by John Inman
But Logan still wasn’t finished. “Grace Connor was the only victim who proudly—or foolishly, maybe—published her blog under her own name. She attended public events using her true identity and put herself recklessly out there for everyone to see. She was attending just such an event when she was murdered in New York.” Logan paused, surveying the faces around him. Then he frowned. “But if you read a few of her reviews and see how cruel those reviews could sometimes be, you’ll realize she probably should have been a little more circumspect in either releasing her true identity or making herself so accessible to the people she was attacking. It pains me to say it since she was a friend of Milo’s, but it’s still the truth.”
Logan cast a glance in Milo’s direction, but his gaze didn’t linger. He did not ask for forgiveness for what he had said about Grace, as Milo knew he wouldn’t. As Milo knew he didn’t need to. Logan quickly turned back to the room. “Having said all that, I still find the whole business appalling. Murder is kind of cool on the written page and makes for exciting books. In real life I have no stomach for it. It’s terrible and cowardly that these killings have occurred, and it tarnishes our industry. It does. I feel empathy for the victims even while I abhor the things they did when they were alive. And I mourn the loss of innocence these killings have brought to the business we all love so much. The business that brought us all here tonight. The business of books.”
A sudden fury rose to Logan’s eyes. His free hand clenched in his lap. “I hate that so many people despise legitimate reviewers because of a handful of vicious lunatics who make us all look bad! Most reviewers are smart and caring. They understand writers. Many are even professional editors, and certainly all of them are lovers of books. Heck, many reviewers I know are writers themselves. They don’t deserve this. None of them deserves this.”
By the time he finished, Logan was so emotional his hands were shaking.
Milo touched his knee, as if to say, “Shush now. It’ll be all right.”
Logan nodded, then looked shyly around at all the faces once again before slowly rising to his feet. Milo stood with him.
“That’s enough of that,” he whispered humbly for Milo’s ears alone. “Now I think I’ll see if there are any more egg rolls to be had since you ate mine. Jabbering makes me hungry.”
Milo reached up and touched Logan’s cheek, signaling his support for everything Logan had said. At the same time a soft round of applause began to roll around the room.
“Yes!” Bryce exclaimed eagerly from his seat across the room. Several heads swiveled in his direction. Logan’s was one of them. Milo also noted that Logan’s eyes narrowed, and he realized, not for the first time that night, how much Logan disliked Bryce. Once again, he wondered why. With that one explosive cry of “Yes!” Bryce had grabbed the spotlight. And just as Milo remembered him always doing when he found himself to be the center of attention, he ran with it. Probably for the purpose of civility, he tried to ratchet down his own exuberance. Bryce’s voice took on a calmer edge, a cooler tone. Still, a fire burned in his eyes, and the room fell silent before it. His words quieted the crowd even more.
“BookHunter is right,” he declared, gazing from face to face, making sure he had everyone’s undivided attention. “Grace Connor and all the other victims got exactly what they deserved.”
“That’s not what I said!” Logan roared, the muscles in his jaw clenched, his grip tightening around Milo’s hand.
Bryce brushed away Logan’s denial with a flip of his fingers as if shooing a fly from a bowl of potato salad. “Only because you’re too polite to admit it,” he said, offering Logan the briefest of glances. “But it’s true nevertheless. Grace Connor and the others set out to anger people, and they succeeded beyond their wildest dreams. After all, you can’t blindly attack people over the internet without ruffling a few feathers. And in this case, they apparently ruffled the wrong feathers. Unhappily for them, revenge was sought and exacted because of it. Basically what these so-called victims did was piss off the wrong madman. And they paid for it with their lives.”
“That’s awfully presumptuous of you!” Lois Knight sang out from her seat on the divan. She had stopped eating and was now following the conversation with interest.
Bryce whirled on her as if he had been verbally attacked, causing the woman to glare right back.
“Is it?” he asked, his eyes cold, the muscles in his jaws clenched. “And why should it bother you so much if it is?”
Lois Knight laughed, startling Milo, since it seemed to him to be the strangest reaction of the evening. But her next words startled him even more.
“I wasn’t saying the victims didn’t deserve it. My sales have been hurt by trolls too. No, what I am questioning is your assessment that the killer is a madman. If he’s mad, he has a funny way of showing it. Seems to me he’s handling the situation quite competently. Don’t get me wrong. The deaths are appalling, of course, but still I sympathize with the murderer’s motives.”
The hostess gasped, and for a moment even Bryce appeared shocked. Then he pulled himself together and recommenced his tirade, ignoring Lois Knight like the plague from that point forward.
“The fact remains, these are not respected reviewers who are dying. They aren’t. They are internet trolls, just like Hunter said. Instigators of ridicule whose sole purpose is that of sabotaging as many writing careers as they can. In the process they are belittling professionals like Logan Hunter who take pride in being civil and being fair with their reviews.”
“Leave me out of it!” Logan flared.
But once again Bryce ignored him. “People like Logan Hunter, and a thousand other respectable reviewers out there who love books, who love authors, all do what they can to bring exceptional examples of literature to the world of readers, to bring talented new writers into the limelight where they can be most appreciated. If you ask me why these victims, these agitators as Mr. Hunter called them, really do what they do, I’d have to say I don’t know. They’re just assholes, I guess. But if you ask me why they are being killed, I’d have to say I do know. And like Lois Knight, I understand it completely. What happened to them, happened as a direct result of their actions. God forgive me for saying it, but every one of them asked for it!”
A chorus of agreements and disagreements echoed around the room. Logan remained stubbornly silent, voicing no opinion, although anger still burned in his eyes. It clearly showed the disgust he felt at everything both Bryce and Lois Knight had said.
The only person in the room who seemed to sit blandly by without an opinion at all on the subject was Adrian Strange. In fact, he was still nibbling at a carrot stick, his napkin tucked jauntily into his collar, his plate balanced precariously atop his iPad.
As soon as the uproar began to wane, he set his plate aside and raised his hands.
“Now, now,” he said, just loud enough to grab everyone’s attention. “This is a heated subject, and we all tend to get a little carried away. Bryce is a passionate young man, and he has his opinions. Mr. Hunter has his as well. Just as I have mine.”
“As do I,” Lois Knight snapped, more to herself than to the crowd.
“Yes,” Adrian sighed in her direction. “As do you.”
“What is your opinion?” someone in the crowd asked Adrian. “And what do you think is going to happen next?”
Adrian Strange tucked a final carrot stick into his mouth. Noisily chewing away at it, he said evasively, “My opinion is my own. And as for what happens next, I suppose it depends on the killer, doesn’t it? Since he’s obviously on a mission of retribution, that could be anything.” Adrian’s long face erupted into a merry grimace. “As we all know, that’s why literary madmen are so much fun to write and read about. You never know what they’re going to do next.”
“Or who they might actually be,” Lois Knight muttered, eyeing both Adrian and Bryce with evident suspicion. “After all, in a really good book, the killer would be the last person you’d ever expect.”
Chapter Thirteen
WHEN THE discussion erupted all over again, Logan tugged Milo into the kitchen away from all the other attendees of the South Park Reading Club. Out of sight of the group, he clutched Milo’s shoulders, and pleaded, “We need to leave now.”
Milo had never seen Logan so upset. “Why? What’s wrong?”
Logan didn’t answer, but by his stubborn stance—head erect, shoulders squared, eyes determined—Milo figured there wasn’t much point in arguing.
“Let me just say my goodbyes to the hostess before we go.”
“Good,” Logan said. “I’ll wait for you outside.”
Milo laid his hand to Logan’s chest, as if trying to glean what the hell was going on by touch alone, sort of like a lover’s braille. Since Logan clearly wasn’t going to explain it, Milo finally stepped back. Logan, shoulders slumped now, scuttled down the hallway toward the front door. From there he stepped out into the night without looking back. Milo, in turn, headed for the living room to corner the hostess and quietly plead her forgiveness for ducking out early. Two minutes later, Milo found Logan sitting on the front steps, waiting. Milo pulled him to his feet, and they headed for the car. They both breathed in the cool night air, relieved to be away from the crowd inside.
“I need a cigarette,” Logan said.
“No, you don’t!” Milo snapped. “Now, then. Tell me what made you mad? Was it talk of the murders?”
Logan slipped his hand into Milo’s. He seemed reluctant to answer, but he finally did. “I wasn’t mad.”
“Could have fooled me. If you weren’t mad, then what was it?”
“It was a lot of things.”
“Name one.”
Logan gazed at him as they passed beneath a streetlight. His normally generous mouth was a thin, tight line. Clearly, he was still angry, whether he chose to admit it or not. To Milo that was a little intimidating. The guy was a mountain, after all. Mountains are scary when they’re mad. Not that he could ever be scared of Logan, of course. That was an impossibility. Still, Logan’s anger was a humbling thing to watch.
As Milo stared and Logan avoided his gaze, he was relieved to see the rage begin to dissipate, the fury fade. Logan’s innate kindness seemed to help bring it under control. For the first time since their confrontation in the kitchen, a self-deprecating smile twisted Logan’s mouth. He looked embarrassed. When he spoke, his voice was in its normal range again. Perhaps even softer than normal. His lips were fuller. They were starting to look kissable again, just the way Milo liked them.
Logan hooked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the people inside the house behind him. “First off, Adrian Strange is an asshole. He seemed to find it amusing that there’s a madman out there killing people, like it would make a nice plot point for a book, but insinuating that in real life it didn’t really amount to much.”
Milo chuckled. “I have to admit he’s perfectly named, because he really is strange. But that’s not all there is to it, Logan. I know there’s more to what happened in there than what Adrian said. You started tensing up long before the group started talking about the killings.”
At that, a bit of Logan’s anger returned. He fell silent. And in Milo’s opinion he fell silent for too long.
“Well?” Milo prodded. “What was it? What pissed you off?”
Logan’s grip tightened around Milo’s fingers. He edged closer until their shoulders touched as they strode along. He emitted a long-drawn-out sigh, as if a great weariness had suddenly settled into his bones. “I need to check something out when we get home. Bear with me until then. If I’m wrong, I’ll spend the rest of the night finding new and exciting ways to apologize to you for ruining your night.”
Milo waggled his eyebrows. “That’s an intriguing promise. But you didn’t ruin my night. And you don’t need to apologize either. I would just like to know what happened. Are you sure you can’t tell me now?”
Logan’s silence returned, and by the stubborn tilt to his head, Milo knew he might as well stop pressing the guy. Logan would explain everything when Logan wanted to explain everything. Not a minute before.
THEY DROVE home without another word being spoken, although there was no animosity in their silence. Logan’s hand never once left Milo’s thigh, and Milo never once stopped stroking the back of Logan’s hand as he drove. Upon entering the house, Logan didn’t even kick off his shoes before he began sorting through his scattered bookcases, plodding methodically from one to another. While moving in a few weeks earlier, his books had been stuffed onto the shelves any old way. Logan had promised himself he would put them back in the order in which he once had them memorized, but he hadn’t done it yet. Consequently, the particular book he was looking for gave him a merry chase before it finally turned up.
When it did, Logan cried, “Aha!” and yanked it off the shelf.
He found Milo sitting by the pool in the chaise lounge wearing a terry cloth robe. Every stitch of his clothing was tossed in a pile on the patio tile. Both Spanky and Emerson were squeezed onto his lap receiving much-needed belly rubs.
Milo looked up when Logan stepped through the sliding door leading out to the pool. He eyed the book in Logan’s hand but didn’t say anything. Reaching over, he dragged a lawn chair closer and motioned for Logan to sit. Before he did, Logan tossed the book on the chair and strode back into the house. Less than a minute later, he was back and pulling the robe around himself that matched the one Milo wore. Beneath it, he was just as naked as Milo.
Without speaking, Logan dragged his chair even closer and dropped into it. Leaning down, he placed a kiss on each of the dogs’ heads. He then made a side trip to separate the folds of Milo’s robe and apply a third kiss, this one a little more lingering, on Milo’s appendectomy scar, always a favorite destination of his. Pleased seeing Milo’s cock begin to lengthen in response, Logan flipped Milo’s robe shut again and leaned back into his chair.
“Tease,” Milo grumped. He lifted one of two freshly opened beers from beside his chair and offered it to Logan. Logan accepted gratefully, taking a long drink while settling back and opening the book.
MILO SAT playing with the dogs and sipping at his beer while Logan did whatever the hell Logan was doing. Milo was confused as to what the book had to do with anything. He had shot a glimpse at it while Logan was inside the house getting undressed, but he didn’t recognize it or the author’s name. Nor did he recognize the publisher’s faded logo on the spine. The book was old and well read, or possibly just limp and tattered with age, Milo couldn’t be sure. By the cover, it appeared to be a thriller. By the font and the style, it appeared to have been published back in the forties, maybe, or possibly even earlier. It was a hardback, the corners bent and frayed, the cloth binding slightly torn. A circular stain in the upper right-hand corner of the cover appeared to be from some long-forgotten coffee cup spilling its contents onto the book and being left to dry. Logan flipped through the pages, occasionally reaching over to pet one of the dogs absentmindedly. Sometimes, as he skimmed through the book, he would lazily reach out a hand and run his fingers through the hair on Milo’s thigh.
When Logan bellowed, “There!” and shook the book in Milo’s face, Milo was so startled he almost fell off his chair. Spanky clearly didn’t like it either. He grumbled in annoyance and crawled arthritically off the chaise to disappear underneath. Only Emerson seemed unconcerned. He lay sound asleep with his head on Milo’s knee and his four little feet sticking straight up into the air. By the way his feet were twitching, he must have been chasing dream rabbits dredged up from some genetic memory bank, since his experience with real rabbits was patchy at best.
Logan was looking so pleased with himself, Milo found it hard not to laugh. “There what?” he asked, more amused than curious. Logan sat back in the chair and stared at him. He glanced down at the book and cleared his throat. He began to read the words on the page before him aloud. As he read, Milo sat, confused, wondering what the hell his lover was getti
ng at. As Logan turned a page and continued to read, Milo’s attention sharpened. His eyes slowly, but inexorably, began to widen. The beer bottle rested forgotten in his hand. He stared at Logan’s beautiful mouth, reciting words he had heard delivered just an hour or so before.
When Logan came to the end of a paragraph, he lifted his eyes and studied Milo’s reaction. He clearly saw what he expected to see, because he briskly snapped the book shut even as a smile twisted his lips.
“He stole it!” Milo gasped, his gaze burning into Logan’s. “Every word of what Bryce read, every word of what he passed off as his Work in Progress, he stole.”
Logan nodded. “His name wasn’t the only thing he lied about in that room tonight.”
Milo reached out and grabbed the book from Logan’s lap. “Page 56,” Logan softly said, and Milo flipped the pages there. As he sat reading the words for himself, his whole body tensed. At long last, he closed the book and lifted the beer to glug half of it down in one long noisy gulp. While he drank, his eyes found Logan.
“I’m sorry,” Logan said.
Milo set the bottle aside and once more stared down at the book. “Sunset, he called it. Sunset, my ass. He plagiarized it.”
“Damn near verbatim,” Logan said.
Again, Milo lifted the book and studied the spine, the title, the author’s name, the publisher’s logo, none of which he had ever heard of before. “Where did you get this?”
Logan shrugged. “I’ve had it for years. It was a book I loved as a kid. The author is what they would call today a one-hit wonder. Obscure at best. Totally forgotten. An unknown. He never published another book. I’m not even sure how many copies he sold of this one. Suffice it to say, it wasn’t a bestseller. Still, I’ve always loved it. It’s a hell of a thriller. Spooky, bloody, well written—at least I thought so when I was a kid. Apparently Bryce loved it too.”