“I wasn’t complaining.” Daniel smirked, then shrugged, reaching for the shampoo. “Though if you’re telling me you’re normally some sweet, submissive bottom, I’m intrigued and would like to know more.”
Thank God for the steam and the heat disguising his blush. Niles looked away, then offered Daniel a smile. “I did have a good time, even if the evening didn’t turn out to be what I think either of us was planning on. Thanks for staying.”
Daniel rinsed the suds out of his hair, then turned and planted his hands on the tile wall at either side of Niles’s shoulders, trapping him against it. He closed in for a kiss, and Niles allowed it, sinking into it, sliding down the slick wall until they were the same height. He let Daniel own the kiss with no hint of the aggression that had driven him the night before, though his interest was becoming quite literally palpable. And Daniel was more than glad to palpate.
“Fuck.” Niles hissed and let his head tip back as Daniel stroked him, catching his bottom lip between his teeth and letting it slide out a little puffier than it had been before.
Daniel sipped a stream of water off his Adam’s apple. “Sure you can’t be late for that meeting?”
“Oh God, don’t tempt me.” It took Niles a moment to gather himself enough to open his eyes and straighten up. “Unfortunately, I need to get a move on. There’s just too much to do before I leave for the Bay Area tonight.”
“Okay.” Daniel backed off, turning off the shower. “Can I give you a call if I’m ever back in Portland? Assuming you get this other stuff worked out, I mean. Maybe we can try this again without the exes and protesters and police.”
“Please do,” Niles said, quelling the urge to blush or apologize again, and slipped back into the bedroom to get ready for the day.
“Can I give you a ride to the train station before I go to work?” he asked when they were both dressed and finishing off the remnants of their toast. His messenger bag sat by the door, and he picked it up and slung it over his shoulder.
“Nah, it’s fine. Drop me off at a coffee shop along the way, and I can take the bus. You’re running late, and I have plenty of time.”
“Okay.” Niles paused, irritated with his own uncertainty and frustration. “I don’t do this much, sorry. I’m a little out of practice, especially with being in such a rush and everything so crazy. If I had more time I’d have cooked you breakfast, but—”
“It’s fine. I’m a big boy. We’re cool.” Daniel stepped up for another kiss. “I’ll email you an advance copy of the article when I have it written, probably next week. Enjoy the Bay Area.”
“Right.” Niles tried to meet Daniel’s eyes and offer him a smile, but he couldn’t. Fuck it all. He turned away. “Thanks, Daniel. For everything.”
After dropping Daniel off at the coffee shop, Niles spent the rest of the drive to Third Wave’s studios gripping his steering wheel in annoyance. He couldn’t even pinpoint what bothered him most: that he’d used Daniel or that he’d been that urgently in need of forgetfulness for a while. He felt guilty and for no reason that made sense.
Without the escapism Daniel provided, Charity and Lakshmi were now fully in the front of Niles’s mind. He turned on the radio, listening for any news of the murders, but it was all weather and financial and world news instead. The previous night’s events were taking on a surreal quality. Had they really been at a convention with two girls who were now dead? The thought didn’t compute. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—imagine those beautiful, smiling young women being the victims of the sort of violence Tim had described. Besides, brushes with things like that were the territory of protagonists in books and movies and games, not guys like him who just wrote the story.
Sighing and desperate to think about something other than the image of them being dead, he hit the button on his car stereo to connect to his phone’s Bluetooth and located the number of the company phone assigned to the writing staff intern.
“Patrick? Hey, it’s Niles. Can you do me a favor on your way in to work? Do you have your car today? I saw your brother picking you up last night— Yeah, okay, great. Listen, that reporter we had at the studios the past couple days needs a ride to the train station . . .”
Jordan quashed a surge of unease beneath his heel as he watched Niles pack his computer and some printouts to take with him to the convention in San Francisco. He wasn’t comfortable with Niles going alone, but there was no need for them both to be there and Jordan had a lot on his plate at the moment with the PR push leading up to the PF3 release and managing the response to the protests this last week.
It was the murders; that was what had him so jumpy. There was no other rational cause for his vague sense something being wrong. Niles hadn’t mentioned any additional physical notes left at his house, and the texts and emails had quieted down as the week drew to a close. Niles had reported the note, and if Jordan wasn’t certain he wanted Timothy Wyatt working his way back into his brother’s life, at least he was fairly confident that Tim would take the situation seriously and deal with it if things got worse.
And yet that gut instinct that his brother was in trouble—“twinscience,” Niles had once called it, like “prescience” or “omniscience”—wouldn’t be quiet. The twin telepathy thing was the kind of mystical crap Jordan scoffed at. At best, it was far more clichéd than he ever wanted to be accused of being, but Niles was a believer, and at moments like these, Jordan could almost buy into it.
Niles’s head snapped up. “Will you quit scowling over there? You’re making me nervous, and damn it all, I’m already enough of a psychological disaster zone today.”
“Feeling that good, huh?” Jordan smirked. “That columnist from LEET must not have been very impressive.”
“No, Daniel was great. It’s just all this other shit.” Niles shrugged, which was as good as a confirmation, since Jordan knew he didn’t kiss and tell.
Niles jabbed in an extension on the speakerphone, which was answered by one of his writing staff. “Avery, where’s the final draft of the slave camp scene dialogue for me to approve? I was supposed to have it this afternoon.”
Jordan leaned against the wall, watching his brother as he tried to pinpoint what was nagging at him. It wasn’t the trip to San Francisco, but everything was off, and pretending it wasn’t there wasn’t going to make it stop bothering him. They needed to stick together now.
“Damn. I’ll have them to you right away,” Avery answered, his voice echoing on the speakerphone. “Idiot interns.”
“Can we not refer to our interns that way?” Niles snapped.
“Patrick was supposed to deliver them to have a final proofing pass done and get them formatted, then email them to you this morning, but he never came in today.”
“Patrick Rutledge?” Niles’s brows drew down, and that thrum of anxious tension in Jordan’s gut amped up another notch. “I knew he was going to be late this morning—I asked him to run an errand for me on his way to the office—but he should have come in after.”
“Like I said, idiot interns.” Jordan watched Niles’s mouth tighten at the dismissive insult. “Anyway, I’ve emailed the file. Sorry it won’t have received the final proofing pass.”
“Okay, thanks. See you Monday.” Niles turned off the speakerphone, still frowning. “Damn. Didn’t think Patrick was the sort of kid to flake out on us like that.”
He dialed a number on his phone—Patrick, presumably—and then frowned even more sharply when he obviously went to voice mail.
“He’s new, right?” Jordan asked.
Niles gave him a stare. “I’d think you’d remember him, considering you had him running your errands at the convention last weekend. I better see if he ever bothered to pick up Daniel like I asked him to. Maybe there was a problem with the car.” Niles grabbed his cell off the desk and dialed, listening with a glower before he left a message. “Hey, Daniel, just wanted to see how your train trip went and make sure you got to the station all right this morning. I had a really good time,
so thanks again. Give me a call, and I’ll look forward to seeing your article.”
He hung up the phone and braced his fists on the desk. “Damn it. Now your mood has caught on, and I’m even tenser. And today was already going so well.”
Jordan grimaced. “Now you’re nervous. Better than moping, I guess. I’ve been pacing the floor all day while you’ve been lost in your head, ignoring me.”
“You pace the floor when you’ve had too much sugar and when you haven’t gotten laid in the last forty-eight hours. And I’m just trying to push the elephant to the corner of the room so I can finish whatever else I need to get done before I go.” Niles rubbed the back of his skull.
Jordan’s eyes narrowed. “You have a headache?”
“Hm?” Niles dropped his hand from his head, staring at it as if surprised that it had been up there. “Um, yeah, I guess. We’ve got voice actors flying in and the studio booked for next week, and the scripts aren’t where they’re supposed to be. I really don’t want to not have our shit together when we’ve got Angela Bassett and Darryl Stephens in the studio to read Issis and Gairi.”
“I don’t think you should go to California.”
“Whoa, non sequitur much?” Niles stopped dithering and blinked at him. “What reason would I give not to go? This convention is important.”
“I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure we should stick together for the time being. You’re still upset about those girls being murdered, whoever took the trouble to hand deliver a harassing letter to you is still out there, and I’m half a second away from channeling classic lines by Han Solo.”
“Careful, you’re on the verge of ranking yourself among us geeks.” Niles made an attempt at a smile, then grimaced and shook his head. His eyes had darted away from Jordan’s, which didn’t help Jordan’s uneasy feeling in the least. Niles slung his messenger bag over his shoulder with a lot more force than necessary. “This is ridiculous. I need to get to PDX. Do me a favor and swing by my house on your way home later? I don’t remember if I set the alarm or not.”
Jordan’s stomach gave another anxious twist, but he nodded. “Yeah, I’ll do that.”
Niles stopped in front of Jordan on his way to the door, opening his mouth as if he was going to say something, then clapping Jordan on the shoulder and leaving without another word.
When Niles was gone, Jordan returned to his office, trying to settle in to contact bloggers and magazines who were interested in the content of Niles’s appearances that weekend at the convention to confirm interview times. He debated going out to a club that night; getting laid would take his mind off matters nicely, but he didn’t really care to be diverted. He wanted to sit and fixate on this nagging feeling until he pinned the problem down and took care of it.
Irritable and edgy, he kept himself busy for hours after Niles had left for the airport, until he finally decided 10 p.m. was plenty late to work on a Thursday night. He slapped his computer closed, stuffed it in its case, and muttered goodnight to the security guard in the front lobby before heading for Niles’s house to check the alarm as he’d promised.
The porch light was off, so he pulled his keys out to let himself in, only to find it was unlocked. Mail was scattered on the floor inside the door from where it had been dropped through the slot, and in the dim light filtering in from the street in the unlit foyer, Jordan’s eyes zeroed in on an envelope right on top of the messy pile that didn’t appear to have a stamp or postal mark. He bent over to gather up the mail, scrutinizing the envelope as he fumbled along the wall for the light switch.
The antique fixture above the door flared on, and in the blind instant when his eyes adjusted, agony erupted in the back of his skull. With his vision awash in a red-and-black swirl of pain, he dropped to his knees, and heard the shushing sounds as the mail scattered across the floor again. Then he pitched forward and heard nothing.
Niles’s messenger bag swung against his hip as he jogged, and each jolting step sent a flash of pain through his skull, where a vicious headache had burst into being just as his plane had been touching down at SFO. When he’d landed back in Portland, he’d had to take a cab to the hospital from the airport, because the pain had been too bad for him to consider driving.
He spotted Rosie at the end of the hospital corridor, leaning forward with her elbows braced on her knees. She was staring down at the gray tile as she rubbed her hands together in an absent, almost mechanical gesture. He’d already been trying to book a flight home, after finding Jordan wasn’t answering his phone, when she had called to tell him what had happened.
She pushed to her feet as Niles approached and hugged him tightly. “How is he?” he panted, closing his eyes against the nausea the headache was causing. The Tylenol he’d bought at the airport gift shop hadn’t touched the damn thing.
“Concussed. They did a CT, and there didn’t seem to be any bleeding in his skull. He regained consciousness on the way to the hospital, but they gave him something for the pain and now he’s out again.”
“What the fuck happened?”
“Someone hit him in the head with a rock.” Her mouth tightened, her eyes grim. “The police think they were after you.”
“What?”
“He was attacked on the front porch of your house.” Niles spun when another voice joined the conversation, to see Tim Wyatt approaching. A glance at Rosie showed she was unsurprised with his appearance, so obviously he’d been there for a while, perhaps had already spoken to her. “Your neighbors were just getting home around midnight from a party, and they noticed your door was open and your lights were on. They saw a shape blocking the door but they couldn’t make it out so the wife decided to see if you were home and found him there. I got a call because I had let dispatch know to alert me if anything comes in involving your name or address.”
Niles sank down onto one of the molded plastic chairs, rubbing his head again. “Do you have any idea who it was?”
Tim dug a plastic evidence bag out of his pocket. Inside, Niles could make out an envelope with his name on it. “No, but they left you some fan mail.”
Niles reached for it and stopped himself, remembering what Tim had said about not handling the letters. “What’s it say?”
“It says, ‘You were warned.’ Same font, ink tone, and grade of paper as last time.”
“Jesus.” Rosie rubbed his shoulder as Niles scoured his hands down his bristly face. He’d landed in San Francisco too late to turn around and catch the next flight back, so he’d spent the night trying to sleep in a chair in the airport while his head pounded mercilessly. Coupled with the lack of sleep when Daniel had stayed with him, it meant he had only a handful of hours of rest under his belt over the last two days. He’d also been in the same clothes for a full day now.
“Jordie’s head still hurts,” Niles said, rubbing the back of his head. “I think the meds are wearing off. Can they give him something for the pain?” He turned a questioning look at Rosie, and she blinked at him once, then stood.
“Sure. I’ll go talk to a nurse, see if that’s all right.”
“They might need to wait for him to wake up before they give him anything else,” Tim suggested, taking another chair a couple of seats down from Niles.
“Figures. They need him to regain consciousness before they can knock him out.” He slumped in the chair, rubbing his eyes again.
Rosie shrugged. “Can’t hurt to ask. I’m sure Detective Wyatt has questions for you. Why don’t you do that down in the cafeteria and get some coffee? I’ll call you if he wakes up, or if they say you can take him home.”
Niles hovered on the verge of protesting, but common sense won out and he nodded, following Tim down to the cafeteria.
“Did you find anything else? Any clues?” he asked once they were ensconced at a table with cups of questionable coffee in their hands.
Tim shook his head. “No. I’m not holding out hope for fingerprints on the letter, since the assailant appeared to use gloves to handle the
rock. It’s November, of course, so it could very well be that whoever did this was wearing gloves due to the weather rather than any particular attempt to avoid detection, and if that’s the case, might have taken them off at some point. We’re printing your doorknob, mail slot, around the doorframe, porch railing, and so forth, so we’ll need your prints and Jordan’s and whoever else has visited your house recently. For elimination.”
“Um, that might be tough on one front. My guest from the other night has gone back to Seattle now.” He was too fucking tired to be concerned if Tim was dismayed by that bit of information, but Tim just nodded slowly, his expression neutral.
“What time did he leave?”
“Who?”
“Your guest.”
“Oh, um, his train departed around midmorning yesterday.”
“Any chance he might have missed it?” Tim asked, pulling his phone out and tapping in notes.
Niles frowned. “Not that I can think of. Why?”
“I’m asking if he might have been at your house when Jordan came by.”
“What? You think Daniel hung around to bash in my brother’s skull?”
“Well, he would have been hanging around to bash in your skull, actually.” The throbbing in Niles’s head amped up another notch as he opened his mouth to let Tim know exactly what he thought of that idea. Tim held up a hand, forestalling the tirade. “I’m just covering all the bases.”
“Fine.” Niles gave him a resentful look, crossing his arms. “He’d have no reason to believe I would be coming home. He knew I was heading to the airport straight from work. Besides, I dropped him off at a coffee shop on my way to work and had my intern give him a lift to the train station. Is this a jealousy thing? Really?”
Tim sighed, putting away his phone. “No, Niles, really. I’m just trying to narrow down the possibilities.”
“Then no, Tim. No, there was no reason for him to stick around. We said good-bye, he said he’d call me if he was ever in Portland again, and that was it. He was a good guy, a straight shooter.”
Player vs Player Page 11