by Andrea Speed
“I owe you a lamp,” Scott said. He found his shirt near the front door, and examined it for tears.
“No, it was just a thrift store special. No big deal.” He carefully picked up the largest pieces and took them into the kitchen to throw them away, while Scott put his shirt on. It looked mostly okay, although there was a small tear under one sleeve.
“How much of this can I blame on the absinthe, you think?”
“How much do you want to blame on it?”
Scott considered that as he stepped into his jeans. Now those were intact, but it looked like he was missing a button from his fly. When Holden was finished trashing the glass, he found Scott looking at him and smiling. “None. I had an awesome time. We should do it again.”
“Not here. I don’t bring guys here.”
“Why not?”
Should he tell him? Would he even understand it if he did? “This is my place, my sanctuary. It’s the only thing that’s mine alone, if that makes sense.”
He nodded, like he could understand. “Okay. You name the place, I’m game.”
Holden stared at him skeptically, keeping the kitchen counter between them. He was afraid Scott was reading more into this than there was. “You understand this is just business, right? At the very best, we’re fuck buddies. Is that clear? Otherwise you don’t know me, and you shouldn’t know me.”
“Why not?”
“What Diego said about me being a hooker vigilante wasn’t exactly an exaggeration, although I’m sure he doesn’t know that.”
Scott eyed him skeptically before smirking, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “So Roan’s not the only superhero around here, huh?”
“Hardly. I’m not a superhero, I have no powers, I’m just a borderline sociopath.”
Scott scoffed. “For a guy who’s so sure of himself, you have some odd moments of low self-esteem.”
“It’s realism, not self-hatred,” he said, but then wondered if that was true. He didn’t even know anymore.
No wonder he liked Roan—they had exactly the same problem.
36
Riding the Grape Dragon
HOLDEN could still taste peppermint gum on his lips when there was a knock at the door, and he almost didn’t answer it.
Scott had done two things before he left. First, he wrote his private cell number on a Post-it note and stuck it to Holden’s fridge, weighing it down with one of his dick-shaped magnets (this was a running joke, with many of his friends buying him either dick-shaped or naked-man magnets for his birthday or Christmas, cheapo gifts that were meant as either campy or lascivious, depending on who gave it to him), all while chewing a piece of gum like cud. Holden already knew that trick, which was simple enough—if you didn’t have time to brush your teeth, you just chewed some gum (ideally one of those kind that said they whitened your teeth) and were able to put it off until later. Dentists probably wouldn’t approve, but you had to do what you could. The fact that Scott knew this told him something about him, mainly that he’d spent enough nights out on the town he shouldn’t have had such a nice body; he should have had a gut and the muscle tone of bread dough, but obviously his metabolism and severe training regime made up for his hard partying.
Secondly, on his way out the door, Scott had taken out his gum and suddenly kissed him, a deep, long kiss that left Holden gasping for breath. Scott then gave him that sexy smile again, popping the gum back in his mouth (cool peppermint, actually very tasty), and said, “Call me some time. Let’s get into trouble.”
What an exit line. How many one-nighters had he had? Scott was a player in more than one sense of the word. Holden thought he was slick, but holy hell, that kid had balls. When you looked as good as he did, though, you could.
Holden could imagine calling him back. He could also imagine going on some Thelma and Louise-ish tragic crime spree with him as well. Might be fun. And that’s exactly why he thought he should never call or see Scott again. The only kind of person he wanted to see on a semiregular basis was a client, or Roan. He didn’t need further complications in his life.
So when the knock came, he decided to ignore it, fearing it was Scott. Maybe he had some flimsy excuse, such as a forgotten cell phone, but Holden could drop it off at his place if it was here, give it to Grey, who wouldn’t ask questions and wouldn’t really care. He didn’t get Grey, he was sure no one did (perhaps Grey himself included), but he liked him. He was so secure in his masculinity and his overwhelming ability to beat the shit out of anyone who got in his way that absolutely nothing bothered him. Call Grey gay, call him a horse fucker, call him the world’s biggest dickwad, and he’d just give you the smuggest smile in the world. One that said, “Keep it up, ’cause whenever I want to, I can decapitate you with a flick of my finger.” And of course he could; there was no doubt at all that he could make that happen. The only opponent he could face that would give him any challenge at all would be Roan, which was probably why Grey liked him. If a guy was stronger than you, make him your friend, therefore you will never get your ass handed back to you in a FedEx box full of Styrofoam peanuts. It was a great strategy, one that Holden himself employed to a certain degree. It wasn’t limited to the ass-kicking field, though. Everybody could be useful, it just depended on the circumstances.
But there was a second knock, and this time the door seemed to jump in its frame, the hinges rattling. Not Scott; this time, he had the Hulk on his doorstep.
Holden opened the door, and any smartass comment he was preparing was paused inside his brain. “Holy shit, are you okay?”
Roan looked like hell. Wild eyed and slightly feverish, his dark red hair was sticking in tiny, vein-like strands to his forehead, and he had chewed his lower lip until it was bleeding, a crimson bead just welling in the corner of his mouth. “No, I don’t think so, that’s why this is important and you have to help me.”
Holden nodded and opened the door wide, inviting him in. Roan didn’t ask for too many favors, so this must be serious. Then he remembered the tumors thing, and internally cringed. He couldn’t imagine Roan dying; he’d lived with the virus for so long, it seemed impossible. And he was the Hulk, right? He could go lion all over someone’s ass whenever he wanted to. It was just that sometimes Holden forgot the thing that made Roan so powerful was also the thing that was killing him, one heartbeat at a time.
Roan stopped just inside his apartment, and looked around warily. “Were you in a fight with Scott?”
Oh shit. How could he ever forget that Roan’s sense of smell was deeply creepy? “No. If I said he helped me move some furniture, you’d know I was lying, wouldn’t you?”
Roan stared at him, wide eyed, the black rim around his emerald irises absurdly visible. “Scott’s a client? Holy shit, since when do you bring clients here?”
So Roan knew that about him as well? Of course he did. Holden hadn’t just liked Roan because he was nicer than most cops, he’d liked him because he was also smart. Nice cops you could dig up, but genuinely smart ones were harder to find. “You know I don’t talk about my business, okay? So why do you even ask?”
“Hey, I’m not the one who tells me about Doug, the pilot who likes being tied up and beaten.”
“Touché. But you don’t know his real name. I’m afraid you know Scott. Sit down. Can I get you some water or something?” Holden wasn’t just changing the subject—although he was doing that too. Roan just looked like he was on the ragged edge of mania.
“I’d kill for a beer.”
“You’ll have to go out and do it then, ’cause I ain’t got beer. I have gin and some airline-sized bottles of vodka… you on downers? I’m not giving you any hard stuff if you’re on pain pills.”
Roan sank down onto his couch with an explosive sigh, doing a double take over the fallen chair. “Airline-sized… is this Doug again?”
“Well, I’m not going to Sea-Tac and raiding the drink carts, so it must be.” Looking in the fridge, Holden found a Diet Pepsi, and said, “Head’s up,” be
fore lobbing the can at him. Roan never really looked up, but he caught it anyways. “Damn, I thought your smelling thing was the creepiest thing about you.”
Roan shrugged. “My reflexes have a mind of their own nowadays.” He cracked open the can and seemed to drink about a third of it in two swallows. Once he stopped to take a breath, Roan reached in his coat pocket and said, “I have something for you.”
“Should I start the porn music now, or do you want it to be a surprise?”
“Cute.”
Holden went over to see what Roan was holding out toward him. It was a little black flash drive with a clear plastic cap. He took it and asked, “Little black book?”
Roan gave him a sarcastic grimace. “It’s everything I have on the Adam Jephson case, which I’m supposed to be working on now. I’m handing it off to you. As lead investigator, you will be paid accordingly.”
Holden righted the fallen coffee table, and knew this was bad. Since when did Roan hand over an entire case to him? “Can I ask why you’re giving it to me?”
“I’m gonna get the cat killer, and then I’m checking myself into the hospital. I don’t know if I’m comin’ out again, so I thought you could finish this up for me. Although I warn you, everybody has been lying to me. I’m beginning to think the Jephson family is a real nest of vipers.”
“Oh good, it’ll be just like coming home for me.” He pushed the fallen armchair back upright, then sat down, still holding the flash drive in his palm like a folded fifty. “Why do you think you’re not coming out again? Do you really think you’re getting off that easy?”
The corner of Roan’s mouth quirked up, but just barely and only for a moment. “Every time I go into a hospital, I can’t help but think I’m not coming out again. It’s a habit.”
“And yet, you keep coming out of there. Odds are you’ll be right one of these days, but come on. Try some optimism.”
“Must I?” Roan rubbed his eyes, his posture slumped like he was tired. “I need you to promise me if something does happen to me, you’ll look out for Dylan, make sure no one decides to get him since I’m no longer available.”
Holden really didn’t like Roan talking this way, but it wasn’t just because he was talking like he was going to die, a reality that Holden just refused to try and grasp. “Why me? Why give me any of this?”
Roan gave him the weary look of someone who felt they no longer had the time to bullshit about anything. “Because I know you’ll keep your word, and I know you’re a survivor. If you can’t survive something, it’s a situation no one would have survived. The CIA missed out on a world-class spy with you.”
“I’m flattered, I think. No, actually, you’re scaring the shit out of me. Is your diagnosis that bad?”
“I don’t know what my diagnosis is. I just know something’s wrong with me, and things keep getting more wrong. I’ve put off facing it as long as I can. I think Dyl’s about to have some of his Buddhist friends kidnap me and dump me in an emergency room.”
“Could you blame him if he did?”
Roan didn’t have to think about it long. “I wouldn’t blame him if he shot me.”
At least he was honest. “So how do you propose going about getting the cat killer? We gonna invade Franco’s house or something?”
“Would that produce a lead?”
“Probably not, but it would be fun to scare the shit out of him. He might cough up his fur salesman, or I could find it. But may I suggest a caffeine injection before we start? You look half-dead.”
“I feel three-fourths dead.”
Holden had left his cell on the counter, so he got up to get it. “I’ll call him, see if he’s home. We can pay him a surprise visit.” He didn’t want to, he thought Roan should go to the hospital now, but he didn’t give up on things that easily. Besides, this bastard was killing Roan’s people, and if Holden were in his place, he wouldn’t stop either, not until that fucker was dead.
As he thumbed in Franco’s number, Roan asked, “So how’s Scott’s body?”
“On a scale of one to ten?”
“Sure.”
“Fourteen.”
He made a disgusted noise and crushed his soda can. “Goddamn it, man, you couldn’t have lied and said eight?”
“What are you complaining about, you have a ten at home, don’t you? Besides, would you have believed me if I said he was just an eight?”
“I would have wanted to believe.”
Holden didn’t have to listen for too long before cutting the connection. “My call went to his machine. I don’t know if he’s home and ducking me, or just out.”
“Wanna go find out?”
“Sure.” Holden paused, wondering if he should say what he was thinking. It might not help, it might make things worse. But then again, what could make things worse at this point? “Look, if you need something to wake you up… I’ve got some pills.”
Roan fixed him with a skeptical look. “I seem that bad, huh?”
“Just tired. Really tired.”
Roan ran a hand through his hair, messing it up even more. Ever since he had become able to force a change at will, his hair looked shaggy all the time. Holden hesitated to call it a mane, as that seemed like a stereotype or a slur, but honestly, it looked more mane-like all the time. He wouldn’t say Roan was looking more leonine… but yeah, he kind of was. There was a look in his eyes most of the time that suggested there was something biding its time, waiting on its moment to emerge, and whatever it was, it wasn’t Human. It wasn’t the cold, dead-eyed stare of a Human predator, but the sharp, inhuman look of a true predator, the kind that reminded the Human kind they were just mammals, and had no idea what a real predator was. To a real predator, no matter what kind of badass you thought you were, at best you were food.
“What kind of pills are we talking about, speed?”
“Prescription speed, but yeah. It’s a little harder than caffeine, but not by much.”
“Sure, yeah. But since when do you supply me with pills?”
Holden almost said, “Since you look like death warmed over.” But considering Roan’s tumor diagnosis, he thought it might not be politic to say such a thing. “You just look exhausted. You sleep at all last night?”
“I slept fine. I’m probably just getting old.”
“Aren’t we all?” Holden looked through the cupboard over the stove, where he kept a random assortment of spices, and behind the crushed red pepper was an old-timey film canister, in which he kept prescription pills. He had some in the bathroom, but ones he wouldn’t mind a thief stealing—Viagra, amyl nitrate, work-related medication—while he kept the stuff he didn’t want stolen here in the kitchen, mainly painkillers. This speed functioned well as a painkiller, and didn’t make you sleepy.
Holden dug out a pill and filled a cup full of water before taking them both over to Roan. Was he enabling him? Yeah, but Roan looked so rough he felt anything short of injecting him with heroin would be doing him a favor.
Roan examined the pill before popping it and swallowing it down with a gulp of water. Maybe he wasn’t sick; maybe he just needed a vacation. Holden kind of hoped that was the case.
They left, and after a minor bit of negotiation, they took Roan’s car. Holden wasn’t sure how he felt about having a driver on an unknown number of pills, but Roan pointed out he had better than Human reflexes even when he wasn’t paying attention, and Holden had no argument for that. “Besides,” Roan added, with a hint of sarcasm. “I’m a functioning pill addict.”
He was, actually. But far be it from Holden to tell him.
On their rather uneventful way there, Roan suddenly said, with no preamble, “If something happens to me, you should take over MK Investigations.”
“Pardon?”
“I mean it. Get your investigators license so you’ll be ready for… whenever.”
“Me? Why me?”
“You read people well, you have more contacts than I do… you’re perfect for the job.”
“You don’t have to be. You’re wasting your talent.”
“Are you kidding me? I fuck like a demon.”
“Be that as it may, you’d make a better detective. Just do it aboveboard, okay?”
He really didn’t like the way Roan was talking. It was like he was making plans for when he died, which was in fact what he was doing. What a weird thought—him, a detective. Since when was Holden mainstream? When did he fulfill a society-approved role? How vanilla… although, to be fair, Roan didn’t make it seem so bourgeoisie. “I’m not a superhero, though.”
He snorted derisively. “What kind of superhero am I? Just call me Freak Show.”
“And I’m The Fox. We’re like a bad ’70s crime show.”
Roan smiled, liking this idea, like Holden thought he would. “And we get all the chicks. But since we’re gay, we never close the deal.”
“And we make all the straight boys jealous, wishing they were as cool as we were. Yeah, that sounds about right.”
“We should sell that to Logo.”
Holden chuckled this time. “Only if we package it as a reality show.”
“The cameras will have to follow you around, then. I’m boring when I’m not utterly terrifying.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. You’re more terrifying than anything else.”
“Why does everyone say that?” But Roan was smiling as he said that, so he couldn’t have been that serious. Although Holden was willing to believe it.
Franco lived in a really shitty part of town, near the Heights, but where else could he live? As long as Holden had known him, he had no idea what Franco did for money, except it probably wasn’t legal. The shitty places were where you hid when you wanted to be ignored by cops, at least if you were a small fish. If you were a big fish, you just drew more attention to yourself, and that’s why you got lost in better neighborhoods or the suburbs. The only problem with living in the ’burbs was you had to put up with Kardashian fans and child molesters, and the other kinds of refuse that washed up on those whiter than white shores. Holden had no idea how anyone stood it, but then again, he was the type of sexual deviant socialist pinko commie who was destroying America, so what did he know?