“Timothée,” Ryker reassured softly, “you can do this.”
Timothée wanted to believe it. He needed to believe it.
9
Ryker
Ryker settled into the leather back seat of the black SUV with his laptop in his lap and stared out the tinted windows. He saw no reason to use a car service to drive three hours when they could have taken his rental or any number of cars Timothée had stashed in his garage, but Ryker was sick to death of arguing about it with Timothée—who, by the way, looked as if he would projectile vomit at any second. Ryker doubted car sickness was the culprit, but he’d have more luck making a grilled cheese sandwich out of moon cheese than convincing Timothée to open up and divulge his feelings. At the dog park, he’d seen a sliver, but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Since then, Timothée had reverted to being his typical curmudgeon à la mode. Now Ryker’s best hope was to silently pray for a conscientious driver who avoided any potholes. Ironic that these fancy cars came with minibars and televisions but no barf bags. And while he was at it, he said a prayer of thanks that Timothée hadn’t called his bluff about knowing his schedule. He’d had a hunch and gone with his gut.
So, what secrets hid in Mandeville and scared him?
Clearing his throat, Ryker braced himself for the hostility he was about to receive. “I’ve consulted with Mace Gardner, and he thought it may be a good idea if you gave the eulogy.”
“When the saints march in with the sock brigade.”
And why did I think he’d be complaisant? “I’ll take that to mean you object.”
“Take it however you want. Let me be crystal meth clear here. I’m not doing it.”
“It doesn’t have to be long, just a couple words.”
“Try zero.” Timothée rested his head on the seat, closed his eyes, and massaged his temple.
“So far, you’ve said no to everything. Is there anything you will do?”
“Yes. I will pretend you didn’t ask me.”
Fine. I’m just going to ask again. Ryker studied Timothée. “Headache?”
“What?”
“You keep rubbing your temple. I wondered if your head was hurting.”
“Tension. It’s why I scheduled the massage.”
“Doesn’t seem to have worked.”
“Someone scared the snakes,” Timothée deadpanned.
“Oh, so it tried to eat you, too, huh?”
Timothée rolled his head on the back of the seat to face him and flashed what Ryker classified as an aphrodisiac smile. Damn, he’s attractive. The intensity of it robbed him of power to think. To be certain he wasn’t drooling, Ryker swiped the sides of his mouth with his thumb and index finger.
“Hrump! My mama didn’t raise a bitch.” The smile faded as emptiness drifted into Timothée’s eyes. He averted his gaze to the window.
Before his sensibleness reached the part of his brain that it should have, Ryker clasped Timothée’s shoulder. The warmth of Timothée’s skin soaked through his cotton shirt and tingled Ryker’s fingertips like warm molasses. As a result, he struggled to prevent writhing with delight and embarrassing himself. For a second, the rest of Ryker’s world disappeared as he lost himself in a what-if fanboy fantasy, and his eyes raged with lust. Finally finding his voice, he said, “You have every right to feel whatever it is you feel, but you don’t have to pretend you’re void of feeling.”
“And what if what I feel is immoral?”
“Then we deal with it.”
“We?”
Ryker nodded. “Yes, Timothée, we. I’m here to help you in any way I can.”
Remember, he’s a client. One step out of line and Lesley will dismember you. He gave Timothée’s shoulder a gentle squeeze before allowing his hand to drop.
“You may wish to rethink that decision.”
“Why would I want—”
“Because helping me will condemn you to the same fate as my parental entities.”
That shook Ryker back to reality, and his jaw dropped. “Wha… wha…?” He couldn’t formulate a complete thought.
Clucking his tongue in exasperation, Timothée shook his head. “Don’t ask questions. That’s the first step to a wrong path.”
Collecting himself, Ryker stiffened. “You know who did it, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question.
“I said not to ask questions.”
Ryker sat back, a pout tugging at his lips. And I rebuke those terms.
“You know,” Ryker said, twiddling his thumbs, “I’m a big boy. I do a pretty good job of taking care of myself.”
Timothée smirked. “Did you just refer to yourself as a boy?”
“Touché. Things were happening that caused me to be overly sensitive the other day.”
“Like what?”
Ryker paused and considered. Did he want to get into his personal issues with Timothée and breech the agent-client barrier? It hadn’t been lost on him that Timothée deliberately changed topics; however, Timothée’s expression indicated genuine interest. Plus, he seemed to need something from Ryker—a reason to trust him, perhaps. Then again, why should Ryker disclose any part of his private life when Timothée remained closed? At the end of the day, Timothée remained a client.
“It’s not important,” he finally answered.
“The boyfriend?” Timothée prodded.
“Ex-boyfriend, and no. He had nothing to do with it.”
“Ew.” Timothée reacted, detecting something in Ryker’s tone.
Ryker paused twiddling his thumbs. “What?”
“You tell me. That struck a nerve. He must have been some kind of bastard.”
Ryker had failed to conceal the bitterness in his voice. Even after all this time, the situation still angered him—not at his ex but at himself for the manner in which he’d handled it. “I didn’t mean….” He changed his mind. “Yeah, he was.”
“What did he do?”
“He couldn’t keep his pants up and blamed me.”
“How was it your fault?”
“Which time?”
Timothée straightened, his interest obviously piqued. “He cheated more than once?”
“Too many times to count. The first time—which I didn’t find out about until much later—he claimed it was because I didn’t devote enough time to him. At the time, I was finishing my masters and was balls deep into completing my thesis. He wanted to attend a concert the week my comprehensive examinations began—you know, the tests that basically would determine the rest of my life because they cover material from every class I’d ever taken and I only had one shot at passing or wouldn’t graduate. I declined, so he found someone else for the concert and the after party.”
“Hardly seems a reason.”
“Gets better. My comps ended on a Friday, which was also Halloween. When I finished around 3:00 p.m., all of us in my major who’d taken comps decided to go to a bar to let off steam, cry, celebrate, or whatever. He wanted to come, but….” He shook his head.
“But what?”
“I told him it was just the test takers. The tests hadn’t been graded, so we didn’t know if we’d passed or failed. We wanted to bond—share experiences, discuss answers, badmouth the professors, that sort of shit.”
“And he didn’t understand?”
“Oh, he understood. He just didn’t respect it. Anyway, to make a long story short, I got wasted. I’m talking crawling on my knees on an airport tarmac smashed. We drank from the time we hit the bars that afternoon until last call. Afterward, we stumbled over to a nearby park to sober up a bit. So, it was about five in the morning when I returned home. The son of a bitch locked me out.” Ryker threw up his hands, his voice elevated. “Put the damn chain on the door. But here’s the kicker. It was my apartment. His name wasn’t even on the lease. There was no treat in that fucking trick.”
“That’s messed up.”
“The guy who’d given me a ride saw I couldn’t get in and said I could crash at his place. But when we
arrived, his wife had the same idea and had locked him out, too. They had an enclosed garage, so we slept in the car there. Later that morning when I returned home, the ex and I had it out. He was pissed. I was pissed, but I was also hungover, so it wasn’t a fair fight.” He gestured with his hands as he spoke. “He asked where I’d spent the night. And when I tell you a band of demons possessed his body, believe me. It was like Rosemary’s Baby had given birth. He turned every shade of red on the spectrum. He actually expected me to sleep my ass on the porch in thirty-degree weather. I mean, what the actual fuck? Even if the guy who’d given me a ride hadn’t been 250 percent straight, we were both too tanked on Moscow mules and tequila shots to get anything up.” He sighed. “During the course of that argument, he said he had a man’s needs and that I acted like a boy. Then he stormed out. Not an hour after our blowup, he was getting his peter popped by the next-door neighbor while I was at home feeling guilty that I’d destroyed our relationship.”
“Guilty about what?”
“I’d acted stupid that night—drank way too much, rode in cars with people who had no business driving, accepted drinks from people I didn’t know. A pile of bad decisions.”
“Still no excuse.”
Ryker tilted his chin. “No one ever said guilt was rational.”
“And you kept him?”
“I kept him. Granted, I didn’t know at the time, but I probably would have kept him even if I had due to the emotional manipulation.” He shook his head again. “There were plenty others after that. I had suspicions, but I didn’t want to believe he could do such a thing to me. It’s the Pisces in me. Then one afternoon, the city disconnected the power to all of downtown to upgrade the lines. I went home early. When I arrived, I caught him having a foursome in our bedroom.”
“Damn! How long were you two together?”
“Almost three years.”
“Was he your first?”
Shut the front door and open the back gate! Ryker blinked at the question. “That’s marginally personal, don’t you think?”
“Only if you don’t want to tell me.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Just curious as to why you would stay in that type of relationship.”
Ryker smiled. “Then maybe that’s the question you should have asked. But no, he wasn’t my first sexual partner. However, he was my first love.”
Why am I telling him all this? Shut up.
“It does make people blind.”
“Sounds like a man speaking from experience.”
“Nope.”
“Oh, come on. You’re telling me that the great Timothée Croneau has never had his heart pilfered and ransacked?”
Timothée’s lips slid into a slow grin that displayed all his teeth. “I’d first need to have one of those beating organs.”
You have a heart. It may be calcified, but it’s in there. “Save the tough guy act for the ice.”
“Whatever.” Timothée stretched his legs in front of him. “I thought you said your ex had nothing to do with you feeling some kind of way about being called a boy. Seems it’s all about him.”
“No it isn’t. It’s about me. He didn’t force me to feel that way. I allowed myself to, just like I allowed him to treat me the way he did for as long as he did.” Yes, stupid, keep confessing your life’s failures. Way to maintain professional boundaries. “If I’m speaking candidly, I should have put my foot down sooner because I deserved better. No one will recognize your worth if you don’t recognize it first.”
Timothée clapped. “Bravo. Good for you.”
“You approve?”
“Hell yeah. It’s hot as hell.”
Hot? Ryker choked on his own tongue, and a streak of warmth tingled in his balls. Cheese and rice! He said hot.
He parted his lips to speak but was interrupted by the intercom.
“We’ve arrived at the destination, Mr. Croneau,” the driver announced.
The car slowed and came to a stop.
No, no, no. Where had the time gone? Fuck!
Timothée leaned forward and peered around Ryker out the window at the mortuary—a modern building that looked more like a salon than the location of final preparation. His expression grew grim, and the earlier nauseated look returned.
“Is this it?” he asked.
Back the fuck up. You can’t say something like that and not—
“Why this place?” Timothée continued.
“Mace Gardner gave me the contact information for the attorney handling your parents’ will.”
“Maxwell Weymouth.”
Ryker’s eyes widened. “You know him?”
“He’s been the family attorney ever since I could remember.”
“Well, why didn’t you—” Ryker stopped himself. Pick and choose the battle. The situation was about to be difficult enough. But still, Timothée could have mentioned it earlier instead of causing Ryker to make a dozen phone calls to get the information. “Anyway, he said your parents hadn’t made any burial arrangements as far as he knew but recommended this place.”
“Are they…? The bodies…?” Timothée’s voice lacked its usual grit. “Here?”
“No, not yet. It’s part of what needs to be discussed.”
“Fine.” Timothée opened the door and hopped out. “Let’s get this over with.” A few strides had him at the front door before Ryker had exited the car.
By the time Ryker made it to the office, Timothée had withdrawn into himself—arms folded across his chest, lips pressed in a tight line, and jaws clenched. The funeral director, dwarfed standing beside Timothée, bore a startled and terrified expression, and Ryker couldn’t blame him. Timothée looked menacing, as if he could chew a bucket of spikes and spit out husks.
Ryker introduced himself to the director. “We don’t have an appointment.”
“That’s no problem. How may I assist you?”
“How do you think? We’re here for coffins,” Timothée barked.
“Timothée!”
“What? It’s not like people come here for milk and cookies—unless they’re into some bizarre vampirism or necrophilia shit.”
Blessed Virgin. We haven’t been here thirty seconds. “Timothée, go wait over there,” Ryker commanded, pointing to a circle of chairs in a parlor. After Timothée followed the instruction—surprisingly without contesting—Ryker returned his attention to the funeral director. “Please forgive him. He just lost both his parents in a tragic accident, and he’s not himself.” Or he’s exactly himself.
The director smiled politely. “I understand.”
“Don’t apologize for me,” Timothée muttered.
Ryker tossed a glare over his shoulder and spoke through clenched teeth. “When I need your input, I’ll ask.” His eyes remained locked with Timothée’s until Timothée finally looked away without responding. “Neither of us has any experience at this sort of thing, so we’ll need some guidance.”
“Certainly. First, I’ll need to view the certificates of death.”
“We don’t have them in our possession yet, but we will soon.”
“I see,” the director said. “We won’t be able to finalize anything without them, but we can begin preliminary arrangements. What type of service is of interest?”
“For dead people,” Timothée grumbled.
“No one asked you yet.” Plastering on the best smile he could manage, Ryker nodded at the director. “What kinds of services are there?”
“You can choose from a church, graveside burial/committal, or cremation.”
“Burn them up?” Timothée gasped. “Oh, hell to the no. My mother had a hip replacement. I hear that would have to be removed.”
Ryker faced Timothée.
“That is correct, sir, for safety concerns. Metal medical prosthetics and equipment can damage the cremator and may cause environmental hazards. We’re required by law to remove them.”
“Uh-huh. And I also heard the metal gets melted down and re
cycled for car parts and road signs.”
“Oh God.” Ryker groaned and rubbed the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. Where’s the mute button? “Stop.”
“Exactly. I don’t want to have to wonder every time I roll up at a four-way intersection if that’s my mother’s hip staring at me or ponder if she’s the carburetor in each Volkswagen I pass.”
Why Volkswagen? No, I don’t want to know.
“Okay, Timothée, we get it. No cremation. Moving on.”
“Perhaps a church service is more suitable for sir’s needs,” the director suggested.
“For what? Me to combust into flames the nanosecond my pinky toe crosses the threshold?” Timothée snorted and jutted out his chin. “Oh no, this little piggy is staying home. I do enough shit on my own without adding bald-faced lying in a church to express-mail my ass straight to the innermost sanctum of Lucifer’s fire festival that’s hotter than fish grease. What happens above the ground doesn’t change once you go in it. The devil is sure ’nuff lying.”
Ryker hung his head and reevaluated his career choice.
10
Timothée
Timothée turned and faced Ryker.
“Sorry,” Ryker grumbled, placing his palm on his growling stomach. “I haven’t eaten today.”
After two hours spent making arrangements at the funeral home, Timothée didn’t have an appetite. Who knew there was a difference between caskets and coffins? More importantly, who cared? When he’d said coffin, he hadn’t expected a history lesson. Hell, he’d slept through history classes in school. And when he’d yelled, “All I need is a couple damn boxes to put bodies in. Hell, a Frigidaire crate will do,” the director grew pale, and his lips trembled. Plus, Ryker had given him that look, the one he was still giving him. One that set Timothée on edge. He’d seen many precarious, pejorative, and hostile looks in his time, but never one of this nature. He didn’t know how to decipher it, either. Normally he had balls of steel, but Ryker’s glare had him too unnerved to inquire about it. However, Timothée gathered enough to conclude that Ryker was about two seconds away from jerking a knot in his ass if he pushed him any further, and he speculated that a good meal might calm him a notch.
Penalty Kill Page 7