1 Grim Tidings

by Amanda M. Lee

  Crap. “None of my brothers are in that building.”

  “Hey, Aisling, we’re hungry.”

  I froze when I heard Braden’s voice. Griffin, who was still standing a step down from me, peered around my shoulder until his gaze fell on Braden. When he turned back to me, his eyes were shiny and intense.

  “You want to change that statement?”

  Ugh. “I have no idea who that is.”

  “Really?” Griffin’s tone was dry and sarcastic. “That guy isn’t related to you? That guy with the same black hair and kind of purplish eyes isn’t related to you?”

  Hmmm. There was no way he could see Braden’s eyes from where he was standing. He was guessing. It was a good guess, but it was still a guess. What to do? What to do?

  Braden was descending the steps, his arms swinging lazily but his gaze worried. “Is that guy bothering you? Dude, get away from my sister or I’ll beat you to within an inch of your life.”

  Griffin met Braden’s challenging glare evenly. “That would be an impressive feat.”

  “There are some hookers around the corner, I saw them when I pulled up,” Braden continued. “My sister isn’t on the menu so find somewhere else to eat.”

  “That is gross.”

  Braden ignored me. Once he was on even footing with Griffin, their broad shoulders equal to each other, his expression shifted from annoyance to curiosity. “Why are you still here?”

  Griffin reached into his pocket, pulled out his badge, flashed it in Braden’s face, and then waited for my brother to put his foot into his mouth. Again.

  I risked a glance at Braden out of the corner of my eye. The badge had obviously shaken him, but he wasn’t going to let Griffin know that. “You’re a cop?”

  “This is Detective Taylor,” I said quickly. “Griffin Taylor.”

  “The guy who rousted you and Aidan yesterday?”

  Rousted? “He questioned us.”

  “And now he’s harassing you on the street?”

  Of all my brothers, Braden is the one who inherited my father’s hair-trigger temper. And hypochondria, but that’s a whole other story. Okay, if I’m telling the truth, we all inherited my father’s hair-trigger temper. It’s a curse.

  “We were just talking,” I said, putting my hand on Braden’s forearm to still him. I had no idea whether he would actually throw down with a cop, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

  Griffin was watching us carefully. “And which one of your brothers is this? You said you were with your oldest brother, so that would make you Redmond, right?”

  “Have you been studying our family tree or something?” That was kind of creepy.

  “I ran you and your brother through the system yesterday,” Griffin replied, his tone clipped. “Your family tree is part of public record.”

  It’s still creepy.

  “Well,” Braden said, grabbing my wrist and tugging me in the direction of the parking lot. “We should be going. We’re going to be late for dinner.”

  Griffin held up his hand to stop us. “Wait a second.”

  “We’re going to be late,” Braden repeated.

  “I’m sure you have a minute to answer a few questions.”

  “Not really.”

  “Why don’t you at least try.”

  “No thanks.”

  This wasn’t going well.

  “What were you doing here?” Griffin asked again.

  “What were we doing where?” Braden lies as poorly as I do.

  “Here. At Brian Harper’s apartment complex.” Griffin’s tone was cold.

  “Who is Brian Harper?”

  “He’s the man your sister and brother discovered stabbed to death in an alley yesterday.”

  “Oh, I forgot about that,” Braden replied. “It must just be a coincidence.”

  “Then what were you doing here?” Griffin pressed.

  I sent Braden a silent message. Reapers aren’t telepathic, but I always fantasized about being able to talk to my brothers without words, especially when I was pouting in my bedroom as a teenager.

  “I heard there was an apartment open in this building and I wanted to see if it was something I was interested in.”

  Yeah, that wasn’t the message I had been sending.

  “Don’t you live in a castle?”

  “A castle?” Braden furrowed his brow.

  “With turrets.”

  “You’ve been talking to Jerry,” Braden said. “He’s the one obsessed with turrets.”

  “Detective Taylor dropped by the condo this morning and Jerry regaled him with stories of our youth,” I explained.

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  “Because he’s Jerry.”

  “It’s a good thing he can bake,” Braden agreed, his face taut.

  “So, you’re thinking of leaving the castle?” Griffin asked.

  “I’m twenty-seven,” Braden explained. “I think it’s about time I move out on my own. I’m really looking forward to it.”

  I snorted.

  “What?”

  “You can’t even do your own laundry.”

  “So that wasn’t your bag of laundry I saw in the back of your car yesterday? I know Laverne still does your laundry.”

  Dammit. He’s not wrong. Laverne, the head maid at Grimlock Manor, presses my jeans, though, and they always have such a nice crease. I’m not lazy. Okay, I’m a little lazy.

  Griffin had just about had it. “Do you two want to tell me what you’re really doing here?”

  “We already told you.”

  “So, your story is he’s looking for an apartment and you like architecture?”

  “What? That’s a thing.”

  Braden’s eyes rolled so high I thought they were going to get lost in his hairline.

  “What are you two still doing here? I told you to have her ride with you and I would meet you back at the house? We’re risking the cops showing up.”

  Oh, good, here comes Redmond.

  Braden and I stiffly split apart so Redmond, who was jogging down the steps, could see we weren’t alone. He slowed his pace when he caught sight of Griffin.

  “Who is this?”

  “Detective Taylor.”

  “Oh, good. The day wouldn’t be complete without a visit from the cops.”

  Griffin’s eerie smile was going to haunt my dreams tonight.

  Thirteen

  “So he let you all go?”

  Jerry was standing in the middle of our living room trying to pick out a shirt – shiny purple vs. shiny blue -- for the bar this evening. I wasn’t really a fan of either. When I told him I wasn’t interested in going out, and then explained why, he was flabbergasted. I didn’t blame him.

  “He didn’t have much of a choice,” I said. “He couldn’t prove we had been in the apartment; my brothers are good at being covert. There was no sign of forced entry, and Braden and Redmond stuck to their stories.”

  “And you stuck to being an architecture buff?”

  “I didn’t have much of a choice.”

  Jerry laughed. “I don’t think he believed you. He doesn’t seem especially stupid.”

  “Of course he didn’t believe us. Who would? That doesn’t mean he’s some sort of rocket scientist.”

  Jerry narrowed his eyes. “So, now he knows you guys are up to something. Do you think he believes you killed that guy?”

  That was a good question. “I don’t know. I think, if he thought I was a murderer, he would be a little less flirty.”

  “He’s flirting with you? That’s promising.”

  “Kind of. Sometimes. I’m not sure.”

  Jerry smirked. “He likes you.”

  He does not. “How do you know?”

  “I can tell.”

  “You always say that. You’re not psychic, no matter what you think.”

  “Let’s not get snippy, Bug,” Jerry chided me. “No one likes a snippy bitch.”

  “You do.”

  “I’m a uniq
ue man.”

  “So you’ve told me.”

  Jerry moved over and took a seat next to me on the couch, making sure not to wrinkle one of his satiny sartorial options, and patted me on the knee. “I know things have been rough for you the past few months.”

  “Do you mean losing my job? Or do you mean my roommate giving me an ultimatum so that I had to join the family business? Or, could you possibly be referring to the dead body I tripped over yesterday?”

  Jerry’s mask of concern didn’t falter. “I’m talking about your ‘poor me’ attitude.”

  “I don’t have a ‘poor me’ attitude,” I griped.

  “You could have fooled me.”

  I cracked my neck to tamp down my irritation. “Don’t you have a bar date to gussy yourself up for?”

  “It’s not a date,” Jerry corrected. “It’s just a handful of us meeting at the new drag bar on Trumbull.”

  “You’re going to a drag bar?” That seemed counterproductive.

  “Yes. Why do you have that tone?”

  “Well, you’re gay,” I started.

  “Thanks for the news update.”

  I ignored him. “Which means you don’t like women.”

  “Huh, I would have never figured that out on my own.”

  “So why would you go to a bar where men are dressing up like women to pick up a guy?” I was genuinely curious.

  “Drag is not about picking up men,” Jerry explained. “It’s about exploring a lifestyle – complete with fruity drinks with little umbrellas in them and music that makes me want to shake my ass.”

  “Didn’t you do that in college?”

  Jerry squeezed my knee a little harder than necessary. “Get dressed, Bug.”

  “I am dressed.”

  Jerry’s gaze wandered from my plain tee to my frayed jeans and shook his head emphatically. “You are not going out in that.”

  “I was out in this all day.”

  “You are not going out with me in that,” Jerry clarified.

  “That’s good, because I’m not going out.”

  “Yes you are,” Jerry said, getting to his feet and wandering toward his bedroom.

  “No, I’m not,” I grumbled under my breath once he disappeared from view.

  Jerry stuck his head back out of his open bedroom door. “Yes you are.”

  “THIS WAS a terrible idea.”

  My outfit might have changed, but my attitude hadn’t. After twenty minutes of waiting in line with six-foot-tall hairless men – some of them trying to drape feather boas around my neck – my attitude was probably worse.

  Jerry kept a firm grip on my arm – I think he was afraid I was going to bolt – and led me toward a group of men sitting at a rectangular table near the far wall of Mount Vesuvius. No, I’m not making up the name.

  “I don’t know anyone here,” I hissed.

  “You know Aidan.”

  “Aidan isn’t here.”

  “Sure he is,” Jerry said. “He’s the one dressed up in the paisley shirt.”

  I narrowed my eyes and followed Jerry’s finger to the end of the point and frowned. “That shirt is offensive.”

  “Paisley is in again. Read a magazine, Bug.”

  I let Jerry lead me to the table, sliding into the open seat next to Aidan and fixing him with a hard glare. “I can’t believe you’re here. That sound you hear is Dad’s head imploding.”

  Aidan ran a hand through his hair, smiling down at my purple peasant blouse and skin-tight black pants. “I take it Jerry dressed you. I didn’t even know you owned a shirt that girly.”

  “I wish I could say the same thing about you.”

  Aidan shifted his head back and forth in a mocking manner. “Who peed in your cornflakes?”

  “Detective Griffin Taylor,” Jerry said, signaling a waiter for two drinks. I had no idea what he ordered, but I was crabby enough that any alcohol would do at this point.

  Aidan’s face clouded over. “What does he want?”

  “He stopped by this morning,” Jerry said. “He’s really cute.”

  “That’s what I thought at first, too,” Aidan said. “Then he grilled me for four hours and that dirty, sexy thing he has going on started to fade pretty quickly. Why did he stop by?”

  “To ask Aisling a few more questions about the body you two discovered.”

  A few heads at the table turned in our direction at the mention of the word “body.” Great. We were drawing attention to ourselves – and not good attention.

  “Why didn’t he want to ask me more questions?” Aidan asked. “I was there, too.”

  “She has better legs,” Jerry replied.

  “He couldn’t even see her legs,” Aidan said.

  “I don’t think you have the right parts,” Jerry tried again.

  “We’re twins, we have the same … oh, I get it. He’s warm for her form.” Aidan pinched my side in a teasing manner.

  “The 1980s called: They want their saying back.”

  Aidan smacked me on the back of the head lightly. “Cheer up. Detective McHottie likes you. Maybe he can end your dry spell.”

  I glared at Jerry, but he was suddenly focusing on something on the other side of the room. “Speaking of the 1980s … .”

  “What?” I craned my neck, hoping to get a glimpse of someone dressed up as David Bowie. What I found, though, made my dark mood go completely black. “What is she doing here?”

  My tone tipped Aidan into curiosity, so he followed our gazes. His reaction was much more demur. “That bitch. I can’t believe someone hasn’t run her over with a car yet.”

  The guy on the other side of Aidan was intrigued by our hate. “Who is that?”

  “Angelina Davenport,” Aidan replied through gritted teeth.

  “She’s pretty, although, her hair is a little big.”

  “She’s the devil,” I replied.

  “You’re just saying that because she kept trying to sleep with your boyfriends in high school,” Jerry said.

  “Tried? She slept with three of them.”

  “Three?” Aidan looked interested. “I thought she only slept with Mark and Mike.”

  “She slept with Keith, too,” Jerry said.

  “Oh, I forgot about Keith,” Aidan mused. “I always liked Keith. He was like a big teddy bear.”

  “That’s because he was a closeted homosexual,” I replied.

  “That was probably it,” Aidan agreed.

  “She sounds like a real slut,” the guy said. “I wonder what she’s doing here.”

  “Well, she probably used her powers of evil and realized I was having a bad day and decided to make it worse,” I said.

  I kept my gaze focused on Angelina. She was in the middle of a group of guys and she was regaling them with a story that had them all chortling. For a second, I couldn’t help but hope she would drown in the collective puddles of baby oil that were surely pooling at her feet.

  She was tall and willowy – although there was still a possibility she would get fat and dumpy like her mother (I kept hoping) – and her long brown hair was far too puffy to get there without a gallon of hairspray and some hick beauty pageant inspiration.

  “I hear she’s selling real estate these days,” Aidan said.

  “In her vagina?”

  “Meow.” I jumped at the chorus of voices that let loose with the simultaneous catcall. Apparently all other conversation had ceased in our corner of the bar.

  “Oh, don’t look,” Jerry said. “She’s seen us. Everyone act like we’re talking about something important. Just laugh at whatever I say.”

  I refused to take my eyes off Angelina as she strutted across the room in our direction. I had never backed down where she was concerned. I certainly had no intention of doing so now.

  Angelina stopped her forward momentum about a foot from us, striking a pose straight out of America’s Next Top Model, and fixed me with a fake smile. “Aisling Grimlock. It’s so good to see you.”

  “And th
en I told him he had no idea what he was talking about because stripes can never be worn if they’re horizontal,” Jerry said.

  Everyone at the table broke out in spontaneous applause.

  Angelina wrinkled her nose. “I see you’re still hanging around with Merry Jerry.”

  I frowned. Jerry hated that nickname.

  “I see you’re still hanging out with yourself – since you’re the only person that can stand you,” I shot back.

  What? Fake pleasantries are a waste of time.

  Angelina pursed her unnaturally plump limps. Someone is overdoing it on the fillers.

  “And how is your brother?”

  I stiffened. Angelina had dated Cillian for a year when she was twenty and he was twenty-three. He had finally wised up and dumped her – he found her in bed with some guy from an accounting firm – but not before I had to sit through a multitude of uncomfortable family dinners.

  “I’m fine, thanks for asking,” Aidan replied, his eyes dark.

  “I wasn’t talking about you,” Angelina said. “I was talking about Cillian.”

  “He’s fine,” I said. “His taste in women has vastly improved over the past five years. He hasn’t brought a wildebeest home in years.”

  Angelina was trying to keep her anger in check, so she ran her tongue over the front of her teeth as a calming mechanism. “I see you haven’t changed any since high school.”

  “Nope. I still hate you.”

  Angelina ignored my pointed dig. “What are you doing these days? I heard you dropped out of community college and were working as a secretary.”

  “I gave that up,” I replied. “Now I’m working as a prostitute. It seemed to be working for you.”

  Angelina tapped the toe of her shoe on the floor irritably. “Do you think that’s funny?”

  “Did it bug you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it’s funny.”

  Everyone at my table started to laugh, which only served as further kindling to the fire burning in Angelina’s cheeks. “You’re still a bitch.”

  “I like to go with my strengths,” I agreed. “I think that’s why you’re still a slut.”

  Angelina’s drink was all over my face before I even had a chance to register what was happening. Jerry squealed when part of it caught him on the shoulder. “Hey! This shirt is dry clean only.”

  “Well it should be garbage only,” Angelina shot back. “You’re gay; you’re supposed to know how to dress.”