by Andrea Speed
Chai glanced back at Roan, who gave him a small but very genuine smile. “That’s a solid piece of detective work, Chai.”
Chai felt himself blush, which was weird, and he hoped no one could see it.
“I told you he was the brains of this operation,” Holden said. Chai could feel himself still blushing. Ridiculous, really, given that he was a man who’d had sex on camera about a dozen times. He should have no sense of shame or pride. But Holden would probably tell him that was “heteronormative thinking,” whatever that meant in this context.
They drove to the Starbucks, though they had to park one street over because it was Seattle, and parking places were worth their weight in gold. Or printer ink. Whichever was more expensive.
Holden wanted to go with Roan, but Roan told him to stay in the car, and he said it in a way that sounded like a veiled threat. It must have been because while Holden frowned like his pet just died, he stayed in the car as Roan walked to the Starbucks to await Gerald’s arrival.
As soon as he was out of earshot—or so he hoped—Chai said, “You’re right. He has a really weird magnetism.”
“He’s a superhero,” Holden said, pulling out his phone. “No matter what the comics and movies would have you believe, real ones would never be able to blend in with regular people. They’re not normal. I can’t think of a higher compliment.”
Wasn’t that kind of reductive, though? He was honestly ill. He had a disease that mimicked a lion… somehow. Yeah, okay, the more he thought about this, the more his head hurt. Maybe it was better to give up and settle for superhero.
Holden punched a button on his phone and held it up to his ear. “Don’t get mad at me. I stayed in the car,” Holden said.
Okay, so he was calling Roan. Maybe he didn’t go in with him, but he was going along in some form or another. Chai could hear his voice through the phone, not his words, but he didn’t sound amused. Holden rolled his eyes at whatever he said.
This didn’t go on long, though. Barely a minute had passed before Holden said, “Wait, what?” He then scowled at the phone like it had insulted his mother. “Motherfucker hung up on me. He said Gerald had come in.” Holden pocketed his phone and opened the car door.
Chai put a hand on his arm and stopped him. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m going to go see what Gerald has to say for himself.”
It was his turn to scowl at Holden. “If these past couple of days have taught me anything, it’s when Roan says you stay in the car? You stay in the fucking car.”
For a second, Holden looked like he might argue, but ultimately he didn’t. He shut the door and looked close to contrite. “I’m really sorry about… everything. I should have been there.”
“No. I am a grownass man, and I should have realized the danger for what it was. I didn’t. Even though they’d arranged to have you killed and shot Kevin, I didn’t really think I was in danger. And why? It seems so stupid now. Of course I was. I just thought… why would I be a target? I’m nothing to no one. I was no threat to them.”
Holden scoffed. “Are you kidding? You were their greatest enemy. You called in Roan. You destroyed them.”
Chai grimaced and looked out the window. He could understand why Holden was saying that, but it wasn’t exactly accurate. “I just made a phone call. Anyone could have made it.”
“But no one else did. There’s no talking me out of this, Chai.”
“Have I ever successfully talked you out of anything?”
Holden had to think about that for a moment. “No. But I’m a stubborn bastard.”
“No shit you are.” But Chai knew he was guilty of the same thing. Who wasn’t? He didn’t know many who caved. This was a hard life, and it was impossible if you didn’t have a little grit in you.
Chai discovered it was easy to know when Roan was coming back. Seattle, like most major urban cities, had very busy sidewalks, and while people didn’t habitually run into each other, they didn’t make way for each other either. Except it looked like the crowd was showing a distinctive parting, like the Red Sea opening up for Moses, and it soon became clear that Roan was the cause. No one was getting out of his way in horror, nor was he shoving them aside, although Chai now knew that he could tear through the crowd like a human wrecking ball if he wanted to. No, people were just unconsciously giving him space. They were picking up that weird energy he shed like a nuclear furnace, and while they looked at him and saw human, something in their lizard brains was telling them it was better to be safe than sorry. Or so Chai guessed. But he figured it was a good guess. Because there was no reason for everyone to be avoiding Roan. He was not a smelly, crazy guy pinwheeling down the street, screaming about the Illuminati. Unless all of downtown Seattle knew Roan on sight and assumed it was more than likely trouble would ensue in his wake. But that seemed unlikely. He was a handsome guy in casually worn jeans and biker boots, whose more radical tendencies were only given away by his Nazi Trumps Fuck Off T-shirt, woven rainbow bracelet, and wedding ring. Chai really had to ask him where he got that shirt. It was great. But he didn’t know if he’d have Roan’s confidence about wearing it in mixed company.
Roan’s expression was neutral and gave nothing away as he opened the door and slid gracefully into the back seat. “Well?” Holden asked.
Roan sighed, settling back. “I was as professional as all hell. I went up to him, identified myself as a private investigator, and asked if he had anything to do with the beating of Alexei Barany. He launched right away into an aggressive defensive mode, which should be an oxymoron, but isn’t. It’s like he was waiting for someone to call him on it.”
Holden glanced back at him. “So, is he guilty or not?”
“Well, he was lying his fucking face off when he insisted he had nothing to do with it and Alexei was a good friend of his and how dare anyone accuse him of something so vile,” Roan said. “It was so impassioned and so blatantly false I hardly needed to be able to smell him to know he was lying. There is something going on with that dude, and it isn’t good. I think he’s in the midst of a breakdown or something. The only reason he didn’t follow me out of the shop and want to fight or something was because his coffee was up.”
Holden let out a short, sharp laugh. “You should’ve waited for him. You could have taken care of him in one punch.”
“If I wanted to possibly murder him, sure. But I have a feeling he’s close to self-destructing.”
“It’s no fun when they destroy themselves. That’s my job,” Holden complained. That was sarcasm, right? Or at least a joke. Chai hoped so, at any rate.
“At least we have positive proof that jealousy can actually drive some people crazy,” Roan said.
Holden looked at him in the rearview mirror. “Think it was jealousy?”
“From what I know about this case, yeah. Gerald has nothing but a shitty position, a broken marriage, and little in the way of prospects. Alex is a sexy bisexual intellectual with an open, happy marriage, and his wife’s an artist known in the underground scene. Who wouldn’t be jealous of that guy?”
That was actually an excellent point. Chai hadn’t thought of it that way before. Holden continued to study Roan in the mirror. “How do you know Dahlia’s known?”
“I asked Dylan if he knew who she was. He did. He gave me the 4-1-1 on her.”
Holden canted his head. “And what’s that?”
“She straddles the line between avant-garde and performance art and came out of performance artist Fredericka Sona’s artist collective. Dahlia is best known for her annual ‘rain of tears’ displays in Portland, her prostitute diaries, and her impromptu flash-mob marriage in a mall. I understood all the words he said, but not necessarily in their order.” Roan sat forward. “Were you really in her prostitute diaries?”
“Now that was anonymous. What makes you think I was involved?”
Roan raised an eyebrow at him. “Dyl started looking through the prostitute diaries and found a guy she simply cal
led F who sounded a lot like you. He’s convinced it was you. I think he’s right.”
Holden smirked, his eyes alight with mischief. “Come now, Roan, I expected better of you.”
Roan turned his gaze on Chai. “Is it him?”
The funny thing about Roan’s eyes? When he was looking at you, you could almost feel it, like a psychic pressure. “Yeah, it is. But I only found out about it when we got this case.”
Holden gave him a sarcastic little moue. “Nobody likes a tattletale, Chai.”
He glanced at Roan in the rearview, and he had sat back, rubbing his temple. That caused a genuine frown from Holden. “You okay?”
“Yeah, fine. It’s just being in crowds with my senses is kind of painful.”
With Roan not looking at him, Holden’s eyes filled with genuine concern, and Chai was flabbergasted anew. He really did love Roan, didn’t he? Chai didn’t think it was romantic, although he wasn’t sure what it was exactly. It did make him briefly jealous. Why didn’t someone look at him like that?
But Chai took this for the win it was. Holden wanted to get Roan back to his hotel, which meant that they weren’t going all vigilante on Gerald’s ass. Yet. Maybe ever.
He could dream, couldn’t he?
22—War Paint
ALTHOUGH HOLDEN liked to think that pain wasn’t the worst part, he really was tired of it. His entire face throbbed like a cyst. It was worse when he looked in the mirror and saw how his face was a lumpy patchwork of bruises and discoloration. It made him furious, until he remembered two of the guys who attacked him died. And hey, the cops weren’t charging him, so wasn’t he lucky? Or more realistically, he knew Roan, who still had a few allies left in the SPD, and the guys that did it were widely detested within the police department. It was horrible to think they played favorites, but of course they did. And Holden realized he had some amateur video on his side, proving self-defense. It was hard to argue a guy beset by six men used excessive force in defending himself. Also, the biggest thing—he was white. Yeah, he was gay gutter trash, but white male was still a privilege card that could be played. Lucky him.
Then there was the missing tooth, which was a bitch, but it no longer hurt, and it wasn’t in a glaring, obvious place. Maybe he could get away with it for a while. It wasn’t like he was taking new clients anymore. Well, not on the hooker side of things. (The Amanda gig didn’t count.) Maybe he’d get some cool scars out of this, though. Why should Roan be the only one with cool scars? Then again, it all depended on how you carried it. Carry them with pride and it gave you a kind of regal, battle-tested nobility. Otherwise you just looked like a chewed-up tomcat. Which could work, if you had the right swagger. Holden thought he was a little too big to not look like a thug, and he would so hate to lose the element of surprise.
Of course, taking out two of his attackers might have cemented that. Roan was right—his street rep was going to be through the roof. That had both positive and negative connotations. Surprise might be gone for good.
Holden gulped down a painkiller, wincing as it hurt to do that, and tried to ignore the dreadful itch beneath his cast. Scott had given him good tips on how to take care of them and encouraged him to pick up some muscle rub and frozen peas at the store for the bruises (and pot edibles). Leave it to a hockey player to have a plethora of tips about self-care of injuries.
Just the thought of Scott made him feel warm, and he sort of hated it. He and Scott broke up for a reason. He was never going to be able to do the relationship stuff, and it was more than likely Scott was never coming out of the closet, not while he was a legitimate NHLer, so they were doomed. But Holden would be lying to himself more than usual if he didn’t admit he still liked the guy. He was unreasonably handsome and nice, and he brought Holden food every day he was in the hospital. Holden became accustomed to him and actually looked forward to seeing him, and that was super dangerous. But there it was. Scott made it really difficult to dislike him, which Holden resented quite a bit. He wasn’t sure why.
A quick check of his phone showed Scott had texted him to make sure he was doing okay, which, again, seemed odd. Holden wasn’t used to people giving a shit about him. He texted back he was okay in a bland and mediocre way so Scott couldn’t read anything into it. He probably would anyway.
Holden waited for the painkiller to start kicking in—he goosed it a bit with some gin and tonic—and then he dyed his hair black, blasting music through his waterproof Bluetooth speaker so he didn’t nod off.
He told Chai he was staying in tonight because he was tired and his face hurt. It wasn’t far from a lie, but Chai accepted it like a long-suffering spouse, like he knew Holden was lying to him, but he was going to play along for the sake of the children. Holden appreciated Chai working so hard to make their relationship functional.
Once his hair was colored, Holden examined himself in the mirror, appreciating the way that the sticker collage on his walls made this look like a clean public bathroom in a rock club. As he’d feared, the black brought out his bruises, but he didn’t care much. It was a temporary rinse, and he knew once he got home, he could wash his hair and get it all out. It’d be like he never colored his hair in the first place. Since he’d been in the hospital, he had a few days worth of beard growth. It was kind of scraggly and unimpressive, but that was okay. Tonight he’d shave it all off, but later. He thought about cutting his hair but decided he’d do that later too.
In his bathroom cabinet, in an old tetracycline bottle, were some pills that used to be called bennies, once upon a time. Yeah, they had been supplanted by Adderall among the amphetamine crowd, but he found Addies weak. He wanted to kick it old-school with speed when he did it. Which wasn’t often. But tonight it would double up the painkilling and clear the drowsiness from his head. He knew it was working when he felt a tingle moving up his neck. Holden didn’t know why bennies hit him like that. They just did. Drugs affected everyone in different ways, although there were a few commonalities.
He put on his ninja outfit—black jeans, black sneakers, black T-shirt, black hoodie. Yes, it emphasized his bruises and the paleness of his uninjured skin, but so what? If anything, he felt super Goth. He got some cheap black gloves and cut the right glove so he could fit it over his cast, which made it difficult to tell he had a cast on. He briefly considered using some guyliner before realizing that was the euphoria of the speed talking. He added a black beanie, shoving his still-damp hair under it. He was a beaten white guy with a scraggly but close-cropped beard in completely nondescript clothes. He could have been anybody, which was the entire point. He added colored contacts that turned his eyes a very pale blue-gray. Holden thought it helped minimize his pupils too, but that was probably wishful thinking. He was on uppers, downers, and booze—a combination that was risky at best and deadly at worst. But it wasn’t his first time on them, and it probably wouldn’t be his last either. Unless things went really bad tonight.
Holden had called a friend who owed him a favor to come and pick him up. His street name was Deuce, although his real name was Isaac. Almost no one knew that. Deuce was a good-looking kid with jet-black hair and cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. He looked vaguely Hispanic, but if you asked, he would tell you a story about being half Native American (Arapaho, to be specific), a quarter African American, and a quarter Italian. If you had the time, and he was high enough, he’d also tell you about his parents’ messy divorce and the years-long custody battle that had him living on reservations, in motels, in a high-rise condo, in a group home, and finally in a shitty trailer park near Roy. But the saddest, funniest button to the story was, when Deuce ran away from home, neither parent bothered to look for him.
Deuce claimed to be straight, although Holden had doubts. Regardless, he hustled for a while, like many a street kid. Once, a client beat and raped him, but there was no way Deuce was going to the cops. So Holden made it his mission to track the asshole down and get hired by him. Holden slipped him a roofie, and while the asshole was passed
out on the motel bed, he stripped him, took his phone—the password was “passw0rd,” which was too sad for words—and took photos of his tiny, shriveled penis and posted it to his Twitter and Facebook, with the caption “I like to hire male hookers and rape them—unless I’m too drunk to get it up.” Holden also sent the photo to everyone in his email contact list and took his phone, along with all his cash and credit cards. He considered smothering him with a pillow, but ultimately decided that living with the fallout of this would be worse. He left him a message written in Sharpie on his thigh: “Next time, you don’t wake up.” Holden gave Deuce all the credit cards and told him to go nuts with them while he could. He did.
Holden wasn’t in a position to know what this guy—whose name was James Whitlock—actually suffered. But what he eventually heard was that he got fired as the dick pic was sent to half his office—ha!—and his horrified wife divorced him (of course he was married to a woman). Word was also out on the street that he was a john to avoid, and he was probably stuck with going outside the city to find hookers. So yeah, Holden had vigilante aspirations long before Roan came along. He was just able to push it to a new level.
It wasn’t exactly justice, but it was still more payback than most abused hookers ever got, so Deuce was grateful. Holden never thought he’d call in the favor, but right now he needed a lift from a friend who would never tell the cops the truth, and Deuce was good for that. His hooking experience left such a bad taste in his mouth he went to working in the drug business, and as it happened, he worked for a guy who transitioned into the pot industry as soon as the state made it legal. Therefore, Deuce had a legit job, which he had never expected, and Holden had a legal pot hookup.