by Josh Lanyon
A very pretty blonde, who looked like she’d stepped out of an Abercrombie & Fitch advertisement—miracle of miracles, Adrien actually had two assistants on hand that evening—offered me a tray of wine in plastic glasses. I passed, and went to find a seat in the nearly filled back row.
The store lights were lowered and J.X. began to read from his new book.
It was a very long time since I’d attended a signing that wasn’t my own. It gave me an odd, uneasy feeling. It wasn’t that I wished I was in J.X.’s place. No, I felt he was where he belonged and I was where I was comfortable. I was delighted that his signing was so clearly a big success. He read well—it helped that the book was so good—and during the question and answer session, he was open and affable. You’d never look at him in that milieu and think ex-cop. He had an effortless charisma. Star quality. I did not—never had—that, but I wasn’t jealous. J.X. had worked hard to get to this point. And I felt an almost possessive pride in him that night.
But. But I also knew that a chapter had closed for me. I hadn’t written in months. I had no real plans to write anything. Worse, I felt no interest in writing anything.
And if I wasn’t a writer, what was I? I had spent my entire adult life earning a living through my words. If I no longer had the words, what did I have? Writing wasn’t just a job description. It was a way of looking at the world, of relating to the world. For as long as I could remember, everything I experienced had been filtered through the perspective of a writer making mental notes.
Halfway through the Q&A session, a tall blond man pushed through the doors of the shop. He scanned the room, spotted Adrien and nodded gravely. Adrien smiled. That unguarded, oddly sweet grin was the reason Adrien English had once been the most hit upon bookseller in gay publishing. Also the most oblivious.
Meeting my gaze, Adrien’s smile grew self-conscious.
The blond man moved quietly through the aisles of towering shelves to the other side of the bookstore. He unhooked the velvet rope and went straight upstairs, and I surmised that this was the infamous ex-LAPD officer.
It was nearly ten by the time J.X. finished signing the final book. The two shop assistants had sneaked upstairs about thirty minutes earlier. Adrien ushered the last pair of customers out the front, and closed the ornate metal gates across the entrance. He locked the glass doors and sighed. A profitable but long night.
He and J.X. briefly discussed where we could go for dinner at that time of evening, and then he said, “I’m just going to check whether Jake wants to join us.” He disappeared in the darkened half of the store.
“Come here and say hello properly,” J.X. murmured, tugging me over.
We said hello properly.
“You look tired,” J.X. said at last. “You’ve got shadows under your eyes.”
“Long day.” His look was inquiring, and there was a lot to tell him, but I didn’t want to launch into it then and there.
We fell silent listening to the voices drifting down from the other side of the shop—the tone, not the words. Even from where we waited I could hear them smiling at each other. Adrien said something and the other man, Jake, laughed. They sounded like a couple who had been together a long while, but still enjoyed each other’s company, still looked forward to their time together.
They sounded like I hoped J.X. and I would sound years from now.
Adrien returned downstairs. He said cheerfully, “Jake has some paperwork to finish up.”
“What does he do?” I asked.
“He’s a PI. Anyway, he’ll meet us over there.”
A likely story, I thought, but not long after we settled at Doc and Doris’s with its comfortable booths and blackened beams, and ordered our drinks, Jake strolled into the restaurant. Adrien raised his hand, Jake nodded, impassive as ever, and wandered over to our booth.
Adrien moved over and Jake slid in beside him. He stretched one arm along the top of the booth, not touching Adrien, but somehow the overall impression was of a single self-contained unit.
Adrien made the introductions, we all said hello and then we all got busy ordering our meals before the kitchen closed.
“The steak and mushroom pie is really good,” Adrien said, and Jake’s mouth twitched, although what was funny about steak and mushroom pie, I failed to see.
After our drinks arrived, the conversation livened up. Or I did. I related my adventures in finding Elijah Ladas’ body in the basement. J.X. had heard most of this before, of course, but he looked progressively stern throughout the recital. Adrien and Jake had seen the story on the news. For some reason I hadn’t been thinking it would receive more than local coverage.
“No wonder you look tired.” J.X. was frowning.
“And yet I still managed to make sure the soap matches the toilet paper in the master bath. You did say peach, right?”
Jake choked on his drink.
“Anyway, there’s more.” I filled J.X. in on the prowler two nights earlier and then the midnight visit from Sydney Nightingale, the visit from Ingrid Edwards, and the attempt to break into my motel room.
“Beck thinks you’ve got the coins,” Adrien said at the end of my tale.
“He can’t. He has to know what his brother did with them, surely?” I looked at J.X. J.X. said nothing. His expression was not reassuring.
“Beck doesn’t sound like the brightest candle on the cake,” Jake said. “If you were his brother, would you have told him more than you had to?”
“But I had nothing to do with any of it. His brother was dead before I ever made his acquaintance.”
“You should have told me what was happening,” J.X. said flatly.
“What could you have done about it?”
“Catch the first flight home!”
I glanced at our dinner companions, who were doing their best to pretend they had never seen anything as fascinating as the restaurant décor.
“It sort of escalated,” I admitted. “If I’d known at the beginning that Beck Ladas would be trying to break into my motel room, yes, I’d have asked you to come home first thing.”
J.X. looked slightly appeased, but only slightly.
The second round of drinks helped us all get past the moment. From there the conversation wandered to the topic of what a pain in the ass it was to dig a writer out of a place he’d lived forever—Adrien and Jake had only recently moved in together—publishing, the book market, self-publishing, Amazon, and Scandinavian fiction.
“No more Miss Butterwith?” Adrien was smiling. “I love those books. I’m going to have a lot of very disappointed customers.”
That reminded me of the one topic I’d skipped over when I was bringing J.X. up to date. Jerry Knight. But no way was I bringing that up in front of Adrien and Jake. I knew they’d be wondering what kind of idiot allowed a relationship to develop with an obvious stalker.
“Never say never,” I replied. “But for now, the old girl is enjoying her retirement. What about you?” I asked. “Any more Jason Leland mysteries in the works?”
Adrien’s lashes lowered, veiling his thoughts—but I knew he would be remembering Paul Kane. He reached for his glass, saying neutrally, “Maybe. We’ll see.”
Our meals came. Steak and mushroom pie for Adrien, burgers and fries for the rest of us.
Adrien said casually, “I have to say, I never pictured Anna Hitchcock as the type to kill herself. Was she in poor health? Nobody seems to know. You were there that weekend, right?”
That was the kind of curiosity that got cats killed, and behind Adrien’s shoulder, I saw Jake’s hand make a spasmodic movement. It was instant and instinctive, like he was about to grab someone teetering on the edge of a cliff. Except he didn’t grab. He didn’t move a muscle after that first protesting twitch, but his hazel gaze was alert and watchful as it met mine.
“We left that day. I was only there to teach a writing workshop.”
“There had already been a couple of deaths earlier that weekend, hadn’t there?”
>
“I’m a tough teacher.”
Polite smiles. It wasn’t funny.
J.X. said, “It was a weird place. Very hinky vibe.” That was said to Jake, ex-cop to ex-cop. Jake tipped his head in acknowledgement, but said nothing.
“Hitchcock left one heck of a literary legacy,” Adrien said. “That’s something.”
“It’ll have to do.”
His look was inquiring, but I wasn’t about to confide any further, and he was too polite to push harder.
“You don’t go to conferences do you?” I asked him suddenly. “Workshops? Conventions?”
Adrien shuddered. “No.”
I delivered a pointed Told-You-So to J.X. who only shook his head.
It was a surprisingly enjoyable meal, and we had a final drink at the bar before saying our goodnights. In the parking lot outside the restaurant, J.X. and I invited Adrien and Jake to visit any time they were in San Francisco.
“I’ll drive,” J.X. offered as we walked to my car. “How’s your back?”
I tossed the keys to him. “Horrible.”
He caught the keys. “Hell,” he said with genuine sympathy.
“How’s your hangover?” I inquired.
“It disappeared the minute I saw you walk in tonight.”
Now that was funny. “Looking harassed and aggravated?”
“A little,” J.X. agreed, but his smile invited me to share his amusement. That open affection had to be what made the difference between laughing with someone and laughing at them.
As our car’s headlights swept across the parking lot, I spotted Jake and Adrien standing beside a Subaru Forester. Adrien was still talking. Jake faced him, smiling, but somehow I could feel his gaze following our progress to the driveway.
* * * * *
J.X. had booked us into the Langham Huntington, which I thought was a bit extravagant, but whatever. He had that Japanese advance burning a hole in his pocket, and who was I to argue with a little pleasing and pampering?
“How was the convention?” I asked as we headed over to the hotel.
“You’ve been to one, you’ve been to them all.” J.X. added, “Except the one in DC. That was a great convention.”
I snorted, but yeah. That had been a good one.
“You should have let me know what was happening though, Kit.”
“Next time a deranged psychopath fixates on me, you’ll be the first to know. You have my word.”
He made a sound that wasn’t quite amused and wasn’t quite appeased, but to my relief he changed the subject. “That’s an interesting relationship.”
No question whom he meant. I nodded. “They seem happy though.” Maybe “happy” wasn’t the right word. Happy was too fragile. What those two had was more like quiet contentment. Like soldiers at peace after a long war.
“He’s had a couple of heart attacks,” J.X. said. “Adrien, not Jake.”
“Heart attacks? At his age? He better give up the steak pies. He was shot. I know that. Everyone in publishing knows that.”
“I know he was in pretty poor health not that long ago.”
“He’s healthy enough now. He went sprinting up those stairs like an antelope.”
“Yep, he sure did.”
I could tell J.X. was losing interest in the topic of Adrien English. I was thinking though that Adrien was about J.X.’s age, give or take a couple of years. And, at a guestimate, Jake was about my age. It couldn’t have been easy for him to start over, but he’d done it. And he seemed happy.
If he could do it, maybe I could too.
The Langham Huntington, which referred to itself as an “urban resort oasis” in its brochures, was nestled at the base of the blue San Gabriel mountains. Tall palm trees looked silver in the moonlight. Window lights glowed warmly in welcome as we started up the long drive. Like the Fairmont, the Langham Huntington was one of those iconic landmark hotels that take you back to another time and place. A time and a place when you didn’t understand how credit card debt worked.
Our room was a spacious suite with fresh flowers, vintage-style details and a lush garden view—twenty-three acres worth of garden view—a private parlor and a four-poster bed.
In fairness, that night I was only interested in the bed, which we landed on in a breathless, naked heap within ten seconds of closing the door behind the bell boy.
“Jesus Christ, I missed you,” J.X. muttered, covering my face with hot and hungry kisses. His mouth was sweet, his beard scratchy, his voice husky with sincerity. “This last week has been torture.”
“Well, it was just a weekend, if you want to get tech—”
He shut me up with more kisses. I liked kissing. I liked it a lot. David had not been much for mouth-to-mouth, but during our brief fellowship J.X. had more than made up for it. If there was a place on my body he hadn’t applied his lips to, I couldn’t think what it was. Back of my knees, arch of my foot, nape of my neck, left tonsil… But mostly I liked it when he pressed his warm, open mouth to mine and we breathed in moist unison, hearts thumping against each other. Nothing so simple nor yet so intense as a kiss between lovers.
“I got you something,” J.X. whispered after a time.
“Mmm?” That was the best I could offer in the interests of coherency.
He gave me a final smack and tore himself away. I made a protesting sound at the bounce of bedsprings. Or the bounce of something.
“Be right there…” he promised. I watched the long, elegant line of his back as he moved away from the bed. Wide shoulders, narrow hips, and skin as smooth and golden as good old Ricardo Montalban’s Corinthian leather. I smiled, closed my eyes.
A moment later he waved something beneath my nose. I caught the faint scent of sweet almonds and anise.
I pried open my eyes. “Ah. Oil of cyanide. A favorite of mystery writers everywhere.”
J.X.’s smile was very white in the perfect frame of his Van Dyke, his eyes glittered like black stars. He said in a low, almost guttural voice, “The oil warms inside your body so you’ll feel everything I do to you that much more intensely.”
I shivered. Oh my God, I wanted that. I wanted to feel that oil warming me, softening my resistance, readying me for him, for whatever he wanted to do, and I wanted him to do it all. Wanted J.X. to touch me, stroke me, caress me, fuck me. Yes, more than anything I wanted him to fuck me.
And at the same time I felt a flutter of alarm. Not this again.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Nothing articulate anyway. Just a funny, squeaky sound that wasn’t exactly a protest, but wasn’t quite encouragement.
And yet J.X. smiled more widely still. He squirted the golden liquid onto two fingers and we both watched it drizzle down his hand and wrist like honey.
“Smells nice,” I managed.
“Feels nice too. Slick and slippery—and it is warm. Let me show you.”
I gave myself up to it, closed my eyes, moved my leg, lifted my hips, and J.X.’s oily finger pierced me with delicate deliberation. Usually he gave me a little more time, but not tonight. Tonight there was no time to think. His index finger pushed inside and my muscles clenched in instant how-very-dare-you reflex.
But of course he dared. Why wouldn’t he when I was lying there, panting and shivering and waiting obediently for whatever he did next?
“Nice?” he whispered.
I nodded. It was nice. The oil felt heated and it tingled a little as J.X. touched me with pleasurable expertise.
“It’s hard not to rush,” he said. “I just want to bury myself in that sweet ass of yours. But it’s got to be good for you. As good as I can make it. Every time.”
I moaned. I told myself it was pain at such terrible dialog. I wanted to say something brisk and cutting like, “Do you serve wine with that cheese?” But I couldn’t speak over my heart, currently lodged in my throat. Who was I kidding? I found his honesty unbearably exciting. Both his words and deeds.
“That’s your sweet spot, right there.” I coul
d hear the smile in his voice as J.X. skimmed the tender bump of my prostate. Colored sparks flashed behind my eyelids like action bubbles in a comic book. ZAP! Zing! Shiver! Ka-POW! My brain was about to short out. Short out and burst into flame, and all that would be left would be a pile of gray ash and a couple of smoldering wires.
“Jesus, you handle so sweet, Kit. So quick, so responsive. I could make you come just like this…just touching you like this.”
No lie. And I almost wished he would. Get it over with. Move on to the next part. The part where he was helpless and begging and vulnerable. Except that part never seemed to come anymore. These days it was always me dangling over the ravine. I felt a pricking behind my eyelids because it was just…difficult…to be forced to feel so much. To have all your defenses stripped away and be left with nothing but want and need and longing for another person. What could be more precarious than that?
I held him tighter, breathing in the scents of sweet oil mingled with imminent sex. I loved the smell of his hair and the taste of his skin and the ragged sound of his breath gusting against my face.
“I waited so long for you,” he muttered.
I opened my eyes.
He was beautiful in the creamy light. Sleek and golden and somehow exotic. His eyes gleamed beneath the dark length of his lashes as he studied me. His mouth curved in a small, satisfied smile. Mine. All mine. I had to strangle the sudden and maniacal laugh that almost burst out of me at the idea. But it was true. Or at least he believed it was true. Which was almost the same thing.
J.X.’s lashes flicked up, catching my gaze. He whispered, “You want to ride me, Kit?”
The offer surprised me. To be honest, I wasn’t sure. It seemed a little showy, a little exhibitionist, and I’d still be the guy with the cock up his ass. Changing positions didn’t change who was submitting to whom. Not really. Besides which, he’d have only too clear a view of my not-washboard-like abs.
“Uh…”
“I want to see your face,” J.X. said. “I want to watch you come.”
What could I say to that?
We ungracefully shifted positions. That’s the thing about sex. So much of it is just plain awkward, clumsy, are-you-sure-this-is-going-to-fit-I-think-they-forgot-to-include-the-washers. But we crawled around, and I straddled J.X.’s lean hips, toes digging into the mattress as I tried to get into position. Yoga? Really? And what the hell would you call this position?