He supposed he was here for the same reason that he packed clubbing clothes in with his staid suits, shirts, and ties every time he traveled. He was here because he believed that sooner or later, he’d meet someone who would finally make him forget Adam. Except it was raining and tonight’s shoot was canceled, which meant Adam would be here soon—if he wasn’t already inside.
So was Jules here because of that, or despite it?
Should he go inside or walk on by?
The bass drum beat a steady pulse, both audible and palpable from where he stood, even though the door to the club was tightly shut.
A cab pulled up, and Robin Chadwick emerged, his golden hair gleaming. He hurried right past Jules and into the club. As the door opened, music escaped: Tony Orlando and Dawn, “Knock Three Times,” remixed to a steady dance beat. It was oldies night—just his freaking luck.
Hello, God, was that a message from You? Was it a sign—both Robin breezing past and the Tony Orlando thing, Mother help him—telling him to go back to the hotel and watch the latest Hugh Jackman movie on Pay-Per-View? He wouldn’t have to worry about bothering Max—his boss had gone back to D.C. on the red-eye.
Jules now moved out of earshot of the crowd of men who were smoking, huddled under an awning to stay out of the rain. He took out his cell phone and speed-dialed number one. Alyssa Locke’s cell phone. As he expected, he was beeped over, almost immediately, to his best friend’s voice mail. She and her husband, Sam, were still off saving the world.
“Hey, sweetie, it’s me,” he said into his phone. “I’m in West Hollywood, standing in the rain—which is freakish, because how often does it rain here?”
The door opened again, and “Love Will Keep Us Together” leaked out, as if God were saying “Run! Run! Run for your life!”
“If that’s not pathetic enough,” Jules continued with his voice mail message, “I’m outside of Large Richard’s—yes, Grande Ricco’s, Giagantimo Ricardo’s, Biggus Dickus, aka the scene of the crime—about to go on a date with a man who’s so deep in the closet he didn’t recognize me in my club clothes, and yes, that’s right, children—hello, Sam, I know you’re listening, too—I actually used the terrible, horrible D-word. I actually said yes to a date during a moment of severe blue-eyed-hottie-induced fever, only now that I’m here I want to go home because you know how you never really liked Adam and you thought he was bad for me? Well, hip-hip-hooray, this guy’s even worse, and I know it, and yet I’m here, and that’s so fucked up.”
As Jules took a breath, the door opened again—Hear with your heart and you won’t hear a sound. . . . Just stop, ‘cause I really love you, stop . . .
“What’s even more fucked up is that I’ve seen Adam again. He’s making all these let’s get back together noises, and, God help me, I’m actually considering it. Which means I probably shouldn’t be calling you, I should be calling some certified therapist, although I know what he’d say, he’d say, Hmmmm, which’ll do me a fuckload of a lot of good, because what I really need is to be told to go back to my malodorous hotel room before I do something stupid. More stupid.
“Lately my stupidity index has been pinned at one hundred percent. I keep waiting for myself to put in for a transfer to the L.A. office because, what the hell, you know? Living with someone I know will hurt me versus living with no one at all? At times of sheer stupidity like this, it seems like a tough call.
“Anyway, this is probably costing you, like, four million quatloos, just to play this message back, and, God, I wish you were here. Be aggressive out there, keep each other safe, and thank you for letting me bitch and moan. I’m really okay. I’m not going anywhere. I just needed to whine. I’ll talk to you before I do anything rash. More rash. Shit. Call me if you get a chance, will you?”
Jules snapped his phone shut, turned around, and nearly bumped into Adam, who was standing just behind him, in the rain. He’d been listening, but for how long, God only knew.
Actually, God and Adam both knew.
And Jules had a small clue from the fact that, despite his lack of umbrella, Adam wasn’t very wet yet.
Adam gave him another. “You’re actually considering moving to L.A. to live with Robin Chadwick?” He’d obviously not heard his own name mentioned, and thought . . .
Jules had always found it strange that Adam could be so jealous, considering his inability to be faithful.
He didn’t say anything in response to that ludicrous question. The fact that Adam could imagine Jules spending the night with him and then, just a few nights later, seriously think about moving in with someone else spoke volumes about how well Adam truly knew Jules—as in not at all.
All those years of everything from casual friendship, to tentative courtship, to serious relationship . . . Obviously Adam hadn’t been paying attention.
“He’s late,” he pointed out. Meaning Robin.
“He’s already inside,” Jules said.
“He’s a lush, you know,” Adam said, as if that were some kind of breaking news story.
“He’s struggling with some issues, and drinking too much, so yes,” Jules countered, “I do know.”
“This thing with you? He’s experimenting.”
“Yeah, well, so am I.” Just showing up tonight was one big-ass major experiment. Jules started for the door to the club, since the alternative was flagging down a cab. If he did, Adam would try to jump into it with him.
Try? Who was he kidding? Adam wouldn’t just try, he’d succeed. And then where would they be?
Adam grabbed his arm. “Let’s not go inside,” he said. “Let’s go someplace else. I know this great restaurant around the corner—”
“I told Robin—”
“Fuck him.” Adam winced. “Poor word choice. Look, I just want to talk to you, J. It’s noisy in Big’s. If we go to Diablo’s, we can—”
“Talk about what?” Jules asked.
Adam wasn’t listening. “. . . have some sangria. And I’ve heard the guacamole is—”
“I don’t want guacamole,” Jules said.
“Oh, but this stuff is great. Everyone who’s anyone goes there and—”
“What do you want to talk about, Adam?” Jules interrupted. “You have exactly three seconds to give me an overview, or I’m outta here.”
“Jeez, J., relax, will you?”
“One.”
Adam laughed. “You’re counting?”
“Two.”
“Jesus. I guess I thought I’d start by—I don’t know—by listing all the reasons we should get back together.”
Jules laughed, but his heart was in his throat. God, was he really such a wuss that he would be moved so much by such a small acknowledgment of affection? “You . . . actually have a whole list?”
As always, Adam knew when he’d hit emotional pay dirt. He took a step closer, gave Jules that smile that he couldn’t resist. “Number one is because . . . you still love me.”
Yeah, right. Now his heart was in his throat for an entirely different reason. Disappointment. What a typical Adam thing to say. You still love me was number one. Not I still love you. Son of a bitch.
Adam didn’t realize that he’d already leapt on top of the loser button with both feet. “Number two: You know me better than anyone on this planet, and despite that you still manage to like me.”
“I sense a certain theme,” Jules said, pulling his arm free. “Let’s count the ways Jules loves Adam. Thanks, but no thanks. I’ve got better things to do. Robin’s waiting for me.”
“Robin’s at the bar, chatting up the bartender, who is twenty-three years old, gorgeous, and female,” Adam said. “Big tits—just his type. You know, I spoke to some of the crew on set. He goes out clubbing in West Hollywood under pretense of research, drinks until he’s half-blind, and then fucks whoever’s available—providing they’re female. I don’t know what game he was playing this afternoon, but—”
“That’s so sweet of you to want to protect me from people who go out clubbing
, drink themselves half-blind, and fuck whoever’s . . . oh, wait,” Jules said. “I suddenly realize why that sounds so familiar.”
Adam actually managed to look embarrassed. As he should have been. “I’ve changed.”
“So you’ve said,” Jules told him. “Far too often for me to take you seriously. You’ll forgive me if I don’t open a bottle of champagne to celebrate this particular accounting.”
“So what am I supposed to do?” Adam asked. The rain on his face made him look as if he were crying, but Jules knew better.
“Talk is cheap. You want me to believe you? You’re going to have to prove it.”
Jules opened the door, but before he stepped inside and was swallowed up by a club mix of “Gypsies, Tramps & Thieves” at five million decibels, he heard Adam say plaintively, “How the fuck do I do that?”
Robin was at the bar, watching the door, groovin’ to Cher, when he saw Adam come in. Typical. The sleazebag was chasing after that hot-looking shorter guy who was dressed all in black, who’d been out front under an umbrella, and—
Holy crap, the hot guy was Jules.
He’d spotted Robin, and he was heading for him, weaving his way through the crowd with Adam—of course—in hot pursuit.
Jules was wearing his hair differently. It was styled and funky, and very non–federal agent.
Between the two of them, both remarkably handsome men, they were drawing a lot of attention from Big’s regulars. Except Jules didn’t notice it. He wasn’t looking at anyone but Robin.
Adam, however, liked having all those eyes on him. He slowed down, made eye contact around the room, put a little extra swagger into his strut.
But then, probably because Robin was grinning at how different he looked, Jules smiled and Adam disappeared. Poof. Just instantly gone, like a star in the sky when the sun came up.
“I walked right past you outside,” Robin shouted when Jules got close enough to hear him over the music. He handed him the chocolate martini he’d ordered when he first came in. “I didn’t recognize you. Where’s your tie, FBI?”
Jules winced then leaned close to say into Robin’s ear, “Not too loud with that in here, please.”
As always, he smelled incredibly good.
“Sorry.” Robin motioned for Jules to come closer again and said into his ear, “Is that a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ thing, or . . . ?”
“It’s a testosterone thing,” Jules told him. He took a sip of the drink. “Yikes. That’s got some kick. Thanks, I think. See, there’s always someone who wants to pick a fight with the federal agent.”
“Are you sure they just don’t want you to cuff ’em and slap ’em around a little bit before tucking them into bed?”
Jules laughed. “I never thought of that. God, I hope not.”
Adam was several feet down the bar, trying to get himself a drink. He glanced over frequently, clearly annoyed that they were having this private conversation, standing so close together, mouth to ear and ear to mouth.
So Robin kept it going. “You know, it’s not too late. We’ve only filmed a few of the scenes with young Jack—they’d be easy enough to reshoot. Just say the word, and we’ll give Scowlface over there his walking papers.”
Jules was not amused. He put his already empty glass down on the bar. Hey now, he’d finished that rather fast. Much stress in his life? “If you’re going to start this again . . .”
“I won’t,” Robin said. “Relax.” He pushed both of their glasses toward the bartender, signaling for a refill, then leaned toward Jules again. “You know what my problem is?”
“Yes, I do, sweetie, but you won’t want to hear it.”
Robin waved the comment off. They were talking about Adam here. “I hate his fucking guts.” He looked up, and sure enough, the little bastard was watching them, so . . .
Jules cracked up. “Excuse me, I don’t think I know you well enough for you to lick my ear.”
“Sorry.” Robin grinned back at him. “Adam’s so easy to torment, and I’ve got a little swerve on,” he shouted over the music.
“A little’s putting it mildly,” Jules agreed. Meanwhile Adam was getting more and more pissed off. Now it was because they’d gotten a refill from the bartender, and he hadn’t even managed to place his order. Robin handed Jules his glass, made a show out of toasting, while Adam steamed.
This was fun.
“I had a few with dinner—I had to take the edge off,” Robin said. Well, okay. The edge plus a fairly large portion of the center. “Today was a total suckfest.” He caught himself. “Although, I guess in a gay bar, that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”
Jules was laughing again, which was nice. “I shouldn’t have another,” he said, taking only a tiny sip of his drink. “These days I’ve been sticking to wine, so my resistance is down and—”
Robin caught his finger in the belt loop of those black pants, pulling Jules even closer, which—score!—annoyed the shit out of Adam.
“If I asked you to dance,” Robin said loudly enough for Adam to hear, especially since the prick had come closer, “would your evil twin have to come onto the dance floor, too?”
Jules glanced at Adam, looked down at Robin’s finger still hooked around his belt loop, then up into Robin’s eyes. “This is probably a good time for me to tell you that Adam knows,” he shouted over the music. “You know, that this is just an act. That you’re not . . . we’re not . . .”
Robin toasted him, clinking their glasses together again. “Yeah, well, hey, there’s a first time for everything, right?”
It was supposed to be a joke—he’d meant it as a joke, with the double bonus of making Adam crazy—but this time Jules didn’t laugh. He didn’t pull away, but he did put his drink down on the bar as he sighed.
He gazed out onto the packed dance floor for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck as if he were tired. And when he looked back at Robin, his eyes were serious. “Just so there’s not any miscommunication here, you need to know—I don’t mess around with guys who get drunk so they have an excuse all ready for the morning after.”
Adam, drink in hand, had stepped closer. “I do,” he said.
It may have been another joke gone bad, or it may have been a real attempt to wound—a reaction to his hand, which was still holding on to that belt loop. Robin wasn’t sure.
Either way, it was a direct hit. Jules closed his eyes briefly. “Yes, I know, Adam,” he said. When he opened them, he forced a smile at Robin, but it didn’t manage to hide his hurt. “And now Robin knows, too.”
“Why do you say shit like that?” Robin asked Adam. “All you’re doing is proving that you don’t deserve him.”
“Deserve him?” Adam laughed. “Like he’s some big prize? Let me warn you, friend, he’s possessive as hell—”
“Yeah.” Jules had obviously reached his limit. “I tend to get a little riled up when we go on vacation and you have sex with some stranger in the back room of a dance club, exactly like, oh, say, this one.”
Oh crap. Robin winced. So that was why Jules hadn’t been keen on coming to this particular club.
“And gee, A.,” Jules continued, leaning hard on the nickname, “who was it who paid for the airline tickets to Los Angeles, the hotel, and every meal we ever ate?”
“Gee, I guess that would be you, J., and you didn’t let me forget it for a single second, did you?”
“So let me get this straight,” Robin interrupted. He looked at Adam with disbelief. “You think Jules is possessive because he was upset when he found out you had sex with someone else?”
“So I got a little carried away,” Adam said. He mocked Robin. “I guess I had too much of a swerve on. ‘Sides, it was just sex.” He nudged Robin with his elbow. “You know how that is, don’t you, bro?”
“Well, on that lovely note,” Jules said. “I think it’s probably time to call it a night. I’m—”
“Touch me again, douche bag,” Robin said with his best Russell Crowe scowl, “and y
ou’ll be sorry.”
“You mean like this?” Adam shoved him hard, and Robin’s drink sloshed down Jules’ T-shirt.
“Shit!”
Despite the dousing, Jules managed to catch Robin before he went off the barstool. And he grabbed his arm, too, keeping him from swinging at Adam.
“Don’t do this!” he warned Robin, then turned to the other man. “You want to fuck up your movie career? You want to spend the night in jail, in the drunk tank with the worst of the homophobic psychos from the entire L.A. area? Keep it up—you’re right on track. In fact, you might as well call Jane right now and tell her to replace you, because after the beating you’ll have no teeth and be blind in one eye. But hey, it’s okay. The dogs you take care of won’t mind the scars.”
Troubleshooters 09 Hot Target Page 29