Stranger Things Have Happened: An Adrien English Write Your Own Damn Story (The Adrien English Mysteries) (11 page)

He shakes hands briefly. “You look good,” he says, light eyes studying your face.

You do look a lot better, thank God. You’re almost at your normal weight and you’re tanned, which always helps.

“How are you?” you ask. “Would you like a drink?”

Jake declines a drink. He sits down and visits briefly. He talks about the case against Green. He’s sure Green will be convicted.

“That’s great,” you say. It all seems like a really long time ago. “How’s the job?”

Jake tells you he’s in line for promotion.

“That’s great,” you parrot again. You wish Mel would go away. This is so uncomfortable and stiff. You can tell Mel thinks Jake is a typical asshole cop and Jake thinks…it’s hard to know what Jake thinks, other than he made a mistake in coming to see you.

After fifteen excruciating minutes Jake excuses himself and departs.

“He sure thinks a lot of himself,” Mel remarks as the pool yard gate clangs shut behind Jake. “Why would he think you’d be sitting around waiting for him?”

You look blankly at Mel and then you go after Jake.

He’s almost to his car, but he stops when you call to him. He walks back to meet you.

“What’s the matter?” he asks, frowning. He reaches out automatically and you grab for him. Not because you need his support but because you welcome the excuse to be in his arms.

“That’s what I wanted to ask you. What’s wrong?”

“With me? Nothing.”

“Bullshit. I know you Jake.”

He gives you a strange smile. “You
know
me?” His arms are strong and the support is there if you need it. You don’t, but it dawns on you that maybe he
likes
to be needed. Maybe that’s part of why he became a cop.

“I know you that well,” you say. “Tell me what’s going on, Jake. I want to help.”

He stares at you like you’re speaking in a foreign language, and then emotion twists his face. “Are you back together with him? After he let you down the last time?”

The naked honesty of that completely disarms you. “No.” You shake your head. “No way. We’re just friends.”

He looks like he’s not sure he believes you.

“Why did you stop coming to see me?” you ask.

“I…” There is so much pain in his eyes. It brings tears to your own. No one should hurt that much. It makes your heart ache — in a non-life-threatening way. Jake seems to struggle with himself before he says flatly, “I ran out of excuses.”

“Excuses for what? For coming to see me?”

“Yeah.” His smile is almost bitter. “Pathetic, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know. I just know I miss you. So much. I thought we —” But maybe that’s more than he’s ready to hear. Probably. “We’re friends,” you say instead.

“Like you and Mel?”

Your heart starts to pound. Probably too hard, but you’re going to have this if it kills you. “You know it’s not the same.”

“I do, yeah.”

You stare at each other for a long, long moment.

Jake draws a sharp breath. “I’m sorry. Sorry it took me so long. Sorry I held onto the excuses and the lies. And sorry that after I let go of the excuses and the lies, I still didn’t have the guts to face you.”

“Until now,” you say gently. Because now counts. Every second of it has to count.

“Until now,” he agrees. He’s gazing down at you almost fiercely, his eyes dark with emotion and longing. You smile at him, and you keep smiling until you see the smile registers. Some of the tension leaves his face.

“Better late than never,” you say.

The End

F
rom the outside, Ball and Chain doesn’t look so much like a Den of Iniquity as a bar where the booze is liable to be watered down. Of course, it could be both. It’s hard to believe anyone who isn’t a college student or a senior citizen would have the time and energy for leather-bound high jinks on a week night, but when you finally get the nerve up to go inside, you see that there is a decent crowd.

Er…decent-
sized
crowd.

Er…more people than you expected. You really have no idea what size anyone may or may not be. And probably better not to think about it, since your purpose is strictly of the sleuthiness variety.

It does seem to you that this place would be ideal for a
What Not to Wear
week-long special, but maybe you’re feeling bitchy because you’re getting some funny looks. Maybe it’s the turtleneck. Maybe it’s the expression of wide-eyed consternation whenever someone gropes you. You’re either being randomly and regularly groped or this is a convention for sufferers of Saint Vitus Dance.

Now that you’re here, you’re not exactly sure how to proceed. The place is like a warehouse. Both in appearance and purpose. Brick walls, utility lamps, and hot and cold running guys. There is music and it is loud. People are dancing. Hopefully. Did you really think it would be possible to hold a conversation here? Let alone discreetly question someone?

Why are you really here? Wasn’t it really curiosity to see what Rob had been up to?

If you’re honest…yes. You are curious. You
were
. Now you’re just feeling a little embarrassed and hoping desperately not to meet anyone you kn —

Oh hell no.

Who should you spot from clear across the industrial-sized room but Detective Riordan.

No.

Yes.

Yes. It’s really him.

He’s standing at the bar drinking whisky and staring broodingly into space. You can’t tear your gaze away and you walk right into a cement post.

Fortunately it’s only a glancing blow.

You’re scrambling to recover your somewhat shaken savoir-faire and look like you really meant to ask that post to dance, when a hand hooks around your arm. You look up and your heart jumps in your chest. Detective Riordan gazes down at you with a strange half smile.

“Well, well, well,” he says in that voice that always feels like he’s lightly running the tip of a riding crop right down your spine. “Adrien-with-an-e.”

“Oh.
Hi
,” you say weakly. It really IS him. Detective Riordan is in a leather club. So it’s true. Detective Riordan is undercover.

Because he couldn’t be gay, right?

Right?

Your gaze falls and you take him in, from the gleam of his black boots…leather jeans…studded leather belt…and then bare, broad muscular chest. Nothing else. Not a single extra anything. Severe and elegant. Beneath the gold dusting of chest hair, his pecs look like rocks. So do his biceps. He’s got an abdomen like a washboard. You can’t stop staring. Your mouth is dry, your heart bouncing around like those cartoons of Mexican jumping beans.

“Fancy meeting you here,” you say.

“And to think I almost didn’t bother tonight.” His eyes glitter. He’s amused. Amused and…

He wants you.

Holy moly. Detective Riordan
wants
you.

You say cautiously, “Do you come here often?”

He says gravely, “Often enough to make it worth my time.”

You hear the echo of your words and blush. He grins, a crooked and deliberately charming grin. He’s watching you with unnerving intensity. “Very pretty,” he remarks. “Far too pretty to be left running loose.” He taps a knowing forefinger under your chin. “Come on.”

“Uh…”

Somehow Detective Riordan’s hand is clamped possessively on your left butt cheek and you are being steered gently but firmly through the crowd toward the entrance marked PRIVATE.

“Actually, I was just about to leave,” you tell him. “I’ve got a busy day tomorrow. I was just going to have a quick drink and then home to bed.”

“Uh huh.”

“No, really. This isn’t my kind of thing.”

He dips his head. His breath is hot against your ear. As noisy as the room is, you hear every syllable. “How do you know?”

“I’m not into organized religion.”

He laughs, gives your butt a little squeeze, and you jump.

You really need to make it clear that this is
not
what you want. But you always were too damned curious for your own good.

Next thing you know you’re being scooted into a small, private room. There is no bed, which is disconcerting. There are padded benches and an odd frame thing that reminds you of the dungeon in
Princess Bride
. There is an open cabinet with a staggering assortment of sexual toys and devices.

Is this a communal room or is it Riordan’s private office? Which answer would be more reassuring? You can’t tear your gaze from the shelves of the cabinet.

“Wow. Bedknobs and broomsticks,” you murmur. How the hell do some of those things fit inside the human body? You probably don’t want to know. Not firsthand anyway.

Behind you, Riordan makes a sound like he just inhaled one of the benches. When you glance back at him he looks impassive, so maybe you imagined it.

“So what happens now?” You take the initiative in the hope of restoring some sense of balance to the weird dynamic that seems to be developing here.

“Sir,” Riordan says lazily.

“Sir?”

“You address me as ‘Sir’ or ‘Master.’”

“Okay,” you say politely.

“Sir.”

“Got it.”

He prompts patiently, “Sir.”

You could go on like this all night, but clearly this is a game he has endless patience for. “Yes, sir, sir.” you say.

His mouth twitches, but there is an uncomfortable knowingness in his eyes. And in fact, calling Riordan ‘Sir,’ does sort of give you a funny feeling in your solar plexus. You probably should have eaten dinner.

“Good.” He’s right behind you, breathing down your neck, crowding into your space. It’s uncomfortable and unsettling and, yes, electrifying. “Do you have a safe word?”

“No.”

“Sir,” he says very gently, and the hair on the nape of your neck rises.

You swallow. “No, sir.”

“Pick a safe word.”

“No. I mean, ‘no’ would be my safe word. Sir.”

“Pick a different safe word.”

“Stop?” you offer.

“Sir.” He swats your butt and this time it stings. “Choose again. Now.”

“Cobalt, sir.”

“Good boy. You may take your clothes off now.”

“You know, to be perfectly honest —”

He swats you again. This time you spin around with more than a little irritation. “Okay. Enough. Cobalt.”

It’s almost worth it to see the look on his face.
“Cobalt?”

“You heard me.”

“That’s your safe word. You only use it when you’re —”

“I know. I read. Enough. I’m safe wording.”

He seems more perplexed than irritated. “If you don’t want this, then why are you here? And don’t give me some bullshit about academic curiosity. What are you really here for?”

Fair question. You open your mouth, but you can’t exactly tell him you were playing private dick — although by now he probably has the message as to just how private your dick is. And anyway, that isn’t exactly the truth. Nor is this totally about Robert. Not really. The truth is, until you heard Riordan was a possible member of this club, it never occurred to you — would never in a million years have occurred to you — to show up here.

You’re here for Riordan.

He sees it in your face, as your gaze meets his tawny one, and he looks about as staggered as a man like Riordan can look and still be on his feet.

“You’re kidding.” He even sounds a little faint.

“No.”

His voice goes even deeper, more growly. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“What are you talking about? We can’t just have sex?”

“No, we can’t just have sex.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why? That’s not what we do here.”

It’s your turn to be perplexed. “Sexual intercourse does not take place here?”

Riordan looks exasperated — also a little perturbed. “Of course sexual intercourse takes place. But not…you can have
that
anywhere.”

You flutter your eyelashes and say as winningly as you know how, “I was thinking I kinda want to have it here. With you.”

“It doesn’t work like that, baby.” He’s trying to be patient now. Even kind — despite the fact that he’s taken a couple of steps back from you like he thinks you’re wired with explosives.

“Don’t you want to have sex with me?”

He stares at you for so long, and so strangely, that your heart sinks. You really did misread this.

But then he says quietly, “Yes. I would.”

“Well then —”

“This isn’t the right place or the right time.”

“Seriously?” You look around the room. Okay, there’s no bed — or even a rug — but it’s not like all the necessary equipment isn’t present.

Hmm. That long mirror that looks suspiciously two-way is a little concerning.

Riordan shakes his head. “No. Not here.” He seems quite serious, and he keeps staring at you as though you only met five minutes ago. “Look, I’ll call you,” he says, and he puts his arm around your shoulders as though he’s going to see you to the door.

Hell. He
is
going to see you to the door. He’s throwing you out.

How can this be? You’re not so out of practice you don’t recognize desire when you see it.

You can’t hide your disappointment. “Spare me,” you say. “A simple no thanks will do it.”

“No.” He stops, gazing into your eyes. “I
am
going to call you.” He bends his head and touches his mouth tentatively to yours. It’s such a light brush of mouths, careful and sweet. As though he’s never kissed anyone before.

As though he’s never kissed a man before.

You stare at him, and he offers you a fleeting smile — you must look fairly astonished — and then he opens the door and leads you down a couple of hallways and then out a fire exit.

This time the kiss he gives you is much more assured, practiced, and then the door closes firmly behind you.

Feeling bemused, you walk across the crowded parking lot to your car. Will Riordan call you? He seemed strangely sincere. Besides, what would he have to gain by lying?

But he’s probably not calling you tonight. Tonight you’re on your own. As usual.

You unlock the driver’s door, and start to slide under the wheel. You automatically glance at the backseat, as would anyone who grew up on a steady diet of mystery novels and cop shows, and to your amazement this time there really
is
someone lying on your backseat. Even as you realize this, the figure — you have only an impression of a dark raincoat and a scary white mask — surges up, butcher’s knife in hand.