Matteo sets the cup down, longing flicking across his face as his eyes graze my lips. “I can’t play a drinking game tonight; I’m on call.”
I forego my first impulse to yell, Boo, you whore, in an homage to Mean Girls. It’s how I know I’m wandering into tipsy territory; I’m starting to think and speak in movie quips. “Oh, right, I forgot.” Stupid adult job—it’s a buzzkill.
“But, uh, you guys can still play.”
“Hells yes, we can; I’ve called the last three in a row!” L hoots.
I try gamely to recapture the buoyant feeling. “No, that’s okay. If you’re not drinking, I won’t either.”
Despite Ryan and L booing and hissing, I set down my cup of beer and turn to face the screen.
“So, who is this?” Matteo asks, taking my hand. He laces his fingers with mine, his tan hand sure and warm against my own. I squeeze. It’s not his fault his job overwhelms sometimes; given the events of this summer and the pending trial, he’s been so busy. Unthinking, my hand starts to stroke his forearm, admiring how it looks with his sleeves rolled up. Matteo’s grip tightens in mine, and I look up to catch him watching me with a smoldering look.
Oops. I guess this is hardly the place. I clear my throat and turn to the large screen.
“This is Prince Joffrey, and we do not like him,” I say decidedly. “He’s the son of the queen, but not the son of the king. It’s a bit complicated, but you’ll get it. Well, okay, you missed the first part. You see, his dad—who he thinks is his uncle—was in his bedroom and tried to kill this other kid . . .”
It takes a beat for Matteo’s distracted, “Mmm-hmm.”
I cast an eye over at him, noting the cell phone in his lap. “Are you even paying attention?”
Matteo lets out a breath and glances up at me, guilt lurking in those gorgeous eyes. “I’m sorry, it’s work; you know I have to respond to all texts and messages when I’m on call. So, son of the king. Kills a kid. Got it.”
I give his hand another squeeze. “Well, now this isn’t Joffrey or Jaime; this is a whole ’nother part of the world. This is Khal Drogo, and we do like him.”
“Yes. We. Do!” agrees L from beside me.
Ryan salutes the screen with his cup.
“We . . . like . . . this guy? Isn’t he . . . trying to buy that girl?” Matteo asks several moments later.
“Well . . . yeah, okay—”
“This one is easy!” Ryan says. “Boooooobies! I remember this scene!” He and L clink cups and take drinks in celebration when Daenerys bares her top.
“—yeah, he’s trying to buy her, but it’s not her fault her brother is a jerk. He gets what’s coming to him, and in the end, Khal is a good guy. Well, as much as you can be a good guy in this world.”
No response from Matteo.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
He glances up. “Yeah. Well, no. I thought I could do this over email, but I’m going to have to go into the station. Patrol is trying to chase down a lead on these new dealers. I’m sorry.”
He stands, brushing off his pants, and leans in to kiss me. It lasts longer than it probably should and elicits a catcall from a seat somewhere above us.
“But you just got here. Are you sure you can’t stay for even just a little bit?” I murmur as he pulls away. “There are giant wolves in the next few scenes.”
“You siren.” Matteo’s eyes flash with humor, and he squeezes my knee, his hand lingering. “Alas, even with giant wolves, I have to go.” Ryan and L salute Matteo’s departure much more enthusiastically than I do, and turn almost immediately back to the screen.
“I’ll text you when I’m done. Do you want to come over tonight or your house or . . . ?” He glances at Ryan and L. Matteo is always respectful if I want to spend time with Ryan and L, and I appreciate it.
And I do want to spend time with Ryan and L, but not enough to throw over this sexy detective standing in front of me. “My house,” I agree. We haven’t spent many nights apart in the three months since San Diego Comic-Con if we can help it.
He smiles his secret smile, and I return it, willing him to throw over his entire career and stay with me. Sadly, his responsible side wins out, and he exits our row for real this time.
I stew in my thoughts until a cup of beer appears under my nose, proffered by Lawrence. “The current vote is boobies.”
I take the cup automatically and flick my glance to the screen. “It’s a direwolves scene.”
“Exactly!” Ryan chortles from beside L, a little too enthusiastically. They’re both tipsy at this point. When nothing happens in the scene—death or boobies—L and Ryan clink their cups together and take matching chugs.
Swiping a hand across his mouth, Ryan leans across L, his backward hat giving him all the impression of a frat brother instead of a successful gaming entrepreneur. “Where did Matteo go?”
“He had to go to work. Something about Golden Arrow imposters and these new dealers on the street, I guess.” I bite my lip, knowing Matteo is touchy about sharing police stuff. “I don’t know; something is up, and Matteo thinks it may be connected with the case.”
Ryan frowns. “What things?”
We’re shushed from the people behind our seats, and I turn to glare at them, despite being fully aware that we’ve totally given up watching the event we were here to watch. I guess our general merriment was acceptable as long as it was GoT-related. Our off-topic foray is clearly not as tolerable.
Ryan’s visage sours before he raises his glass. “You need a drink and a pick-me-up murder scene.”
Sounds like a legit remedy. “Okay. Who’s up?” I ask, refocusing on the screen.
But . . . even as I sit and watch, I can’t bring myself to be fully present. I find myself rehashing the case, like I’m preparing for my testimony. The Golden Arrow’s clues do plague me. They feel so personal, intimately tailored. Like someone I know is passing me the answers to a test that only I know how to take. Maybe I’ve time-traveled to the future and back again. Or maybe . . . maybe the story isn’t done. I can’t help hoping that Matteo’s hunch is right and that we’re standing on the edge of knowing who the Golden Arrow is, and everything they know.
Ryan and L either don’t notice my mood or refuse to acknowledge it, because they joke and push each other the entire way out of the building.
“Here, let me hold the door for you, m’lady,” L announces with fervor as he swings open the glass exterior door ahead of me and bows deeply. He wobbles on his feet, rights himself, and then tries to bow again as I walk through.
Ryan snickers. “Hold the door.”
Then they both snicker, and L throws himself against the door and starts chanting, “Hodor! Hodor! An homage to the greatest door holder of all time!”
It’s all I can do to keep walking out of the building. Usually I’m up for geek jokes. I’m in a serious funk. “Okay, guys, we’ve all had several too many. I’m going to call an Uber, okay? Ryan, give me your phone; I’ll call you one too. You’re headed to Lelani’s, right?”
I roll my eyes as I have to yank Ryan’s phone out of his hand—he and L are fake sword-fighting too intently to answer. I open his app and order one for him—thankfully, Lelani’s address is saved—before ordering one for myself to go home.
More giggling from behind me. Now they’re smashing their faces on opposite sides of the doors to see who can make the most grotesque mosquito corpse. At the sound of ripping paper, I turn back to see that Ryan’s “mosquito” has slid down the glass far enough to dislodge at least three flyers from the door.
“Seriously, you two? You’re like toddlers right now. Trogdor is better behaved in public . . .” I trail off, leaning over to pick up the closest flyer on the ground just as a gust of late–September wind catches it. Two words on it stand out to me immediately: GOLDEN ARROW.
I hurry to the nearest knee-high path light and bend over to examine it further. It’s a simple green photocopied flyer, but by no means amateur. Stylish blo
ck lettering proclaims REWARD FOR INFORMATION across the top. Underneath is a well-drawn comic panel of a caped superhero, tying two guys back to back and lacing the rope with an identifiable arrow. Across the bottom of the flyer, words fill the rest of the space: $50,000 CASH REWARD FOR THE GOLDEN ARROW’S EXCLUSIVE STORY. It has a phone number and email across the bottom, but that’s not what stops my heart. It’s the name above that email.
“Guys. Guys, get over here and look at this,” I yell, not tearing my eyes from the page. “I know why there are so many imposters.”
L is the first to trip up to me, grinning and still laughing like an idiot. “Because imposters are fashionable?” He holds his arm over his face like Dracula and waggles his eyebrows.
“That’s vampires, dude,” Ryan chimes in before snatching the sheet from my hand. “What’re you on about, MG?” His eyes scan the page and his eyebrows shoot up.
L whistles, reading over his shoulder. “Fifty Gs is a lot of money.”
“Like I said, now we know why there are so many people anxious to prove themselves as the Golden Arrow. And this”—I point to the bottom of the page—“only means trouble.”
Ryan and L take a few moments to soak in the seriousness of the situation. Finally, Ryan’s eyebrows furrow in thought. In the distance, a siren wails to life, a sense of foreboding filling my mind.
The phone in my hand blares, announcing the car’s arrival, and I silence it before handing Ryan his phone back. I snatch the page back from Ryan and stalk toward the main drive of the Performing Arts Center. My own ride is pulling up just behind his, and I don’t wait to see if Ryan gets in his car. I climb into mine, already texting Matteo that we need to talk later before staring again at the name—Edward Casey Junior—scrawled across the bottom of the page.
CHAPTER 5
Something rustling in the kitchen wakes me from a dead sleep. I groan, my hand groping in the dark for my cell phone. Blue light burns my eyeballs, but I make out the digits on the lock screen. A quarter past one in the morning.
Beside me, Matteo’s light snoring stops; he crawled into bed only an hour ago, and I think he might still be fully dressed. I was too tired to do much other than pat his lovely behind over the covers and roll over to sleep off my four beers.
“You okay?” he asks. He’s sleepy, but alert. I’m so jealous; it’s one of the superpowers he’s developed from being on the force and on call for years. The second he’s awake, he’s ready for anything.
I’m so sleepy I think for a moment I must have imagined the noise. After another long moment of silence that makes me doubt my own consciousness, I hear what I think is the freezer door open. Down by my feet, the little log that is Trogdor gives a tiny woof. He’s heard something too, but the fact that he doesn’t go full-on alert means that it’s Ryan.
It’s a little odd that he’s home from Lelani’s, but I decide that maybe he’s hungover and looking for ice cream. And yet . . . something about the noise bothers me, so I swing my legs over the side of the bed. Trog takes my cue and jumps down with a jingle of collar tags. Patting the lumpy form of Matteo, I whisper, “I’m going to go to the bathroom and check on why Ryan is home, okay?” Hopefully he and Lelani haven’t had a fight. Matteo pats my hand in return, and I pad out my bedroom door with Trogdor close on my heels.
The house is dark, quiet, and decidedly chilly. Fall is definitely on its way in, and I remind myself to turn the furnace on in the next few days. Trog runs ahead through the dark living room and toward the kitchen, so I follow suit to find Ryan sitting at the kitchen table, lit only by the light from the open freezer. He’s slumped over the kitchen table, resting his head in his hands, looking for all the world like he fell asleep mid–ice cream raid.
“Ry?” I ask, hesitantly. Maybe he’s drunk; this is completely bizarre behavior.
Ryan sits upright with a start, and by the wan light, I see that he’s not hunched over asleep—he’s hunched over because he’s holding a bag of frozen vegetables against one side of his face.
I hurry the last few steps to the table and crouch down at the foot of the chair he’s in. “Ry. Are you okay? What’s up?”
“I’m fine,” he mutters from behind the veggies. “I didn’t mean to wake you up. I was trying to be quiet.”
“Trog has bat ears, you know that,” I say. I reach up to remove the bag of frozen whatever from his face. “Did you hurt yourself? Why are you here? I thought you were at Lelani’s tonight.”
“Really, I’m fine,” he says, pressing the bag back to his face.
“Fine people don’t put frozen stuff on their face. You’re like Hagrid and a dragon steak in here; please don’t tell me you’ve been fighting giants. Let me take a look.” I can’t see much by the light in the freezer, so I reach out and swing open the refrigerator door too, a slice of bright-white light stabbing across the dark kitchen. It’s enough for me to see that his face is puffy and bruised on one side, and that he has a trickle of blood smeared from one nostril.
Involuntarily, I suck in a breath. “Ryan, what happened?” I eye him and his conduct in a new light—literally and figuratively. “And don’t you dare tell me you fell on the front stairs. Did Lelani do this?”
He can’t help the snort of laughter at my suggestion, though. “MG, that imagination of yours. It’s either I’m fighting giants or Lelani beat me?” He puts his free hand over mine and pats. “It’s way more mundane. Some dude tried to take my phone or money or something; we got into a fight. I didn’t want to get blood all over Lelani’s floor, so I came home. It’s no big deal—”
“No big deal?” I hiss, cutting him off. “Ryan, that’s mugging; did you report it to the police?”
“I didn’t need to—I got my phone back.”
“Look, Matteo is here; tell him, okay—”
“Stop, MG. I’m fine, I didn’t want to disturb you and Matteo, it’s why I’m in the dark anyway, just leave it—”
We both spin and flinch as the kitchen light flicks on above our heads. “What on earth is going on?” Matteo asks, rubbing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose like a father who has discovered his kids making a mess instead of watching cartoons. “Why are you two arguing in the refrigerator?” He pauses when he sees the vegetables and Ryan’s face. His eyebrows raise questioningly.
Ryan kicks me with his sneaker, but I tattle anyhow. “Ryan got mugged—”
“Attempted. I told you I still have my phone and wallet.” Ryan digs in his pocket and produces his phone, waving it in the air. “The guy landed one solid punch, that’s it—”
“And didn’t report it,” I finish, running over Ryan’s words again. But by this time, Matteo has already crossed the kitchen floor and inspects Ryan’s face for himself.
“Where did this happen? This is a pretty good punch, and some road rash. We should probably wash it out. Can you describe the person who did this? What time was it?” Detective Kildaire is in full presence now, basically frog-marching Ryan through the hallway to the downstairs bathroom, phone in hand.
“You don’t need to call it in,” I hear Ryan arguing as Matteo pulls him into the bathroom.
“You’re damn right I do,” Matteo answers. “This is how hoodlums stay on the street. No one reports them, they continue to harass people, and it goes downhill until they really hurt someone . . .” Their voices fade out as the water turns on, though I can make out that they’re still arguing.
Trog and I meet gazes, and I give a little laugh. He and I are left alone in the kitchen, crouched in front of the open refrigerator and freezer. “Did he just say hoodlums?” I ask Trog.
He sneezes in response.
“I thought so,” I agree, reaching to close the doors. Gooseflesh pricks my arms and legs, the cold air from the fridge not helping the already chilly house. I stop by the linen closet on the way down the hall, grabbing a stack of towels.
Inside the bathroom, Matteo has Ryan’s shirt off, and he’s dabbing at a long scratch on his ribs with a cott
on ball of something. I didn’t realize we even had cotton balls in this house, but I’m pleasantly surprised that at some point in the past five years I bought something useful for middle-of-the-night first aid. “I thought you said you guys just exchanged punches.”
Ryan sighs. “The guy surprised me, and I ended up on the ground first. Then I got up and punched him. I didn’t really feel like broadcasting that a skinny little twerp almost got the best of me.” He’s clearly embarrassed that he nearly got his ass kicked. Stupid male ego. But I kind of get what he’s saying, noting that without his usual slightly baggy T-shirt on, Ryan has a considerable amount of lean muscle mass, thanks to his current obsession with CrossFit.
Matteo sets his phone on the counter, the speakerphone already ringing. Within two rings, a female voice barks, “Captain Massuda.”
In short order, Matteo fills his captain in on Ryan’s fistfight, and grudgingly, Ryan fills in the blanks. He decided to let Lawrence take the Uber straight to his house and call a separate one for himself, since Lelani’s was in the opposite direction. Lawrence had departed, and while waiting for the next car, Ryan decided to walk around the Performing Arts Center. Near the back entrance, a person grabbed him from behind, demanded his phone, and held something against his ribs. Ryan apparently reacted out of instinct and threw an elbow back; the person punched him in the back, dropping him, but Ryan managed get back to his feet quickly enough to throw a punch as the guy tried to grab his phone. The assailant decided it wasn’t worth it and ran off.
“I wish you’d called it in right away. Fighting back like that was dangerous, but if he was incapacitated, we might have been able to apprehend him.”
Defensiveness for Ryan rises in my chest. “It’s not like he’s a damn superhero, Matteo. Ryan almost got beaten to death, so let’s lay off the shoulda-wouldas.” Ryan looks intermittently defeated, embarrassed, and worried, and I deem him the party worth consoling at this moment. “I’m so sorry this happened, Ryan.”
“I guess I was asking for it, wandering around by myself at night,” he says, shrugging. But his eyes are downcast.
The Queen Con (The Golden Arrow Mysteries Book 2) Page 5