Purple Haze (Aliens in New York Book 2)

by Kelly Jensen

  Should he warn Dillon that scrutiny of their movements might increase over the next few days? If it hadn’t already. Lang turned his gaze toward the windows facing Fifth Avenue. He should tell Dillon that he— that they—

  The beep of the intercom on his phone jolted through Lang’s synapses. Turning back to his desk, he prodded the flashing button and cleared his throat.

  “Mr. Skovgaard?” It was his personal assistant. The very human and very capable one who’d been with him at Skovgaard Enterprises for over ten years.

  “Yes, June.”

  “I have a Wesley Kohen on the line for you. He said you were expecting his call.”

  For a second, Lang was relieved it wasn’t Micah. Micah was scarily intelligent and could have researched Dillon’s symptoms and concluded his eyes weren’t normal by now. Before his thoughts could tumble down that slope, however, the anger from New Year’s Eve returned—an emotion just as foreign to the clan but increasingly familiar to Lang. He had not given his number to Wesley Kohen, and he’d deliberately trashed the card Kohen had given him, intending to prevaricate if the reporter ever called.

  He could say he’d left the card in a pocket. Washing machines were notorious killers of paper, were they not?

  Lang hesitated for a few seconds before instructing June to connect the call, and then he took a deep breath before picking up the receiver. “Steilang Skovgaard speaking. How can I help you?”

  “I have to say, I’m impressed I got you first try. Well, first call. I think I’ve spoken to everyone in your building, though. You’ve got a lot of people filtering your calls. Oh, it’s Wesley Kohen, by the way. We met—”

  “I know who you are, Mr. Kohen.”

  “Wes, please.”

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Kohen?”

  “I’m calling to schedule our interview. Are you free this afternoon?”

  “Let me check my calendar,” Lang said. He clicked his mouse, scrolling through the pictures of him and Dillon outside Constellation nightclub. He clicked again. “The earliest I could meet you is February fourth.”

  “That’s a month from now.”

  “I did not say this year.”

  “You’re a funny guy. Listen, I’m cool with doing something unconventional. I could meet you guys somewhere, or we could break this up into smaller blocks. Meet for a half hour here and there. Breakfast one day, lunch another. There’s a great diner three blocks down from your building, on 57th Street.”

  Would they have to talk and eat at the same time? A public venue could be more discreet than inviting someone to the Skovgaard Enterprises offices, but the advantage of using his offices was June. She could be relied upon to come up with any number of emergencies, thus shortening his and Dillon’s time with the reporter, and the disadvantage of using an eating establishment was clear: Mr. Kohen was sure to make note of the number of fingers Lang had if his hands were visible.

  Hiding that he only had three fingers and a thumb had become second nature to Lang. He kept handshakes brief and, when appropriate, folded his arms, tucked his hands into his pockets, or sat with them folded on his lap, out of sight. Over the years, surprisingly few people had noticed. June had, and, as with those before her, believed it was a birth defect.

  Only Dillon knew the truth—that all clan had only three fingers.

  Lang cleared his throat. “I will transfer you back to my assistant, June. She’ll set up a time for you to meet with me. Here, at my office.”

  “That’d be great. What about your boyfriend?” A rustling sound scratched at the line. “Can I confirm that you’re dating Dillon Lee from Pleasantville, New Jersey?”

  Lang glanced at his laptop, at the picture of him and Dillon leaning in close. Though Dillon was in three-quarter profile, his face was visible enough for someone to have identified him. The only question now was why his name wasn’t splashed all over the internet.

  It was probably only a matter of time.

  Lang offered a terse, “That is correct.”

  “I know you don’t want to discuss your relationship, but do you have a statement for my readers?”

  “Let’s save the questions for when we meet, Mr. Kohen. And as I have already indicated, I would prefer we covered topics that were not quite so personal.”

  “Sure thing. Talk to you soon, and thank you!”

  Lang pressed the button to redirect the call to June’s desk and spoke to her briefly about what could be arranged and rearranged to clear Mr. Kohen and his questions from his schedule as soon as possible. After disconnecting, he leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms behind his head, and turned away from the pictures of him and Dillon. He studied the print behind his desk: a reproduction of one of Jackson Pollock’s untitled ink splashes.

  In his time on Earth, Lang had collected a lot of knowledge, and he’d noticed a difference between information he read and what he gained from interaction. Talking with people and visiting places. So often people were like the ink splashes captured within the frame on his wall: distinct, but varied, and arrayed in patterns that meant different things to different people. The humans had a test based on a similar assumption using inkblots.

  The paradox was experience. Until he gained the knowledge, sometimes the blots made no sense. But sometimes the only way to get that information was to study the patterns—all of which was a complicated way of saying he often didn’t understand humanity, even after having lived on their planet for over twenty-five years.

  He hoped this disconnect would work the other way—that to Wesley Kohen, he would be something of an enigma. Of course, that might only pique the reporter’s interest. But if Lang pretended to be as boring as he actually was, he might be able to convince Mr. Kohen that he wasn’t worth the recorder space, let alone inches, in whatever publication he wrote for.

  His fear, though, was that Kohen already considered Lang something of an inkblot. Therefore, Lang’s focus over the next few days needed to be on how to make himself less distinct, a goal that warred directly with the blossoming of his relationship with Dillon.

  “This is amazing!” Dillon turned in a slow circle, his arms spread out wide.

  “The yellow really works,” Josh agreed.

  Dillon shot him a grin. Six months ago—

  Six months ago he’d never have imagined he’d be opening Park Arts. Had he known Josh better back then, he would have believed it. Josh was a man who got things done. He was also an amazing artist, and Dillon was constantly flattered that Josh thought the same of him. Constantly thankful Lang had put them in touch.

  Dillon and Josh’s styles differed greatly. Dillon appreciated nearly all forms of art, but he was drawn to perspective, fine lines, and busy patterns. He called himself a glorified doodler. Lang had compared many of Dillon’s pieces to circuitry diagrams, and Dillon liked the association. Josh worked with realistic images and much more color. But they shared a desire to teach young people the value of art. And old people, Dillon mentally noted as he considered the senior citizens who’d signed up for their opening session.

  Dillon surveyed the large classroom again. The bright yellow paint splashed the walls with sunshine, filling the space with energy and optimism. Gone were the rows of folding tables and dusty monitors that used to fill the top floor of his father’s house. No musty old couch or wobbly stacks of plastic tubs. No sagging bookshelves filled with trash.

  Last summer had been a trial in many ways. Chief among them was coming to terms with the fact that Roth Fairchild, the man Dillon had always thought of as his grandfather, was actually his father. Turning Roth’s legacy into his future assuaged much of the hurt, though, and as he continued to survey the large space occupying the entire top floor of the renovated brownstone, Dillon couldn’t help feeling that Roth (he still had a hard time with the father/grandfather label) would approve.

  “It looks great up here, but…” Dillon’s smile faded as he considered everything they had to accomplish before their opening the following
Monday.

  Josh bumped Dillon’s shoulder, his closeness offering an immediate sense of calm. “We’re teaching art, not medicine. We’ll be ready.” His iPad chimed, and Josh pulled away to extract it from an apron pocket and woke the screen. “Furniture is on track for tomorrow, giving us the weekend to finish any assembly. Only thing we’re waiting on are the easels. They’ve been knocked back another week.” He glanced up. “Can we start without them?”

  “Yep. As long as we have the lapboards, we’ll be good to go. Most people will want to start small, anyway.” In Dillon’s experience, new students or folks who had never held a paintbrush were often intimidated by too large a canvas. There were always those few who’d been waiting for such an opportunity, but they could probably hold it for another week or two. He wanted to get started.

  “How are we on enrollment?” he asked.

  Josh tabbed through a dizzying array of screens. “Our winter classes are fully booked and the spring session is about halfway there. Have we heard back on the summer program?”

  Dillon dug out his phone. “I’ve heard back from three of the five colleges I queried, and they’re all interested, but only one of them for this year. The other two said next year.”

  “That’s fine. If we fill the spring session, we’ll have a lot of referrals ready for the fall and winter sessions. Between that and the after school program, we’ll make it.”

  Dillon crossed his fingers beneath his phone. “I hope so.” The after school program was the one he was most interested in. Dillon itched to work with school-aged kids again—to be a part of the process of them learning how the world worked. That had always been his second-favorite part of teaching, with the pure joy of sharing his love of art being first. There were a lot of hoops to jump through, though, the first of which was establishing a credible program.

  Another chime sounded, and Josh swiped his screen again. “Micah wants to know how your eyes are.”

  Rolling his eyes seemed an appropriate answer, but Dillon was touched by the concern. He’d never lacked for affection—his mom had always made him feel loved. He didn’t have a large circle of friends, though, and was constantly surprised by how Micah and Josh had so willingly adopted him into their tight-knit group.

  “Eyes are fine. I was able to get an appointment with my specialist on New Year’s Day”—he’d been strapped into Upero’s medical bay shortly after midnight—“and they confirmed everything looked good.”

  Josh groaned.

  “What?”

  “Looked good, Dillon? Really?”

  He hadn’t even been trying. Dillon grinned. “Thank Micah for following up. I appreciate it.”

  Josh did, too, if the sappy smile on his face was anything to go by. He and Micah were so settled. Dillon could feel it. How well they clicked together, despite their differences. How much of their relationship was made up of mutual respect. And deep, abiding affection. Man, what he wouldn’t give for a partnership like that.

  A short burst of dizziness passed through Dillon’s midsection, as though the floor had moved without warning. Swallowing, he reached for the stair rail. Sweat broke out along his hairline and rolled down his back.

  “You okay?” Josh asked. He crowded in close, forming an anxious bubble that seemed to suck Dillon into its center.

  Lifting his hand from the rail, Dillon shuffled back a step. “Yeah, just dizzy. What time is it? I must have forgotten to get lunch.”

  Josh seemed concerned now. “It’s after two. Are you sure you’re okay? I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen anyone turn green before now.”

  Dillon patted his clammy cheeks. “I don’t feel green.”

  “I’m going to head downstairs and make some coffee. See if we have any donuts left.”

  Dillon’s stomach growled audibly.

  Josh laughed. “Okay, next stop, kitchen.”

  Aside from the new staircase at the front of the building, and elevator where the old one had been, the first floor remained much the same. The arch between the adjoining living and dining rooms had been widened and the walls freshly painted in a not entirely bilious shade of lime green, giving them a small conference and meeting room. The kitchen had been left alone, except for a commercial clean, and doubled as an office and staff lounge. The basement had been relegated to storage.

  The only furniture they were waiting on was for the classrooms—cubbies, bookshelves, pin boards, and the delayed easels—and the table in the kitchen was piled high with the supplies that were supposed to be in the empty classrooms. Dillon wanted to groan at the amount of work to be done before they opened. He also wanted to sit and play with all the tubes of paint and packages of new pastels. They always smelled so good.

  Dillon flipped open the lid of the donut box and managed to swallow the first ring of sweet, doughy goodness without chewing.

  His phone buzzed against his thigh, and Dillon pulled it out of his pocket, smiling as his mom’s picture filled the screen. Accepting the call, he pressed the phone to his ear and started back toward the stairs. He wanted to use the video function to show her how well the upper floors had turned out. “Hey, Mom!”

  “Have you seen the pictures?”

  Dillon paused at the bottom of the stairs. “What pictures? I was about to take you upstairs and show you the classrooms. Did Josh send you something?”

  His mom had met Josh shortly after Dillon decided to partner with him, renovate his father’s building, and open an art school. Because Hana Lee got along well with everyone, they instantly hit it off.

  “No, the pictures of you and Lang.”

  “Huh? No. Where?”

  “All over the internets! Most of them are blurry, but there’s one very good one. You two look very much in love.”

  “We do?” Not what he’d meant to ask, but on top of his thoughts about Josh and Micah, the question seemed relevant.

  “Oh, yes. Very lovey and lovely.”

  “Huh. Where did you say this picture was again?” Was it from New Year’s Eve? Dillon might have admitted to a mild curiosity regarding the pictures the paparazzi must have captured outside Constellation, but he hadn’t gone looking. His memory of that night felt a lot like the flash that had blinded him and had mostly been eclipsed by his and Lang’s lovemaking the following morning.

  “All over. You want me to send you a link?”

  “Sure. I’ll exchange you a picture or twenty of the classrooms. Want to do a video chat so I can show you around?”

  “Yes!”

  The next half hour passed in a blur of color as Dillon toured his mother through the school, starting with the top floor, which would be Dillon’s primary classroom. To take advantage of the natural light, the space was open to the stairs, with no door, making the third floor classroom the largest. Because it was at the top of the building, and they had only one class scheduled at a time (for now), noise shouldn’t be a problem.

  The second floor bedrooms had been joined into one larger room and painted a bright tangerine. The bathroom at the back had been converted to one large, fully accessible space. Though smaller, the second classroom managed to feel open as well as cozy. If privacy was needed, pulldown blinds could cover the windows overlooking the new staircase. Josh hoped to use the space for life drawing classes and tutoring.

  “Everything looks wonderful,” his mom said. “I love the floors.”

  The floors—stripped, sanded, and varnished to a high gloss—added necessary brightness to each room. Perversely, Dillon couldn’t wait to see them marked with spilled paint, crushed charcoal, and water stains. Only then would this place be a proper studio. It would smell right as well.

  Returning to the kitchen, he faced the screen of his phone toward Josh. “And here is my lovely partner Josh and, oh, yes, a pot of coffee.”

  Josh gave a little wave. “Hey, Hana.”

  “Hello, Josh.”

  Dillon let them exchange pleasantries for a couple of minutes before taking back his phone.
>
  “You’re still coming down on Sunday?” his mom asked. “I’m looking forward to seeing you and Lang.”

  “We’re looking forward to it, too. Want us to bring something?” Dillon knew as he asked that his mother would say no, and that she’d fuss and complain when they did bring something, but would serve it anyway, with a generous helping of comments about how their pie, cake, muffins, cookies, pastries, or candy didn’t go with her menu. Lang always got embarrassed at that point, his pale skin flushing an endearing shade of pink, and that would be about when Dillon and his mom exchanged a secret smile.

  So, yeah, they were bringing something. He’d let Lang choose whatever it was.

  “No,” Hana said, as expected. “I have everything planned. Your grandmother will be here, too, so best behavior. No jeans with rips, Dillon.”

  “Okay.”

  “See you Sunday.”

  “See you then.”

  After disconnecting, Dillon scrolled through the open tabs on his phone and clicked on the link his mom had sent him. A new tab opened, ads along the top loading and blinking before any of the pictures. Squinting, Dillon scrolled down until he got to the first photo.

  “Oh my God.”

  “What?” Josh leaned over his shoulder. “Oh, that. I figured you’d already seen it.”

  “Already?” Dillon shook his head. “No. I…” He couldn’t explain his reluctance to look for the photos from New Year’s Eve to Josh. “I thought the pictures would be all blurry because that’s all I remember. The flash, being blind, nearly fainting outside the club, and then getting the second-worst headache of my life.”

  “Second?”

  Dillon waved off the question. He’d rather not share the first: his kidnapping by a rival alien clan, the ensuing fight, being knocked to the floor hard enough to crack his jaw, and the blow to the back of his head that would have been a death sentence if Lang hadn’t given him the repair cells he needed to fix his own injuries.

  Instead, Dillon studied the photo of him and Lang standing together outside the club. Their hands were joined, and they were leaning in as if about to kiss. He remembered the kiss. It had been typical of Lang. Fast, sweet, and just one of the small and reassuring touches Lang gifted him with every day.