Freaks Under Fire

by Maree Anderson

  “I’ll tell her,” his dad said, and it took three discordant beeps down the line before Tyler realized he’d hung up.

  He slumped against the counter, ignoring the granite edge grating against his spine. That had gone well. Not. He had a sinking feeling that Jay wasn’t gonna be at all happy with him either, because if she’d wanted Tyler’s dad to have the latest intel on Sixer’s whereabouts, she’d have rung him herself. Right?

  Right, dammit. Jay was sure to have it covered, and his interference might have stuck one big-ass spoke in her carefully laid plans.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose until his eyes watered. Just as well he planned on writing songs and hopefully selling the odd piece of artwork to earn a dime because he royally sucked at all this covert BS. Hopefully he’d do better at interrogating Jay’s part-time boss Allen without appearing to, like, interrogate him.

  Tyler dumped his plate and mug in the sink and headed upstairs to take a shower. A cold one. Because damn, he needed to get his head in the game or he’d screw up the one task Jay had trusted him with.

  ~*~

  Tyler lucked out and found a park right outside Number Fifteen Honeysuckle Street—a property that housed Beanz Café in front, and Allen’s private studio and rooms out back. Despite its location in a primarily residential area, Beanz was such a popular hangout parking spaces were often scarce. No surprises there. Any place that offered consistently excellent coffee at halfway reasonable prices tended to be a popular haunt for coffee aficionados.

  He grabbed Brum’s leash before the excited puppy escaped out the open car door. He tucked the pup under his arm, wincing as Brum reacted to the blip blip! of the remote engaging the door locks with a series of high-pitched yips… that startled an exiting café patron into slopping some of the contents of her takeaway cup over her wrist.

  The beverage must have been hot because she’d removed the lid to blow on it—hence the amount of liquid she was currently flicking from her wrist and the POed expression on her face. Ah, crap.

  “I’m real sorry ’bout that.” Tyler tightened his grip on the squirming bundle of puppy. “He’s a bit excitable after the car trip.”

  The woman glanced up from her wrist, her cold narrow-eyed gaze indicating he was in for a blistering public set-down. Instead, her features softened and her lips pursed. “Oh my,” she said, “what a beautiful little GSP.”

  At Tyler’s frown of incomprehension she said, “German Shorthaired Pointer. I used to know someone who bred them.”

  “Oh, yeah. Now I remember my girlfriend mentioning they’re called GSPs.”

  Brum’s legs wheeled, and Tyler secured him more firmly beneath his armpit. “He’s her dog,” he felt compelled to add. “My girlfriend’s.”

  The woman—tall and lean with über-short white hair—moved closer. She held out her fingers for Brum to sniff before stroking his head and scratching behind his ears. When she stopped scratching, Brum butted his head against her hand, demanding more attention. “You’re such a charmer—oh yes you are!” she cooed, the sweetness of her tone at odds with her spare, no-nonsense appearance and her clothing: black pants, white t-shirt and black canvas slip-ons.

  Abruptly she cast her piercing gray gaze over Tyler, giving him a thorough head-to-toer that had him squirming.

  Uh oh. She had to be at least a couple of decades older than him. Why was this happening? Did he have “My girlfriend’s out of town, hit on me!” tattooed on his forehead or something?

  He was mentally reviewing his woefully inadequate stock of polite conversation-stoppers when she asked, “What’s his name?”

  Tyler’s shoulders sagged with relief. Not that he was arrogant enough to believe he was irresistible or anything, but this morning’s close encounters of the female persuasion had made him a little antsy. “His name’s Brum—short for Brummer.”

  “Great name. It’s German, right?”

  “Yeah.” He’d opened his mouth, intending to mention Jay was training Brum to respond to German commands, when instinct prodded him to err on the side of caution and swallow the comment. He didn’t know this woman, didn’t recall seeing her around, couldn’t be sure of her motives. She seemed genuine enough but for all he knew, she might be a plant sent by the same people who’d left the photo of Beta with Allen.

  The woman seemed to be waging some internal debate because her brow pleated and she nibbled her lower lip. Finally, just when the silence was getting awkward, she said, “Your girlfriend’s not planning to show him, is she? Because I hate to tell you, this little guy wouldn’t get anywhere because of his yellow eyes and the black saddles on his coat.”

  By “saddles” Tyler figured she meant the patches of black among the speckle-y bits on Brum’s coat.

  “I’m almost positive she has no intention of showing him,” he told her. “My dad got him for her—purely for companionship.” Though that wasn’t the whole truth, because Brum was the result of a dumbass bet his dad had made that Jay couldn’t crack his laptop password in under ten minutes or something. “I’m sure he’d have given her a choice of puppies if she’d mentioned wanting to breed them or do shows and stuff.”

  “That’s good then.” The woman fondled Brum’s ears. “There are some less than honest breeders out there, and I’d hate to hear your dad got taken for a ride.”

  “Me, too.” His dad was doing okay, but it wasn’t like his folks were rolling in money.

  “Please don’t take what I said the wrong way—this little guy’s gorgeous, and he’ll make a wonderful companion if he’s properly trained.” She wrinkled her nose. “But if he’s not being shown or bred, there’s no reason to dock his tail.”

  “Huh?” Tyler blinked, wondering if he’d heard right.

  The woman hitched the strap of her knapsack more firmly over her shoulder, and took a swig of her beverage. The corners of her mouth turned down. Either whatever she was drinking tasted real bad, or she wasn’t too happy about something.

  “Unfortunately these guys often have their tails docked,” she said. “Pointers are working dogs. Docking’s supposed to decrease instances of tail injuries when they’re hunting. And there are those who think it’s more aesthetically pleasing.”

  She must have interpreted the disgust Tyler was feeling right now from his expression because she nodded sharply, and when she spoke again her tone was scathing. “I’m not one of those idiots who think it looks ‘prettier’, either.” She bent to bring her face level with Brum as she tickled the pup under the chin. “So I’m guessing no docking for you, huh, Brum?”

  Brum enthusiastically licked her cheek.

  “Absolutely no docking,” Tyler agreed. And he was one hundred percent sure Jay would be with him on that.

  “Better check your girlfriend’s on the same page, though,” the woman said, eerily tapping in to Tyler’s thoughts. “Wouldn’t want Brum to go through a procedure like that for no reason.”

  “I will. Thanks.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Tyler, by the way.”

  “Marg. Nice to meet you, Tyler. And you, too, Brum.” She drained the last of her coffee, and tossed the disposable cup in the trashcan. “Might see you ’round, Tyler,” she said, and strode off down the street.

  Tyler watched until she rounded the corner and disappeared from view. There was something fluid about the way Marg moved, some indefinable quality that made him think she would totally kick ass in a karate dojo—or any dojo for that matter.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, committing her features to memory so he could sketch her when he got the chance. And then he opened the catch of the wrought iron gate, and carefully shut it behind him before setting Brum on the ground.

  “Heel, Brum,” he said, figuring it was worth a try. Of course Brum took no notice whatsoever, and took off down the cobbled pathway leading to the rear of the property, forcing Tyler into a run for fear the pup would hurt himself when he reached the end of the lead.

  Allen hailed them from the bench seat benea
th what Tyler thought might be a cherry tree. “Hey, Brummer.”

  Jay’s occasional employer looked disreputable as ever in one of his many paint-stained shirts worn over baggy gray sweatpants. His bushy red mane was somewhat tamed for a change, having been scraped into a ponytail and secured with a frayed piece of twine.

  Brum made a beeline for Allen and tried to leap into his lap… only to fail dismally, his hindquarters scrabbling for purchase on Allen’s outstretched legs. Allen, juggling a large pottery mug as well as a takeaway cup emblazoned with the Beanz logo, simply lifted both legs, allowing Brum to slither down into his lap.

  “Nice moves.” Tyler flopped onto the bench beside Allen. A glance at his watch told him he had plenty of time before his first class. Sheesh. The day had barely started and he felt worn out already.

  “Rough night, eh?”

  Allen’s blue eyes twinkled as he handed Tyler the takeaway cup, and Tyler’s brain chose that inconvenient moment to replay a rather graphic memory from the night before.

  He hid his flush by removing the lid and inhaling the aroma of hot, freshly brewed coffee. “Try early start—no thanks to this little guy. And you, Allen, are a god. I swear the coffee I had before heading out this morning didn’t even touch the sides on its way down.”

  “So happened I was next in queue to get my morning poison when you rang, so consider it your reward for letting me know you were on your way.” Allen drained his mug—he didn’t see the point of wasting disposable cups when he was only zipping next door for coffee—and set it on the grass before turning his full attention to Brum. “So, Brum, since we can’t paint your delightful mistress, how d’you feel about being our model for the next couple of days?”

  Tyler choked down his mouthful of coffee before he spewed it all over himself from laughing. “Good luck with that. The only time this little guy ever sits still is when he’s chowing down or sleeping. I took him for a walk this morning so he’d be tuckered out most of the day, but no such luck. It’s cat-naps only, I’m afraid.”

  “Nothing like setting the guys a bit of a challenge.” Allen dangled the drawstring of his sweatpants in front of Brum and let the pup gnaw on it. “McPhee’s offered to take him for a walk if he gets too rambunctious. McPhee claims he needs the exercise, though between you and me, I think the old man can’t paint dogs to save himself.”

  A pack-a-day voice retorted, “Happens I can paint dogs and other animals just fine, Allen. I’m simply far more inspired if the subject matter happens to be a pretty young human thing.”

  Tyler glanced around and spotted a man of around seventy, with a shock of thick white hair and a neat goatee. He lay on the grass, partially hidden in the shadow of another tree.

  Tyler recognized McPhee, the artist who’d painted the nude of Jay that made Tyler’s whole being thrum with awe… and more than a little envy. He would give his eyeteeth to possess half that much talent with brush and canvas.

  McPhee’s eyes were closed, hands clasped over his belly, bare feet neatly crossed at the ankle. And he was dressed in pajamas and a robe.

  Putting two and two together, Tyler’s eyes rounded. Jay hadn’t mentioned anything about Allen and McPhee being a couple. Perhaps this was a new development?

  Before he could school his features again, Allen said, “Does it bother you?”

  “That you and McPhee are a couple? Nope. Doesn’t bother me at all.” Since that was the God’s honest truth, Tyler prayed he sounded sincere. One of the guys in his high school basketball team had been outed but having a gay teammate had never bothered Tyler in the slightest. The same couldn’t be said of the team captain, who’d made it his personal mission to make the guy’s life hell until he voluntarily dropped out of the team. And eventually changed schools.

  But then, Shawn had always been a first-class douche, so no one had been surprised by his shitty behavior toward a teammate. And a part of Tyler wondered how McPhee and Allen would judge him if they learned what Jay was… and that Tyler was sleeping with her.

  Allen slapped him lightly on the arm. “I meant that McPhee is a lascivious old bastard who adores painting beautiful girls—like your Jay.”

  Heat seared Tyler’s face. Ah, crap. He’d gotten it all wrong and—

  “Quit teasing the youngster, Allen.” McPhee climbed to his feet and brushed himself down. “You know Miss Jay wouldn’t approve.”

  “Are you threatening to tell tales on me?” Allen’s gasp and the way his hand flew to his heart were Oscar-worthy.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Humph. Go get some clothes on before I—”

  “Embarrass our guest by jumping my old bones?”

  “Oooh! You think you’re irresistible, don’t you?”

  “Absolutely, darling,” McPhee said, straight-faced. And then added, “Consider that endearment a public display of affection, and you’ll henceforth refrain from accusing me of being embarrassed to be seen with you.”

  Tyler bit his lips to keep from snickering at Allen’s scandalized expression. The man had certainly met his match in McPhee.

  McPhee whistled and clicked his fingers at Brum, who promptly discarded the now soggy drawstring he’d been chewing and leaped from Allen’s lap.

  It would have been an impressive leap, too, if the pup hadn’t gotten tangled up in his lead and done a face-plant on the grass. Allen, muttering to himself, set Brum to rights and unclipped the pup’s leash, leaving Brum to hare off after McPhee.

  “Are you sure you’re okay with dog-sitting?” Tyler asked. “Brum can be a real handful.”

  Allen coiled the leash and then slumped against the seatback. “The puppy can’t be any harder to handle than McPhee. That man…. I swear he has me running in circles.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  It was now or never. Aiming for light and casual, Tyler said, “Jay wanted me to ask if you could shed any light on whoever left that envelope for her—the one McPhee dropped off a few days back. Jay’d really like to get in touch to, uh, thank them.”

  Allen squinted into the distance, giving off classic “trying my best to remember” vibes. “Whoever delivered the envelope slipped it under the door—” a wave of his hand indicated the side doors leading into the studio “—and I found it when I came to open up for class. Figured it’d been dropped off by one of the Beanz staff, but then I thought about it some more and realized that was unlikely. The staff might have spotted our Jay coming and going, but none of them would know her by name, so they would surely have quizzed me about it first. I certainly haven’t mentioned Jay’s name to the staff—it’s none of their business who she is, or what her name happens to be. I’m very particular about that sort of thing where my life models are concerned.”

  Noting Tyler’s frown he added, “Stalkers. Jealous partners. People out to stir up trouble, or just plain old nosey busybodies. You name it, we’ve encountered ’em at some stage. Even had one so-called artist so enamored with one of the models, he tried taking sneaky photos of her on his cell phone. Needless to say, after said cell phone had a bit of an accident beneath McPhee’s boot heel, our would-be photographer was escorted from the premises. Blacklisted the sleazy bastard, too—banned him signing up for further classes and put the word out around the artsy community.”

  “Good job,” Tyler said, conveniently failing to mention that he’d spied on Jay when she’d first begun life modeling at the studio. At the time, he hadn’t believed he was good enough for her—had convinced himself she was seeing someone else. He rubbed his chin, a wry smile tugging his lips at the memory. Yeah, he’d been a first degree dumbass.

  “I wouldn’t want anyone taking nude photos of Jay and posting them online,” Allen said. “Not without her express permission.”

  A chill snaked down Tyler’s spine. The consequences Jay being videoed while tossing Shawn into a dumpster a couple of years back had been dire enough. But now, after everything that had gone down? Chances were, Jay wouldn’t even need to be performing
some extraordinary feat for online pics of her to spark a nightmare scenario. In fact….

  Tyler rubbed his arms as the chill turned to frost. In fact, it probably wasn’t the best idea for Jay to life model for a bunch of artist-types, either. Life-modeling nude could hardly be considered keeping a low profile. “Allen, have any of your life models been harassed? I mean, after being recognized from a sketch or painting or whatever—like, if the artworks are sold or exhibited.”

  Allen seemed to understand what Tyler was getting at. “I insist the model sign a release if artworks they’ve posed for have the slightest chance of being exhibited or sold in the future. But even if Jay had signed a release—which she hasn’t, I might add—it’s very unlikely any pieces that featured her would be put up for sale. They’re practice pieces, nothing more.”

  It was on the tip of Tyler’s tongue to ask why, if Allen’s artist friends sucked so bad at painting they never had a hope of selling any of their completed artworks, they bothered turning up week after week. But then he recalled a trip to a local gallery with his classmates. The paintings on display hadn’t been to his taste, except for one—an abstract that had affected him so viscerally, he’d bitten his tongue for fear he’d offer to sell everything he owned to possess it. The gallery owner, seeing his interest, had told him the artist’s name was Allen Miller. And the price? High enough to make Tyler break out in a sweat. Consequently, he’d been gob-smacked to learn Jay’s Allen was in fact the illustrious Allen Miller.

  Tyler clamped his lips tightly shut. Allen didn’t suck. Neither did McPhee. Chances were, neither did any of the other artists who made use of Allen’s studio space. And if there was the slightest chance Tyler had that degree of talent hidden inside him, it sure would make his dilemma about whether to concentrate fully on music and ditch art, a heap more simple.

  “I always go for a wander during classes,” Allen was saying. “I like to check out how everyone’s faring—call me nosey, but it’s my damn studio space so I can do what I like. And here’s the thing: Jay’s ability to sit still for hours on end meant we could experiment to our hearts’ content with various techniques for hair and skin, and all manner of different mediums. We all sketched her in various poses. But she’s flawless, your Jay, and that makes her a difficult subject to capture. A couple of the more established artists—me, included—gave it a try, but none of us were happy with the end result.” Allen made a moue. “Lifeless and flat—like we’d painted an exquisite, flawless robot rather than a living, breathing girl.”