Red Consumed

by Allyson Lindt

  Not horror. No action—too many explosions. And a romantic comedy could be sweet, but it could be one of those with all the wrong triggers. “I don’t know.”

  “I’ve got the perfect thing. Wait here.” He returned a moment later with his laptop, set it on the coffee table, and pulled up Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure.

  He and rubbed her back gently as the movie started.

  Between the two of them, they knew ninety-nine percent of the lines. Sometimes they talked in unison, and at others they took turns.

  It helped bring Fiona back to a neutral place, and drove memories of the stalking to the back of her mind.

  The film ended and faded into the next, and she and Parker drifted off on the couch.

  She woke up to a dark laptop screen and Parker sleeping soundly.

  It wasn’t only the awkward position on the sofa that had woken her, though. It was a dream. She grasped for strands of it, but they were out of her reach.

  Given how her day went, she’d consider herself grateful.

  She shook Parker gently, until he woke up. “We should go to bed,” she said.

  “Right. Bed.” He stood with her and stretched his neck. “Be right there.”

  He wandered into the bathroom, and she made her way to the bedroom.

  She sat on the mattress, and her carry-on bag caught her attention. She dug for the familiar business card in the front pocket, not sure why it seemed so important she look at it now.

  Wyatt’s name and number stared back at her, scrawled in the same handwriting she’d seen on the back of her card at the police station.

  It was a coincidence. She was one of hundreds they would interview, and he worked for the company.

  “Everything all right?” Parker’s question startled her.

  She shoved Wyatt’s business card back in her bag. “Fine. I’m tired. Spacing off.”

  “It was a long day. Come on. Clothes off. Let’s sleep.”

  “Right.” A long day, a bunch of circumstantial evidence, and the detective told her the card probably had nothing to do with the bombing. She’d call the station in the morning, let him know it might be Wyatt’s card, and it wouldn’t be a big deal.

  None of the logic or self-assurance got rid of the clawing sensation inside.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  WYATT WOULDN’T PACE the sidewalk next to the bar.

  He’d spent the last couple of days cooped up in a hotel room, working, because office space was limited after the bombing. His morning quickie with Fiona had done the opposite of clearing her out of his thoughts, and he’d had to answer some odd questions from the police about one of her business cards.

  However, he refused to let the excess energy coursing through him show. This was a new city with new possibilities, and a full Saturday night stretched in front of him.

  He wouldn’t give a second thought to the fact that Parker insisted on meeting him near their first destination, rather than giving Wyatt a room number. They were all staying in the same hotel, because his company had a contract with this chain, and it was implied the evening would lead to sex. But sure—no reason to trust him with which room they were staying in.

  He didn’t know if it was more or less ridiculous, given the meeting spot was within walking distance of where they were all staying. A lot of the places Wyatt knew about were; he’d rather take a stroll from his hotel room to find a local place for the evening, than spend time driving around for something that might or might not pan out.

  “We’re not late, are we?” Fiona’s comment drew a smile and softened the edges of his mood.

  He turned to see them approaching from the opposite direction of the hotel. “No. I’m early. Couldn’t sit still in my room anymore and needed some air.”

  Parker looked him over. That gaze traveling along Wyatt’s body sent need racing through him. “You lose your luggage?” Parker’s tone was light.

  Wyatt chuckled. “No. This is more appropriate to the setting.”

  “You own a Def Leopard T-shirt. And you’re wearing it in public.” Fiona traced her fingers over the faded screen print.

  Wyatt sucked in a sharp breath at the feather-light touch. “I can take it off if you want.”

  She bit her bottom lip. “Maybe.”

  “You should have called,” Parker said. “We were checking out this antiques place a viewer recommended, and... Let’s just say it was droppable.”

  People jostled around them, some heading to the bar Wyatt picked out, and others scurrying off in the summer night for other distractions.

  “Not a fan of classic electronics?” Wyatt let a hint of teasing slide into his voice. He could guess where they’d been. There was a shop a few blocks away that specialized in mid-twentieth-century appliances. It was kind of neat to walk by, but it picked up new ownership a few years back and had become more of a junk shop.

  Parker shrugged. “The girl behind the counter was nice enough to let me film, but it was kind of sad. Everything in there was broken.”

  “Broken things need love too,” Fiona’s said softly. “Speaking of... Do you have that business card I gave you?”

  The first comment hung heavy, despite her attempt to gloss over it. She didn’t see herself as broken, did she? He’d focus more on the thought if her question didn’t remind him of the other reason he was feeling the lack of trust. “Not on me. Why?”

  “Did you write Parker’s name on it?” she asked. Any emotion had vanished from her voice.

  Wyatt might be jumping to conclusions, but it seemed fair to guess she was asking because she knew about the card the police questioned him about. “Don’t know why I would. He called me, so his number’s in my phone. Why?” he asked again.

  She shrugged. “Me being weird.”

  “All right.” Wyatt could push the issue, but he’d already brushed off the conversation with the police and wanted to enjoy the night. “Since the antique shop was a bust, I’ve got something a little more camera friendly if you want.”

  From the outside, the place was another windowless building in the middle of a strip of shops, defying his promise of an interesting evening. He knew what was inside, though, and wasn’t concerned.

  Fiona glanced at the sign on the shop front, then looked again. “The Dungeon? If you run into anyone from work, it’s going to be hard to justify the whole notion of showing a vendor a good time and keep it innocent.”

  “You filthy girl.”

  “Like you’re complaining,” Parker said.

  “Not in the least, but it’s not that kind of dungeon. It also doesn’t have dragons.”

  Fiona’s pout was exaggerated. “You’re taking all the fun out of this.”

  This was much better than dancing around how much they did or didn’t trust him. “Give it a chance,” Wyatt said.

  “I found this place online, but Google said it was closed permanently.” Parker pulled a handheld camera from his bag.

  “Yeah. They don’t know why that is. They keep trying to get it fixed, but nope.” Wyatt held open the door. “The locals know better, though. And I talked to the owner. They typically have a strict no-camera policy, but he’s willing to make an exception for you.”

  Parker studied him, brow furrowed. “Why?”

  “Because he likes me. And I talked up your channel, so he likes you, too.”

  “Smart man.” Fiona brushed past them both and stepped into the corridor. “Though I’m still not impressed.”

  “Keep walking.” Wyatt nudged her forward, and Parker joined them.

  The hallway was dimly lit, with concrete walls and floor. Wyatt had never seen it in full light and wasn’t interested in doing so. This was part of the experience.

  They turned a corner, and then another, and stepped into a massive courtyard. The roof was one big skylight, letting in a view of the night. Wrought iron tables sat on the concrete patio. The bar was to the right, hiding the kitchen from view, and there was a stage at the far end of the cleari
ng.

  “Wow.” Fiona’s gaze fell on the centerpiece of the bar.

  Parker trained his camera on the iron dragon sculpture that guarded the stage. Its wings spanned the length of the raised platform, and its head was pointed toward the sky, as if it were about to take flight.

  “Okay. So there’s one dragon,” Wyatt said.

  A hostess showed them to a table, as Parker and Fiona continued to look around. “There are manacles on the wall, and bars.” She pointed, and he followed with the camera.

  Fiona turned back to Wyatt. “You don’t look impressed.”

  “I’ve seen it before.” He thought the place was kind of neat, but seeing it through their eyes... He’d forgotten what a difference the first time experience was.

  “I would make a stop here every time I had a connecting flight, to remember how epic that beast is.” Parker nodded at the sculpture.

  Wyatt mostly came here because they had good beer and music. The heavy metal wasn’t always his thing, but when he was in the right mood, screaming guitars and voices were good company.

  They chatted about some of the history of the place and gave their orders to the waiter.

  “Hey.” Wyatt stopped him before he could walk away. “Who’s playing tonight?”

  “Open mic. The house band is backing up anyone willing to risk their skin up there.” It was hard to tell from his voice if the idea amused him or left him disgusted.

  When he was gone, Fiona grabbed Parker’s hand. “You should take a turn.”

  “Nope. Definitely not. I’m filming.” Parker shook the camera, emphasizing his point.

  “You sing, too.” Wyatt was hesitantly impressed.

  “In the car. In the shower. Same places as most people.” Parker almost looked embarrassed. Almost.

  It was cute.

  The thought caught Wyatt off-guard. “I’ll take your word for it. I didn’t plan anything else for tonight. I wasn’t sure how long we’d want to stay, and I figured we’d wrap up the evening in my room. But I have a couple of things to pick from tomorrow, depending on what you’re in the mood for.”

  “Like what?” Fiona leaned in, her attention on him.

  As he ran through the list, the band started warm-ups. The waiter returned with their food—Wyatt promised, if they got the appetizer sampler, they could try a little bit of everything and be satisfied without being overwhelmed.

  The band warmed up, playing a series of generic riffs and chords set to a simple drum beat. Wyatt, Parker, and Fiona chatted some more while they ate.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to open night mic at The Dungeon.” A booming voice carried from the stage. Gabe was in his late forties. His hair was silver around the temples, but that was the only obvious hint of his age. He filled out the black T-shirt with a defined chest and stomach, as though the clothes were painted on. Tattoos snaked up his arms and vanished under his sleeves, to reappear above his collar.

  Wyatt nodded at the guy behind the mic. “That’s Gabe. The owner. I’ll introduce you in a little bit if you’d like. He was in L.A. in the eighties and managed a couple of midrange garage bands.”

  “Cool.” Parker looked impressed. He turned his camera to Gabe.

  “Up tonight, we have a local favorite,” Gabe said. A murmur ran through the crowd. That was strange. “He loves you at least as much as you love him. Let’s give a loud round of applause to Bill.”

  There was a smattering of claps, but most people kept their attention on their own plates.

  “Tough crowd,” Fiona said.

  Wyatt had to agree. He was about to turn back to their plans for tomorrow, when the band kicked up, louder than before.

  The opening chords were for “Africa” by Toto. Bill sang, and Wyatt winced.

  Parker cringed and set down his camera.

  “What he lacks in tone, he makes up for in enthusiasm.” Fiona scrunched her face when Bill hit another flat note, a full beat before the band reached that part of the song.

  “So,” Wyatt raised his voice to be heard, and partly to help himself ignore the signing. “Peace Gardens and lunch tomorrow?”

  They fell back into the conversation, all three of them groaning when Bill did another song. When he started on his third, Wyatt excused himself. “I’ll be right back.”

  He sought out Gabe and hoped Parker would forgive him for what he was about to do. Wyatt returned to the table a moment later. Gabe stepped on stage as the last strains of Bills song faded away.

  “Thank you for that. Can we get a round of applause for Bill?” Gabe said.

  The clapping was much louder this time, and Bill grinned and reached for the mic.

  Gabe stepped out of his reach. “We’ve got a new singer on the docket, and he’s going to make us famous. Let’s give it up for Parker.”

  “No.” Parker glared at Wyatt. “I do behind the camera.”

  “Bullshit. You spend half your time talking directly into the thing.” Wyatt turned to Fiona. “Is he good?”

  “He’s incredible. Cross my heart.” Fiona didn’t hesitate. She stood and tugged Parker to his feet.

  Parker shook his head but walked toward the stage, amid growing cheers. He exchanged a few words with Gabe and the band, away from the mic.

  Wyatt grabbed the camera, and Fiona glared. “What are you doing?”

  “Footage. His fans will eat this up.”

  She twisted her mouth, but relaxed. “It’s true.”

  The opening strains of “Eyes of a Stranger” by Queensrÿche played.

  “He’s not old enough to know this,” Wyatt said.

  Fiona rolled her eyes. “And you are? I swear to you, he can hit those notes in a way Jeff Tate lost long ago.”

  Wyatt hoped so. The crowd was kind enough to Bill, but he didn’t know if they’d be happy having one eye-watering act replace the other.

  When Parker started to sing, Wyatt’s jaw dropped, and he snapped his mouth shut again. Parker wasn’t blow-away-the-judges-on-The-Voice incredible—Fiona was a little biased—but he was good, and he was a welcome change.

  It was a haunting song, and when Parker hit the chorus and the high notes, Wyatt swallowed past a lump. There was a hint of pain there that made the music come alive.

  He glanced at Fiona, who watched the performance with the sweetest look of adoration. A fist clenched around his chest. He ignored it and kept filming.

  When Parker finished to deafening cheers, Gabe had someone else waiting to take the stage. Parker strode back to their table. He cast an eyebrow-raised look at Wyatt, then bent at the waist to give Fiona a long kiss.

  Watching the exchange through the lens filled Wyatt with a strange cocktail of being removed and being too close to such an intimate moment. He pressed Stop and set the camera on the table. “You need to post this.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ll clean it up tomorrow. Thank you for filming,” Parker said.

  “You two have anything that doesn’t make the site?” Wyatt liked the thought. “Of the explicit, naked, fucking variety?”

  Fiona blushed. God, he loved that look, especially the way the pink spread down her long neck.

  Parker’s jaw tightened, but he relaxed it so quickly, it might have been nothing. “If it did exist—and I’m not saying it does—I’d rather no one knew. I’d hate for something like that to get out.”

  Wyatt didn’t care for the tone. “If I asked roughly, could I get a private copy?”

  “No.” Fiona replied too quickly for his liking.

  Of course. Because they didn’t trust him. A truth that burned far more than he wanted to admit.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  PARKER DIDN’T WANT tonight to fall apart. Being on stage, being here, sent a thrill running through him and reminded him why he enjoyed this entire video-journal thing. It added to the low thrum of anticipation that had been humming in his veins all day.

  There were points he wouldn’t yield on, for the sake of Wyatt’s ego, but there were alternatives as wel
l.

  “You’re welcome to a hands-on demonstration of the real thing, instead of video,” Parker offered.

  Fiona’s mischievous smile defied the shy duck of her head. “I like the sound of that.”

  Wyatt’s expression relaxed. “Is that your way of suggesting we get out of here?”

  “I don’t know.” Parker struggled to keep a straight face. “If we stick around, Bill might do another set.”

  “Or we could push you back on stage.” Wyatt held his gaze, unflinching.

  Parker didn’t have an issue with performing, and singing had been a nice buzz, but he wasn’t in the mood for that now. The shift in conversation reminded him of what the goal at the end of the night. It also filled his head with snippets of the video he did have of Fiona, lying naked on a hotel bed, writing in pleasure while she gave him a private show.

  He shook his head, partly to refuse Wyatt, but mostly to rattle the vivid images aside.

  “Leaving sounds good,” Fiona said.

  All three of them reached for their wallets at the same time.

  “Let me. Vendor dinner, remember?” Wyatt’s tone left no room for argument.

  Conflict nudged Parker’s thoughts, wavering between relief that someone else picked up the tab, and hating that whipping out that black card came so easily for Wyatt. He stowed the feeling. When the bill was paid, he stood and offered Fiona a hand, to tug her to her feet.

  “Do you want the mini-tour between here and the hotel?” Wyatt asked.

  “Sure.” Parker enjoyed Wyatt’s tours. Wyatt knew these places and talked about them in a way that breathed a different light into each city.

  Parker kept his camera out, recording as they strolled down the sidewalk. Wyatt pointed out different historical spots, but he also had mildly personal stories to tell. Where he was when he met the starting line-up for the Chicago Bulls during the playoffs. Why he was in town when he helped a local celebrity change a tire.

  It was fun and interesting and so much better than the dreck Parker had been feeding into his videos for the last couple of weeks. This had a flavor beyond looked it up on Google.

  The storytelling was punctuated with the occasional giggle or gasp from Fiona. Out of the corner of his eye, Parker saw Wyatt glide a hand up her legs and under her skirt.