Shit. The gentleness in Timothée’s tone robbed Ryker of his building anger. And the way he’d said his name….
He doesn’t play fair at all.
The car rolled to a stop in front of a tall building. Adjacent to it was an identical building but of newer construction and painted a crisp white that stood out even in the dark. They parked in front of the building the color of the inside of a baby’s diaper after a bottle of overripe prune juice.
Timothée leaned forward and squinted. “You’re staying here?”
“Yeah. What’s wrong with it?”
“It looks like one of those hotels.”
“What’s ‘those hotels’?”
“You know—hoe, I won’t tell if you don’t.”
Ryker pressed his lips together, refusing to look amused. “It’s an apartment complex. The agency leases units in many of the cities where our clients are stationed. It simplifies things.”
“What other client do you have in this dumpster-fire city?”
“Okay, first, you’re not allowed to say that aloud. You’re trying to build your likability with the locals, remember? And second, you’re the only one here so far, but I don’t imagine you’ll be the last.”
“Only if some poor bastard runs under a ladder while stepping on every crack in the sidewalk, has a black cat cross his path thirteen times, knocks over a vat of salt, shatters every mirror in a House of Mirrors, and then opens an umbrella inside the Bates Motel on All Hallows’ Eve.”
“Take a breath. Lagniappe flare, huh? It’s not that bad.” Ryker collected his coat, opened the door, and exited.
“You say that because you get to go back to New York.”
“Well, not tonight I’m not.” Resting his palm atop the car door, Ryker bent at the waist and observed Timothée.
“No? Now scurry along to your cozy little… mastaba.” His voice grew more elongated and enunciated with each word as he peered over Ryker’s shoulder at the building again. “Did they mean for it to be that color, or is it infected with a fungus?”
“You’re a color snob.”
“Nope, I have taste.”
“I bet you think the interior is all beige.”
“It isn’t?
Ryker lingered, not wanting to leave but knowing it was rude to continue allowing the warm air to escape from the car. “Come inside and see for yourself. I’ll make you a sandwich.”
“What kind of sandwich?”
“Ham. Turkey.” He straightened. “I don’t know. Whatever’s in the fridge.”
Timothée pressed the intercom button to give his driver instructions before scooting across the seat and exiting. “This better not be potted meat and mayo.”
Ryker laughed. “You have such high expectations.”
They walked up a flight of stairs to the second-floor landing and stopped in front of an avocado-colored door. Keys jangled as Ryker searched the keyring for the correct one.
“Got enough keys?” Timothée asked.
“These are to all the agency properties. Everyone has a set. This way no one has to hunt down keys when we travel, and we can enter units no matter when we arrive.” He located the key, unlocked the door, and allowed Timothée to enter first. “By the way, parvo and distemper aren’t the same thing.” He flipped on the light switch beside the door. “What do you think?”
Timothée frowned. “It’s beige.”
“It’s ecru.”
“It’s ugly.”
Ryker laughed and shut the door. “Make yourself at home.”
Timothée walked to the center of the room and turned in a circle. “I don’t think so.”
“Coming from a man staying in a hotel. I’ve been meaning to ask. Why are you staying there?”
“Renovations.”
“Not the entire house. Only a few out-of-the-way rooms.”
Timothée swiveled to peer at Ryker. “My housekeeper tell you that, too?”
“Gardener.”
“Fucking fired.”
“Simmer down. You’re not going to fire anyone.”
“Wanna bet?”
Ryker hung his coat on a rack. “Believe it or not, your staff like you. They recognized an ally and wanted to help.”
“Yeah, their pockets.” He shook his head. “I pay better than most, you know. It’s betrayal.”
“Or concern. True tea, I may have fudged a little about the bribes. I mean, I did pay them, but I had to do a lot of begging, pleading, and convincing that we’re all on the same side and that I wouldn’t bail the minute things got heated. You have a short fuse with zero filter—not the most pleasant of combinations. They wanted to help but are aware that you can be—” He cleared his throat. “—exigent.”
Timothée’s brows bunched. “Was that on your SAT?”
Ryker ignored the sarcasm. “Then this accident happened.”
“It wasn’t an accident.”
“I stand corrected. Poor choice of words. Your staff said you’d started lashing out at them several weeks before the murders and you never did that prior. In fact, they had nothing but good things to say about you—well, other than you being abrupt, sarcastic, impatient, argumentative, grumpy, cynical, obnoxious, and donning a resting bitch face.”
“Uh-huh. Fired.”
Ryker motioned for Timothée to hand him his overcoat and hung it beside his. “So, why are you really staying at the hotel?”
Timothée cocked his head. “Sounds to me like you have your own theory.”
“I do.”
“Then you tell me.”
“All right. Tonight, I couldn’t help noticing the similarities between your home and your parents’. They say we marry our parents. You, instead, bought their house. It’s both your comfort and your demon.”
Timothée shoved his hands in his pockets and paced the perimeter of the room. “All houses in the South are the same.”
Boom! Nailed it. “Keep telling yourself that, and one day you may actually believe it. Your staff wants you to come home.”
Timothée grunted. After a moment of silence, he asked, “Where’s my sandwich?”
“Coming up.” Ryker sauntered into the kitchen.
Timothée followed, slid onto a barstool, and propped his elbows on the—whatever color it was—faux granite countertop. Strands of his normally disciplined hair fell carelessly across his forehead as he scanned the room wide-eyed as if lost. There was something so youthful about Timothée’s movement that Ryker’s belly fluttered with warmth and the corner of his lips lifted.
“You haven’t seen many kitchens, have you?” Ryker asked.
“I’m not useless in one if that’s what you’re hinting at.”
“I wasn’t ‘hinting’ at anything.” He drew air quotes as he said the word hinting. “But since we’re on the subject, what can you cook?”
Timothée’s eyebrow arched. “Were we on the subject?”
“Uh-huh.”
Timothée parted his lips to speak, but Ryker interrupted him.
“And I don’t mean something thrown in the microwave or warmed in the oven. I mean actual cooking.”
“Timothée’s lips clamped shut as he reconsidered his answer. “Fried eggs,” he replied after a delay.
“Really? So, if I were to place a carton of eggs on the counter right now, you could fry them?”
“Why would I fry a dozen eggs when you’re fixing me a sandwich?”
“I think you’re bluffing.” Ryker opened the refrigerator and studied the contents. “How about a BLT?”
“Sounds good.”
Ryker removed ingredients from the fridge along with condiments, plates, and utensils, placed them on the counter, and began constructing the sandwich.
“Hold up,” Timothée protested. “You’re missing something. Where’s the B? All I see is LT.”
“What are you talking about? It’s right here.” Ryker held up a package of meat.
“What’s that supposed to be?”
“It�
��s precooked bacon.”
“Aw, hell naw! Get the gat!” he retorted, slapping his palm on the counter. “You not about to serve me up some artificial pig. Take that thermoplastic devil’s hash you done gone and pulled out the icebox and get all the way the fuck out. I need clogged arteries, not ruptured intestines.”
“Beejeez.” Ryker’s facial expression flickered between exasperation, scowling, and humor. What the hell was a gaught? Never mind. He’d look it up in the urban dictionary later, provided that this wasn’t another Cajun pronunciation situation. Instead, he opened the refrigerator again and removed another package. “Will pastrami soothe your delicate palate, good sir?”
“You get my mouth all hankering for a BLT and stick me with pastrami?”
“You don’t want the bacon.”
“Stop that blaspheming up in here.”
“Okay, before I continue sandwich construction, I’m going to need to know if wheat bread breaks your cuisine morality standards.”
Timothée crossed his arms and legs and mumbled, “Rude. Ever hear of Southern hospitality? I won’t be dancing at your wedding.”
Ryker tossed his head back and laughed. He wins again.
22
Ryker
Slumping with his butt resting against the kitchen island, Ryker turned his lips upward in awe and suppressed a snicker. Fumbling with a soapy dish over a sink was the most relaxed Ryker had ever seen Timothée. Of course, it was apparent that Timothée had never washed a dish in his life and didn’t know what the hell he was doing. Who rinsed dishes using cold water? But Timothée had volunteered with the cleanup, and Ryker hadn’t been about to refuse a chance for Timothée to slip out of his suit coat and roll up his sleeves to flex some muscle. Granted, the only body part displayed was his forearms, but Timothée did have sexy wrists. Hell, everything on him was sexy. However, what was sexier was when Timothée cast aside the hard exterior he presented to the world—even if only momentarily—and chilled. Well, as much as Timothée chilled.
Rubik’s Cube enigma, Ryker decided. On his eleventh birthday, he’d been gifted the cubed puzzle. The toy had been wrapped in sparkly silver paper with a curly cue bow atop—too pretty to want to unwrap but too tempting not to. Then, once unwrapped, he hadn’t known what to do with it. Did he leave it alone in its unadulterated state of uniformed colored sides or mess it up and hope to solve it?
Turned out that was a decision he hadn’t had to make. His sister scrambled it for him the same way the world had muddled Timothée’s life. And like that damn cube, every time Ryker worked out a solution for one side, there were five other sides that remained screwed up. One wrong turn and he was back to square one.
Finally he’d marched into his dad’s study and plunked the toy on his desk.
“Dad, what’s wrong with this damn thing?” he’d boldly asked, to which his father had laughed.
“Nothing. You need patience and a strategy. But first, you must decide if it’s something you want to solve. If not, there’s no point.”
Was there a point in attempting to solve the enigma of Timothée Croneau? Was there even a solution? It wasn’t like they could have a relationship. Could they? Of course not. Timothée was a client. Although… technically, he was Lesley’s client, which might make it okay if Ryker fixed his mouth just right, pretended business ethics didn’t exist, and resided in the land of make-believe in a kingdom far, far away.
Stop that. All the rationalizing on the planet wouldn’t make it okay. Any client of the agency, despite the agent, was a no-go.
But what did it matter anyway? Timothée didn’t seem the type to want a long-term relationship. If ever there existed a commitment-phobe, he was standing at the sink drying a half-washed plate. And how did Ryker know this? Because Timothée didn’t trust people—except Aidan—and pinned up all his hurt. That shrilling scream he’d emitted in the funeral home had said it all. He’d staggered out, supported by Aidan. But the instant the front door opened, he’d straightened and reeled it in as if nothing had happened. The world would never be privy to Timothée Croneau’s vulnerable side.
Ryker had seen glimpses of that vulnerability several times. However, Timothée refused to allow him into that inner circle—like Aidan. How could Ryker be in a relationship with a man who didn’t trust him, who constantly shut him out—mixing up the cube colors? Yet here Ryker was: hoping and wishing. Idiot.
Besides, how many times had he been told that someone his age shouldn’t be entertaining the thought of any type of serious relationship or settling down? That he should be going on oodles of dates and having frequent hot monkey sex hookups? He possibly would agree if he didn’t find those things exceedingly draining and mind-numbing. He preferred trudging the single life than suffering through the incessant rigamarole of barhopping, cyber dating, and blind set-ups. Work and travel easily filled the void—well, mostly. Thankfully, he was ambidextrous when it came to handling certain randy matters. Occasionally, his path crossed with someone attention-grabbing enough for an early evening drink or a late-night coffee. However, none had been as fascinating as the man currently occupying his kitchen.
Timothée placed the last plate—which Ryker would rewash later—in the cabinet and faced Ryker. “What should I do with this?” He held up the towel he’d used for drying.
“Toss it in the washer.” Ryker pointed to a pair of metal bifold doors.
“In there?”
“Yes.” Laughing, Ryker moved from the island to the doors. They squeaked as he pulled them open.
“So tiny.”
“Efficient,” Ryker corrected. He lifted the lid of the washing machine. “Toss them in so we can watch a movie,” he added, making an executive decision. He wasn’t ready to say goodnight, and Timothée didn’t seem eager to want to leave. Plus, Ryker didn’t want Timothée to be alone after such a difficult day. A movie would be a nice way to relax while their food digested.
“Well, that was unsatisfying,” Timothée griped as he watched the credits scroll. “The special effects sucked. I’ve seen scarier pet rocks than those monsters.”
The couch dipped as Ryker shifted on the other side, his feet propped up and crossed at the ankles on the coffee table. He didn’t look at Timothée. “You do realize this movie was made in 1934.”
“What does that have to do with caramel in peanut brittle? You think 1934 movie crowds didn’t know fake shit when they saw it?”
“Different time, different reality. If the original viewers had been able to watch some of the modern CGI effects, the Orson Welles radio scare would have never been a thing.”
“Do you believe in that?”
“In what?”
“Time travel.”
Now Ryker did look at Timothée and debated whether the question was being seriously asked or more tongue in cheek. He determined it was the former. “Supposedly, science supports it. Remember tenth-grade science and Einstein’s theory of relativity?”
“I went to Catholic school. We skipped those chapters.”
“Oh.” Folding his hands across his stomach, Ryker twiddled his thumbs. “Basically, it states gravity warps, and this affects the rate of time. So if there’s enough bend in the curve….” He trailed off, catching the glint in Timothée’s eye. Oh, what’s going on in that head of yours now?
A lengthy pause ensued before Timothée asked, “Would you? Travel in time, that is.”
Ryker shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Backward or forward?”
“Forward probably. I already know what’s behind me.”
“There’s nothing you’d change in your past? Not one wrong you’d make right?”
“Change one thing and you’ll alter many, including the good stuff. It’s called a paradox. Mistakes shape us. Teach us.” He grasped Timothée’s knee and squeezed. “Some mistakes are blessings waiting to be discovered.”
“Like what?”
“Once, I accidentally let my sister’s cat out. We ended up with
a beautiful litter of kittens.”
“You didn’t drown them?”
He punched Timothée’s thigh. “No! That’s damn cruel. How could you ask that?”
“It’s a cruel world. Some people do.” There was another space of silence before Timothée spoke again. “I’m glad you didn’t. I like cats.”
“You do?”
He nodded. “But I prefer dogs. I always wanted one growing up, but Luca would have no part of it. I think my mother would have caved, though, had she….”
“Had she what?”
Timothée blew out a long breath through his nose and examined his fingernails. “I think the time travel theory is a load of crap. People say random shit to explain what they don’t understand.”
Evasive as usual. The pain Ryker witnessed in Timothée’s golden eyes caused him to feel it, too. Again, he wanted to soothe it all away and reassure Timothée that everything would be okay. But would it?
“You know,” Ryker began slowly, “it’s my job to advise you, to present a brand of you to the world. To show them a small slice of what you’re willing to share. I’m not trying to change who you are.”
“The world doesn’t accept me for me.”
“Well, I do. And more of the world would, too, if you gave them half a chance. You have so much good in you. I see it no matter how you try to disguise it with your antics and smart mouth.”
Timothée pointed an index finger at himself. “I have a smart mouth? What about you?”
“Let’s not deflect again.”
Timothée’s lips parted but then shut, and he tilted his head. “Why are you saying this?”
Swallowing hard, Ryker combed his fingers through his hair and stared at his feet. His heart galloped painfully. “Cos one of us has caught feelings.” Oh, you’ve chucked it at the fan now. Ryker inhaled deeply, released, and braced himself for the quake if what he said slanted sideways quickly—which was a real possibility.
“What kind of feelings?”
Is he for real?
Eyes flickering up, Ryker scrutinized Timothée’s expression, trying to get a read on him. He couldn’t. Timothée’s face was blank. Ryker considered his next move for a moment. Balls deep in, there was no backing out. At this point, all he could do was hope Timothée didn’t stomp too hard on his heart.
Penalty Kill Page 16