Stranger Things Have Happened: An Adrien English Write Your Own Damn Story (The Adrien English Mysteries) (17 page)

Three shots, one after another, the bangs seeming to collide, crashing into each other, reverberating off the wood floor and plaster walls.

You lie there for a moment, stunned, winded.

Riordan is walking toward you, pistol trained on whatever is dragging in those agonized, ragged breaths behind you.

He’s saying something. It takes you a second to understand the words.

“This way, baby. Keep moving toward me.” You start to push up and he says in what seems to be a ridiculously calm voice, “Keep left. Don’t get in front of the gun.”

You duck down again, and flatten yourself to the wall. You can’t look around. What is the matter with you that you can’t look at Bruce?

“Are you hurt? Are you injured?” Riordan is not looking at you, so it takes you a second to realize he means you.

“I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

He stops beside you, though his attention — and weapon — are still trained on Bruce.

The wet gurgling sounds stop suddenly and there’s a single metallic clink. You turn around then.

Bruce is sprawled against the linen cupboard at the end of the hallway. He is sitting in what looks like a pool of blood. It’s hard to see in the dim light, but your eyes eventually make out that the top of his head is gone. On the floor, a knife glints in the dull light.

The silence is even more terrifying than the sounds of dying.

Riordan drops to one knee. “Look at me.”

You turn to him though it is hard to get the image of Bruce with half his head blown away out of your mind.

To your shock, Riordan puts his hand on the side of your face, like he’s checking your eyes for concussion. His gaze is almost piercing. “How badly did he hurt you?”

You’re not even sure what he means at first. Then you remember that in some corners of the world the sex you just had with Bruce qualifies as rape. It seems both strange and touching that Riordan would recognize this before you do.

“I think I hurt him more,” you say.

His thumb tracks a gentle line along your cheekbone. “Can you stand up?”

“Of course.”

But the fact is, when you try to stand, you’re sick and shaky and grateful for the arm Riordan puts around you. He walks you into the living room, grabs a black granny square afghan from the back of the sofa, and wraps it around you. For a minute he sits with you, his arm around your shoulders, and you lean into him grateful for the silent support.

Funny. Detective Riordan never struck you as the kind of guy anyone would turn to for comfort. You were wrong about that. You’ve been wrong about a lot of things. Like maybe Detective Riordan could also use some comfort. After all, he just killed a man. That has to be a new experience for him too, right? You can hear his heart banging away in the wake of all that adrenaline.

“Are
you
okay?” you ask.

He gives a funny laugh, and nods, like he doesn’t trust himself to speak.

By then you notice a glittering sea of red and blue lights outside the windows. The cavalry. Better late than never. Riordan lets go of you. He rises, goes to the front door to let in John Law, but then pauses.

“Adrien?”

You look up.

“It’s liable to get rough.”

You nod. God, is this going to get in the newspapers? Is your mother going to read about it and choke to death on her Earl Grey?

“But if you need…anything…” He’s giving you such an odd, intense look. That expression in his eyes. You can’t tell if it’s hope or fear or both.

Maybe because you’re not sure whether what
you
feel is hope or fear.

You say, “I don’t even know your first name.”

“Jake.”

“Jake. Okay, Jake. Thank you. For…everything.” You give him a tentative smile.

His answering smile is equally tentative.

He turns and opens the door.

The End

Y
ou turn from the door and walk back to the bed. Gingerly, you sit on the edge.

Bruce watches your every move. He says — and there’s a strange, almost cherishing note in his voice, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Silence.

Then Bruce says flatly, “Oh.”

And everything changes. The delicate balance both of you worked so hard to preserve, to avoid facing what you know to be true, tips.

Bruce jumps off the bed, stalks over to the bedroom door, and slams it shut. He can’t know Riordan is out there waiting. Can he?

You can hear Bruce’s harsh breaths in the stifling darkness. Tree branches scratch at the window. There is just enough light from the waning moon to see Bruce’s silhouette by the door. He is motionless. What is he waiting for?

What are
you
waiting for?

Keep them talking, right? That’s how it works on TV. “Bruce?”

You can see his shadow moving now, hear him opening a drawer. “I know, Adrien.” He sounds absent, like a parent pacifying a restless child.

It’s frightening not to be able to see what he’s doing, to hear those furtive, rustling noises. You glimpse his reflection in the mirror, the pale glimmer of his body. He turns toward you, and in the gloom you can discern the outline of white — a grim smile that isn’t Bruce. Isn’t human. He’s wearing a mask. A skull mask which he unhurriedly adjusts over his head.

You leap off the bed and back into the nightstand, nearly knocking the lamp off. You can still see Bruce’s reflection as he continues to rummage through his drawer. What the hell is he looking for? The eyes of the askew mask stare sightlessly your way.

Light glints on silver. Bruce holds up a blade. He walks toward you, knife upheld.

You snap on the bedside lamp. Bruce freezes.

“Turn that out,” he says hoarsely.

You can’t seem to look away from the knife. It’s huge. Sharp. A butcher’s knife. You imagine it sliding into your chest.

“Bruce, why are you doing this?”

“Now
that’s
a silly question.”

Possibly. But you keep trying. “Bruce —”

“Don’t call me that.”

“What do you want me to call you? Grant? Take the mask off,” you tell him. “Since we’re not pretending.”

Bruce begins to rant and rave. He seems to think he was on some divine mission. It’s pretty confusing. You wonder what the hell Riordan is doing. Any minute now Bruce is going to lunge at you and you’re going to…probably die, given the lack of room to maneuver.

You keep talking because that’s all you can do now. “You think God wants you to kill people because of a high school prank?”

Bruce cries, “
Prank?
That prank destroyed my life. Ruined me. You have no idea what you’re talking about!”

“So explain it to me.”

His eyes study you through the eye holes in the mask. “Believe me, you won’t agree with my reasoning. I’ve tried explaining before. How’s this? Everything that has happened to me happened because of Robert Hersey and his sycophantic buddies. Everything.”

“That’s not reasonable, Br — Grant. You’re too smart to believe —”

He interrupted casually, “But enough about me. This is about you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. YOU, YOU, YOU!” he jabs at the air, shrieking. “You made this happen. Not me. I always liked you, even though you
never
noticed me.” His hand slashes through the air. “NEVER NOTICED —”

Bruce calms again. “I tried to get all my classes with you. I used to always sit behind you. Remember? Pathetic, isn’t it? You even came to this house once, you know. I couldn’t believe you didn’t remember.”

You ask, “Did you want me to remember?”

He seemed to consider this. “When I saw you in the church I wanted to protect you from those fucking cops. But the truth is, you like those fucking cops, don’t you? You like that blond one.”

You would like that blond one to show up about now. That’s for sure. You start edging for the door. “Tell me something. Why Claude? What did he ever do to you?”

“Who?” Bruce sounds genuinely confused. Then he explains that he killed Claude because you cancelled your date with him. That’s it. That’s the last straw. You break and run for the door.

Bruce gets there first. He holds the knife up but doesn’t stab you. Surely it’s a good sign that he wants to keep talking?

You both turn at movement outside the window. Bruce grabs you, using you as a shield as an iron lawn chair comes crashing through the bedroom window — followed by Riordan.

Riordan hits the floor in a shoulder roll and comes up on one knee, aiming his pistol at you and Bruce. Well, he’s probably aiming at Bruce, but you’re in the way.

You really, really do not want to be shot. Every bit as much as you don’t want to be stabbed. You’d probably have a better chance of surviving being stabbed — survival rates are higher in stabbings — but even thinking about being stabbed is sending your heart into overdrive.

“Put down the knife.” Riordan sounds calm and instructive.

“No! Put down the gun. I’ll kill him if you don’t!”

To your everlasting relief, Riordan does not behave like a cop on TV or the movies. He does not put the gun down. He blasts Bruce.

There’s a big bang. Plaster peppers your face and hair. Bruce lets go of you and you stumble away in a daze. Bruce slides down the wall and falls over.

“Okay, baby?”

Riordan is talking to you. He just called you “baby.” Like the two of you are cool cats in a 1960s PI flick. Or something. It’s hard to think straight with Bruce gurgling his last breaths behind you.

This is terrible. Terrible.

You stare into Riordan’s hazel eyes. He’s still talking to you in that calm, quiet way as though he thinks you’re going to lose the plot any moment. You’re not going to lose the plot, but you feel kind of weird and lightheaded. And then Riordan’s hand locks around the back of your neck, he draws you forward. You lean into him, and his arm goes around your waist. Your head seems to fit right in the curve of his neck and shoulder.

For a second or two, you hang on to each other. Riordan’s heart is banging away as hard as yours. Neither of you says a word.

Then the front door crashes open and a dozen uniforms burst into the living room with weapons drawn.

A few hours later, all the questions have been asked, and you’ve even been able to answer some of them. Black-and-whites are angled all over the street. The Landis yard and sidewalk has been sectioned off, and a crowd is forming behind the yellow crime scene tape. Birds are starting to twitter in the trees, the street lamps are winking off.

Riordan materializes and says he’s going to drive you home.

In silence, you walk down the shady street. Riordan holds his hand out and you surrender your keys. It feels, well, a little symbolic. Maybe you should have chosen to drive. Maybe not.

You look at him, at the hard line of his jaw, the severe haircut, the almost shy way his eyes flick to yours and then away. You say, “I don’t know your first name.”

“Jake.” He does it again. Looks at you. Looks away.

Neither of you speaks as you sit in the Bronco waiting for the engine to warm. Riordan yawns so widely his jaw cracks. He scrubs his face with his hands. Gives you a sideways look. “You know, this won’t be an easy thing, Adrien.”

“The investigation you mean?”

“No.” He gives you a funny, twisted grin. Like he thinks the joke is on him. He says softly, “No, I don’t mean that.”

You stare out at the first blush of sunrise lighting the surrounding Chatsworth hills. You look back at him.

He’s smiling at you.

The End

W
hat the heck. You only live once, right?

With a sense of déjà vu you, shove back the ornate security gate, unlock the glass front doors, and let him in.

Riordan stares at you for a long, long moment.

You open your mouth to say something smart-assed about making house calls, but then you don’t. It occurs to you that, unbelievable as it is, he’s off-balance and a little uncertain. And it’s not a feeling he likes.

This could go a number of ways, and not all of them pleasant.

So you tell the truth. “I’ve been thinking about you all night.”

That must be the right thing to say because next thing you know you’re in his arms and he’s kissing you. When you stop for breath, he mutters, “I can’t believe how much I like kissing you.”

Which…is probably a compliment although it seems a little grudging.

“I like kissing you too,” you offer. It’s the truth. You could get used to the firm press of his warm mouth against yours.

“I want to fuck you.”

“I want to fuck
you
,” you say.

He goes very still.

“Just kidding,” you say. Although…wow. You
would
like that. You already know, even before he backs you into a bookshelf and starts working the fastening to your jeans, that he does not negotiate on this point. And that’s okay. The take charge attitude is kind of relaxing. For now.

You try to slip your arms around his neck and initiate a second kiss. He kisses you back with hungry efficiency, pulling your arms above your head and yanking your jeans down. Which takes a couple of yanks because you’re skinny and you like your jeans to fit properly.

His tongue tastes warm and gingery, like he was sucking on a Red Hot or an Atomic Fireball on the drive over. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would have a sweet tooth, but that’s kind of a snap judgment given that you barely know him. His tongue pushes against yours. He’s kissing you hotly, wetly, deeply. The odd idea goes through your mind that this is his idea of a passionate kiss and maybe not natural to him. It’s skilful, though. No question. Your mind is whirling by the time he’s got both your cocks free.

There’s a crazy
Star Wars
moment, what with the stiff and dueling light sabers and Riordan breathing in your ear like Darth Vader. He takes your cock in his hand and proceeds to pump you with strong, even strokes. It’s effective, if maybe a little too workmanlike. You can’t help wondering how he’d be if he was relaxed and knew you a little better, didn’t feel establishing the boundaries was a priority. You’d like to keep a little corner of your brain detached and focused on business too, but it just feels too good. Even if his grip is a little tight and the pace a little too brisk.