North on Drummond

by K. C. Burn

  “And?” It couldn’t be about Andy’s death, because they’d already discussed it the previous day.

  “Guess who’s at the hotel right now?”

  Drew shrugged. “Dunno. Probably another well-off ghost hunter. Or maybe an author looking for authentic atmosphere. But I’ve never heard of any of these ‘big-name’ authors who’ve come to visit.”

  The bed-and-breakfast was the most popular lodging in Sandy Bottom Bay, partly because it was rumored to be haunted and partly because it had the best location, right on the main strip just blocks from Drew’s place. There were a couple of motels near the highway, and a small hotel on the edge of town, but the bed-and-breakfast was far and away the best experience a visitor could get. Serious ghost people stayed at the B&B, the motels drew the budget-conscious, and the rich dilettantes booked rooms at the swanky but too-new-to-be-haunted hotel.

  Kyle shook his head in exasperation. “You are no fun at all. Brett Cavanagh. He’s supposedly filming a segment about Haunt Fest.”

  It took a moment for Drew to assimilate the name. “Brett Cavanagh? The Brett Cavanagh? From Phantoms?”

  Holy shitballs. That was big news. Phantoms was one of the best-rated supernatural programs on television, due in no small part to the charisma and sheer good looks of its star, Brett Cavanagh. Drew didn’t usually keep up with all the paranormal, ghost-hunting shows out there because he had to deal with it all on a daily basis. Phantoms, on the other hand, had captured his attention.

  “Yes.” Kyle almost, but not quite, squealed.

  “You think it’s true he’s gay? The media can’t seem to make up its mind.”

  “And he’s never confirmed anything in any interview. So I suggest we find out for ourselves. We’ll go to the Angry Parakeet at, like, seven, and from there we can hit all the places he might show up. We can try to accidentally run into him.”

  Drew wanted to say no, that everyone else in town would be trying to do the same thing. In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised if the hotel was mobbed by people “just passing by.” But he was as tempted as Kyle to see the man in person. Would he be an asshole? Would he be shorter or fatter or just plain less attractive when he wasn’t on camera?

  “Okay, okay, it’s a date.”

  “Date. Puhleaze. Not only to do I have better taste than that, I want there to be no doubts about me being single.”

  Drew stuck his tongue out at Kyle. “Fine, but—”

  His words were interrupted by the bell at the front door announcing yet another client.

  “Kyle, I’m so sorry. I gotta get this.” He’d have much rather sat in his sweltering kitchen discussing Brett Cavanagh, especially since they hadn’t had much time to hang out recently.

  “Hey, I get it. Business first.”

  Business first. An odd concept, considering most of his family did the bare minimum to keep afloat, often rounding out their income with a variety of semilegal or completely illegal activities. If Drew wanted to stay on the straight and narrow, he couldn’t afford to ignore paying customers.

  “Help me get back into this crap.”

  Drew pulled off his T-shirt and got his robes straightened while Kyle arranged the turban and hid his hair.

  Somehow, at the tender age of ten, Drew had become friends with the only other guy in Sandy Bottom Bay who would eventually come out. There was Eddie Price, ten years older than they were and bisexual. Drew wasn’t entirely sure it counted, since Eddie seemed to lean more toward women, although that might have been more a function of opportunity than anything else. Sandy Bottom Bay wasn’t exactly a bastion of gay pride. In fact, Drew might not have come out either if it weren’t for the fact his brothers figured it out and were surprisingly accepting. The Drummonds might not have the most sterling or upright reputations, but no one messed with them without good reason. And gay-bashing or bullying the youngest of Frank Drummond’s boys wasn’t a good reason, not by a long shot. Kyle’s association with Drew afforded him the same protection, and although his family all assumed he and Kyle were boyfriends, they were too much like brothers to have that sexual spark. He loved Kyle like, or maybe better than, his brothers.

  Ready to face the next client, Drew smiled at Kyle. “You can stick around if you want.”

  “In this sweatbox? Not even if Brett Cavanagh himself were stripping in your kitchen.”

  Drew gave him a disbelieving look.

  “Well, maybe for that,” Kyle conceded. “Besides, I should get back to those cheerleaders. But I’ll be by at quarter to seven tonight. You better have closed up shop by then. There are some things more important than money, and celebrity-stalking Brett Cavanagh is one of them.”

  With that pronouncement, Kyle whirled around and dashed through the door, leaving Drew chuckling behind him. He couldn’t disagree either. Drew had never had the opportunity to catch a glimpse of a celebrity up close, and he was looking forward to the evening.

  Chapter Three

  It was nearing dinnertime when Cliff finally had to ask. “Scott, man, I appreciate the tour. And I’ve learned a lot of things I never knew about town, but weren’t we supposed to be on babysitting duty?”

  “Eager to meet our celebrity, are you?”

  Not fucking likely. He’d seen more than his fair share of B-, C-, and D-list celebs in LA, enough to know that half of them were more trouble than they were worth.

  “Just don’t want to shirk duties on the first day.”

  Scott laughed. “That’s the last thing I would have thought of you. No, the television crew were having some sort of discussion or planning session or some shit in the hotel today. Our first official duty is hitting the Angry Parakeet tonight for dinner.”

  Cliff hadn’t even met the guy yet but wondered if the Angry Parakeet would measure up to the foodie snobbery of a television celebrity. Sandy Bottom Bay wasn’t exactly the center of haute cuisine, but the Angry Parakeet was just as good as some of the places his ex had taken him in Los Angeles. His ex would have hated it, but Cliff had missed the weathered charm of Sandy Bottom Bay’s relaxed lifestyle.

  Scott pulled into the hotel driveway and parked the cruiser beside an enormous shiny red pickup truck. The giant, gas-guzzling vehicles that dominated the road were something he hadn’t missed about Florida.

  Cliff had the door open, ready to get out, but thoughts of his ex made him freeze in place. An unpleasant sensation, like milk curdling in his soul, filled him. He’d been preoccupied today, what with spying a gorgeous guy he’d like to get to know better, starting a new job, and worrying about how to tell his mother he’d moved back to Sandy Bottom Bay, however temporarily. Perhaps he could have been excused for not asking one very important question and for not drawing some significant and probably correct conclusions.

  “Scott, just who is this celebrity?”

  Scott’s eyes widened. “Chief Walker didn’t tell you? It’s Brett Cavanagh from Phantoms. I can’t wait to meet him. That show is so cool. I can’t believe they’re going to feature our little town.”

  Of course it was Brett. Damn it.

  Like a kid’s before Christmas morning, Scott’s eyes were bright, and he was practically bouncing in excitement. Cliff, on the other hand, was about as ecstatic as those kids opening up skeletons and severed doll heads during The Nightmare Before Christmas. Well, this wouldn’t be the first time he’d had to pretend he and Brett didn’t know each other. This time Brett could be on the receiving end, because Cliff had no intention of airing any dirty laundry in front of his new colleague, and knowing Brett, there would be plenty of filth to deal with.

  Scott beckoned Cliff to the door of the hotel.

  “Uh-huh. You don’t believe all that ghost shit, do you?” Cliff had to ask, although he tried hard not to sound too disparaging. He didn’t want to alienate Scott, but they were cops, for God’s sake. A lot could change in eight years, but he didn’t remember Scott being into all that woo-woo nonsense when they’d been friends in high school. Sandy Bottom Bay�
�s eccentricity was strangely compelling to some people.

  “Ha, no! Remember when we pulled that trick on old Eddie Price? That guy really buys into his own bullshit.”

  Cliff laughed. When he’d lived here before, Eddie Price had been a self-important prick who claimed to be a medium, and the guy had zero sense of humor. None. It hadn’t been hard for Cliff’s buddies to get him to go along with the joke, pretending to haunt Eddie’s garden shed. After all, Sandy Bottom Bay’s reputation just begged for pranks of that sort. Old Eddie Price—a bit of a misnomer, since he was only five or six years older than Cliff—had not been happy. The prank had been fucking awesome, but it had also been the first time Cliff’s eyes had been opened about his mother. His mother had been pissed because Cliff was mocking something she believed in. Boggled his mind, it did, that anyone in this day and age believed in ghosts and spirits, but apparently it took all kinds, and most of the weirder ones ended up in Sandy Bottom Bay.

  “Is he still around?” Cliff didn’t really care, but the closer they got to Brett’s hotel room, the more he’d like to focus on something other than seeing his ex again, which he’d hoped would never happen once he’d decided to move to the opposite side of the continent. Didn’t hurt to find out more about the locals he was going to have to deal with.

  “Oh yeah, he’s one of the top dogs in the field, or so he says. He does a pretty brisk business. His biggest competition is the psychic tarot reader.”

  Psychic tarot reader? Was that what they were calling con men who played on gullible old ladies?

  Scott wasn’t done, though. “But as much as old Eddie would like to run him off, the psychic is a Drummond, and well, we all know that would end badly for Eddie.” The man shrugged, and Cliff had a momentary desire to smack him.

  The Drummonds weren’t even a violent gang like those he’d seen in LA. How did they manage to garner so much power? Surely the threat of a broken nose or a busted lip wasn’t that scary. Things would have to change around here. The “psychic” might be a good start. Keeping an eye on a business—Cliff almost choked just thinking the word, as it gave the psychic a legitimacy he shouldn’t have—run by a con man was only reasonable. Last thing they needed was their resident charlatan bilking money out of unsuspecting victims.

  “And you’d never guess it, but that guy is like catnip for women.”

  Cliff didn’t have time to respond to that shocking revelation or ask if Scott was talking about Eddie or the psychic tarot reader, because Scott stopped in front of a door and knocked. Cliff would worry about them another time. For now, he had an ex to confront, and that would be stressful enough.

  Moments later, the door was opened by a beautiful woman with shoulder-length black hair, pale skin, and lips so red she looked like she’d been drinking blood. Then again, Kristi Ellis was the closest thing to a vampire Cliff ever expected to meet; at least she looked the part.

  “Good evening, officers. I’m Kristi Ellis, the producer for Phantoms.” Cliff wasn’t sure if she truly didn’t remember him, until she lifted an impeccably manicured eyebrow when she looked at him. Kristi had never liked him, so he still wasn’t sure if Brett was intending to keep their connection on the down-low or if Kristi just didn’t care enough to acknowledge Cliff in a friendly way now that she no longer had to put on a good show for Brett.

  “Good evening, ma’am.” Scott was as pleasant and eager to please as a new puppy, and not for the first time, Cliff realized how much recent events had aged him mentally. He and Scott were both twenty-six, but Scott seemed so much younger. Witnessing the aftermath of some of LA’s crimes had been soul-destroying, snuffing out boyishness like nothing else. Cliff would never wish that pain on anyone, least of all Scott.

  Kristi turned her back to them to call into the room, “Brett, your bodyguards are here.”

  Scott practically wagged his tail. Cliff elbowed him and tried to convey the message “be professional” with a few hand gestures and eyebrow wiggles. He must have gotten his point across, because when Kristi moved out of the doorway to allow Brett to approach, Cliff was certain they both appeared professional and emotionless.

  Brett glanced at Scott but then left his gaze on Cliff while he spoke. “Hello, gentlemen. I appreciate your company. Shall we?”

  The rather lengthy stare at Cliff’s groin would have, at one time, had him erect and panting in a matter of seconds, but there was nothing. Cliff would have to come clean with Scott sooner rather than later, but for the moment he was grateful his partner didn’t notice anything untoward and that neither Cliff nor his cock reacted to Brett’s frank and lustful perusal. Nice to know good sense and betrayal overrode lust.

  Then again, Brett looked worn and plastic compared to the freshness of the gorgeous red-haired man Cliff had seen earlier that morning. He’d spent half the day suppressing the urge to ask Scott if he knew any red-haired guys who lived within walking distance of the Publix. It had been a long time since Cliff had been so eager to meet a guy that the fluttery anticipation in his belly was both heady and scary as fuck. But his new interest only strengthened his armor against Brett’s arrogant charm.

  Was that plastic look something Brett had always had and Cliff was only noticing now, or was it something that developed over time in response to Brett’s desperation to increase his celebrity status? Whatever the reason, Cliff wasn’t going to be snared by Brett again. Which only made him more suspicious about Brett’s presence in his hometown.

  Brett pulled a ball cap on over his perfectly highlighted hair and strode out into the hallway without a glance backward. Kristi gave Cliff an exasperated look before she turned a big, fake smile on Scott and made an exaggerated show of looking at his name tag.

  “Office Hunter? If you don’t mind staying back with me for a few minutes to go over the plans for tomorrow, I’d appreciate it. Brett and your partner can go on ahead, and we’ll meet them there shortly.”

  “Of course, ma’am.” Scott’s response was absolutely perfect, but the reddened tips of his ears told Cliff he’d flashed on one of those lame porn premises where the helpful cop gets lucky.

  Unless this was all some elaborate setup by his ex, Kristi was merely giving them the chance to clear the air, since this was the first time Cliff had laid eyes on Brett since finding out he’d cheated on Cliff. With a woman. Not that Cliff would have tolerated cheating with anyone, man or woman, but he knew damn well Brett had only done it for the publicity, since she was a rising star in the business, and as far as his adoring fans were concerned, any of them had a chance of scoring with him. Especially since Brett was more than adept at flirting with either gender.

  Probably Cliff should be thankful. If the media had found out he and Brett were in a relationship, they’d have hounded him, making it difficult for him to stay closeted at work. Cliff hadn’t been aware that Brett wanted the benefit of being single and having a boyfriend at the same time and had been manipulating Cliff every bit as much as he manipulated the media.

  Out in the parking lot, Brett stood beside the fucking enormous pickup. “This is me. Shall we go in my car?”

  Of course Brett had rented that monstrous red penis stand-in. In California he drove a top-of-the-line hybrid, but in Florida it had to be the biggest and baddest of the pickups. Cliff assumed there hadn’t been a Hummer available; otherwise Brett would be driving that.

  Cliff opened his mouth to politely but in no uncertain terms tell Brett no fucking way. He was tempted to throw Brett in the backseat of the police-issue vehicle and drive him to the Angry Parakeet like he was a prisoner, but then Cliff remembered Scott had the keys to the cruiser.

  “By all means, let’s take your truck.”

  “What’s with the ball cap?” Not the question Cliff wanted to ask, but he hadn’t ever seen Brett risk hat head to wear a ball cap.

  “Obviously I’m here incognito.”

  Incognito. Right. “It’s not working. Especially since you commissioned bodyguards from the local police forc
e.”

  Brett shrugged and turned the key in the ignition. “Fame is something you’ll never understand.”

  Presumably, Cliff was meant to feel sorry for Brett, but it was hard when he despised the man so much. At least they’d never been in love. Cliff had hoped they’d been heading that way, but he should have known that if it hadn’t happened after a year, it wasn’t going to happen. He’d been happy—or at least content—and he’d thought Brett was too. He’d been hurt by Brett, and he wasn’t going to give the man the chance to do it again.

  Cliff waited until the truck was in gear and heading out of the hotel parking lot before he broke. “Brett, what the fuck are you doing here?”

  “Well, Cliffy…” Brett paused to let the hated endearment erode Cliff’s patience. Although he’d never divulged his full name to Brett, he’d rather be called Northcliff than Cliffy, for fuck’s sake. But he wanted answers, and letting Brett get to him over something so minor would only lead them off onto a useless tangent. This wasn’t his first time at Brett’s narcissistic rodeo.

  “I’m waiting.”

  “Cliffy, I’m just doing my job. I’m the host of a nationally syndicated paranormal show. Sandy Bottom Bay is reputed to be the second-most haunted town in Florida and has a well-respected ghost festival. It’s the perfect subject for a midseason hiatus special. I think the only surprise here is that I haven’t visited sooner.”

  Cliff curled his lip into a sneer. “And it’s only coincidence you show up within days of me taking a job here and moving across the country?”

  After all, Brett had tried to get him back a couple of times, but Cliff hadn’t bought into his lies. Nor was he willing to trust his sexual health with a man who couldn’t keep it in his pants and had been alarmingly vague about whether he’d used protection.

  Cliff had been at loose ends after his friend Pete had been killed in a car accident, grief making his life grate on his nerves. His work had become unfulfilling, and his social life had seemed fake and pointless without Pete. The job opening in Sandy Bottom Bay a few months after Cliff discovered Brett cheating had been one of the most serendipitous things to ever happen to him. He also couldn’t deny he was a little worried about what seemed to be his mother’s tenuous grasp on reality, and the deeper she got into the supernatural shit, the more likely someone like the Drummond tarot reader would take advantage of her.