Stranger Things Have Happened: An Adrien English Write Your Own Damn Story (The Adrien English Mysteries) by Josh Lanyon Page B
Authors: Josh Lanyon
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— 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.
You’re out of the car and running for the club entrance before he can get out of the backseat. He runs after you, but you yank open the door to the club. There’s a blast of music and a wave of sweat and cologne, and then you’re inside and pushing through the crowd.
You spot Riordan by the bar.
You reach him, and even before you finish explaining, he’s leading the way out the club. He spots your would-be assailant running down the street and he gives chase. Riordan knocks him down, kicks the knife away, and proceeds to beat the hell out of him. When the mask is finally pulled from the beaten man, you’re horrified to see it’s Bruce Green.
Bruce is arrested, and under interrogation confesses to killing Robert.
Because of the circumstances of his breaking the case, Riordan ends up leaving the police force. He opens a private detective office. He does keep his word and he calls you. You end up going out for dinner, one thing leads to another, and before long you’re dating steadily. He teaches you a couple of neat tricks that can be done with handcuffs.
The End
A nyway, next thing you know, it’s Tuesday and an In Sympathy card arrives in the mail for you. The inscription is the usual stuff, but someone has written beneath in black calligraphy:
Our acts our angels are —
For good or ill
Not Shakespeare; you know your Shakespeare pretty well, thanks to those Jason Leland mysteries you write in your spare time. Bacon? Marlowe?
You leave a message for Detectives Riordan and Chan, but you don’t hear anything from them. You don’t hear anything from Claude either.
Partners in Crime meets on Tuesday and Claude doesn’t show up.
The meeting goes fine. Afterwards, Bruce calls, but you don’t pick up. You’re not sure why exactly. Maybe you’ve just gotten used to being lonely.
You flip through Robert’s yearbook — he must have asked Tara to send it to him for some reason, right? — and as you examine the photos from the Chess Club, you realize that both Robert and Rusty were
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.
You’re out of the car and running for the club entrance before he can get out of the backseat. He runs after you, but you yank open the door to the club. There’s a blast of music and a wave of sweat and cologne, and then you’re inside and pushing through the crowd.
You spot Riordan by the bar.
You reach him, and even before you finish explaining, he’s leading the way out the club. He spots your would-be assailant running down the street and he gives chase. Riordan knocks him down, kicks the knife away, and proceeds to beat the hell out of him. When the mask is finally pulled from the beaten man, you’re horrified to see it’s Bruce Green.
Bruce is arrested, and under interrogation confesses to killing Robert.
Because of the circumstances of his breaking the case, Riordan ends up leaving the police force. He opens a private detective office. He does keep his word and he calls you. You end up going out for dinner, one thing leads to another, and before long you’re dating steadily. He teaches you a couple of neat tricks that can be done with handcuffs.
The End
A nyway, next thing you know, it’s Tuesday and an In Sympathy card arrives in the mail for you. The inscription is the usual stuff, but someone has written beneath in black calligraphy:
Our acts our angels are —
For good or ill
Not Shakespeare; you know your Shakespeare pretty well, thanks to those Jason Leland mysteries you write in your spare time. Bacon? Marlowe?
You leave a message for Detectives Riordan and Chan, but you don’t hear anything from them. You don’t hear anything from Claude either.
Partners in Crime meets on Tuesday and Claude doesn’t show up.
The meeting goes fine. Afterwards, Bruce calls, but you don’t pick up. You’re not sure why exactly. Maybe you’ve just gotten used to being lonely.
You flip through Robert’s yearbook — he must have asked Tara to send it to him for some reason, right? — and as you examine the photos from the Chess Club, you realize that both Robert and Rusty were
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