strode out to the hallway.
Max was most of the way up the stairs, hunched over like he thought it turned him into a ninja or some shit.
Mikey closed the door and eyed Max. “What’re you doing?”
“Uh. Thought I’d, uh.” Max licked his lips and his gaze flit to the door behind Mikey. “Come say hi?”
You thought you’d try to break into the safe and steal shit. Mikey wasn’t fooled. His customers would steal from him if they could. Of course they would. They already stole from anyone who came into contact with them so they could afford to be his customers.
“Well, here I am.” Mikey gave his sickliest smile and wrapped an arm around Max’s shoulder. “C’mon, let’s get something to eat. I’m starving.”
He steered Max back down the stairs. Maybe it was time to get better security.
Or to get out of the business.
He hissed under his breath. Jesus fuck, could he not think about something else for five fucking minutes? It was like now Frederick’s offer was on the table Mikey couldn’t get away from it. His brain bent itself in contortions just to obsess over the damn thing, and the more he tried to avoid it the more insistent it became.
“I dunno if there’s much in the fridge,” Max said as Mikey propelled him into the kitchen.
Mikey let go of him at last and stepped over slumbering bodies to go check. As expected, there was hardly anything edible in there. His customers were real good at stealing his food.
He sighed and rested his forehead against the fridge door. “You ever wonder if there’s anything more to life?”
Max laughed. “Dude, if there was more to life, what the fuck are we doing here?”
“What if…” His voice stuck in his throat.
What if there were people with crazy superpowers out there?
Mikey tried again. “What if—”
Nope. The words weren’t coming out. They formed in his head, but wouldn’t pass his throat.
“What if what, bro?”
Suppose that you met someone who could read your mind?
Mikey’s lips curled, and he snarled against the fridge door.
“‘Course, you’re okay,” Max mused. “You get all our money. So maybe what’s more to life is you.”
It’s him. The asshole’s done something to me, stop me being able to talk about him!
Mikey pushed back from the fridge and stalked to the door. “You know,” he snapped as he passed Max, “I don’t care. Go wild. There’s half a tub of yogurt in there, I don’t think there’s mold on it yet. Eat it all, man. It’s yours.”
Max scrunched up his face. “What flavor?”
“Who fucking cares? I’m going out.”
Max’s answer was lost in the slam of the front door, and Mikey stormed down the path to the gate like a bat out of hell. He flung it open and spilled out onto the street, then headed west without a single look back. At most he lived like a mile and a half from the Palomar, and if he got a cab he might get there while his temper was still high and do something he could regret.
If Frederick let him.
He slowed his pace and flexed his hands. It was dark still, the humidity had died down to a comfortable level, and once he was a couple of blocks from the house he started to feel like he could think straight at last.
Why was he running to Frederick? One day back in his life and he couldn’t take it any more, was that it? Or had Frederick done something to his head, like how he’d made sure Mikey couldn’t talk to anyone about him?
Did Mikey even care?
Maybe that was what it came down to in the end: a list of pr
os and cons. As a pro, Frederick was filthy rich and Mikey would have a lifestyle he could only dream about, but as a con he’d never really know whether his decisions or his mind were his own ever again, no matter how much Frederick insisted it was all Mikey’s choice. Maybe all real pretense at free will ended the moment Candice handed him the money.
Jesus, no wonder Frederick had talked about getting into the nature of reality itself. This was crazy-making shit right here. Mikey might never know what was real again.
He might never have even left Frederick’s hotel room.
“Fuck.” He stopped in his tracks and squinted at the nearest building.
Was it real?
Was anything real any more?
Did he really know what day it was? What year? Had he been controlled for decades or months or even just hours, or was he going insane trying to think it over?
He couldn’t stand here forever. The only guy who had answers was waiting for him. Whether or not he could ever trust a word was up in the air, but then how was that any different from everyday life? His customers lied, his suppliers lied, the cops lied, and he lied. His whole world was lies, but Frederick’s lies were sweet and heavy with promise, and everyone else’s lies led to him getting screwed one way or another.
Mikey kicked at a tuft of weeds then forced himself to get moving. He’d started, so he was gonna see this through. And maybe if he was real lucky Frederick would get more hands-on with the next lap dance.
17
FREDERICK
The harsh buzz of a doorbell intruded into Frederick’s otherwise pleasant sleep, and he roused from it reluctantly as though if he took plenty of time the noise would piss off and leave him be.
It didn’t.
It stuttered in and out of existence like an army of small children were taking turns with the button, and when he reached for his phone to check the time it wasn’t even five in the morning yet.
“Sodding hell,” he grunted. He swung out of bed and snatched up a robe on his way to the stairs, and barely had it fastened around himself by the time he reached the door.
There was only one mind out there — unless Icky had regained consciousness and decided to wake him up in the wee hours — and Frederick spent a second ascertaining the identity of his visitor.
Brennan.
He straightened himself up. The boy had no ill intent, so Frederick required little in the way of self-defense, and he unlocked the door then tugged it open.
“If you don’t bloody stop that,” he muttered, “I shall have housekeeping disconnect it. Come in.”
Brennan swooped past him like a hawk, then began to circle the living area. His thoughts were in disarray, and his external motions reflected his brain activity.
Frederick pressed his lips together to prevent himself telling the boy to stand still, and instead closed the door. He locked it again for good measure, and as a subtle signal to Brennan that the American wouldn’t be leaving any time soon.
“What sort of time do you call this?” He sauntered toward an armchair and stood beside it as he eyeballed Brennan.
“Does it matter? Oh, I guess you get to sleep whenever you want, huh?” Brennan’s pacing slowed, at least, as he focused on speaking. “How long have I been here really? Are we even in San Diego right now, or did I just imagine it all? But if I’m imagining this why would you make me wait so long before you answered the door? Ah but that could just be part of your little game, am I right? Did you even really make me incapable of talking about you to anyone or was that all in my head? Do I even exist? Do you? Where am I really from? Who am I? Who are you?”
Frederick watched the meltdown with a growing sense of amusement which thawed his ire at being woken before sunrise. It was somewhat akin to seeing a puppy discover snow. “I’m sure I mentioned something about questioning the nature of reality,” he drawled as he rested a thigh against the armchair and crossed his arms. “Can we go to bed and discuss this at a more reasonable hour?”
His wording was intentionally ambiguous, and had the desired effect. Brennan gaped at him, his cheeks hot pink and eyes wide.
“You think this is a booty call?” Brennan’s incredulity hid his arousal and hope surprisingly well.
Frederick idly arched an eyebrow as though the thought hadn’t occurred to him. “Good heavens.” He gestured toward the mezzanine level. “You know where your room is. Catch up on sleep, dear boy. You look as though you haven’t put your head down for a good night’s rest in ten years.” He left the armchair’s side and sauntered past the American on his way to the stairs, and dislodged his own robe slightly as he unfurled his arms. Not enough to flash the man fully, but certainly enough to allow him to lay eyes on chest and thigh alike. “Lay in for as long as you wish. I have errands in the morning, but we can talk after I return.”
He was halfway up the stairs before Brennan spoke. “My room?”
Frederick lay a hand on the rail and paused to look down at Brennan. He cast a faint smirk toward him. “Unless you wish to sleep on the sofa. That seems rather a wasted opportunity to me, though.”
“Why, you—”
He turned and continued up the stairs, and ignored the remainder of Brennan’s apoplexy. The boy would either take advantage of the opportunity presented him or leave, and Frederick had no intention of interfering with the decision Brennan had to make.
BY THE TIME he returned from watching over Icky while Laurence took the dogs for a walk, Brennan was back to prowling the suite as though he intended to lose a few pounds through anger alone.
Frederick ignored him as he closed the door and dropped his wallet and phone onto the table.
“Where the hell have you been? It’s almost noon!”
He chuckled and smoothed his hair back as he turned to face Brennan. “Dear boy, if you speak to me like that again I shall be forced to believe that you missed me.”
That bright pink flush returned. It clashed so delightfully with his flame-colored hair.
“I presume that you have yet to eat?”
Brennan’s lips formed shapes for a second. “There’s nothing but drink in there,” he managed as he gestured toward the kitchen.
“Room service?” Frederick prompted.
Brennan’s blush deepened. I didn’t want to assume.
“Not to worry,” Frederick cut in before Brennan could say it. “I’ll have something brought up.” He dawdled to the desk and rifled through the room service menu, sitting slowly while he considered his options. “Do you have any allergies?”
“Uh. What, like, to shrimp or something?”
“Just so.”
“Nah.” Brennan wandered closer until he could eye the menu from behind Frederick’s chair. After a second, he inhaled sharply. “Are those the prices?”
Frederick rolled his eyes and reached for the phone. He ordered a couple of sandwiches and a side of fries, because it wasn’t hard to tell that Brennan’s head was filled with fries right now, then hung up and pushed the menu away. “All right. Why don’t you take a seat and we can converse as adults?”
Brennan huffed as he backed away toward the living area, and Frederick followed him. “Are you in my head?”
“Always.” He settled into the armchair.
Brennan sat in the center of the sofa and wrung his fingers together. “Then why do I gotta talk?” he groused.
“Have to,” Frederick corrected. “Why do you have to talk? You don’t. But why wouldn’t you, after walking all the way here?”
“You know—” Brennan scowled. “Of course you do.”
“I do.” Frederick chuckled and leaned back in his chair. “But you aren’t a very good communicator. You persist in utilizing the most ridiculous slang which only others in your circle understand. You need to learn to speak to people, Mr. Brennan, and this is your opportunity.”
Brennan seethed in obstinate silence for all of thirty seconds before his lack of self-control won out. “How dare you! You’re treating me like you own
me! I haven’t even agreed to anything and you’re bossing me around like I gave you permission. You even made it so I couldn’t talk about you or what you can do! What gives you the right?”
Frederick stood slowly and made his way toward the door. “What gives you the right,” he countered, “to tell others information which I shared with you in confidence? My life is filled with delicate maneuvers and careful choices, and I cannot afford to have you throw a spanner into the works.” His hand fell on the door handle just as he sensed the hotel staff beyond about to press the doorbell, so he gave them a second to do so before he opened the door.
Brennan fell silent without being told to, while the young lady in hotel uniform ferried plates into the suite and laid them on the dining room table. He could learn quickly, it seemed, which would explain how he survived being the world’s mouthiest drug dealer.
“Thank you,” Frederick murmured to her as he saw her from the room. He closed and locked the door, then gestured to the table. “Help yourself.”
Brennan stalked to the table like a wary animal. He even sniffed the fries once he took the plate cover off, in case they were somehow going to poison him. But the scent of hot food overwhelmed his defensive stance and he sat to shovel them into his face.
Frederick pursed his lips and sat opposite, choosing a sandwich at random and drawing it toward himself. “You must apply for a passport as soon as possible,” he murmured. “You will need to study under an etiquette consultant. They will iron out all the rough edges and tackle your speech while they’re about it, but the consultant I require that you study with is in London.”
Brennan paused his chewing, which only left him with a bundle of fries protruding from his mouth, so Frederick began to eat while he waited. At least the man had the wherewithal to swallow before he started talking again. “Am I even talking? Eating? Are we in the Palomar?”
“We are all of those things.” Frederick allowed himself a faint smile. “Though I could be lying to you. What do you want?”
To his credit, Brennan actually mulled over his answer. A slew of things chased each other through his thoughts: money, belonging, travel, escape, freedom, sex, fresh start, hope.
Reeve of Veils (Inheritance Book 4) Page 11
