Bodyguard to a Sex God by RJ Scott
Chapter 1
âHey, Blondie.â
Adam Freeman showed the office manager his middle finger at the familiar and detested nickname and then crossed to the coffee machine. He was tired and just this side of irritable and Ross Jackson knew exactly which buttons to press to wind Adam up big time. Adam hoped the middle finger would be enough to get Ross to shut up, but no such luck.
âThat kind of morning, eh?â Ross offered with a laugh. He sidled up to Adam and bumped shoulders, causing Adam to curse under his breath when hot coffee splashed his hand. âItâs only gonna get worse.â
Adam needed this coffee. He lived on the opposite side of London from Bodyguards Inc., and the traffic on the motorway had been murder, even this early in the morning. He couldnât fault the premisesâa converted barn on the land of the manor house Kyle Monroe had inherited six years ago. But he could definitely fault having to battle every commuter in the city just to get his briefing.
âHow can anything be worse than an hour stuck on the M25?â Adam asked wryly. Then he really wished he hadnât. Sitting down behind his immaculately tidy desk, Ross leaned back in his chair with his long legs in front of him and his hands behind his head. He was the picture of nonchalance yet had an air of knowing something that Adam didnât.
âThe M25 is nothing on this. We had a call-in,â Ross said. âYouâre up on a Pretty Boy job.â
Adam closed his eyes and cursed. His absolute worst contracts involved being in charge of what Bodyguards Inc. labeledâoff the recordâas Pretty Boys. Actors, singers, and in a worst-case scenario, reality TV stars. Every one of them paid well, but dealing with celebrities who had more money than sense all because they epitomized âstarâ was his idea of hell. The last jobâJesusâthat X-Factor runner-up who demanded Adam call him âsirâ. He'd kept dropping Simon Cowellâs name like he personally knew the guy. In addition, he was arrogant, narcissistic, and had the IQ of a snail. Adam was well out of that particular job.
âNot only that,â Ross continued, âbut itâs a science-fiction fantasy convention gig.â
âConvention? Like Trekkies?â Adam couldnât believe that heâd timed his life so poorly that he was going to be surrounded by people wearing fake ears and speaking Klingon.
âNo, like vampires and stuff.â
Adam cursed and Ross just grinned. Bastard. âIs it too late to take some sick days?â Adam said.
âAre you sick, Adam?â The new voice belonged to Kyle, boss and owner of Bodyguards Inc. His drawling American accent was so damn sexy and for a second Adam allowed himself to stare. Adam was fascinated by Kyleâs accent, and hell, heâd let Kyle charm him using just his voice, and maybe his large hands, any day he wanted. Pity the owner of Bodyguards Inc.âor BI as Kyle called itâwas so gone on Ross, despite the fact his personal assistant remained oblivious to that fact.
âNo. Iâm not sick,â Adam said. No point in lying. Kyle could spot a lie a mile off.
âI have a job for you. Iâm guessing Ross already gave you the heads-up? Star of an American TV series over here for a convention in London. Heâs been receiving threats, had a near-miss with a car trying to run him down, and also had some objects left in his trailer on set.â
âObjects?â
Kyle peered at the list. âAntique knives on two separate occasions, four deliveries of red roses with thorns intact, and one dildo.â
âSo itâs a sex thing then?â Adam wasnât surprised. Actors werenât renowned for high moral standards. The guy involved probably slept with everyone and had encountered someone just slightly mentally unhinged. Still, that didnât make terrorizing the man okay so Adam concentrated on the rest of the briefing.
âThe network has decided he needs tracking from airport to hotel, through the convention, and out the other side to the airplane home with a handover after one week in the US. This Friday through ten days to a Monday. Good money. You want it?â
Adam considered his options here. If he could just push past the memories of past contracts with similar clients he would be fine. It crossed his mind that perhaps he should ask if there were anything else that he could do instead.
âNo chance of a nice industrial threat job? Or maybe I could work the desk for a week?â The joke fell flat as Ross narrowed his eyes at the question. No one went near the desk. That was Rossâs domain and no one elseâs.
Kyle shook his head. âSorry, dude. This is the only new thing on the BI books today. Well, not exactly the only one, but Ed and Lorna both turned Pretty Boy down. So yeah, itâs mostly your decision. If you want it, say so, otherwise Iâll tell his management team no.â Kyle waited patiently for an answer, all serious and businesslike.
âWhy did no one else want the job?â Adam asked, suspicious of what heâd just heard. Kyle opened his mouth and then shut it again. Evidently the other close protection agentsâ reasons wouldnât be good ones. Ross dived in to help.
âLorna just got off a case and sheâs recuperating, as you well know,â Ross explained. Like that explained why she wouldnât take on one of her favorite kinds of cases.
âI just got off a case as well,â Adam protested. A case involving an idiot, two guns, a case full of whisky, and a week of driving all over the bloody country. Not a good one at all.
âYes,â Ross said dryly, âbut you werenât shot at, Adam, and she was.â
âFlimsy excuse. Bullet didnât actually hit her,â Adam pointed out with a laugh. Gallows humor always worked best in these situations. He liked Lorna a lot; the feisty redhead was fun and damn good at her job. No one wanted to see her shot. Well, apart from her ex who had been served with a restraining order. âWhat about Ed?â He knew he was clutching at straws. Ed had seniority at BI, having been with Kyle since it started six years ago.
âEd said, and I quote, âI canât deal with screaming fans.ââ Ross shrugged. âYou know heâs far too old and grumpy to deal with screaming women.â
âHeâs the same age as me,â Kyle observed. He sounded affronted and Adam hid a smile.
âSee? Old,â Ross joked. Adam watched the byplay with interest. His boss was so head over heels with Ross and Adam wondered how Ross could fail to see the hurt in Kyleâs eyes at the comment. Kyle was thirty-five or as near as, and Ross was only twenty-five⊠still, age was an irrelevant thing in Adamâs eyes. Ross was losing out; Kyle was a good man.
âIâll take the job,â Adam said, just to break the tension. Yes, he would do this. That was his job. He could manage ten days. Kyle tore his stare away from Ross and held out the folder with the information Adam would need. Taking the folder was implicit agreement that he would accept the job.
Kyle disappeared into his office and slammed the door shut behind him. His hurt followed him like a cloud. Ross didnât even look up from his desk.
âWhy do you do that?â Adam asked.
âDo what?â Ross responded. The question was accompanied by a distracted frown.
âGo on at Kyle about his age all the time.â
Ross huffed. âItâs only a joke. He doesnât care. Anyway, the other computer is all yours.â Evidently the discussion was over. Ross buried himself in other work, leaving Adam to get on with what he needed to do.
There was always a strictly professional brief in the folders that Ross created and Kyle handed out. However, a good Google search often highlighted elements in the case that would be useful. Adam had four days until the client's plane landed at London Heathrow so he opened to file to build the foundation for the assignment.
Even he couldnât help but raise his eyebrows when he saw the guy he was being assigned to look after. Logan Brady was some high-class Pretty Boy material. Twenty-nine. Brunet. Actor. Those were the basics. Adam peered at the photo; he wasnât sure if it was just the print resolution but Loganâs eyes were really stunning and an incredibly bright blue. His hair had a soft curl to it and was in one of those short, tousled cuts. He wasnât smiling in the photo. He had that typical shot used for publicity where he was staring moodily at something just off-camera. There was red around his mouth so Adam scratched at the photo. Nope. It wasnât coming off the photo. Reading the label explained a lot. âNight Cop - Vampire, Cop. Brother, Lover. Killer, Hero. Isaac.â.
Okay. So Logan Brady played a guy called Isaac from one of these ĂŒber-popular vampires-are-cool shows crossed with some kind of police procedural show. He was seriously nice eye candy. That part was going to be extremely easy to handle for ten days.
Flicking through the pack, Adam pulled out pictures of the girlfriend, a blonde-haired green-eyed beauty who clung to Loganâs arm in the photos like a limpet to a rock. Logan wasnât smiling in any of the photos. Whether paparazzi or studio shots, he appeared to use the patented cool-vampire stare for all of them. To Adamâs eyes he just looked permanently pissed off. But then the young girls liked that kind of thing, he supposed.
A quick search had many more pictures, both the same vampire character and others going back maybe ten years to a fresh-faced Logan in some kind of teenage high school show. Adam didnât exactly have his finger on the pulse of kidsâ TV shows, nor did he watch anything with vampires in it, to be fair. But hell, if the stars all looked like this guy, then he may well change his mind. Seems vampires and pissed-off faces paid well; pictures of Loganâs house showed a small place in LA up in the hills, at least so the label to the photo said. There were paparazzi shots of Logan in his garden, Logan eating out at dinner, Logan swimming, Logan shopping. Jeez, Adam wouldnât have been surprised to see pictures of the actor taking a shit.
The fact that the paparazzi had snapped so many photos of this TV star was no surprise to Adam. Over three-quarters of BI cases were with people in the public eye, actors, politicians, the British aristocracy, and so many other high-profile people. Adam was never sure how they coped being out there for everyone to see, but then, he guessed the money helped.
The information on the hit-and-run was sketchy. The internet had nothing apart from gossip and hearsay. Apparently a car had lost control and crossed the street, glancing the wall and coming to a stop next to Logan. Either the term âhit-and-runâ was not an appropriate one to use on this occasion, or the journalists hadnât gotten the full story. Adam suspected the latter based on how the network now appeared to want to wrap their star in cotton wool.
Ross crossed over and placed sheets of paper next to the open folder. He frowned. Gone was the man who called him Blondie. In his place was serious-Ross with a focused look.
âLogan Bradyâs manager sent over copies of the notes Loganâs been receiving. Itâs not good. Theyâre all addressed to Isaac,â he said.
âThe character he plays on the show,â Adam confirmed.
âYeah. Thereâs also more information on the alleged hit-and-run. Logan is one lucky bastard that he wasnât a human sandwich between two or three tons of SUV and a solid brick wall.â He left without further discussion, and curious, Adam rifled through the notes.
Words jumped out at him from the different sheets of paper; love and hate and all the emotions in between. Celebrities received threats all the time; it was almost a way of life that once you were a âpersonalityâ you attracted the crazy out of the woodwork. The last case heâd worked on for the Metropolitan Police had been a stalker case and the client said she received threats just as often as she received proposals of marriage.
These notes were well written, the grammar was good, they were tidy, and Adam filed away that information as possibly useful. As to the content, there was nasty, vicious prose in one, wheedling love declarations in another, all written in the same hand and signed with the initials IR. Threats to kill Logan over some kind of relationship with an Annabelle? Adam checked the file. Annabelle wasnât the girlfriend. A hunch had him checking the show listings. Annabelle was the heroine to Loganâs bad boy on the show, played by an actress named Marissa.
So the same guy that professed love for Logan in one letter demonstrated an equally vicious hate in the next, all because Loganâs character had kissed Annabelle in an episode. Great, so he was dealing with a total nutjob then, an irrational person with severe pretend-life issues. The car accident details Ross brought over were far more detailed than those Adam found on the internet and he spent a while looking at photos. If the car hadnât hit a street lamp then Logan would have been seriously hurt. The driver ran but what few witnesses there were had caught sight of a womanâshort, slim, with blonde hair to her waistâfleeing the scene. There were no CCTV photos, either. Apparently whoever owned Loganâs contract at the studio wanted a lid kept on things.
There was no indication that Adam had a bodyguard in the US, why did the guyâs manager think that he would need one on his visit to the UK? The probability that the perpetrator followed Adam from the US was slim. Then he reached the last note in the list. A simple two sentence missive that was written so tidily that it was a shock to read the actual words:
âIâll be at the convention in London. I canât wait to meet the man who is the other half of me.â
Ah. That explained the need for a bodyguard then.
âDoes he have a bodyguard in the US?â
âSome kind of driver guy shadows him, but the network is getting serious and have brought someone in for you to do a handover in LA.â
âAnd the cops? Do they have Logan Brady under surveillance?â
âNo. The agent said the cops felt it was nothing, not yet.â Adam knew where the cops were coming from, each district had a glut of certain crimes, and in LA it seemed maybe crimes against actors were the drug of choice. He knew the feeling of saying to someone, âIâm sorry, but until there is proof, until someone gets hurt, there is nothing we can do.â Still, these notes were pretty damn specific in what they were saying. As to hiring a bodyguard, BI often took on cases where the victims didnât want police involved so that was nothing new.
âAnyway, no cops. Whoever pays Pretty Boyâs wages wants it kept low-key. A vulnerable actor makes for a shit âheroic, in-your-face vampire copâ and the show is, and I quote, âcoming up for renewalâ.â
âA dead actor isnât going to cut it much for renewal either,â Adam deadpanned.
âI checked into the initials IR; the convention organizers are cooperating but no one on their lists matches up with those initials. There are a mix of UK, European, and US fans attending the convention. Not that we can narrow it down, the letters came from the UK, tracked through to an East London PO address in Greenwich so it could be anyone already here. No addresses in the convention database match though. There are fourteen hundred attendees; itâs a big pool of bodies, eighty-five percent of them female.â
Adam looked down at the letters. Despite the statistics offered to him it would be foolish to accept at face value that a woman had written the letters. There was also no evidence that whoever wrote them would desire to drive a car straight at Logan. Nothing matched just yet and you couldnât just cut out an entire gender based on assumption.
Ross continued, âLogan Brady is staying at the Upton Levington Manor Hotel. Itâs a suite with three bedrooms so youâre sleeping there. I booked it through from tonight so whoever got the contract can get sorted.â
Adam closed the folder and knocked it once on the desktop to align the paper. A familiar buzz of excitement shot through him. Getting his teeth into a job was always a good thing. Whatever the case was.
âGood luck with your Pretty Boy, Blondie,â Ross called as Adam was leaving. A middle finger up at his friend through the glass was a nice end to the visit. He was still smiling when he reached his car over the fact he'd managed to hide Ross's stapler again. When would the man ever learn to leave the damned thing where Adam couldnât see it?
Death of a Pirate King by Josh Lanyon
CHAPTER ONEIt was not my kind of party.
Sure, some people might think the dead guy made it my kind of party, but that wouldn't be a fair assessment of my entertainment needs-or my social calendar. I mean, it had been a good two years since I'd last been involved in a murder investigation.
I sell books for a living. I write books too, but not enough to make a living at it. I did happen to sell one book I wrote to the movies, which is what I was doing at a Hollywood party, which, like I said, is not my scene. Or at least, was not my scene until Porter Jones slumped over and fell face first into his bowl of vichyssoise.
I'm sorry to say my initial reaction, as he keeled over, was relief.
I'd been nodding politely as he'd rambled on for the past ten minutes, trying not to wince as he gusted heavy alcoholic sighs my way during his infrequent pauses, my real attention on screenwriter Al January, who was sitting on the other side of me at the long crowded luncheon table. January was going to be working on the screen adaptation of my first novel Murder Will Out. I wanted to hear what he had to say.
Instead I heard all about deep sea fishing for white marlin in St. Lucia.
I pushed back from the table as the milky tide of soup spilled across the linen tablecloth. Someone snickered. The din of voices and silverware on china died.
âFor God's sake, Porter!â exclaimed Mrs. Jones from across the table.
Porter's shoulders were twitching and I thought for a moment that he was laughing, although what was funny about breathing soup, I'd no idea-having sort of been through it myself recently.
âWas it something you said, Adrien?â Paul Kane, our host, joked to me. He rose as though to better study Jones. He had one of those British public school accents that make insignificant comments like Would you pass the butter sound as interesting as Fire when ready!
Soup dripped off the table into my empty seat. I stared at Porter's now-motionless form: the folds on the back of his thick tanned neck, the rolls of brown flab peeping out beneath the indigo-blue Lacoste polo, his meaty, motionless arm with the gold Rolex watch. Maybe forty seconds all told, from the moment he toppled over to the moment it finally dawned on me what had actually happened.
âOh, hell,â I said, and hauled Porter out of his plate. He sagged right and crashed down onto the carpet taking my chair and his own with him.
âPorter!â shrieked his wife, now on her feet, bleached blonde hair spilling over her plump freckled shoulders.
âJesus Christ,â exclaimed Paul Kane staring down, his normal unshakable poise deserting him. âIs he-?â
It was hard to say what Porter was exactly. His face was shiny with soup; his silvery mustache glistened with it. His pale eyes bulged as though he were outraged to find himself in this position. His fleshy lips were open but he made no protest. He wasn't breathing.
I knelt down, said, âDoes anyone know CPR? I don't think I can manage it.â
âSomeone call 911!â Kane ordered, looking and sounding like he did on the bridge of the brigantine in The Last Corsair.
âWe can trade off,â Al January told me, crouching on the other side of Porter's body. He was a slim and elegant sixty-something, despite the cherry red trousers he wore. I liked his calm air; you don't expect calm from a man wearing cherry-red trousers.
âI'm getting over pneumonia,â I told him. I shoved the fallen chairs aside, making room next to Porter.
âUh oh,â January said and bent over Porter.
* * * * *
By the time the paramedics arrived it was all over.
By then we had all adjourned to the drawing room of the old Laurel Canyon mansion. There were about thirty of us, everyone, with the exception of myself, involved one way or the other with movies and movie-making.
I looked at the ormolu clock on the elegant fireplace mantle and thought I should call Natalie. She had a date that evening and had wanted to close the bookstore early. I needed to give Guy a call too. No way was I going to have the energy for dinner out tonight-even if we did get away in the next hour or so.
Porter's wife, who looked young enough to be his daughter, was sitting over by the piano crying. A couple of the other women were absently soothing her. I wondered why she wasn't being allowed in there with him. If I was dying I'd sure want someone I loved with me.
Paul Kane had disappeared for a time into the dining room where the paramedics were still doing whatever there was left to do.
He came back in and said, âThey've called the police.â
There were exclamations of alarm and dismay.
Okay, so it wasn't a natural death. I'd been afraid of that. Not because of any special training or because I had a particular knack for recognizing foul play-no, I just had really, really bad luck.
Porter's wife-âAlly,â they were calling her-looked up and said, âHe's dead?â I thought it was pretty clear he was a goner from the moment he landed flat on his back like a harpooned walrus, but maybe she was the optimistic kind. Or maybe I'd just had too much of the wrong kind of experience.
The women with her began doing that automatic shushing thing again.
Kane walked over to me, and said with that charming, practiced smile, âHow are you holding up?â
âMe? Fine.â
His smile informed me that I wasn't fooling anyone, but actually I felt all right. After two weeks of hospital, any change of scenery was an improvement, and unlike most of the people there I knew what to expect once someone died a public and unexpected death.
Kane sat down on a giant chintz-covered ottoman--the room had clearly been professionally decorated because nothing about Paul Kane suggested cabbage roses or ormolu clocks--fastened those amazing blue eyes on me, and said, âI've got a bad feeling about this.â
âWell, yeah,â I said. Violent death in the dining room? Generally not a good thing.
âDid Porter say anything to you? I couldn't help noticing that he had you pinned down.â
âHe mostly talked about salt water big game fishing.â
âAh. His passion.â
âPassion is good,â I said.
Kane smiled into my eyes. âIt can be.â
I smiled back tiredly. I didn't imagine that he was coming onto me; it was moreâŠan actor picking up his cue.
He patted my knee and rose. âIt shouldn't take much longer,â he said, with the optimism of inexperience.
They kept us waiting for probably another forty minutes and then the doors to the drawing room opened silently on well-oiled hinges, and two cops in suits walked in. One was about thirty, Hispanic, with the tightly coiled energy of the ambitious young dick, and the other was Jake Riordan.
It was a jolt. Jake was a lieutenant now so there was no reason why he'd be here at a crime scene--except that this was a high profile crime scene.
It was like seeing him for the first time--only this time around I had insider knowledge.
He looked older. Still ruggedly good-looking in that big, blond, take-no-prisoners way. But thinner, sharper around the edges. Harder. It had been two years since I'd last seen him. They didn't appear to have been a fun-filled two years, but he still had that indefinable something. Like a young Steve McQueen or a mature Russell Crowe. Hanging around the movie crowd, you start thinking in cinema terms.
I watched his tawny eyes sweep the room and find Paul Kane. I saw the relief on Kane's face, and I realized that they knew each other. Something in the way their gazes met, locked, then broke--not anything anyone else would have caught. I just happened to be in a position to know what that particular look of Jake's meant.
And since I was familiar with the former Detective Riordan's extra-curricular activities, I guessed that meant the rumors about Paul Kane were true.
âFolks, can I have your attention,â the younger detective said. âThis is Lieutenant Riordan and I'm Detective Alonzo.â He proceeded to explain that Porter Jones appeared to have been the victim of some kind of poisoning and they were going to ask us a few questions, starting with who had been seated next to the victim during the meal.
Paul Kane said, âThat would be Valarie and Adrien.â
Jake's gaze followed Paul Kane's indication. His eyes lit on me. Just for a second his face seemed to freeze. I was glad I'd had a few seconds' warning. I was able to look right through him, which was a small satisfaction.
âI don't understand,â the newly widowed Ally was protesting. âAre you saying-what are you saying? That Porter was murdered?â
âMa'am,â Detective Alonzo said in a pained way.
Jake said something quietly to Paul Kane, who answered. Jake interrupted Alonzo.
âMrs. Jones, why don't we move next door?â He guided her towards a side door off the lounge. He nodded for Alonzo to follow him in.
A uniformed officer took Alonzo's place and asked us to please be patient and refrain from speaking with each other-and immediately everyone started speaking, mostly protesting.
The side door opened again and everyone looked guiltily towards the doorway. Ally Porter was ushered straight out.
âThe performance of a lifetime,â Al January commented next to me.
I glanced at him and he smiled.
âValarie Rose,â Detective Alonzo requested.
A trim forty-something brunette stood up. Rose was supposed to direct Murder Will Out, assuming we actually got to the filming stage-which at the moment felt unlikely. She wore minimal makeup and a dark pantsuit. She looked perfectly poised as she passed Detective Alonzo and disappeared into the inner chamber.
She was in there for about fifteen minutes and then the door opened; without speaking to anyone she crossed into the main room. Detective Alonzo announced, âAdrien English?â
Kind of like when your name gets called in the doctor's office: That's right, Adrien. This won't hurt a bit. I felt the silent wall of eyes as I went into the side room.
It was a comfortable room, probably Paul Kane's study. He seemed like the kind of guy who would affect a study. Glass fronted bookcases, a big fireplace, and a lot of leather furniture. There was a table and chairs to one side where they were obviously conducting their questioning. Jake stood at a large bay window that looked down over the back garden. I spared one look at his stony profile, then sat down at the table across from Detective Alonzo.
âOkayâŠâ Alonzo scratched a preliminary note on a pad.
Jake turned. âThat's Adrien with an 'e',â he informed his partner. âMr. English and I have met.â
That was one way to put it. I had a sudden uncomfortably vivid memory of Jake whispering into my hair, âBaby, what you do to meâŠ.â An ill-timed recollection if there ever was one.
âYeah?â If Alonzo recognized there was any tension in the air, he gave no sign of it, probably because there's always tension in the air around cops. âSo where do you live, Mr. English?â
We got the details of where I lived and what I did for a living out of the way fast. Then Alonzo asked, âSo how well did you know Mr. Jones?â
âI met him for the first time this afternoon.â
âMs. Beaton-Jones says you and the deceased had a long, long talk during the meal?â
Beaton-Jones? Oh, right. This was Hollywood. Hyphens were a fashion accessory. Ms. Beaton-Jones would be Porter's wife, I guessed.
I replied, âHe talked, I listened.â One thing I've learned the hard way is not to volunteer any extra information to the police.
I glanced at Jake. He was staring back out the window. There was a gold wedding band on his left hand. It kept catching the light. Like a heliograph.
âWhat did he talk about?â
âTo be honest, I don't remember the details. It was mostly about deep sea fishing. For marlin. On his forty-five foot Hatteras luxury sport-fishing yacht.â
Jake's lips twitched as he continued to gaze out the window.
âYou're interested in deep sea fishing, Mr. English?â
âNot particularly.â
âSo how long did you talk?â
âMaybe ten minutes.â
âCan you tell us what happened then?â
âI turned away to take a drink. He-Porter-justâŠfell forward onto the table.â
âAnd what did you do?â
âWhen I realized he wasn't moving, I grabbed his shoulder. He slid out of his chair and landed on the floor. Al January started CPR.â
âDo you know CPR, sir?â
âYes.â
âMrs. Beaton-Jones said you refused to administer CPR to her husband.â
I blinked at him. Looked at Jake. His tawny eyes were zeroed in on mine.
âAny reason for that, sir? Are you HIV-positive by any chance?â
âNo.â I was a little surprised at how angry I was at the question. I said shortly, âI'm getting over pneumonia. I didn't think I could do an adequate job of resuscitating him. If no one else had volunteered, I'd have tried.â
âPneumonia? That's no fun.â This also from the firm's junior partner. âWere you hospitalized by any chance?â
âYeah. Five fun-filled days and nights at Huntington Hospital. I'll be happy to give you the name and number of my doctor.â
âWhen were you discharged?â
âTuesday morning.â
âAnd you're already back doing the party scene?â That was Jake with pseudo-friendly mockery. âHow do you know Paul Kane?â
âWe met once before today. He's optioned my series character for a possible film. He thought it would be a good idea for me to meet the director and screenwriter, and he suggested this party.â
âSo you're a writer,â Detective Alonzo inquired. He checked his notes as though to emphasize that I'd failed to mention this vital point.
I nodded.
âAmong other things,â remarked Jake.
I thought maybe he ought to curb it if he didn't want speculation about our former friendship. But maybe marriage and a lieutenancy made him feel bullet-proof. He didn't interrupt as Detective Alonzo continued to probe.
I answered his questions, but I was thinking of the first time I'd met Paul Kane. Living in Southern California, you get used to seeing âmovie stars.â Speaking from experience they are usually shorter, thinner, freckled, and blemished. And in real life their hair is almost never as good. Paul Kane was the exception. He was gorgeous in an old-fashioned matinee-idol way. An Errol Flynn way. Tall, built like something chiseled out of marble, midnight-blue eyes, sun-streaked brown hair. Almost too handsome, really. I prefer them a little rougher around the edges. Like Jake.
âHey, pretty exciting!â Alonzo offered, just as though it wasn't Hollywood where everyone is writing a script on spec or has a book being optioned. âSo what's your book about?â
A little dryly I explained what my book was about.
Alonzo raised his eyebrows at the idea of a gay Shakespearean actor and amateur sleuth making it to the big screen, but kept scribbling away.
Jake came over to the table and sat down across from me. My neck muscles clenched so tight I was afraid my head would start to shake.
âBut you also run this Cloak and Dagger mystery bookstore in Pasadena?â Alonzo inquired. âWas Porter Jones a customer?â
âNot that I know of. I never saw him before today.â I made myself look at Jake. He was staring down. I looked to see if my body language was communicating homicidal mania. In the light flooding from the bay window my hands looked thin and white, a tracery of blue veins right beneath the surface.
I folded my arms and leaned back in my chair, trying to look more nonchalant than defensive.
We'd been talking for thirty minutes, which seemed like an unreasonable time to question someone who hadn't even known the victim. They couldn't honestly think I was a suspect. Jake couldn't honestly think I'd bumped this guy off. I glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. Five o'clock.
Alonzo circled back to the general background stuff that is mostly irrelevant but sometimes turns up an unexpected lead.
To his surprise and my relief, Jake said abruptly, âI think that's about it. Thanks for your time, Mr. English. We'll be in touch if we need anything further.â
I opened my mouth to say something, but what came out was a laugh. Short and sardonic. It caught us both by surprise.
Silent Sin by EJ Russell
Chapter One
July 28, 1921
Robbie slid the last crate of fruit out of Mr. Samsonâs truck and only wobbled a little as he handed it off to a grocerâs assistant on the dusty Bakersfield road. He took off his battered straw hat, wiped the sweat off his forehead with the side of his arm, and settled the hat back on his head. Not that it kept out much sunâit was more holes than straw by this time.
Mr. Samson, the orange grower Robbie had been helping for the last two days, strolled out of the little store, tucking a wallet into his back pocket. Robbie snatched his hat off his head again.
âWill there be anything else, sir?â
âNot here.â Samsonâs gaze slid away from his. âDonât have the cash to pay you anything now, but I might have something for you back home at the groves.â He nodded at the truck. âIâll give you a lift.â
Robbieâs empty belly sank toward his toes, but he forced a smile. Heâd learned in the last six weeks that the promise of a job rarely translated into money in his pocket, even if he actually did the work. A lift with the promise of work at the end of the rideâanything that got him farther from Idaho, reallyâwas more than he could hope for. âThank you, sir.â He stumbled toward the truck cab.
âHold on, you. Not up front.â Samson jerked his thumb toward the truck bed. âBack there. But give us a crank first.â
Robbie nodded and scuffed through the dirt, where a pebble worked its way through the hole in the bottom of his right boot. He waited for Samson to get behind the wheel and then gave the handle a practiced crank. The engine caught, and the truck belched exhaust. Robbie hurried to the rear before Samson could change his mind about the lift too.
As he was about to scramble over the tailgate, he spotted half a dozen discarded half-squashed fruitsâa lemon and five orangesâalmost beneath the wheels. He scrabbled them out of the dust, rolled them into the truck bed, and heaved himself in after them. The jerk when Samson put the truck in gear nearly sent Robbie over backward, but he grabbed on to one of the rough slats that bracketed the bed to save himself, driving a sliver into his thumb.
He crawled forward, herding his contraband in front of him until he could sit with his back to the cab. As the truck jounced along, raising clouds of dust in its wake, Robbie gathered the precious fruit in his lap and hunched over his knees. Fingers trembling, he tore into the skin of the first orange and dropped the peel through the slats. He shoved the first section into his mouth and moaned as the tart juice hit his parched mouth and throat. Squashed or not, this is pure heaven. How wonderful that people can grow something this marvelous, let alone make a living at it.
His last meal was nothing but a hazy memory, so he ate one fruit after anotherâeven the lemon, so sour it made his eyes waterâas the string of discarded peels fell behind, a trail of gold dimmed by dust.
After he polished off the last orange, he licked his fingers. Then he picked at the sliver in this thumb as he tried to dodge puddles of fermenting juice whenever Mr. Samson took a corner too sharply. The exhaustion of weeks of rough travel, most of it on foot, caught up with him, and he fell into a fitful doze.
With a bone-rattling thump, the truck pulled to a stop. Robbie blinked, disoriented, and peered around in the glare of the setting sun. Where are we? His heart sank when he took in the sturdy buildings lining both sides of the road. A good-sized town. He tried to keep to open country whenever he couldâless chance of getting work, but easier to find a stream for a drink and a wash or a secluded barn where he could catch enough shut-eye to go on the next day.
Mr. Samson slapped the side of the truck. âEnd of the line, kid.â
Robbie scrambled to his feet and wiped his hands on his trousers, not that it did much good. His pants were as sticky as the truck bed.
He hopped down onto the road and caught the tailgate when a wave of dizziness threatened to take him down for the count. âThanks for the lift. I appreciate it.â
Mr. Samson tilted his cowboy hat back and scratched his forehead. âNo skin off my nose. You were a good worker. But turns out, now I think about it, I donât need any help on the farm.â He shrugged. âSorry.â
âI understand. Thanks anyway.â He wished he hadnât fallen asleep on the ride. He had no idea where he was. âDoes this road lead to Mexico?â
Mr. Samson hitched his dungarees up under his prosperous paunch. âWhatta you want to go there for? Nothing you can get there that you canât get here.â
âWhereâs here?â
He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. âHollywood.â
Robbie shaded his eyes with one hand and scanned the storefronts across the road. Hollywood Dry Goods. Hollywood Haberdashers. Hollywood Drug Store. âI guess it is.â
With a touch of his hat brim, Mr. Samson climbed into his truck. âGive us another crank, will you?â
Robbie complied and then backed away as the truck rattled off up a side street.
What the heck can I do in a place like this? Robbie doubted his years of scratching out a living on a potato farm would qualify him for work in some other growerâs orange grove. There werenât any factories that he could see, and Hollywood Haberdashers wouldnât hire somebody with only one set of clothesâand those almost too worn to be decent.
Mexico still seemed like the best bet, but suddenly he couldnât muster the energy to take the next step or cadge the next lift or scrounge the next dime.
So he shoved his hands in his empty pockets, forced his back straight, and strode down the sidewalk as though he truly had someplace to go, as though he wasnât adrift or as castaway as his namesakeâRobinson Crusoe Goodman. He shook his head as he followed the route Mr. Samsonâs truck had taken, away from the main street and up a slight hill. Ma sure had some odd notions when it came to naming her sons. Eddie had been lucky. At least Pa had put his foot down over Oedipus.
At the back of Mr. Samsonâs orange grove, Robbie found a wooden shack worthy of his old manâs farm and secured with nothing but a two-by-four across its door. He slipped inside and blinked until his eyes adjusted to the gloom after the brightness of the westering sun. The dirt floor was littered with arm-long sections of metal pipe as big around as his head, and a stack of broken crates leaned against the wall like a rummy whoâd never heard of the Volstead Actânot the most comfortable flop but better than he had any right to expect.
He curled up on the floor with his back to the wall, arms wrapped across his belly, and begged sleep to take him before he cried.
*******
âIâm not working with Boyd Brody again, Sid. I canât.â Martin Brentwood met his own gaze in the mirror over the drink cart in his living room. God, he looked like ten miles of bad road. âHe tried to drown me.â
Sid Howard, Martinâs manager, emerged from the kitchen, drying his hands on a dish towel. âCome on, Marty. He was just kidding. Giving you the business, same as he does with any actor. You canât take this personal.â
âI damn well do take it personally. Heâd never try that shit with Fairbanks.â
âShite.â
Martin frowned at Sid. âWhat?â
âA baronetâs son from Hertfordshire wouldnât say âshit.ââ
âBut Iâm not a baronetâs son from Hertfordshire.â Martin sloshed more gin into his glass. âThat would be you. Me? Iâm only a tailorâs apprentice from Flushing.â
Sid tossed the towel on top of the piano and pried the glass out of Martinâs grip. âNo. That would be me. And donât forget it, even when weâre alone. Even in your own head. Itâs easier to remember the lies if you live âem full-time.â Sid sniffed the contents of the tumbler and made a face. âAnd donât drink this shit. Youâll go blind.â
âIâll have you know this gin was brewed in Barstowâs finest bathtubs.â Martin shuffled to the davenport and flopped down on the cushions. âBut youâre right.â He bared his teeth. âItâs shite.â
âThatâs more like it.â Sid settled in the wingback chair across from Martin. âSo. I met with Jacob Schlossberg today.â
âBetter you than me,â Martin muttered. âI loathe the bastard, and the feeling is decidedly mutual.â
âMaybe. But the reasons for the hate are different. You hate him because heâsââ
âA pontificating blowhard with delusions of grandeur and the morals of a weasel?â
âBecause,â Sid raised his voice over Martinâs, âheâs the one who controls your career.â
âHeâs not the only one. Ira owns half the studio.â
âYeah, but Iraâs the talent-facing brother. Jacobâs got his sausage-like finger on the studioâs financial pulse. And when it comes down to it, at Citadel Motion Pictures, moneyâll trump talent every time.â
Martin snorted. âSo much for art.â
âPictures arenât art, Marty. Theyâre business. Big business. And if nobody pays to see your picture, it donât matter if itâs as arty as the Russian crown-fucking jewels.â
âReally, Sid,â Martin murmured. âYour language.â
Sid grinned. âUnlike some, I donât forget who Iâm supposed to be.â Sid folded his hands on his knee, and no matter how much he might be able to ape a working-class stiff from Queens, if anybody in Hollywood paid attention, his hands would give him away. Tailorâs apprentices didnât have the kind of practiced grace that had been drilled into Sid when he was busy getting kicked out of every prep school in England.
âAs I said, I met with Jacob today.â
âAnd?â
Sidâs heavy brows drew together. âHe and Ira are split on whether they want to re-up your contract. Iraâs liked you since he brought you in from Inceville and put you in a suit instead of a cowboy hat. He thinks youâre the best bet the studio has to counter Valentino. But Jacob⊠wellâŠ.â
âI know, I know. He hates queers.â
âNobody knows for sure that youâre queer, Marty.â Sidâs scowl said, âAnd keep it that wayâ louder than words could. âAnyway, Jacob may hate queers personally, but he depends on them too, as long as theyâre in their place.â
Martinâs snort was a low-class sound, but nobody could hear him except Sid, who already knew the truth. Sid had invented Martinâs backstory. Hell, Sid had lived Martinâs backstory and heâd traded it with Martinâs when it became obvious which one of them could make a go of it in pictures.
âRight. In wardrobe. In the art department. Where the public never sees.â
âItâs not the invisibility that he cares about. He covets their taste. He knows heâs got none. Heâs a stevedoreâs son from the Bronx. He craves sophistication, so youâll keep delivering it, because the only thing Jacob really hates is a threat to his profits. You can be as queer as Dickâs bloody hatband and he wouldnât care as long as your pictures make money. But they wonât make money if your fans turn away. Remember what happened to Jack Kerrigan.â
âKerriganâs popularity dropped because he made that asinine comment about being too good to go to war, not because heâs queer.â
âExactly. But with the Hollywood press in their back pocket, the studio didnât lift a finger to save him. Heâd become a liability with all his talk about no woman measuring up to Mother, and his lover tucked cozily away downstairs, masquerading as his secretary. You donât want to be in that position.â
Martin pinched his eyes closed. âIf itâs not because they suspect Iâm in the life, then what is it? The cocaine? Because I told you, Iâm never taking that stuff again, no matter how much the studio doctor prescribes.â
âNo. Itâs because of your last driver. What was his name? Homer?â
âVernon, actually.â
âRight. Well, they donât like that you fired him.â
âI fired him because he was a manipulative son of a bitch who saw driving a studio car as a sure way to stardom, provided he could fuck the right people.â
âSwive.â
âWhat? Are you telling me a baronetâs son wouldnât say fuck?â
âBaronetsâ sons definitely do, especially when imprisoned at boarding school with dozens of other baronetsâ sons. But Martin Brentwood, leading man and one of Hollywoodâs finest gentlemen, does not.â
Martin leaned his head on the cushions. âJesus, Sid. Donât you ever get tired of the act?â
âIâll keep up with the act as long as it pays the bills. And so will you.â Sid crossed his legs. âI met with Ira too. He needs you back in to do retakes on that pro-Prohibition picture you wrapped last week.â
Martin groaned. âGood lord. Must we pander to the temperance unions and morality clubs even more? Wasnât it enough that I died horribly in the gutter at the end?â Martin should have gotten a clue about where his career was headed when he was cast as the drunken lout instead of the fellow who heroically takes an axe to the kegs of evil whiskey.
âIt has nothing to do with your performance. There were light flares in some of the scenes, and the cutter canât fix it.â
âVery well. Iâll return tomorrow to die again.â
âGood. They expect you at ten.â
âTen.â Martin cracked open an eye. âThatâs a civilized hour, but how am I supposed to get there? No chauffeur, remember? The studio still wonât let me drive, and you refuse to learn how. Iâd take the streetcar, butââ
âNo. The last time you tried that, you nearly caused a riot.â Sid stood up and collected his briefcase from the ormolu side table. âIâll contact the studio. Theyâll assign you a driver, although you may have to share.â He lifted one perfectly straight eyebrow. âYouâre not Valentino, after all. Yet.â
âIsnât it grand that I donât want to be, then?â
Sid sighed. âMarty, you need to think about your image. The studioâll only protect you as long as youâre an asset, and youâll only be an asset ifââ
âIf I make Jacob enough money.â
âIf you donât make their job harder. Having a car at your disposal twenty-four hours a day is more of a temptation than you need right now.â
Martin pushed himself upright with clenched fists. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
âLay off the steak and pinochle parties with Bill Taylor and George Hopkins. Stay away from Pershing Square. The only reason Homerââ
âVernon,â Martin murmured.
ââwas a real threat was because he suspected what was really going on there. If one of those jokers decides to spill to the pressââ
âThey wouldnât. Nobody whoâs in the life would ever give me away. We donât do that to one other. Not ever.â
âThatâs what everyone says until the first time. If anyone suspects the truthââ
âTruth? This is Hollywood, Sid. Truth is what the fan rags print, and the studios have all of them in their back pockets, cheek by jowl with their string of crooked cops.â
âMaybe. But you canât depend on that lasting forever. Remember Kerrigan.â Sid settled his straw boater on his head. âA studio driverâll pick you up tomorrow by nine thirty. Iâll take care of it.â
Martin heaved himself to his feet to walk Sid to the door. âThanks, Sid.â
âAnd next time? If youâre gonna fire your driver, at least make sure you wait until he takes you home.â
âYeah, yeah.â
Sid grabbed Martinâs wrist, his dark eyes serious. âI mean it, Marty. Be careful. This may be your last chance at Citadel, but if you pick the wrong man, you may not have another chance at anything.â
Martin opened his mouth to argue, but Sid walked out before he could gather his thoughts. He stood in the doorway as Sid strode down the sidewalk, the July sun beating down on the dusty boxwood hedges that lined the bungalow court.
Damn it, heâs right.
The places where it was safe to be a man who preferred men were fewâNew York, San Francisco, Hollywood. And even there, security was an illusion. The only thing that shielded them was the total obliviousness of most of the country. Hell, they didnât even have a word for it.
In the life. A nice, nondescript phrase that could mean anything. But to the men and women who sought their partners from their own gender, its very blandness was the only thing that stood between them and ruin, scandal, imprisonment⊠worse. With sodomy laws on the books in every state, the punishment for a conviction could be positively medieval.
Martin shuddered, and as he wandered back to the drink cart, the streetcar bell clanged on Alvarado. Iâve still got some of my costumes from my vaudeville days. I could take the trolley to Pershing Square. Just for a little while. If he dressed in the rough clothes of a dockworker or the cheap suit of a salesman, nobody would know him for Martin Brentwood, movie star.
He leaned his forehead against the wall, excitement warring with shame in his belly. One last time. Without a driver, nobody would know.
So much of being a star was in behaving like one. Presenting yourself like a person who would prompt people in middle America to shell out their dough for the privilege of watching you caper around on a screen for an hour or two. Hell, heâd heard United Artists was going to charge a two-dollar admission for Fairbanksâs next picture.
It was nuts.
It was nuts, but Sid was right. It paid the billsâhis and Sidâs. He owed it to them both not to destroy his career, not to destroy his life. Because the sailors in Pershing Square might be thrillingly rough, but you never knew where theyâd been. The last thing he needed was a case of the clap. Sid was right about that too.
Martin wandered over to his desk. He had a pile of fan mail that needed answering. He probably should do thatâhe had few enough fans left. Heâd best keep the faithful remnants happy.
With one last sorrowful glance at the gin bottle, he sat down and picked up his fountain pen.
All the King's Men by RJ Scott
Prologue
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the kingâs horses and all the kingâs men
Couldnât put Humpty together again!
*****
California is one of Americaâs most earthquake-prone states.
The boundary between the massive Pacific and North American tectonic plates, the notorious San Andreas Fault, runs roughly southeast to northwest through much of California. In addition, a jumble of lesser transverse faults clutters the map of the state.
Sides of the San Andreas Fault move in the opposite direction, but at different speeds, causing geologic tension to build. That tension is released in the form of an earthquake. The possibility is always present for associated earthquakes among the nearby transform faults.
The U.S. Geological Survey says the state faces a forty-six percent chance of being hit by a Richter Scale magnitude 7.5 or higher earthquake in the next thirty years.
Possibly even today.
Chapter 1
Thursday 6:52 a.m.
Iâm coming to you⊠Early morning flight to LAX⊠I donât want to play phone tag anymore⊠I just want to see you face to face and talk⊠I miss you, Nate⊠Iâm sorry⊠I love you.
Nathan Richardson leaned against the park gates and pocketed his cell after listening to his loverâs voicemail for what must be at least the twentieth time. The message was emotional and Ryanâs voice was choked as he spoke. Still, in the few words Nathan heard he got the message. He and Ryan needed to do one hell of a lot of talking.
Theyâd been together two years, Ryan a photographer and Nathan his model. It was the worst clichĂ© ever and surely destined to fail. But not them. They were in love and going strong. Nathan wanted forever, commitment, a place they owned together, hell, even a ring. Ryan, older than Nathan by five years, had too many breakups under his belt to think that a happy ever after was even possible.
When Nathan was offered a part in a small independent movie, it had been the beginning of the end. Nathan had used modeling to finance acting classes and he jumped at the chance to join the cast of an independent gay film with a contract for two monthsâ work and an audition for a soap as a new love interest in some kind of triangle.
Nathan expected Ryan to protestâfor his lover to tell Nathan he couldnât live without him and not to go. Instead Ryan grew quieter by the day and merely encouraged Nathan to take the role. Nathan could see what was happeningâRyan was subtly saying he didnât want a forever kind of thing anyway. Ryan was ending their love affair while he had the chance to be in control of how it ended. They didnât fight. They drifted apart and Nathan let it happen.
That had been two months ago.
Two days ago Ryan had texted him. I miss you. So much.
Nathan didnât know what to type in return. Ryan wasnât exactly offering endless love and a ring. But when Nathan read those few words he knew getting over Ryan was unachievable. He loved the man, and always would. His friend Jason wanted him to move on. He could no more move on from Ryan than he could turn straight.
Ryan was the other half of him.
I love you, Nathan sent in reply.
I want forever, Ryan texted back.
I can go for that, Nathan replied quickly.
I can get a flight. Unspoken was asking if Ryan could visit Nathan.
Please.
Despite staring at the screen for an hour, there were no more messages.
Then the voicemail came when Nathan was on his run. Heartfelt and perfect. The two of them could make this real. Not long and his lover would be here, then they could clear the air and maybe he and Ryan could find a way to move on.
Ryan Ortiz said he was ready for forever and Nathan wanted that so badly.
He had run here, the opposite side of the US, to give Ryan time to think about what he felt and what he wanted. It had killed him not to be calling Ryan every day, but Nathan knew Ryan and knew his best bet was to not pressure his lover. His gaze passed over where he now lived, a place so very different from his and Ryanâs former home in the chaos and noise of New York.
A small complex of four apartments, quiet and remote, the peace and solitude suited his frame of mind perfectly. He lived in this two-bedroom apartment in the hills beyond LA, rented from an absentee landlord, and had made it his own with photos of family and even one of him and Ryan in happier times. As much as he wished he could, he hadnât been able to cut Ryan out of his thoughts, or his life.
He stood in the roughhewn park carved out across the road from his home and looked away from his sanctuary to the nature that surrounded him. The park itself was a jumble of trees and rocks, grass and pathways, some steeply climbing higher into the hills, some gently curving and ideal for his attempted runs. The nearest main road was a quarter-mile away, and most people drove past the entrance to the small complex without realizing the road led to peopleâs homes.
Jason and his girlfriend had put an offer on one of the two empty apartments. Having his best friend in LA living next door was a good thing. He needed that connection if he couldnât have Ryan in his life on a permanent basis. AlthoughâŠmaybeâŠsomehow he and Ryan could make it work?
Nathan smiled as a cloud of birds rose gracefully from the oak at the edge of the park, heading skyward at an incredible speed. He loved that he was so close to the peace of nature, and the sight of the birds was both eerie and fascinating. He couldnât stop looking at it, wishing he had his camera with him, cursing at another amazing photo opportunity lost.
Suddenly, he couldnât wait to share what heâd seen with Ryan.
*****
Thursday 6:59 am
Ryan Ortiz sat forward in the cab as they rounded a corner. He was desperate to get his Nathan into his arms where Ryan could hold him and tell him that he loved him. The cab was moving too slowly and all the driver wanted to do was talk to him.
âWhat brings you to LA?â
âMy boyfriend lives here.â Nathan.
âSo youâre not a resident?â
âNo, Iâm here from New York, just for a few days.â Hopefully longer if Nathan will take me back.
The questions continued to come. What did he think of the spate of forest fires in the LA hills? Did he think that Lindsay Lohan was for real? Did he have pets? Was he married? Did he want to get married? Was he fighting for equal rights? For the most part, Ryan managed to keep up until he realized that the driver wasnât actually listening to his answers, and so he was able to subside to a new level of tired grunts in answer to each new question. Still dazed from his early morning flight from New York, his mind limped through thought and memory, attempting to make order out of chaos. The views from the taxi, the vista of the city laid out through the misty smog, were gorgeous, and he itched for his camera. It was a very strange feeling not to have it with him, but the rush to get here, to see Nathan, had precluded organizing his extensive camera equipment. It was the first time in his memory heâd gone anywhere without at least one camera.
He missed taking photos of Nate. His gorgeous lover had started as his model for Style and hell, Ryan loved every minute of seeing Nate through the viewfinder. Theyâd slipped into a relationship, a fiery, intense love affair. Then his beautiful lover had revealed he wanted to try acting and even had a role lined up. Although when that had happened Ryan didnât know, as Nathan hadnât told him a thing.
âItâs such a clichĂ©,â Ryan told him. âModel turned actor.â
He was only teasing but Nathan took him so seriously. âItâs just a dream of mine, and Iâm lucky they let me try for it.â
âWhy didnât you tell me you had done this?â
âI thought theyâd laugh me out of the door, I never imagined theyâd say yes.â
Ryan had pulled Nathan into a hug. âIâm proud of you, babe,â he said firmly. Of course, inside heâd faced the finality that he was losing Nathan. No point in a future when they were separated on opposite sides of the US, and he certainly wasnât going to hold Nathan back. It had been easier for Ryan to assume they were ending with Nathanâs move to LA.
Ultimately Nathan left his position with Style and moved permanently to LA, embracing his burgeoning acting career. The arguments increased at the same rate as the distance between them. Ryan had always been the one who picked the fights. Fucking idiot. Ryan fought insecurity and jealousy and the only way he could do that was to pretend Nathan leaving for a new career meant nothing to him.
Nathan got the role in the TV series, up and away from his independent film part, starting with a six-month contract. His picture was emblazoned on page twenty-nine of a teen magazine that Ryanâs assistant left on his desk. The photo was one of Ryanâs, and it was one of his favorites. Nathan, beautiful, shirtless, his lean body stretched with catlike grace, leaning back on his elbows. His jeans were pushed down and his hipbones teased at what was hidden. He was pictured gazing away from the camera thoughtfully, his soft dark hair in disarray around his face. The lighting had been faultless, each coppery highlight in Nathanâs hair picked out in detail. The photo was simply perfect.
They had gone home after that shoot and made love and it was the moment Ryan knew he was head over heels for Nathan. Theyâd exchanged I love youâs and Nathan began to make plans for a future together, a house outside the city maybe, adoption, hell, the whole family thing. Ryan wasnât sure he was capable of all that, but heâd nodded and listened. Then he saw the damn photo again and he knew at that moment he should never have let his fears stop him from believing in what they had.
Ryan didnât hesitate when he saw that photo. He loved Nathan and they had been apart too long. Sure there was a relationship to save, he texted Nathan and Nathan had answered. Ryan impulsively booked a flight immediatelyâthe first flight he could get to LA. He called Nathan from the airport and left a voicemail when Nathan didnât answer. Now he sat in the taxi as the driver steered it up into the hills. He needed to push aside his insecurities, drop to his knees, and beg forgiveness of the one person who made him whole. He hoped he wasnât too late.
*****
7:12 a.m.
After his pathetic, half-hearted stumble-run, Nathan decided he needed to get indoors and get a shower. He wasnât sure what time Ryan would get here but Nathan wanted to be at least halfway decent when he did.
He couldnât help the excitement that flooded him. He really wanted to see if maybe his ex-lover would want to find some kind of resolution. Maybe they could agree to split their time between the two cities?
He was just inside the main door when the floor beneath his feet moved, subtly the first time, slowly, a groaning, a creaking, and a soft shaking. The ground shift left him holding the doorframe. It only lasted a few seconds and was over before he could force a thought about it through the rest of the clutter in his mind. The checklist in his head clicked in automatically before the shaking had stopped. He smiled briefly. That earth movement would be dominating the news today. Hey, maybe today was a good day for him to walk proudly out of the closet! Surely revealing his sexual preferences would never be more newsworthy than an earthquake in Tinseltown.
He thumbed to the number of his brother out of state and hit Send. The phone at the other end rang once, twice, a third time, and voicemail kicked in. He decided not to leave a message. No one really needed to know that a minor shock had hit his apartment in the hills above LA. The trembler hadnât been strong enough to be worthy of hitting the news anywhere outside of California. Nathan had just been trying to be a good citizen, letting a family member know like the government said he should. He made a mental note to charge the damn cell when he finished his shower.
Seconds later, just as Nathan pocketed his cell, the earth around him ripped apart with such savagery that it was impossible to stand upright. Nathan scrabbled to hold the side of the doorframe, trying to find his feet. His vision blurred as dust and concrete fell about his head, knocking him to the ground. Before the shaking stopped, before the ceiling joists cascaded down and trapped his legs, he slammed into unconsciousness.
Lights. Camera. Murder. by CS Poe
GET BENT, DIPSHIT
The love note was scrawled across my grocery list on the refrigerator door. Which was fine. I preferred keeping all my reminders in a central location. Now I knew I needed to pick up milk, sugar, bread, and a new boyfriend.
My cell rang as I splashed some cream into my coffee. I pushed my tortoiseshell glasses up my nose and turned to pick up the phone from the counter behind me.
Caller ID: Nate.
Shocker.
I pressed Accept and put the phone to my ear. âGood morning, sunshine. I got your message.â
âYouâre a sonofabitch, Rory!â
âIâve been called worse things by better people.â
Nateâs audible gasp allowed me enough time to indulge in that first sip of morning coffee. âOnly an asshole breaks up over text message,â he accused.
I winced at his shrill tone, pulled the phone away from my ear, set it to speaker, and put it back on the countertop. âI only have one rule, Nate.â
âScrew your rule.â
âAnd you broke it,â I continued without missing a beat.
âMaybe if you were a contributing member in our relationship, I wouldnât have had to find someone else to fuck me senseless.â
I stared at the phone and messed my already disheveled hair with one hand. âI told you when we started dating just how much I worked.â
âAnd?â
âAnd if you need it day and night, Iâm probably not the most suitable candidate in the dating pool.â
Nate let out a frustrated growl and then shouted loud enough to cause mic distortion, âCan you pretend like you give a damn right now?â
âItâs not worth my energy. You swore to never lie, and I caught you in one.â I took another sip of coffee while he sputtered and hissed. âOh. Iâd like my extra key back.â I gave the note on the fridge a second glance.
âBurn in hell, Rory.â
âHave a good life, Nate.â
âHey, while weâre at itâI fucked your coworker too!â he screamed.
âYeah, I know. Bye-bye.â I hit End, promptly deleted Nateâs contact information from my phone, and walked out of the kitchen.
Dark Horse, White Knight by Josh Lanyon
The post card was nestled between Variety and the Edison bill.Just an ordinary picture postcard. White font proclaimed MALIBU! across the Mai Tai-colored sunset. I turned the card over and there was the spidery black writing I had thought I would never see again.
Miss me?
No signature. No signature needed. I looked at the postmark. Pacific Coast Highway. Yesterday's date.
I stared for a long time while Dan's deep voice receded into the cries of the gulls overhead and the pound of the waves on the beach a few yards away until those too faded to a kind of white noise.
No. God no.
Then Dan stretched across and took the card from my unresisting hand, and I was abruptly back in the present.
The wooden chair creaked as he leaned back, his long muscular body at ease. His dark brows drew together. Absently, he raked his still-wet hair back. It's not like there was a lot to read. One simple sentence.
Miss me?
A rhetorical question if there ever was one.
Water glistened on Dan's broad sun-browned shoulders, one drop trickling down between his rock-hard pecs, sparkling through the dusting of dark hair across his flat abdomen, and the tiny flicker of irritation I'd felt at his arrogance faded in the wake of lust. After nearly a month of playing Bodyguard to the Stars, I couldn't blame him if he still occasionally reacted like he was getting paid for overtime.
âIt's not Hammond,â he said, and tossed the card to the table. It landed face up in a blob of crabapple jelly.
âThe writing is the same.â
âSuperficially. We'd have to get it analyzed. Anyway, it doesn't matter. Say one of his cards was delayed for a few days, it doesn't change the fact that he's dead.â
âIf he is dead.â
His eyes, blue as the surf behind him, met mine levelly. âSean, he's dead. I saw the car. No one could have survived that crash.â
âThen why wasn't his body recovered?â
âIt's somewhere in the aqueduct. I don't know. It must have been swept away or lodged somehow.â
I nodded tightly. It's not like there's high tide in the California Aqueduct.
Dan's large hand slid under my fingers nervously fiddling with a teaspoon. âIt's over, chief. Trust me.â
âI do.â It came out more husky than I intended.
He turned my hand palm up, lightly kissing it. The warmth of his lips against my surf-chilled skin made me shiver. I dropped the teaspoon. It hit the edge of my saucer with a silvery chime. He grinned.
You only ever hear about closeted cops, so Dan's relaxed attitude still caught me off guard. He was probably more at ease with his sexuality than half the âciviliansâ I knew. He sure as hell was more relaxed than me.
I pulled my hand away at the familiar yap-yapping of the four-legged hairball belonging to our nearest neighbor Mrs. Wilgi. Sure enough, a moment later âMrs. Wigglyâ came around the cairn of rocks, armed with her usual binoculars and police whistle.
I caught Dan's eye. His grin was wry. He was getting to read me pretty well.
I said, âHey, for all I know Mrs. Wiggly has a spy cam concealed in her muu muu.â
He forked another waffle off the plate. âI don't even want to think about what that muu muu conceals.â
I laughed. My glance fell on the jam-stained postcard and I made myself look away. If Dan said it was over, it was over. He was the expert here.
All the same, after a year of being stalked, it wasn't so easy to drop my guard. One week after Paul Hammond lost control of his car during a police chase on Highway 138 and crashed into the California Aqueduct, I still tensed when the phone rang, waiting for that familiar whisper. I still sorted through my mail fast, trying to get it over with in case, like today, something ugly fell out of the mix. I still watched the rear view mirror everywhere I drove, although for the past three weeks Lt. Daniel Moran of L.A.P.D. had been riding shotgun with me-when he didn't insist on doing the actual driving.
I said, talking myself away from my anxiety, âI just don't want to turn up in the National Inquirer as the gay Benifer or something.â
âDansean?â Dan suggested, playing along.
âI'm the celebrity,â I pointed out. âMy name gets top billing. MaybeâŠSeandan.â
âYou can be the top anything you like.â Dan's eyes were very blue. âJust say the word.â
Heat rose in my face.
I mean, how ridiculous was that? You'd think I was a blushing virgin of seventeen, instead of which I was a reasonably experienced twenty-five year old veteran of the Hollywood party scene. True, most seventeen-year olds probably saw more action than me-although things were definitely looking up these days.
Automatically, I returned Mrs. Wilgi's wave as she tromped along the shoreline, her red and yellow dress puffing out and flattening against her ungainly body. The dog, barking hysterically, veered off, galloping towards the deck where we sat, as though he'd just noticed this house on the otherwise empty beach.
âDoesn't that thing have an off button?â I murmured.
Mrs. Wilgi began clapping frantically and calling to the dog.
âBinky! Binky!â
âSpeaking of off buttons,â Dan remarked, âI'm supposed to start back at work tomorrow.â
âOh.â
I tried to hide it, but I knew he could see my disappointment.
He said, his tone very casual, âWere you planning to stay out at the beach for a few days or should I drop some things off at the house?â
âThe Houseâ being my place in the Hollywood Hills. My place and now, maybe, Dan's place too. It was still so new this relationship, so unexpected. We were both tentative, feeling our way along. Trying not to take too much for granted. Or spoil it by not taking enough for granted.
I said, going for the same off-hand note, âI was thinking of staying out until next weekend. What do you think? Malibu too far to drive every evening?â
âNot if I'm waking up next to you every morning.â
My heart skipped a beat. How the hell could he say this stuff and not sound corny?
Practice, I guess. Dan was ten years older than me-and they had been an active ten years.
I said, âThat can be arranged.â
We'd been sleeping together for one week, starting with the night Dan had returned home to tell me Hammond had crashed into the aqueduct. But the attraction had been immediate. My manager, Steve Kreiger, kept saying what a great screenplay it would make. Gay cop falls for the gay actor he's assigned to protect from a crazed stalker. And it was true: for once real life was every bit as satisfying as the movies. Dan was a decorated officer frequently held up as the poster boy for the new and improved (read âsensitive and diverseâ) L.A.P.D. It didn't hurt that he was articulate, smart, and old-fashioned movie star handsome. A straight arrow in every way but one-and that one way got him assigned to my bodyguard detail.
So now we were finding out what happened after the screen faded to black and the final credits rolled.
Mrs. Wiggly was blowing her police whistle like a crime was in progress. The fur ball ignored her, standing at the foot of the stairs leading to the deck where Dan and I sat having breakfast, barking shrilly, plumy tail waving frantically.
I tossed a sausage link, just missing its indignant nose. Both Dan and the mutt disapproved of this, the mutt vocally, Dan silently. I was getting to know him well enough to know his silences. I smiled at him and he shook his head a little.
âI'm trying to win him over,â I said.
âI don't think he appreciates your cooking the way I do.â
âI guess not.â
I was going to miss our early morning swims followed by these lazy breakfasts. I was going to miss having Dan around all day. Hopefully I'd be going back to work myself before long. But what happened if the next film I got required a location shoot? Dan and I were way too new to survive extended long distance. I knew, without asking, that he would not be willing to hang up his career in law enforcement to keep me company in New Zealand or Romania for twelve weeks. And I was at a place in my own career where I had to pick my projects carefully.
He pushed his chair back and said, âI think I'll have a quick shower and drive into town. I want to pick up a few things.â
âOkay.â My gaze wandered back to the postcard.
âWant to help me try out my new back-scrubber?â
I laughed. He made it so easy. I rose, dismissing the card, but as I followed Dan indoors, I couldn't help wondering if Paul Hammond hadn't sent that card, who had?
* * * * *
âGotta admit, I had my doubts about you when I saw the pink bubble bath.â Dan squirted pastel gel into the ramie mitt and slid it over my shoulders. Scented steam rose from the granite floor of the large shower stall.
âMm. That feels good.â I bent my head and he smoothed the mitt down the nape of my neck. âIt's not bubble bath. It's shampoo slash shower gel. There's a difference.â
âYou'd know. I've never seen so many grooming aids in one bathroom.â The rough cotton felt good on my wet skin and Dan applied just the right amount of pressure. I relaxed-only recognizing at that moment how wound up I'd been.
âTools of the trade,â I informed him. âI'm a commodity. I'm in business and I am my product.â
âThat attitude and a pair of tight jeans will get you arrested on Hollywood Boulevard.â
âAttitude is everything,â I quoted sententiously.
He pulled me back against his own wet hard body. I arched my neck for his kiss and his mouth closed on mine, warm and male and with a hint of the tart-sweetness of crabapple. Our tongues slid together, twined. My heart started that heavy slow beat that matched the throb in my groin.
âYou are so beautiful...â
âI bet you say that to all th-â His hands slid over my slick body, flicking my nipples and I moaned into his mouth, words failing me. If felt so good. Everything he did felt good. He never made a wrong move; that was the advantage of having so much experience. Of course that kind of expertise was a little intimidating sometimes.
Putting my hands over his, I held them against my chest. He palmed the nipples, back and forth, just the right amount of teasing abrasion.
I turned to face him; wrapped my arms around him.
Smoothing the mitt over my ass, Dan gave one cheek a playful squeeze before sweeping the mitt up my spine. My dick came up like a divining rod, nudging his already hard thickness. Heart pounding, I pressed against him, wanting more, wanting closer. I was surprised the shower drops didn't sizzle on my skin; I was so hot for him. Dan shook off the mitt and his hands closed on my ass, urging me closer. I groaned, feeling for his cock.
âYeah, Sean, just like that,â he muttered.
His fingers slid down the crevice between my butt cheeks, intimate and familiar, finding the mouth of the secret passage. He delicately circled my opening, then slipped the tip of one finger inside: a sweet and slow piercing. I caught my breath.
Just a fingertip, like the press of a button-I button I badly wanted him to push. That weird clawing ache started in my belly. I made a sound in the back of my throat-even I wasn't sure what I meant.
Dan's kiss gentled. He kissed the underside of my jaw, his finger simply holding its place, like a book he meant to read later.
Let go, I instructed myself, impatiently. What the hell is the hold up? You want him. He wants you. Act, if you have to.Act likeâŠa porn star.
I found his mouth, kissed him back hard, surging up against him. I could feel his surprise. His mouth covered mine hungrily, he pushed his finger into me deeply; I started, my foot slipping out from under me in the sudsy warm water.
He steadied me, both hands on my arms, smiling. âEasy, chief.â
âYeah.â I laughed, but after a week of this I wasn't fooling anybody, including myself. âI'm just not sure about that yet,â I said, feeling like a fool. I still felt the memory of his finger in my body-an erotic fingerprint.
âI know.â He sounded easy and a little amused.
âI mean, I want to,â I said. âI'm justâŠâ Why did I have to say anything? The last thing I wanted was for this to turn into an issue. Why couldn't I just have let it happen, naturally, spontaneously?
âWe don't have to rush it.â
Was six days rushing it? Probably not. His dick poked into my belly like an elbow in the ribs reminding me that he had places to go and things to do and so far this morning he wasn't getting anything but talk.
Porn star, remember? Act. It's what you're good at.
âLet me tell you a little secret,â I said and slid to my knees taking the head of his cock into my mouth.
âOh my God,â Dan said, closing his eyes. His fingers brushed my cheek. âWhat you do to me.â
Yeah, this I knew how to do, sucking him with soft wet heat and then hard. I murmured encouragingly-not really an act, come to think of it-and tugged with my lips. Sweet and soft. Tight and hard.
Dan's breathing went slow and deep, fingers fluttered over my ears, the base of my skull, urging me closer, but not forcing-never forcing.
The water sluiced over his shoulders and rained down on me. I tasted shower gel and clean skin and the salty taste of pre-cum. His swollen cock throbbed between my lips-he pushed deeper into my mouth. I relaxed my throat muscles and took even more of him. A muscle in Dan's cheek jumped. He looked down at me and his eyes seemed dazed.
I made soft sounds, inciting him to riot.
Groaning, Dan braced his hands on the granite tiles. His legs trembled.
I backed off a little, laved the cleft in the head of his cock with my tongue, took him back in and sucked hard.
âI'm going to come,â he warned huskily.
His cock jumped and he began to come. Hard.
Not a problem for me. I liked this part. I swallowed enough to show I cared, then buried my head in his belly, nuzzling his genitals. He twitched and shivered. Petted my wet head, stroking the hair back from my face.
I smiled, watching him. After a few moments he shook his head like a wet dog and gave a shaky laugh.
âYou are one crazy guy.â
âHey.â
âHey, you.â He reached up and turned off the tap, drawing me to my feet. Energized. And how the hell that worked, I had yet to figure out.
There were dents in my knees from the granite floor and my legs felt wobbly with my own need. He pulled me against his long strong body, one hand cupping my balls. I rested my head on his shoulder breathing in the scent of his clean wet skin. The hair on his chest tickled my nose. Just the feel of those steely fingers handling me...
I guided his hand to where I needed it to be. He wrapped his fingers around my cock
âI like that little sound you make,â he whispered.
The bedroom phone rang.
âWhat the hell!â I opened my eyes.
âThe machine will get it.â
I nodded absently, listening. Dan's heart was settling back into its normal rhythm. The phone rang again. Dan's hand slowed. I rested my hand on his, urging him on. He tightened up a bit and I caught my breath. Big brown capable hands. Good for all kinds of things: gripping a gun or shaking cocktails orâŠdriving me to total distraction.
The phone rang a third time and then the answering machine picked up.
âDude!â the tinny voice of Steve Kreiger, my manager, drifted from the other room. For an eerie minute it was like he stood in the doorway watching us; I could picture him scraping the lank red hair out of those mournful Bassett-hound brown eyes. âYou there? T.J. Hooker got you handcuffed to the bed or what?â
âDamn! I've got to take it.â I popped open the shower door and abandoned that sweet steamy warmth, sprinting for the bed and the overnight stand beyond. I heard the shower door close behind me.
I bounced on the white duvet and stretched, grabbing the phone off the receiver. Reached across to pick up the phone. âHey.â
âHey. So you are still alive.â
âYep. Alive and--uh--kicking.â I sucked in my breath as two hard hands wrapped in a plush bath sheet closed around my waist. Dan toweled me down with hard efficiency, blotting shoulders and ribs and butt through the folds of the oversized towel. He rubbed my head briskly. I put the phone against my ear listening through the fluffy cotton.
âI got a copy of the Charioteer script. I was planning to drop it by this afternoon,â Steve said.
âRoll over,â Dan ordered quietly.
I rolled over, the Naturlatex mattress molding to the contours of my body. The duvet felt damp beneath my back. I stared into Dan's blue eyes.
He smoothed the towel over my chest, sliding down to my groin. My dwindling erection made a pup tent of white towel.
I closed my eyes and expelled a shaky breath as Dan's fingers wrapped around my dick once more. âUhâŠgreat.â And it was great. I'd been hounding Steve to get me a look at the script for weeks. You wouldn't think that the screen adaptation of a minor gay classic would require security clearances on the level of the Pentagon-especially given the typical indie film production budget.
Dan's hand slid up the length of my cock. Slowly slid down. I gritted my teeth to keep from moaning.
From a long, long way away Steve said, âYeah. But there's a problem. Lenny Norman is directing and he doesn't want you.â
I sat up, dislodging Dan's hand. âYou're kidding!â
âNope.â
âI've never even worked with him. Why doesn't he want me?â
âFor one thing he thinks you're too good looking for the part of Laurie.
I glanced across at the reflection of myself in the mirror hanging over the bureau dresser: tall, skinny, brown eyes, brown hair. âI'm not that good looking,â I protested.
âI agree. I don't think you're so good looking. In fact, I think you're butt ugly. This is his opinion.â
I gnawed my lip, ignoring these witticisms. âThat's it? He doesn't want me because of my looks?â
Steve said, a little more serious now, âThat, and he thinks you're not gay enough.â
âWhat? What the hell does that mean?â
âHey, I'm just telling you what was said.â
âBut what does that even mean? I'm gay. I'm out. What more does he want?â Dan's hand closed around the nape of my neck, his fingers knowledgably prodding the muscles knotting up. I felt a spark of annoyance; I could practically hear him telling me to take a deep breath, relax. I didn't feel like relaxing. This was business. This was my career.
âIt's not like we had an in-depth discussion. I think it's a political thing with him. He feels like you're walking a line with straight audiences, that you're not openly gay. 'You play it too straight,' that's what he said.â
âWell, so does Laurie! So does Ralph. I mean, it's historical drama. It's World War Two. Nobody was out. What's this idiot planning to do, portray them as a couple of flaming queens?â
âChill, dude. Don't kill the messenger. I'm just letting you know what you're up against. He went ahead and fedexed me a copy of the script, so you're not totally out of the running.â
I was silent. Dan scraped the back of my neck with his fingernails and I shivered involuntarily. Never mind the P-Spot. Apparently I had an N-SpotâŠ.
I made myself focus.
âDo they have someone else in mind?â
âFor Laurie, no. For Ralph I think they're looking at Peter Grady.â
I swore. The last film I'd done with Peter Grady had earned us the title of âThe Gay Spencer and Hepburnâ in the queer press. I loved working with the guy; we had major league screen chemistry-one more reason I so wanted to do this project.
Steve soothed, âYou haven't even read it yet. Maybe you won't like the adaptation. Maybe you won't want to do the film. Let's not worry about it anymore till you've seen the script. Okay?â
âOkay.â
âI'll see you around two.â
âSee you.â I hung up and flung myself back against the mountain of pillows.
âSo who's the bastard with the bad taste not to want you?â Dan inquired. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, putting his watch on, so apparently we had lost our window of opportunity.
âOh.â I grimaced. âLenny Norman. He's directing that film I told you about. The adaptation of The Charioteer. He doesn't want me. He thinks I'm too good looking.â
âThe guy must be blind.â
It barely registered. âIt's that goddamned People magazine article. 'People's 50 Most Beautiful People.' I was number 49 or something.â I brooded over this for a moment. âAnd he thinks I'm not gay enough.â
Dan's brows rose. âYou seemed gay enough to me five minutes ago.â
I grinned reluctantly. âMaybe you could vouch for me.â
He got off the bed, the squeak of floorboards giving voice to my inner protest. âI'd have preferred to do something else for you, but now I'm running late.â
I shot him a quick look. He sounded regretful, not annoyed; his smile was rueful. âSorry,â I said. âI kind of had to take that call.â
âYeah, I know.â
I had the uncomfortable feeling that he did. Well, hell. I was out of practice at having relationships. Actually, who was I kidding? I'd never had a real relationship. Not like this. Not living together 24/7 with a for-richer-for-poorer-in-sickness-and-in-health option. The closest I'd come was when Steve and I roomed together for about a year after college. That was when Steve had still been trying to make it as a comic. Before he'd decided that managing my career would be easier and more lucrative than having his own.
I watched Dan move around the room, dressing. Casual wear: khakis and a black t-shirt. Not the beautifully tailored suits and expensive ties he wore on duty. You couldn't afford suits like that on a cop's salary, but Dan supplemented his salary by working as a consultant for the film industry-which was the other reason he had snagged the bodyguard gig with me.
I tried to think what I would do all day. Now that I didn't have to worry about being taken out by a potentially homicidal fan I'd have to find a new hobby.
Maybe I'd go for another swim after I worked out in the weight room. No problem going by myself now. Just like a big boy. Maybe I'd see if I had a copy of Renault's The Charioteer here at the beach house and reread it. Or no, maybe that would interfere with my reading the script. Maybe I'd just put on some music and catch some rays. Sunshine was supposed to be good for depression-not that I was depressed. Exactly.
âWhat time will you be back?â
âAbout five.â Dan slid the leather badge-wallet in his back pocket, double-checked the fit of his khakis in the bureau mirror. âYou want me to bring something home for dinner?â
Home. That was kind of nice. I gave his question the careful deliberation it deserved. âI'll cook. Could you pick up some scallops?â
âI'll do that, chief.â He bent down over the bed and gave me a quick hard kiss. âHave a good day. And don't worry about anything.â
I answered with one of Steve's favorite lines. âWhat, me worry?â
âYou're right,â said Dan. âThat's my job.â
Moments by RJ Scott
Chapter One
Jacob Riley slammed the door to the small conference room and stomped to the window to stare moodily at the bright, sunshine-filled day outside. He twisted both hands tight into his hair in frustration, wondering how the fuck this day had all gone to hell. His lawyersâhis fucking well-paid lawyersâhad said theyâd get him off, not land him with probation, community service crap.
Four months, in some lame ass community program. Jeez, like he was going to be taught anything by cleaning streets or dealing with peopleâs trash.
The TV in the corner showed some trashy entertainment show, where a smug presenter was reporting the latest news on his case, live, embellished with words that made Jacob cringe. There were even experts on there talking about the child star gone bad. Experts in what? Character assassination, apparently. He tried his hardest to tune it out but it was nigh on impossibleâit must have been the tenth time the clip of the sentence being handed out had been played.
The reporter continued, âThe news of B-list actor Jacob Rileyâs arrest boosted the audience figures for the half seasonâs finale of his show, End Game, to their highest point in eight months.â
Jacob huffed a sigh, he guessed that was one piece of good news to come out of this whole mess.
Then expert one repeated what heâd said already, âHeâs been offered a lifeline in a county rehab program. He showed a lot of promise, and I think this could be a good thing for him.â
Jacob briefly thought of throwing his cell phone at the TV.
âWell you may be right there; his spokesperson said heâs concentrating on work and himself. What that means, we donât know.â
âWe wish him luck.â
The anchor turned to face the camera, that smug fucking smile back again. âWell, folks, hereâs hoping Jacob Riley, one of TVâs highest earning actors, proves to be a recovering addict who actually turns their life around.â
Jesus Christ, talk about dramatic.
âThe show is on a filming hiatus,â Samantha, his PA, replied carefully from just inside the door. âIâve just got off the phone with your agent and the Network will delay your return to Game until youâre free to come back. Remember, with Christmas soon the way; we have some room to move here.â
Jacob spun on his heel. His quiet, calm assistant stood holding a clipboard, a cellphone balanced on top of it.
âOf course theyâll delay my return,â he summarized. The Network would be stupid to lose him; he was convinced of it. End Game was his show. Jacobâs character was pivotal, the star of the whole goddamned series.
âThere was some talk of replacing you.â
âThey wouldnât fucking dare.â
Samantha smiled at him, but it was insincere and didnât reach her eyes. She used to smile all the time, but for some reason, sheâd stopped now. Then she pulled back her shoulders. âYour agent says youâre lucky you play a drug-taking manic depressive. Otherwise he swears they would have canned you today, no hesitation.â
Was she trying to make him feel better? âSam, do I look like I give a fuck what my shit agent says?â
âYou needââ
âI donât need him to tell me Iâm lucky; itâs the Network that is lucky. They push me off the show, and theyâll see their ratings drop overnight. No one loses Jacob Riley and sees their show survive.â
Resentment bubbled up inside him.
Samantha cleared her throat. âLook, Jacob, we have four months to get you into a program and complete your work through the community service,â she continued. Her patient tone measuring every word, talking to him as if he were a small childâhe hated every syllable.
âNo,â Jacob snapped, balling his temper and his dismissal of her into that one word. She stepped away from him to stand against the door. âJacobââ
âIâm not cleaning streets; Iâm not searching for rubbish or any of the usual crap they put celebrities through to humiliate us.â
âItâs not meant to be a humiliation. But it is a punishment,â Sam said, raising her free hand in an attempt to placate him. Her cell phone slid off the clipboard and tumbled to the floor.
Jacob listened, but what sheâd said only served to increase his temper. He could feel the itch of addiction under his skin, and it terrified him. Although he would never admit it, he was out of control, and it was eating away at him.
In over a year, he hadnât wanted a hit as badly as he did at this moment. Frustration and anger burst out of him with uncontrolled force. He crowded her against the door. âI donât pay you to get up in my face, Sam,â he snarled.
âYouâre scaring me, Jacob,â Samantha said firmly, backing as close to the wood as she could.
âYou donât know what this is like,â he shouted.
âJacob. PleaseâŠâ There were tears in her eyes, pain and real fear in her voice. Something in the simple âpleaseâ reached through his anger. What was he doing?
âFuck,â he said tiredly. Half closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. It was the first time in their relationship heâd seen fear in Samâs eyes, and it scared the hell out of him. Was she afraid of him? What should he say? How the hell could heâ?
âYour father is waiting for you in the next room,â Sam said, but wouldnât look him in the eyes.
Jacob went from guilt straight back to feeling aggrieved.
âGreat,â Jacob stepped back, watching as Samantha edged away from him.
âYour dad just wants to help. He knows of this place you can go for the nextââ
âHeâs the one who turned me in!â
âHeâs waiting, and thereâs something else,â she said, this time with steel in her words. âI was going to leave this until after Christmas when filming ended, but there is no point now. Youâre an asshole, and I quit.â Quietly, she turned her back and left the room, and he felt a moment of shock.
âWhat?â she didnât stop. âDonât come running back begging for your fucking job!â he shouted after her.
She didnât even look at him, but he heard her words.
âI wonât come back.â
Her loss.
Frustrated, angry, and looking for someone to blame was not how Jacob should have gone to a meeting with his father, but he didnât have a choice. The whole freaking world was against him, and none of this was his fault.
âIâve pulled strings, son, and arranged to get you into a new type of program, something different. It has an original approach, and itâs very exclusive.â Joe Riley stood stiff and straight in front of Jacob.
Jacob slouched, arms across his chest, unwilling to show even the slightest interest.
âYeah,â he said when his dad remained quiet.
âIâve made a hefty donation to get you accepted. The only stipulation was that you are clean.â
Jacob looked into his fatherâs gray-blue eyes then shrugged. Heâd heard all too clearly the question under Joe Rileyâs statement, and hated him for it. A yearâa damn year.
Joe closed his eyes and sighed. âIsnât there something dramatic you feel you have to say at this point, Jacob?â
âIf I thought you would actually listen to meâjust onceâmaybe I would have something to say,â Jacob said.
âAre you?â
âAm I what?â
âJacob, are you clean?â Joe asked.
âFuck you, Dad,â Jacob snapped, âIâve been clean for a year, and you damn well know it.â
His dad crossed his arms and shook his head. âNo, I donât know that. I know what you told your mother and me, and then I find you mixing with the same lowlifes you knew six years ago. What was I supposed to think? What was I supposed to do? Tell me, son?â
âCall the cops on me, obviously.â Jacob clenched his hands into tight fists at his sides.
âDo you think it was easy for me to do this, Jacob? Call the police on my son?â
âYeah. Yeah, I do.â Heâd long ago convinced himself that his dad had perversely enjoyed turning him in, and he chose to ignore the pained expression that crossed his dadâs face. âIt kinda solves all those issues around having to maybeâI donât knowâtalk to me instead?â
âYou donât listen.â
âNo, Dad, youâre the one who doesnât listen.â
Joe inhaled sharply as if he had been physically hit, and Jacob wondered how his dad was going to defend his parenting skills this time. âThink about your mother in this. What if you died? Can you picture her visiting a morgue, identifying your body, and seeing track marks on your arms? She cried so much over you last time and refused to let me get involved. But this time, hell Jacob we had to do something, had to stop you from self-destructing.â
Jacob tugged self-consciously at his sleeves, anger building inside him. He had been clean for well over a year. Why didnât anyone trust him? He felt vulnerable for a moment, like a small child, and then he pushed that weakness to one side, resumed the role of aggrieved man he was playing today, and rolled his eyes.
âNow whoâs being dramatic?â he spat. âI had the stuff in my car for a friend, didnât mean I was using.â
âYou know how it looks, and the police agreed.â
âYou could have tried asking me why I had it on me.â
âAnd you wouldnât have lied to us?â Joe asked simply, his voice calm. Jacob didnât answer. He wasnât going to rise to the bait. âThis is your last chance. Take it. You could make something of yourself if you tried.â
Jacob inhaled sharply.
âSo what the hell do you call two movies and a successful TV series? Nothing?â His parents had never liked that he had decided to pursue acting. Theyâd always made it very clear that they expected him to join the family construction firm. Heâd endured several wearying years of forcing and badgering, but always knew what he wanted to do. He didnât want to build skyscrapers and shopping malls; he wanted to act.
âIt isnât even about what you do anymore. Youâre killing yourself. And I swear, Jacob, if you ruin this last chance, I will hold back every penny of your inheritance.â
âNot that shit again.â
âI mean itââ
âI make three million a movie, and ninety thousand for every episode of End Game. Seriouslyâyou really think your money matters to me?â
âI swear every penny will go to your brother,â Joe continued, but Jacob had heard that threat before too, and it had the same impact as alwaysâno impact at all.
âThat loser?â
âTell me, why is Micah the loser? He has a career, a wife, a great kidâyour nephew. He has a life.â
âIâve got a freaking career, Dad, and letâs face itâkids? That isnât going to happen. Iâm gay!â Frustrated, Jacob pushed his fingers through his hair and closed his eyes.
âIâm not arguing. This isnât about some petty brotherly feud, or who is happy and who isnât. You had every advantageâeverything money could buy, every ounce of love your mother and I had in us. Son, please. This is your life, and your mom and I are desperate for you to see that! But you donât seem to give a damn about it.â
âWell, maybe I donât.â
âFor Godâs sake, stop being so damn melodramatic. As far as Iâm concerned, weâre done talking. Go home and get some clothing together. Benjamin is outside. Heâll take you home, and then heâll drive you down tomorrow.â
âAnd if I say no?â
âYou canât. Iâve pulled strings, but at the end of the day, itâs either this or youâre back in prison. This program is the only reason youâre not back there now.â
Shit.
