Dark Kisses

by Kelly Myers

  “Wilder,” a deep voice calls.

  I snap out of my reverie and look over to see Logan Sharpe at the end of the bar. We graduated from the Police Academy together and, as rookies on the force, we became friends. I always appreciated his no-bullshit attitude and straightforward manner. His direct, brown stare meets mine and he motions me over. I can’t help but notice the dark circles that make him look older and tired.

  “Sharpe,” I say, and we shake hands. “What the hell are you doing over here?”

  He shrugs, reaches for his beer. “Bud?” he asks. When I nod, he raises a hand and orders another Budweiser.

  “Thanks,” I say when the bartender cracks the bottle open and slides it over to me. “Get demoted?” I ask Logan.

  “Nah,” he says and takes a swig. “Just the opposite, unfortunately.”

  I raise a brow. “Detective?”

  “It’s what I always wanted, but fuck, if I knew accepting the promotion meant my personal life was over, I may have reconsidered.”

  He’s being modest. “No, you wouldn’t have,” I say. He always talked about working in the Detective Bureau and I knew it was his dream. “Congratulations,” I add and lift my bottle in a toast.

  “How’re you doing?” he asks, his voice carefully neutral.

  How am I doing? Pretty shitty, I think. You thought my life was a fucking disaster a year ago? Well, you should see it now. I sigh and my mouth lifts in a half-smile. “You don’t want to know,” I say.

  After a long drink, Logan sends me a concerned look. “Jax, if there’s anything I can do...just name it.”

  I must look really pathetic for that offer. “I could use some clients for my new business,” I half-joke.

  He lifts a curious brow. “What kind of business?”

  “I started Platinum Security about a month ago. I’ve got a couple guys-- former military and ex-CIA-- working there, too. We investigate, troubleshoot, locate, provide security. You name it, I can get it done.”

  Logan’s gaze narrows and he’s quiet for a moment. “I may have something for you,” he says.

  My head snaps up. “Seriously?” I don’t mean to sound desperate, but if I can get one client in the door then I’ll have more time to figure things out and get some bills paid.

  “There’s a woman in need of security.”

  “Security from what?”

  “Stalker. You know the police don't handle that kind of thing very well. It’s more of a private dick thing or for a security specialist like you.”

  I nod, heart in my throat. A stalker case. Perfect. I’ll install a security system, act as a bodyguard and, most importantly, cash a big-ass check.

  “Here’s the catch,” he says. “It’s for Easton Ross.”

  I blink stupidly. Am I supposed to know that name? I start racking my brain when Logan laughs.

  “You don’t know who she is do you?”

  “Should I?”

  Another chuckle. “She’s a famous actress.” I must still have a blank look on my face because he continues to explain. “She’s the hot brunette who dated Lincoln Knight a few years ago?”

  “Are you asking me?” I ask. “Because I have no fucking idea who you’re talking about.”

  “Seriously?”

  I shrug.

  “C’mon, man! You’re pulling my leg, right?”

  “Dude, that chick could walk in here right now, drop to her knees and blow me and I’d still have no clue who she was. I don’t have time for that Hollywood shit.”

  “You don’t watch movies?”

  “Not really. I mean except for my favorites when they’re on T.V.”

  “Dirty Dancing?”

  “Fuck you.” We laugh and it feels good. I always considered Logan a good friend and I realize now how much I’ve missed him this past year. The easy camaraderie and friendship that got us through ten years of seeing the worst of humanity out on the Los Angeles streets is still there.

  But, after I was let go for misconduct, we both went our separate ways. I didn’t want to drag him down with me. He’d put in too much time and effort, and I knew he’d get promoted soon. Looks like I was right.

  “Dirty Dancing,” I scoff and finish my beer. “More like The Expendables one, two and three. A little John Wick maybe. And-”

  “Top Gun,” we both say at the same time.

  “I remember watching that one at your place,” Logan says, and orders another round. “You came close to being a Flyboy yourself so it makes sense.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I should’ve joined the Air Force, but at the last minute, I decided to be a cop. Hindsight is always twenty-twenty, right?”

  Logan nods, picks at the wet label on his beer. “It wasn’t the same without you, you know. And, the way everything was handled...it left a bad taste in my mouth. I thought about turning my badge in more than once after you left.”

  I rub a hand across the dark scruff on my jawline. “I appreciate it, man, but if you would’ve turned your badge in, I would’ve kicked your ass.”

  “I believe you,” he says with a chuckle. He looks down at my exposed left arm and checks out the tattoo sleeve. “New ink.”

  I rotate my forearm, flashing the various designs. “Yeah. Soon as I left the force, I figured why the hell not? Found out tattoos are damn addictive.”

  My ink is made up of endless hours of work by a local, extremely talented artist and starts at my wrist, works all the way up my arm, extends over the left side of my chest and brushes up the side of my neck. It’s a lot and I like it. When I decide to do something, I don’t half-ass it. I go in all the way.

  Problem is, sometimes I find myself too deep and in trouble.

  Like last year when I decided to go all vigilante and go after some gang scum. But, that’s what fucking happens when you hurt someone I love. I will destroy you. Even if it means destroying myself in the process.

  “Well, when I’m ready to go get some ink, you’ll have to give me your guy’s name,” Logan says.

  I nod. “You got it. Now tell me more about this potential job.”

  Later that night at my apartment, I sit in my comfy recliner while some action movie plays on the television. But my focus is somewhere else. For a minute, it’s on Easton Ross and I hope to Christ she calls me. The idea of having to close Platinum Security stresses me out and I reach for a cigarette. As I light it, I know I can’t let Griff and Ryker down. They’ve both lost too much already.

  We all have.

  Opening P.S. is like a lifeline to those guys. They’ve seen a lot of shit and the darkness and pain that comes with it can be debilitating. Like me, they lost people they loved and cared about more than anything in this shitty world.

  I feel the darkness overpowering me and I fucking hate it. But sometimes it comes on hard and fast and all I can do is give in to it. Kind of like when a junkie gets an itch and he just has to satisfy the craving.

  I pop open another bottle of Bud and take a long swig.

  Madison.

  Her name hits me like a freight train and my eyes slide shut. I automatically reach inside my shirt and touch the St. Michael medal that hangs on a chain around my neck. It was a gift from her the day I joined the force.

  “What’s this?” I ask and lift the necklace out of a velvet box.

  “It’s St. Michael,” Maddy answers. “He symbolizes protection, courage and the victory of good over evil. If you ever paid attention at Sunday school, you’d know that, Jax.”

  I remember laughing.

  “He’s also the patron saint of policemen. He’ll keep you safe, big brother.”

  God, I miss my sister.

  I turn my arm and study the cursive letter “M” tattoo on the outside of my right wrist. After Maddy died, it was the first one I got. I also got one of St. Michael, on my shoulder, poised above Satan who lays helpless and pinned below his sword.

  Then, I also have an array of other dark pieces: a skull, cross, dagger, chains.

  Fun
stuff like that.

  It’s just going to be one of those nights, I resign. One of those long, lonely, dark nights and I can either get through it or blow my fucking brains out. My gaze drops to my sidearm which lays on the table beside me.

  A .40 caliber Glock 22. It’s aggressive, hits hard and straight. And, I don’t recommend ever getting hit by one (or three) of its bullets. Hurts like a sonofabitch.

  Guilt weighs heavy on my mind and heart. At one point, I was drowning in it so badly that the idea of giving up and just dying along with Maddy seemed the best option.

  But, I’m scrappy and a survivor. I always have been. Twenty years ago, my parents were hit head-on by a drunk driver and died at the scene. I was 15 years old at the time. Me, Maddy and my younger brother Sebastian were sent to live with my Aunt Rita. Poor, dear lady. She had no idea how to handle a wild bunch like us.

  Good ‘ol Auntie Rita did her best to take care of us and instill some religion, but I think it mostly fell on deaf ears. At least it did for Bastian and me. We skipped Sunday School, fell asleep during Church and pretty much grew into a couple of heathens. But, Maddy was a good girl.

  Unfortunately, she fell for a bad boy. A very, very bad boy.

  I smoke the cigarette down to the filter and drop it in the empty beer bottle. It lands with a sizzle and I crack open another. The demons are biting tonight and I need to numb the pain.

  3

  Easton

  It’s a few minutes past 8am and I finish getting dressed. I’ve already worked out for an hour, showered and my hair and makeup are done. I wander into the kitchen where Jacques has left a fresh bowl of fruit in the refrigerator for me. My personal chef comes in every day to prepare lunch and dinner, but breakfast is always something quick and light that he makes up the night before.

  As I pop a strawberry into my mouth, I look down at the phone number written on a piece of paper from Liv. She heard back from the police detective she spoke to yesterday and he gave her the name of someone who handles private security and specializes in stalkers.

  Jaxon Wilder.

  What a name, I think. He sounds like he could be an actor. Normally, I would have Liv call him and set up a meeting, but I’m feeling independent this morning. And, a little curious about the man who has a name like Jaxon.

  I punch his number into my cell phone and it begins to ring. And, ring and ring. Hmm. How reliable is a security specialist who doesn’t answer his--

  “Hello?”

  The voice is deep and raspy. “Hello, Mr. Wilder?” I ask.

  “Yeah.”

  No points for politeness. His brusque tone leaves much to be desired, I think, for me as a potential client. He also sounds half-asleep. Like I just woke him up and he doesn’t appreciate the disturbance. “This is Easton Ross and Detective Sharpe referred you.”

  I hear a rustling and I think the phone drops. A muffled curse. More crackling. “Sorry,” he says. “Thanks for calling. I hear you’re having a security issue?”

  “Is that the politically correct way to say stalker nowadays?” I ask.

  He half chokes, half laughs. “Just the less scary way.”

  “Well, if you’re available, I'd like to meet you and discuss a plan of action.”

  “Yeah, definitely.”

  “Great. Let’s plan to meet in one hour. I’ll text you my address.”

  “Uh, sure.”

  “See you then, Mr. Wilder.” I hang up and immediately send him my address. I hope he has enough time to take a shower because it sounds like I just woke him up from the world’s worst hangover.

  I finish my fruit and walk down to my office where I turn on some classic jazz and sit on the curving velvet settee in front of the large picture window. I have a stack of scripts my agent sent over to read, starring role offers for each one. I really should pick one of them or I’ll never hear the end of it. I guess we shall see what sparks my interest.

  If any of them do. Again, the thought of retiring from acting flits across my mind. Lately, it seems to be becoming more and more of a possibility.

  Like something I really do want.

  My cell phone rings and I glance down at the caller i.d. which reads Daniel.

  I take a deep breath and debate whether I should answer or not. I haven’t spoken to him in a few days so I suppose the polite thing would be to take his call. “Hello, Daniel,” I say.

  “Easton, baby,” he greets me in typical fashion. “I just finished the most amazing script I’ve ever read and only you can play this part. The lead is classy and feisty and running for her life from some crazy guy hellbent on killing her and her entire family. It’s like ‘Taken’ meets ‘Salt’ meets ‘The Fugitive.’”

  I roll my eyes and wonder what is the best way to break it off with Daniel because he isn’t what I expected. At all. When we first met, I kind of enjoyed his over-the-top enthusiasm and zest to make it in this town. But, now, he just comes off as desperate and pushy.

  And, I also heard some rumors that I didn’t like. People say he is only dating me because he’s sure he can convince me to be in one of his films. And, that is what he thinks will finally launch his career.

  Daniel grew up in Beverly Hills surrounded by the Industry because his Dad is a big-time, mega-successful producer. Daniel, however, is nowhere near as fortunate having only done a string of low-budget independent films that bombed. But, he craves that elusive success and is willing to do anything to achieve it.

  “Hmm,” I say, flipping through the pages of a script.

  “I’m going to have a courier run it over,” he promises. “I’d do it myself, baby, but my schedule is jam-packed today.”

  “That’s fine,” I say. To be honest, I don’t want to see him anyway. Then, I’m not sure why, but I add, “I’m meeting someone from a private security firm this morning.”

  Silence. Then, “Oh, yeah?”

  I shake my head and my dark waves bounce on the top of my shoulders. Seriously? He completely forgot about the stalker and the creepy calls coming in at every hour of the day.

  “About the stalker,” I remind him.

  “No, yeah, right. Are you sure that’s a good idea? Bringing some random guy into your house? I mean, what if he ends up being your stalker?”

  Oh, my God.

  “Holy shit, Easton, baby. Wouldn’t that make a fantastic film? The very man she thinks is protecting her ends up being the one trying to kill her.”

  I can hear his gears turning. “No one’s trying to kill me, Daniel.” I don’t think, anyway.

  “I think I’m going to pitch that idea. Don’t worry, E, I’ll make sure you get ‘story by’ credit.”

  I hate when he calls me “E.” It sounds like something some dude would call his buddy. Like “bro.” And, if that’s how Daniel thinks of me-- like one of the guys-- then that’s just another reason to break up with him.

  “I have to go,” I say. “Mr. Wilder should be here soon.”

  “Okay, cool. Well, read that script as soon as you get it. K, babe?”

  “Bye, Daniel.” I hang up and release a frustrated breath. If it wasn’t clear before, it’s crystal clear now. Daniel Rogers is only interested in me because he thinks I can do something for his career. Not because he cares about me.

  “Morning, Easton,” Liv says and walks into the room.

  “Hi, Liv.”

  “So, there’s some ridiculously hot biker who just pulled up out front on a motorcycle.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know who he is, but OMG.” She fans herself with a hand. “I can’t decide if he looks like he stepped straight out of GQ or prison.”

  My eyes widen a little. I look down at the slim Gucci watch on my wrist and wonder if the mystery man could be Mr. Jaxon Wilder.

  4

  Jax

  The moment my phone rang an hour earlier, I wanted to throw it out the window. Who the hell calls at 8am on a Saturday?

  Apparently, Miss Easton Ross, movie star extraor
dinaire, does.

  I rolled out of bed, still half-asleep, still half-drunk, and decided a shower was non-negotiable. Meeting Princess Easton smelling like a booze joint probably wouldn’t go over too well. She lives right over in the Hills off Sunset Boulevard so I have just enough time to wash up, slip on my jeans, t-shirt and leather jacket.

  An hour later, I pull up to the curb in front of an enormous house on Blue Jay Way. I double check the address she texted me earlier and compare it to the one on the curb.

  Holy shit. This place looks sick, beyond extravagant and a perfect waste of 10 million dollars.

  I turn off my vintage 1973 Norton Commando, pull off my helmet and riding gloves, then lower the kickstand. I see a girl with blonde hair walking into a side entrance, but not before she does a double-take. I run a self-conscious hand through my damp, windblown hair and then slide off the bike.

  I amble up to the front door, slipping my sunglasses and gloves into a jacket pocket, helmet tucked under my arm. Then, I ring the doorbell. A moment later, an older woman opens it. I assume she’s the housekeeper because anyone who can afford to live in a luxurious house like this must have a horde of servants at her beck and call.

  “I’m Jaxon Wilder. I have a nine o’clock appointment with Miss Ross.”

  “Of course. Come in and I’ll let her know you’re here.”

  Motherfuck, this place is incredible. I try to keep my eyes in my head, but I’ve never been in a house like this before. From what I can see, there are multiple levels made of concrete and steel with floor to ceiling glass windows. It’s a tour de force of modern architecture yet the interior design has a throwback, almost vintage feel. Like Old Hollywood meets New Hollywood.

  Suddenly, the petite blonde I glimpsed outside appears. “Mr. Wilder?”

  “Miss Ross?”

  She laughs. “Oh, no. I’m her assistant, Olivia. Follow me and she’ll be right with you.”