by Tara Lain
“Why?” Bo tried to smooth his own brow.
“Because—” He held up a finger. “—you don’t need any more damned people to take care of.”
Bo smiled. In truth, Jeremy had a point. “But I actually like taking care of you.”
“The thing is—” He sighed loudly, and Bo tensed. “—people are going to notice, Bo. For a guy who wants to stay in the closet, that’s not a good thing. Your family will realize you’re making special efforts and concessions for me, and they’re going to want to know why. Same with the other growers. Someone like Ezra is going to put his finger right on the truth.” He looked up and met Bo’s eyes with an intense stare. “If you don’t want that, you need to stop taking care of me.”
He was right, of course. “I’ll tell you what. How about you let me worry about that?”
“But—”
“Shh.” Bo stopped Jeremy’s lips with a kiss. The soft kiss turned to slow, gentle lovemaking, both of them too tired and too sad for anything more fiery. Maybe what Jeremy had said about no longer taking care of him gave their embraces an extra edge of poignancy. Bo had to make a decision. As the old expression said, it was time to shit or get off the pot. That was his last inspiring thought as he fell asleep.
Bo’s eyes opened suddenly. What time is it? Was that my phone? He raised his head and stared into the dark. There was no moon tonight, and out where Jeremy lived, no light shone in from the street. Bo felt for his phone on the nightstand and glanced at the screen. Text from Llewellyn?
He didn’t want to shine blue screen light in Jeremy’s eyes when his soft breathing said he was sleeping so soundly. Slipping out from under Jeremy’s arm, he slid to the side and reached his foot to the ground. He had to feel his way. After a couple of seconds, he managed to find the chairs. The jeans on top proved to be Jeremy’s—too small for Bo—so he grabbed the next pair, then pulled on a sweatshirt. The hood testified that it was Jeremy’s, not Bo’s, but it was big enough it didn’t matter. Patting at the wall with his hands, he found the door and crept out into the hall, then walked into the living room. Outside was probably the best place for this so as not to wake Jeremy.
Quietly he opened the front door. Good thing Jeremy doesn’t have a dog. Hmm. Wonder if he’d like a pooch. I’d kind of like one. The quiet night struck him. Usually there were crickets or frogs, even in the early spring, but not tonight. So silent. Like a held breath.
He looked down at his phone. Odd that Llewellyn would be texting him so late, although in truth, he and Jeremy had crashed fairly early after their long drive and upsetting morning. Poor Jeremy. To sit there and have someone say so matter-of-factly that of course they didn’t want his wine. The unique blends he’d slaved over. Sweet Lord, like a slap in the face.
He clicked on the text, but it hadn’t downloaded. He glanced up like he could see the bad reception, then walked a few feet off the porch to get into a different position. Sure enough, his bars increased by two and the text clicked in. He bent over it.
Background data on Jeremy sketchy & inconsistent. Don’t want to overstep, but needs investigation. Be careful.
He felt the strain of his own scowl. His instant reaction was to fly to Jeremy’s defense. The second thought was this wasn’t anything he hadn’t considered himself. Jeremy blatantly didn’t discuss his past. Sure, Bo got not wanting to dwell on an unhappy childhood, but to never mention a family experience, bad or good, seemed amazing—especially to a Southerner.
But how do I bring it up without—?
The scuff of a step behind him registered in his head one second before something way beyond hard smashed into it.
OH LORDY, does my head hurt. Bo tried to crack open his eyelids, but the searing flash of light against his eyeballs should be sold to the CIA as an interrogation tool. He’d tell them anything to make it go away. He squeezed his eyes closed and tried to put a hand over them, but something dragged against it and hurt when he moved.
“Somebody close that curtain.” The demanding voice shivered through Bo—in a good way. Jeremy. Some light directly above Bo went out and the general illumination on his eyelids seemed to soften. Better. Maybe.
He tried again and managed to get a crack in his lids, though he cringed a little from it.
Near his face, Jeremy said, “You scared the holy shit out of me.”
Bo finally made his lips work. “T-tell me so I can be scared too.”
“Beauregard Marchand, you stop trying to be funny and rest. You’ve experienced a great trauma.”
Mama. That was not comforting. He managed to force his eyes open and faced his mother, with the rest of the Marchand clan hanging in the doorway. Apparently someone had told them they couldn’t come in the room but hadn’t managed to control the access point. Bo sighed softly. “What kind of trauma?” He tried to move his arm to touch his head again, but this time could see he was hooked to an IV. Lord Jesus, how bad off am I?
His mother frowned daggers toward Jeremy. “Mr. Aames believes that someone intended to accost him and mistook you for him. Apparently that sweatshirt you were wearing was one he loaned you?” She might have been saying Jeremy killed baby seals in the garment before forcing Bo to put it on and then beating him over the head with a lead pipe. He’d have laughed if he didn’t feel like crap.
He spoke softly to Jeremy, who stood next to the bed, his back half-turned toward Bo’s mother. “So you think someone was after you?”
“Of course. Don’t you?”
“You mean—?”
“Who the hell else?” He looked bitter.
“But why? He’s done a pretty effective job of neutralizing any threat from you. Why would he need to—” He shrugged. “What? Warn you off? Physically harm you?”
There was a tap on the door. Bo forced his head to move. A tall, thin man with dark hair and light eyes stood inside the door, Bo’s family clustered behind him. “Mr. Marchand, I’m Roberto O’Hara with the Paso Robles police.” He glanced around at the crowd. “I wonder if I can ask you some questions about this event.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll have to ask your, uh, guests to leave.”
Bo waved his free hand. “Come on everyone, scoot, please.”
His mama got up huffily and walked out to the rest of the family. Jeremy started to follow, but O’Hara put a hand on his arm. “You’re Mr. Aames?”
Jeremy nodded warily.
“If you wouldn’t mind remaining.”
Jeremy appeared to be considering leaving but nodded again. When Mama had made it fully out the door, O’Hara closed it.
“So who called you, Mr. O’Hara?” Bo cocked his head. “Is this for certain some kind of crime?”
O’Hara extended a business card to Bo, then sat in the chair Mama had vacated, leaving Jeremy standing beside the bed. “You were thinking perhaps someone hit you hard enough to give you a concussion for fun?” He pulled a notebook from his pocket. “And it’s Detective O’Hara.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t exactly know what happened. One minute I was looking at my phone, and the next I was here.”
“Where were you when you were on the phone?”
“Outside Jeremy’s house, uh, a few feet off the porch.”
“And you, Mr. Aames?” O’Hara had big blue eyes with a lot of white around the pupil. He focused them on Jeremy.
“You mean where was I when Bo was outside my house? Asleep, I guess. He was, uh, staying with me since we’d just gotten back from a business trip. We were tired and went to sleep early.”
“You didn’t hear him go outside?”
“No. Sound asleep.”
“So you found Mr. Marchand unconscious?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Jeremy glanced at Bo. “About half a mile down the road from my house.”
“What?” Bo’s head snapped up, and he was instantly sorry. Ouch. “How did I get down there?”
“You don’t remember being pulled, carried, or dragged?
” O’Hara sat with his pen poised.
“No. I told you, I was just standing there. I heard a crunch behind me and—that’s it. That’s all.”
“What was your impression, Mr. Aames?”
Jeremy shook his head. “I didn’t know. At first I thought Bo had decided to go home and collapsed somehow. But that made no sense. His car was parked in front, and he was wearing my sweatshirt while his clothes were, uh, in his bag at my house. Mostly I was scared I couldn’t wake him and called 911.”
Bo said, “So you didn’t call the police?”
“No. I mean, I asked 911 for an ambulance. Like I said, I was really scared for you. I thought there was a reasonable explanation until I found out you’d been hit very hard. Then—” He shrugged.
“Then?” O’Hara glanced up.
“Then I thought someone must have been after me and mistook you for me in the dark.”
O’Hara frowned. “The ER called me when they discovered Mr. Marchand had been struck with a blunt weapon, dragged, and abraded. And why would you think someone would want to do that to you, Mr. Aames?”
“I, uh, didn’t exactly. I just have enemies in the valley, and I thought maybe one of them was trying to scare me or threaten me in some way. I didn’t realize it was quite that serious.”
“And now that you do?” O’Hara’s big blue eyes never wavered.
Jeremy shrugged but didn’t exactly meet O’Hara’s stare.
“Doesn’t it seem likely that someone might have dragged Mr. Marchand to a vehicle thinking he was someone else? You, for example? And then upon discovering his mistake, tossed him out on the road?”
“I suppose.” Jeremy really frowned.
Hell, so did Bo.
“So would you care to supply the names of your enemies, Mr. Aames?”
“I’m not sure anyone would have it in for me quite that much.”
“Perhaps not, but nonetheless, the enemies list will be important.”
“I don’t want to point fingers at innocent people.”
Bo looked at Jeremy. When did he get so concerned about Ottersen’s possible innocence?
O’Hara handed Jeremy a piece of paper and a pen. Jeremy looked worried but sat on the edge of the bed and wrote his list. Finally he looked up and handed the paper to O’Hara—reluctantly, it seemed. “The first person on the list has screwed me out of a lot of contracts lately, and I’ve been pretty pissed about it. The others don’t like me because I’m gay, but I doubt they’d beat me over the head for it.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” O’Hara raised an eyebrow.
Bo grimaced.
O’Hara tucked away the paper. “Thanks. Neither of you leave town without letting me know first, okay?” He pulled cards from his pocket and handed them each one. “And call me if you remember anything else pertinent. We’ll be scouting around your house, Mr. Aames, so stay away from the area where you found Mr. Marchand unconscious so that you don’t inadvertently damage evidence.”
“I have to drive down there to get to work.”
“That’s fine. Just don’t linger.”
Jeremy nodded, and O’Hara opened the door. Like an equal and opposite reaction, Mama rushed back in, with the family behind.
Bo stared after O’Hara with a brand-new certainty. Jeremy wasn’t completely convinced that it was Ottersen who hit Bo. Bo might not have an idea who else it could have been, but he’d bet Jeremy did.
Chapter Twenty-one
BO STOOD from the wheelchair they’d made him ride in to get out of the hospital. Instantly his uncle Davey slid an arm around his waist while his mama and Bettina clucked in front of him. Despite a passionate desire to swing his arms in a wide circle and swat them all like flies, he restrained himself. They just wanted to take care of him. He held up a hand. “I’m fine. Honest. Aside from my head hurting, I’m good as new. I need to talk to Jeremy for a minute. Please get in the car.”
His mother planted hands on her considerable hips. “Beauregard, the doctor clearly said you’re recovering from concussion and need to rest.”
“Yes, ma’am, which I will do as soon as we get home. But first, as I said, I need to talk to Jeremy.”
His mother’s glare could have killed grizzlies. “I would think that Jeremy had done enough.”
Bo just sighed, and his mother gave it up and slid into the front passenger seat of the “family” Honda—a car that Bo paid for like everything else but everyone used, while he kept the Prius for himself. That would be the Prius still parked in front of Jeremy’s.
Bo walked the few steps to where Jeremy stood leaning against his car. “Thank you for coming to the hospital.”
Jeremy shook his head and gave a tight smile. “You’re something else, man. I about get you killed, and you’re thanking me? Get serious. Your mother’s right. I’m worse for you than this year’s flu epidemic.”
Bo cocked his head away from the car and grinned. “And I had my shots, right where they did the most good.”
Jeremy snorted.
“But I’m worried about you, darlin’.” His face sobered, and he so badly wanted to reach out and touch Jeremy’s cheek. “Whoever hit me almost certainly was after you. What’s to stop them from trying again?”
“A whole lot of cops, as far as I can tell.”
“Wish that made me feel better.” He took a breath. Pull the tiger by its tail. “Do you really think it was Ottersen who hit me?”
Jeremy raised a light eyebrow. “No. I think it was somebody Ottersen paid a bunch of the money he stole from my contracts.”
“Seriously, I just wish I could figure what he had to gain by doing it. He’d have to realize you’d suspect him immediately.”
“Yeah, and that I’d have trouble proving it.”
“But where you found me suggests whoever hit me was planning to abduct me. Or actually, abduct you. Why would Ottersen do that?”
Jeremy stared at his shoes, then up at Bo. “I don’t know, but then, why has he done any of the shit he’s done to me, Bo?” His voice rose in exasperation and, from the corner of his eye, Bo saw his mother stare from the car.
Bo nodded and fought the intense desire to hug Jeremy. Yes, he was hiding something. Maybe a lot of somethings. But he was also frustrated, horrified, and hurting like hell. “It’s gonna get better.”
“From your lips to God’s ears, baby.” He gave a really pained smile and slid into his car.
Bo watched him pull out and drive away, then walked slowly to the back seat of the Honda. As Davey pulled away from the curb, Bo said, “Take me to the winery, please, Davey.”
His mother shrieked, “You most certainly will not! You’re going home, young man, and straight to bed.”
“Yes, ma’am, right after I look in on my staff and make sure everything is okay. They may have heard all sorts of things about what happened to me, and I don’t want them to worry unnecessarily.”
As he’d hoped, that excuse made sense to her. “Very well, but just for a minute and no stress.”
It took a few minutes to drive into wine country, but Davey finally turned onto the steep road up to Marchand. Bo itched to get inside. With everything so topsy-turvy, he couldn’t get the feelings of unease to die down. Yes, he’d been hit on the damned head, which wasn’t an everyday occurrence. But even beyond that, things just didn’t feel right.
When he opened the door to the tasting room, the usual calm that soothed him in the winery was shattered by yelling voices coming from the kitchen. What the hell? He powered through the swinging door to find Blanche standing in the middle of the floor with her hands on her hips, hollering in a voice that would have done credit to his mama, and an immovable RJ facing her with folded arms, his perfect movie-star jaw clenched, shaking his head. He was speaking in a low, tight voice to match the jaw. “Bo says we don’t have the resources or personnel to be able to make money on catering. We’re not a full kitchen.”
Her back was to Bo. RJ looked up and saw him, but Blanche di
dn’t. “And I’m telling you, we’re going to cater that event and get some exposure with the best of local society. Bo put me in charge, and you’ll do—”
“I most emphatically did not ever put you in charge of anything in this winery, sugah, including bussing the goddamned tables.”
She whirled. “Bo!” She crossed her arms over her chest and looked guilty, then sucked in breath and courage and said, “Well, damn it, I’m family and part of this winery is mine, and when I’m here I should be second-in-command to you.”
Had it. Up to here. Bo’s eyes narrowed like the space in his heart for her. “None, I repeat none of this winery belongs to you, Mama, Bettina, or anyone else except me. You want to order people around?” He pointed at the door. “Then get out there, go to work, and earn the right, because you don’t have it here. Mama and the rest of the family are in the car outside. Go get in that car and tell them I’m not coming. Now get the hell out of my business. Do you understand?” His head throbbed, but he stood his ground.
Blanche stared at him with her mouth literally hanging open. “But I only wanted—I—” Tears burst from her eyes, and she turned and ran out the kitchen door. Somewhere outside, a glass hit the floor, and RJ rushed toward the sound. By the time Bo got there, Blanche was gone, and a single wineglass lay in shards on the floor as RJ pulled the dustpan from under the sink.
Bo tried to relax his fists. “I’m powerfully sorry about that, RJ. She came to me just as I was leaving and asked if she could be an intern for the winery. I told her I’d talk to Annette about supervising her, and then I plumb forgot to call her. I didn’t put Blanche in charge of dusting up.”
“I didn’t think so, boss, but she came in right after you left and said you’d made her your supervisor. I told her I already was and so we’d have to speak with you about how to divide our responsibilities. She didn’t much like that and started, well, shoving her weight around.”
“Truly sorry.” Bo sighed.