by Onley James
Calder, the client fucker, looked more like a roadie for a metal band than a paid security agent. He’d pulled his long brown hair into a messy knot onto the top of his head. He sported a patchy five o’clock shadow and wore a faded sleeveless t-shirt revealing many tattoos. He didn’t seem too bothered by Jackson Avery’s exasperated statement. Shep imagined very little in life bothered Calder. He filed that knowledge away.
“Jack, man, that’s not fair. Why am I being called out when we all caught Linc banging his fiancé like a broken screen door on this very conference room table not forty minutes ago?” he asked in a lazy drawl.
Jackson rose to his full height placing his hands on the table, leaning in, his voice low and calm, “Because his fiancé isn’t one of our clients.”
If Jackson had hoped to intimidate the other man, he’d failed, which told Shep that Calder knew Jack well enough to know he wasn’t a hothead. They’d obviously worked closely together. Anybody who’d just met Jack would suppose the six-foot-three wall of muscle with his ever-present perma-frown would be quick to anger. Shep had thought the same thing the first time they’d met. Even now, seeing the man in his street clothes of jeans and a white hooded jacket, he looked like somebody you wouldn’t want to mess with.
Calder gave a harsh laugh. “Yeah, not a client anymore. The man fucked the one and only client you hired him to guard, and you gave him his own branch. Shit, by that logic, I should be a regional supervisor by now.”
Shep cleared his throat, knocking on the door frame. Five heads swiveled in his direction in unison. Jackson Avery grinned, crossing the room and gripping him in a rough hug, slapping his back with more force than necessary. Shep embraced him back, ticking off the seconds until he could break the contact. The white fabric of Jackson’s hoodie was a stark contrast to the warm umber of the man’s skin tone. He still wore his hair cropped close to his scalp and there wasn’t so much as a wrinkle around the man’s deep brown eyes. Despite the things they’d seen and done overseas, Jackson didn’t appear to have aged a day in ten years. Interesting.
“I thought you’d changed your mind,” Jackson said.
Shep shook his head, forcing an easy grin. “Nah, brother. I underestimated LA traffic. How does anybody ever make it to work on time in this city?”
“Nobody works around here, man,” Calder said, scratching at his stomach. “They’re all just living on hopes and dreams.”
Jackson clapped Shep on the back one more time before turning back to the group. “Jaynie, meet my team. This is Linc, he’ll be heading up the LA office.”
Shep gave a slight wave. “I heard. Nice to meet you.”
The imposing man with his high and tight haircut gave a nod, scrutinizing him closely before crossing his arms over his massive chest and leaning back in his seat.
Jackson pointed to the would-be regional supervisor. “This lazy talking fuck is Calder. Don’t listen to a word he says. Everything that falls out of his mouth is bullshit. Also, don’t leave him alone with anything you don’t want him to mount like a horny goat.” Shep cut his eyes to Calder who just grinned.
Jack pointed to a blond man with a chiseled jawline and perfect teeth. “The pretty one is Webster. He’s great with computers and with charming his way out of cyber-crime charges. Do not give him your personal information.”
Webster was pretty, Shep supposed. He looked like he should be an underwear model or somebody selling tooth-whitening strips. Shep wouldn’t have pegged him for a computer nerd and he was excellent at reading people. “Noted,” Shep said, frowning at Webster’s two-fingered salute.
“This one here who looks like he crawled into a cage with Conor McGregor is Connolly. Connolly likes to punch first and ask questions later. He forgets he’s not in the ring anymore.”
It was hard to say what Connolly looked like under the swollen purple eye, the stitched-up lip and his missing front tooth, but Shep couldn’t imagine most people brave enough to square up against the man in a boxing ring. He was built like a tank.
When Connolly caught him staring, he grinned, looking like a Jack-o’-lantern. “You should see the other guy.”
“Guys, this is Jayne Shepherd. I call him Jaynie… you can call him Shep. I brought him on to handle the Dunne case.”
They all grimaced, looking anywhere but at him. Interesting.
“Better have brass balls,” Webster muttered.
Before Shep could think much of it, Jack pointed to a chair at the end of the table. “Have a seat. We were just about to get started.”
Shep dropped into the chair and Jackson gestured for Linc to take over.
Linc had a stack of manila files sitting before him. “We’ve picked up several new clients, thanks to Charlie, and since all of my well-behaved guys are busy doing their jobs, I’m left with you assholes.” He shot a file across the table to Webster. “Devon Shaw, a five-year-old piano prodigy. You’ll be touring with the kid. His uncle is concerned about some creepy messages the boy’s been getting online.”
Webster grimaced. “Linc, I hate kids. They’re always so… sticky.”
“Pack some wet wipes and get over it,” Linc muttered, already handing a file to Connolly. “Jet Merrick, lead singer of Fall Down Seven needs a new guard for their fall concert series.”
Connolly snorted. “That kid’s a flaming douchebag. He wrote a song about a llama.”
“It was an emu, actually,” Webster said. “I thought it was pretty good.”
“Fine then you take the douchey kid and I’ll take baby Einstein.”
“Not happening,” Linc barked. “Quit whining and do your jobs.”
The two men chuckled at Linc’s sour tone, but the man ignored it, shoving a file towards Calder. “Hanson Russell, an eighty-year-old movie director who’s convinced there’s somebody out to kill him. The cops aren’t taking him seriously, because of his declining mental status. He’s hired us to investigate.”
Webster snickered. “Think you can keep your dick outta this one, Calder?”
Calder gave Webster the finger before flipping open the file. “Is this my penance for banging Alicia Hawkins?”
Linc blew air out of his nose like an angry bull. “You’re the only one of my guys with an active PI license. I need an actual investigator.”
“You just said the guys a few French fries short of a happy meal. He’s chasing butterflies, man.”
“Grab a net and join him,” Linc growled. Calder grumbled under his breath but then fell silent.
Shep absorbed it all, the casual camaraderie, the witty banter. They were a tight-knit team. Shep was the outlier. He needed to do his best to assimilate quickly. It was important. Luckily, he’d spent over twenty-years living with guys just like this, first in the Marines and then in the private sector. He could fake it.
“Shepherd, your piss test and background check came back yesterday, so I hope you showed up ready to work.” He slid a file down the table.
Shep caught it and flipped it open. There was an eight by ten headshot of a boy in his early twenties. “Who is he?”
“Elijah Dunne, grandson of Elijah Walker.”
Shep knew that name. “No shit. The Elijah Walker? The guy from all the old Westerns? My dad loved his movies.”
“That’s the one.”
Elijah Walker had been a swarthy man with a steely-eyed stare and a cowboy swagger. He starred in movies with gritty titles like Dead by Sunrise and Road to Nowhere where the hero could only solve the problem with gratuitous violence and a healthy dose of casual racism.
His grandson couldn’t have been more different. He had chin-length black hair and glacier blue eyes. His face was all planes and angles with a full generous mouth that currently angled down in a pout, his expression pensive. Shep couldn’t imagine the two Elijah’s sharing a gene pool.
“I’m guessing this kid’s not doing Westerns.”
“Hardly. His team is currently in the middle of a PR nightmare. He recently starred in a biopic about
a famous closeted football player and the man he loved. He went all in. Full-frontal nudity. Steamy, over-the-top indie sex scenes. Nobody thought the film would make it past Sundance, but now the kid’s won an Oscar and he’s been green lit to play a superhero in that comic book franchise. He’s getting death threats.”
“Because he played a gay character?” Shep asked.
“Because he is a gay character,” Webster said. “TMZ outed him at the movie’s Sundance premiere by releasing a pic of him in a rather compromising position with another man. Somebody attacked him on the red carpet at that same premiere. Threw a drink in his face, that had rocks in it. Scratched his cornea and delayed filming on his next movie. The more fame he gets, the bolder the threats become.”
Shep looked back down at the frowning boy with his sad eyes. “People still care about actors being gay? I thought LA was supposed to be progressive.”
“Gay characters make them money. Gay actors cost them money. They think people won’t pay to watch movies of people they can’t fantasize about fucking. Like any of those mouth-breathers had a shot, either way,” Calder snarked.
“How real is the threat?” Shep asked, his fingers tracing over the kid's photo.
“Real enough that the studio has hired round-the-clock security and restricted his social media. He’s currently renting a house in the Hollywood Hills but he starts filming on another project in a few weeks. You go where he goes.” Linc’s clipped tone gave no indication anything was wrong, but the looks he received from the others had weight.
“What am I missing here?”
Webster’s lip curled. “Lucifer.”
“Lucifer,” Shep repeated, brow furrowed. “As in the dark lord?”
Connolly scoffed. “Satan wishes people feared him as much.”
Linc sighed. “The rest of you can go. Shep hang back, I want to talk to you more about the case.”
Jackson clapped Linc on the shoulder. “I got to take off too. I promised my mom I’d swing by my Aunt Laverne’s house before I got back on the plane to Florida.”
Jackson shook Shep’s hand. “Welcome aboard, brother. Catch you on the flip side.”
Once they were alone, Linc dropped himself into the chair opposite Shep. “I won’t lie, nobody wanted this gig. The kid’s manager is hell in heels. She’s got a reputation in town and most of my guys have run up against her at one time or another over the last few months. She handles a half dozen clients, and she’s absolutely ruthless, but Elijah is her most successful client, by a lot. She will crawl up your ass and live there.”
“Sounds… uncomfortable.”
“Given your previous job, I got to ask. Are you steady? Any lingering emotional trauma?”
Shep tilted his head. “Emotional trauma?” Linc blinked at him. Why would he have emotional trauma? Oh. Fuck. He’d missed that one. “You mean my work as an interrogator? I don’t have PTSD or anything if that’s your concern. What I did wasn’t fun for me.” Lie. “But it was necessary.” Partial lie. “And, long term, it helped further our national security.” Jesus. Was the man buying any of this? “I’ve made peace with the things I did overseas. I’m steady, man.”
“Good, because this kid is friends with my fiancé and, believe me when I say, you do not want to be on fiancé’s bad side.”
The doors to the elevator dinged softly in the distance, drawing their attention to the conference room door. A blond boy with curly chin-length hair, huge green eyes, and glossy pink lips peeked his head around the door. “Lunch is he—Oh, sorry, I thought I just saw everybody leave.” He gave Linc a dirty grin. “But, hey. At least my clothes are on this time.”
Linc groaned, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Shep, this is my fiancé, Wyatt. Wyatt this is Shep. He’s taking Elijah’s case.”
“That’s your fiancé?” Shep asked, surprised. He was good at reading people. He didn’t see that one coming.
Linc stiffened, a scowl darkening his face. “Is that a problem?”
Shit. He raised his hands palms out. “What? No. Not at all. My twin brother’s gay. I’m just surprised because you implied, he’s rather terrifying. He just wasn’t what I expected.”
Wyatt grinned and Shep understood the boy only looked innocent. “There’s two of you? Please make all my fantasies come true and tell me you’re identical.”
Shep barked out a surprised laugh. “We are.”
“Wyatt!” the older man growled.
The boy flicked a sassy gaze at Linc, his voice dripping with innocence. “What?” he asked, looking back to Shep without waiting for a response. “How tall are you, anyway?”
“Six foot six.”
“That’s amazing,” Wyatt said, sounding a little breathless.
Linc gave a long-suffering sigh. “Seriously?”
Wyatt shrugged. “You knew who I was when you proposed to me.”
“You proposed to me,” Linc muttered, though his look told Shep this was all part of a much more elaborate game that was none of Shep’s business. “Go wait for me in my office. I’ll be there in a minute.”
The boy gave Shep one last look, already pulling out his phone as he turned and left.
“Is he always like that?” Shep asked.
Linc’s smile was fond. “Worse. Much worse.” He seemed to get lost in his own head before catching himself. “Listen, I give this speech to all my guys. Here in LA, our clients have never heard the word no. You’re going to get pushback. Try not to take shit personal and remember your job is to keep them safe. No matter what.”
That wouldn’t be a problem. Nothing was ever personal for Shep, even the things that should be. “If my former job taught me anything, its patience. I know how to keep my wits about me. I’m not going to let some brat get the better of me.”
“That kid is your target, but he’s not your boss, neither is his psycho manager. You work for the studio and your only job is to keep the target safe. They have a lot invested in him and they will do whatever is necessary to protect him. That being said, if you make Elijah’s life too miserable, he will tell Wyatt and Wyatt will make my life miserable. I’m old. I like things the way I like them.”
“Noted.”
“I’m sure you know how to diffuse a heated situation.”
“Yes. I can definitely diffuse a situation,” he hedged.
He just didn’t always want to.
Soothing music drifted into Elijah’s ears courtesy of his waterproof Bluetooth earbuds. The sun beat down on him as he floated naked in his salt-water pool, doing his best to drown out the incessant sound of his manager screeching at him from beside a lounge chair. He refused to open his eyes. Whatever she wanted could wait. His therapy podcast said he deserved a day to himself.
Something light and smelling of vinyl bounced off his forehead. He popped open an eye to see a pastel-colored beach ball bobbing beside him. At the edge of the pool, Lucifer stood in a black fitted suit and a pair of five-inch Louboutins, brandishing the pool skimmer like it was a samurai sword. She’d pulled her inky black hair back in a severe ponytail, making her look as though she’d had one too many facelifts. Her lipstick was an angry red slash against her olive skin and even though he couldn’t hear what she said, her flushed cheeks and scrunched-up face let him know she was furious. Lucy was always furious, her volume setting broken on ten.
When she started to stab the aluminum rod into the water like she was spearfishing, he let his feet touch the bottom of the pool, yanking out his earbuds and tossing them at her feet. He tried to keep his voice calm, but it crept up an octave, anyway. “You know, I don’t ask for much, Lucifer, but tomorrow is script reading day and you know before script reading day I like to float around in the pool and listen to Yanni and get myself into the mental headspace necessary to embrace my character. This...” He waved wildly towards her. “Whatever this is you're doing… is not respecting my process. It’s the opposite of respecting my process. Honestly, you’re really just kind of bringing me down right now so can
we just table whatever’s set you into a psychotic rage this time?”
“For the last time, don’t call me Lucifer,” Lucy growled. “I don’t give a fuck about your process. I need to talk to you. Now.”
Something twisted in his gut, but he forced himself to stay breezy. If he cracked, she won. “I say this with love, Lucy. You don’t look very good. I think the stress of this job might be too much for you. You aren’t getting any younger.”
She clenched her jaw which only bolstered his courage. Her lips twisted into a snarl. “Get out of the pool. Now, Eli.”
He made a gesture like he was parting the Red Sea. “Now doesn’t work for me… clearly, geez. Are you eating enough magnesium because I’ve heard a deficiency can make you constipated which can make people really cranky and you, Lucifer, seem really full of shit.”
A snicker came from somewhere near the topiaries flanking the sliding glass doors. Elijah felt the blood drain from his face. Why hadn’t Lucifer said they weren’t alone? There were rules. Her rules. He could be gay, but not too gay. Elijah Dunne was the alpha gay: masculine, sporty, everything the world needed him to be. Everything Lucy needed him to be. But it was too late to pull that mask back on now. It was Lucy’s fault for bringing a stranger into his inner sanctum.
He shielded his eyes, unsure of what was happening. “Who’s there?” he called, narrowing his eyes as a man emerged from the shadow of the awning and approached the side of the pool. Elijah did his best not to stare, but it was impossible. “Lucille, why is this ginger giant blocking my sun right now? And why is he dressed like there’s a lumberjack competition nearby? Did I miss a memo or an email?”
Lucy cocked her hip, flinging the skimmer at him like a javelin before crossing her arms over her chest. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Eli. Meet Shepherd. Your new bodyguard. He will be your shadow.”
Elijah would have seethed at the smug look of victory on Lucifer’s face any other day, but he was too busy trying to force his brain to function. In hindsight, maybe he should have stopped at one gummy bear edible instead of three.