a good cop. He
treated everyone, doer and civilian, with a mild contempt that was almost
casual in its delivery.
Still, David could all too easily imagine what
Martinez would say if he found out what had really happened last night.
David couldn’t believe what he had done. Letting a
suspect get through his guard like that. Letting himself be kissed—worse,
losing it and kissing the guy back.
Tuesday,
9:40 am, Cove Avenue,
Silver
Lake, Los Angeles
Chris woke amid a tangle of
sweat-soaked sheets. He blinked away sleep and groaned when the bedside phone
rang. Who the hell would call this early—then he looked at his clock.
“You planning on coming in today, Bellamere?”
Becky’s voice was pitched low as though to keep someone from overhearing. “I’m
holding Petey at bay with some story about you talking to clients off-site, but
he’s getting nasty. Wants to know when you’re checking in. You sick?”
“Jesus, Chapman, why’d you wait so long to call.”
“Last time I checked, Bellamere, you were old
enough to wipe your own ass.”
Chris groaned.
“Must have been some night,” Becky said. “You fit
to work?”
“Let me go stick my head in a bucket of water.
I’ll be right there.”
Fifty-five minutes later he nearly ran down Tom
Clarke as he stepped off the elevator.
“You expect everyone to get out of your way,
Bellamere?” Tom glanced at his watch. “Running late?”
Becky wrinkled her nose when she saw him. “Wow.
Who was he?”
“Nobody!” Chris snapped. A sudden image of David
flashed through his head. Could he have been wrong about the way David
responded last night? Had he misread things that badly? “Maybe I just
overindulged.”
“Ha, Bellamere.” She popped a stick of Juicy Fruit
in her mouth. “So, who was he?”
“Don’t go there, Chapman.”
Chris spent the morning fielding phone calls from
various clients. At lunch he settled for take-out, chiles rellenos from
a nearby Mexican place. His phone rang. He let it go to voice mail.
He got iced tea out of the vending machine and ate
half the chiles, then played his messages. Damn, that last call had been from
Des.
Chris had his speed-dial on the BlackBerry, so he
grabbed that. Des picked up on the third ring.
“I was right?” Des giggled. “That cop’s gay? Man,
he looked like he was ready to do you right in my front hall. So, you guys go
back to his place? I know you didn’t go home, I called often enough.”
Chris rubbed the back of his neck, sorry now he
had called. He really didn’t want to talk about last night. “Maybe I wasn’t
answering the phone.”
“You took him to your place? I want gory details.
Give me the dish, boyfriend.”
“Nothing to dish,” Chris sighed and popped the
last batter-covered Anaheim chili into his mouth. “He dropped me at my car. I
went home.”
“Right. So, are you going to see him again?”
*****
The phone rang as he let himself
into his house later that afternoon.
“Chrissy, you’re a hard man to find.” Trevor’s
smoky voice smoothed Chris’s nerves, even though he hated being called Chrissy.
“I’ve been calling for hours.”
“Gotta keep the tax man happy. What’s up?”
“I was hoping we could get together, but I’m
heading out of town on a job.”
Trevor worked for one of the fringe production
companies as a script supervisor, a tedious job he once explained meant
watching out that if an actress wore pink slippers in one scene, she had on the
same footwear when the next scene was shot two weeks later. Trevor had a
hundred catty stories about the newest Hollywood talent. Especially the cute
little gay hotties who tried so hard to play it straight.
“Too bad. I was thinking of heading down to the
Pit for a drink later,” Chris said. Trevor was the only man Chris had ever met
who could actually purr when he spoke. So many men tried for the effect, but no
one did it better than Trevor. A shiver of lust raced along Chris’s nerve
endings. Trevor
treated everyone, doer and civilian, with a mild contempt that was almost
casual in its delivery.
Still, David could all too easily imagine what
Martinez would say if he found out what had really happened last night.
David couldn’t believe what he had done. Letting a
suspect get through his guard like that. Letting himself be kissed—worse,
losing it and kissing the guy back.
Tuesday,
9:40 am, Cove Avenue,
Silver
Lake, Los Angeles
Chris woke amid a tangle of
sweat-soaked sheets. He blinked away sleep and groaned when the bedside phone
rang. Who the hell would call this early—then he looked at his clock.
“You planning on coming in today, Bellamere?”
Becky’s voice was pitched low as though to keep someone from overhearing. “I’m
holding Petey at bay with some story about you talking to clients off-site, but
he’s getting nasty. Wants to know when you’re checking in. You sick?”
“Jesus, Chapman, why’d you wait so long to call.”
“Last time I checked, Bellamere, you were old
enough to wipe your own ass.”
Chris groaned.
“Must have been some night,” Becky said. “You fit
to work?”
“Let me go stick my head in a bucket of water.
I’ll be right there.”
Fifty-five minutes later he nearly ran down Tom
Clarke as he stepped off the elevator.
“You expect everyone to get out of your way,
Bellamere?” Tom glanced at his watch. “Running late?”
Becky wrinkled her nose when she saw him. “Wow.
Who was he?”
“Nobody!” Chris snapped. A sudden image of David
flashed through his head. Could he have been wrong about the way David
responded last night? Had he misread things that badly? “Maybe I just
overindulged.”
“Ha, Bellamere.” She popped a stick of Juicy Fruit
in her mouth. “So, who was he?”
“Don’t go there, Chapman.”
Chris spent the morning fielding phone calls from
various clients. At lunch he settled for take-out, chiles rellenos from
a nearby Mexican place. His phone rang. He let it go to voice mail.
He got iced tea out of the vending machine and ate
half the chiles, then played his messages. Damn, that last call had been from
Des.
Chris had his speed-dial on the BlackBerry, so he
grabbed that. Des picked up on the third ring.
“I was right?” Des giggled. “That cop’s gay? Man,
he looked like he was ready to do you right in my front hall. So, you guys go
back to his place? I know you didn’t go home, I called often enough.”
Chris rubbed the back of his neck, sorry now he
had called. He really didn’t want to talk about last night. “Maybe I wasn’t
answering the phone.”
“You took him to your place? I want gory details.
Give me the dish, boyfriend.”
“Nothing to dish,” Chris sighed and popped the
last batter-covered Anaheim chili into his mouth. “He dropped me at my car. I
went home.”
“Right. So, are you going to see him again?”
*****
The phone rang as he let himself
into his house later that afternoon.
“Chrissy, you’re a hard man to find.” Trevor’s
smoky voice smoothed Chris’s nerves, even though he hated being called Chrissy.
“I’ve been calling for hours.”
“Gotta keep the tax man happy. What’s up?”
“I was hoping we could get together, but I’m
heading out of town on a job.”
Trevor worked for one of the fringe production
companies as a script supervisor, a tedious job he once explained meant
watching out that if an actress wore pink slippers in one scene, she had on the
same footwear when the next scene was shot two weeks later. Trevor had a
hundred catty stories about the newest Hollywood talent. Especially the cute
little gay hotties who tried so hard to play it straight.
“Too bad. I was thinking of heading down to the
Pit for a drink later,” Chris said. Trevor was the only man Chris had ever met
who could actually purr when he spoke. So many men tried for the effect, but no
one did it better than Trevor. A shiver of lust raced along Chris’s nerve
endings. Trevor
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