Secrets and Ink

by Lou Harper

  “The evidence—”

  The insinuation had me incensed. I looked him straight in the eye. “Detective Davies. If you think I tried to off myself, you’re out of your mind. You must think I’m a real basket case. Well, screw you!” I knew I’d eventually feel embarrassed about losing my temper again, but for the moment, I didn’t care.

  After a shocked second, Nick’s lips twitched and curled into a smile. He leaned forward and kissed me on the forehead. “Thank you. I was worried, but I feel better now.”

  I eyed him for a few moments. “You’re an idiot. Can I go home now?”

  “You’re supposed to stay overnight for observation.”

  No fucking way. “Nick, I detest hospitals. If you don’t help me get out of here, I’ll chew the IV needle out of my arm and run away with my ass hanging out of this gown. I’m serious.”

  “The doctors—”

  “Tell them I have no insurance. They’ll kick me out in no time.”

  He heaved a sigh of resignation. “Let me see what I can do.”

  As I watched him go, I leaned back in the bed. The conversation had taken most of my strength, but I had to hold it together till I got out that house of pain and misery. The idea of spending the night here felt unbearable. The question of how I’d gotten here in the first place kept niggling, but I didn’t have enough energy, so I pushed it aside.

  Getting out of a hospital was as simple as getting in front of a doctor in the ER without an actual axe lodged in your skull, but Nick did his officious best, and after signing a stack of papers releasing the hospital of all possible consequences of my premature departure, I was free from the clutches of the White Coats.

  In the car, I watched Nick’s profile, every line tense with focus. Then I dozed off. Only clonking my head on the window woke me up. Just in time too—we’d arrived at my place. I didn’t protest when Nick put his hand around my waist to help me up the stairs.

  When he deposited me on the couch, I said, “Thanks, I can take it from here.”

  He bestowed upon me an imperious glance while standing in the middle of my living room and looking around as if he was searching from something. “I don’t think so. We’re only here to pick up a few things for you. I’m taking you home with me.”

  “Oh?”

  “You’re a danger to yourself on your own.”

  “That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever told me.” I kept my voice light to make it sound like a joke, but in truth, warm butterflies danced in my stomach.

  Nick pushed the coffee table back and sat on it, facing me. “First I need you to tell me what you did after getting home last night. Every single detail.”

  So I did. Several times. I even admitted to not brushing my teeth before falling asleep. The part about my juice mishap especially roused his interest.

  “You said there was just enough in the bottle for one glass?” he asked.

  “Barely. And I forgot to bring home more.”

  He stood and marched into the kitchen. “Where did you put the empty bottle?”

  “Into the recycling.”

  Nick looked into the plastic bin under the kitchen counter. It was half full of bottles. He pulled them out one by one and inspected them closely. His frown deepened with each bottle. He dropped them back and looked around in the kitchen. “Did you leave the balcony door open?”

  I shrugged. “I leave it open at night to let the air circulate. It gets stuffy in here.”

  Nick walked outside and peered over the balustrade. I followed his gaze. Ivy climbed over the old lattice attached to the wall on one side.

  “You have A/C,” he said.

  “I can’t sleep with the noise.” My building didn’t have central air, and window units made too much racket.

  An airplane rumbled overhead on its way to the Burbank airport. “And you can sleep with that?”

  “I don’t even notice it.” How could I explain I was hypersensitive to certain kinds of sounds but not others?

  He shook his head and walked back into the kitchen, where he peered into the trashcan. “Is that the broken glass?”

  “Yes. Be careful,” I added when he reached in and pulled out the bottom chunk of the glass that had remained in one piece. Some of the orange liquid still sloshed around in it.

  “You have a Ziplock bag?”

  I grabbed one from the bottom drawer and handed it to Nick, who cautiously placed the glass in it. The way he was acting made me feel as if my place was a crime scene. I guess he couldn’t help himself, but to me the whole thing seemed ridiculous. I’d probably had exhaustion. Or food poisoning. Possibly both.

  While Nick ran down to the car, I gathered up my laptop, iPad, phone and other stuff I wanted to take with me. When he came back, he helped me pack a bag with some clothes and toiletries, and we drove over to his place. I was more than half-asleep by the time he wrangled me upstairs and into his bed. I grumbled at him for a minute for not joining me before passing out.

  Chapter Eight

  I woke up from a dreamless sleep feeling much less like a chewed-up dog toy and more like my normal, ordinary self. Pushing the comforter aside, I looked around the small room—night table, dresser, door to the closet. My clothes and bag were nowhere to be seen. Oh well. I stumbled out of the bedroom in my boxers and found Nick in the kitchen, eating breakfast—eggs over easy as far as I could tell.

  “Morning,” I said. Nick looked up, but then his gaze wandered south. I scratched my stomach. “You’re up early.”

  His gaze returned to my face. “Feeling better?”

  The breakfast table was just big enough for two. I plopped down on the empty chair. “Much. I’m starving.”

  He pushed his toast in front of me. “You should keep it light—tea and toast for now.” He stood, dropped more bread into the toaster and put the kettle on. He was already dressed for work, minus his shirt. I ogled his ass for a second, then quickly dipped my toast into the spilled yolk on his plate.

  “I called your boss and told him you need a few days off,” he said, putting his fine bum back on the chair.

  The toast nearly went the wrong way. “Why? And how did you get his number?”

  “Because you had your stomach pumped just last night and need to recover. Not to mention I need to look into a few things and want you stay put while I do. I got the number from Olly.”

  I frowned. “You two are thick as thieves.”

  “You scared the hell out of me yesterday. You might not believe it, but I care about you, and I’m gonna find out what happened.”

  “It was probably exhaustion,” I said, because the alternatives sounded too outlandish. Not to mention, I couldn’t imagine someone would hate me enough to try to poison me.

  “Uh-huh.” He stood and cleared away the remains of his breakfast.

  I watched his quick and efficient movements as he washed his plate and coffee cup and stacked them on the rack. I would’ve just left them in the sink. He dropped a tea bag into a mug and filled it with hot water from the kettle. He put the cup along with a bowl of sugar in front of me. And then surprised the heck out of me by kissing the top of my head. “I need to go. Don’t leave the apartment.”

  He headed toward the bathroom, and I followed on his heels, grousing. “Am I under house arrest?”

  He took a gray shirt out of the closet and put it on. “Call it unofficial protective custody. I want you to stay here till I get home tonight. Can you follow directions just once?”

  “Gray’s not your color,” I said, because it was the truth. He kept buttoning, and I kept talking. “I always follow directions. I can’t help that people keep bumping into me and knocking me astray. Let me,” I added as he pulled a tie from the rack on the inside of the closet door.

  He stood still while I looped the strip of silk around his neck and tied a half Windsor in it—just the way my dad taught me when I was ten.

  “All the more reason for you to stay put. There’s food in the fridge. You won’t
starve. Don’t open the door for anyone. Not a single soul. Understood?”

  “Not a soul. Got it.”

  He stepped close, framed my face with his hands, and we locked eyes. “I want to come home tonight and find you safe and sound, all right?” His thumbs brushed my cheeks just as the low timbre of his voice wrapped around my heart. I closed my eyes and melted into his warmth and strength. He kissed me on the lips. “Be good,” he said and left me standing alone in an apartment so much emptier without him in it.

  Nick was a damn tease, I decided, and I’d have to talk to him about that. Those kisses, though chaste, had been far past merely friendly. For now, I had to figure out what to do all day. I finished breakfast and found my bag in the living room. Once showered and dressed, I started snooping around. Nick clearly favored the functional and minimalistic approach in furnishing, but it could’ve been a style of necessity—the place was smaller than mine. At least it had central air, but I had to adjust the thermostat—I felt cold. Ridiculous in the middle of a summer heat wave.

  In one corner of the bedroom, hand weights sat in a row, organized by size. In the closet, suits, shirts and uniforms hung equal distance from each other. The socks in the sock drawer made me think of soldiers lined up for inspection. Oh gawd, a neat freak. Well, it didn’t exactly surprise me. However, I also found small deviations from the cool and ordered. At the bottom of the bedroom closet, a small, locked trunk tickled my curiosity. What sort of secrets could Nick be hiding?

  Watercolor landscapes hanging on the living room walls gave a splash of color to the room and Nick’s personality. I studied them closely, searching for insight, trying to tease out the reasons Nick had chosen them. The pictures were playful yet also lyrical—I felt I could get lost in them. Had I found Nick’s softer side?

  I made an intriguing discovery in the bathroom as well—two bottles of aftershave. One sat next to the sink, and its scent was the one I remembered from Nick. The other hid in the medicine cabinet. I took a whiff and wrinkled my nose. I couldn’t resolve the man-whore bouquet with my image of Nick. He either moonlighted as a gigolo or it was another man’s aftershave. I told myself I wasn’t jealous but spent the next hour looking into every nook and cranny for other signs of the second man. To my satisfaction, I couldn’t find any.

  I called Charly but didn’t tell her about my hospital stint the night before. I felt fine, and I didn’t want her to worry. I let her know I was staying at Nick’s, and I could tell from her friendly teasing it pleased her. She was busy, though, and we couldn’t talk long. I texted Olly, telling him to run if he got as much as a glimpse of Kat Fontaine. He must’ve been busy too, because the reply I got was a succinct, “Duh!”

  I turned on the boob tube, but daytime television was an unpalatable mix of kiddie shows and soaps. Good thing I’d remembered to pack my iPad and had a handful of e-books downloaded. I stretched out on the couch and spent the rest of the day reading Michael Connelly’s The Lincoln Lawyer. I’d gone to see the movie mainly because Matthew McConaughey was a hotty and guaranteed to take his shirt off, but I’d ended up liking the story a whole lot. Enough to make me want to read the book.

  At some point in the morning, there was knocking at the door. I tiptoed to the bedroom to sneak a peek from the window there. From the sharp angle, I could only make out a blue uniform—too light to be a cop, possibly a mailman or someone from the cable company. Someone perfectly safe. Yeah, right. I’d seen my slasher movies and so wasn’t going fall for that trick. I remained a good boy and didn’t make a peep, most definitely didn’t open the door. Nick praised me for it when he called an hour later. He called every few hours till I told him to knock it off. As much as I liked hearing his voice, he was starting to make me feel like a kid left home alone for the first time. Later, I called him to say I was fixing dinner and asked if I should I save him some. He replied he’d already grabbed a burger and would be late.

  I liked kicking back, reading, playing Plants vs. Zombies on the iPad as much as the next guy, but by the end of the day, I was getting itchy with cabin fever. It didn’t help that one of the neighbors had Cher’s Do You Believe on a loop. After a dozen times, her autotuned voice scraped at my brain like sandpaper. Fortunately, Nick had a very nice sound system—and a Lady Gaga CD. A refreshingly gay chink in his square exterior. There might be hope for him after all.

  Nick rolled through the door well past dark, looking worn out. I got a grunt for my good evening, and he disappeared into the farther regions of the apartment, but not before putting the thermostat back to Arctic setting. I kept reading. After showering and changing out of his suit and into jeans and a T-shirt, he dropped onto the other end of the couch.

  I studied him over the edge of the iPad. He made a sexy lump of a man, sunk into the cushions, eyes half-closed. I got jealous of the white cotton shirt for hugging his pecs so snugly. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “Hard day?” I asked.

  “Nonstop running around. Yours?”

  I saw his toes curling and stretching. “Hardly moved from the couch. Give those to me. I’m good with feet.”

  The asymmetrical arrangement of his brows conveyed doubt, but he moved his hooves into my lap. He had big, manly feet with high arches and hair on the knuckles. I set to work on the left first, digging my thumbs into its pads. I hadn’t lied about my skills, and soon he was making throaty sounds that would’ve made Barry White blush. They sure had their effect on me. I stealthily adjusted myself and went on with the job at hand while my imagination was busy conjuring up other sorts of handjobs.

  “Ow, that feels good,” Nick said on the heels of another low, guttural sound.

  I swallowed down my cravings and kept my voice even. “I learned it from Charly. She told me the way to a man’s heart is through his feet.”

  “I thought it was through the stomach.”

  “I’ve already cooked for you. I’m working on the second line of defense.” The words slipped out before I could stop them. I searched Nick’s face for signs of spotting the truth behind the joke, but his eyes had slipped closed and his head slumped into the cushions. I went on in silence, switching from one foot to the other.

  While my fingers worked, my mind romped around, and I pictured Nick lying there naked and me rubbing his whole body inch by inch. With oil. No, wait, it would get on the furniture, and he wouldn’t like that. We could be on a beach. A very private beach. Water would trickle down Nick’s face from the wet hair pasted to his skull, and his skin would taste salty like the ocean.

  Sensing an electric charge in the air, I looked up and caught Nick watching me through half-lidded eyes. For three heartbeats, time stood still between us, but then Nick pulled his feet from my lap and sat up straight. “We need to talk,” he said.

  My stomach clenched. “What did I do now?”

  “Nothing, as far as I know. But there’s something you should know.” He had such a serious air about him it made my sexy buzz turn tail and flee. He pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his back pocket. “Remember the broken glass from your trash? I took it to a lab. These are the results.”

  “Police crime lab?” All I knew about those places was from TV shows, and I doubted the real ones were as shiny and worked as fast.

  “No. A private one.”

  I couldn’t fathom why he’d do such thing. “Doesn’t that cost money?”

  He made an impatient flick with his hand. “Yes. Stop interrupting and listen.”

  All I could think of was how expensive it must’ve been. “But, how much—”

  “Shut up already, for goodness sake. This is important. We can talk about money later,” he snapped.

  I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned back. “Fine. Go on.”

  He unfolded the paper but barely glimpsed at it. It seemed like he knew its contents by heart. “In the liquid, they found massive traces of barbiturates, the same kind as in your sleeping pill. And something else—antiemetics.”

 
“Antiwhatics?”

  “It’s a drug that prevents vomiting, like in motion-sickness pills. People who are serious about killing themselves usually take them along with the main drug.”

  “You don’t still think I—”

  “No. I don’t think you tried kill yourself.”

  “You did in the hospital,” I reminded him.

  “I made a rash assumption based on the evidence I had at the time. I’ve had a chance to think it over since. You’re…umm…quirky, frequently frustrating and have a temper, but you’re too damn stubborn to off yourself so suddenly.”

  I had to play the devil’s advocate. “I could’ve faked it so you’d come to my rescue.”

  He shook his head. “That would be too convoluted, and your crazy is more of the straightforward, charge-into-the-burning-house variety.”

  I frowned. “Thank you. I think. But then what the fuck happened? Somebody put drugs in my juice. Why? Not to mention, how?” I suddenly had the surreal sense of being a character in an Agatha Christie novel. It made me feel oddly detached.

  “I’d like to know that too, but I bet it has to do with the photos, Riley, and possibly Clay Carson. Somebody entered your apartment at least twice. Once to place the drugs, and second time to remove the evidence. Fortunately, they didn’t look in the trash. There could’ve been other times too. It wouldn’t be hard. Anyone who can climb a jungle gym could get up on your balcony, and since it looks out to a dark alley, they could easily do it unobserved. You were lucky to have spilled most of your drink, and even luckier I showed up when I did. Even if you didn’t die, you could’ve ended up with serious kidney damage.”

  My brain refused to accept the fact that somebody had tried to kill me. “This is nuts. I didn’t do anything. I don’t even have a clue what the fuck is going on. Do you?”

  “I’ve told you, it’s not my case, but Gary’s a thorough man. I leveled with him about the attempt on your life and everything else I know.”