Infected: Shift Page 17

  After the call, Roan lay on the bench and looked up at the ceiling, wondering how best to ask what he wanted to ask and what he would do about it. Luckily, Grey had gone off to take a quick shower, so he had a couple minutes to think.

  As soon as the water stopped, Roan asked, “What happened after I left this morning?”

  “Huh?”

  “Did you go out or something?”

  “No man, I went back to bed. I probably would have slept all day except the neighbor started his leaf blower. Then I figured I had some energy to burn and decided to come here, which is when I called you. That’s about it. Why?”

  “I suppose Scott is your alibi.” The ever-loyal team captain, looking out for his men. Roan could count on him to say Grey was home sleeping, whether he was or not.

  “Yeah. Why?”

  He stopped staring at the ceiling and sat up with a sigh. It was incredibly hard to judge veracity by smell in a gym. The smell of sweat was far too prevalent, and the fact that Grey had just had a quick shower only added another layer of complications. He was going to have to go on other things. He glanced at Grey, who was at his locker, getting dressed. He flashed Roan his hard ass without any kind of humility—again, long-time athlete, locker room nudity was nothing to him—and while Roan noted clinically you could probably bounce a quarter off the thing and it was nice, he still felt no attraction to Grey. Maybe his mind just wasn’t in that space right now. He felt an invisible cloak of doom settling on his shoulders. “Michael Brand’s dead.”

  Grey finished stepping into his underwear—sporty black boxer briefs—and looked back at him, not surprised but still a little confused. “Oh, yeah? What happened?”

  “They’re not sure. It looks like a suicide, but homicide’s investigating. Did you kill him, Grey?”

  The funny thing was, the question didn’t faze him in any way. He was either extremely innocent or terminally guilty. “If I did, I’d be bragging about it, the spineless little fuck. Somebody killed my girlfriend, I’d fucking kill them, not sit down and shut up.”

  “Yes, I suppose. But I note there wasn’t an actual denial in that statement.”

  Now a look of annoyance flashed across his face. “No, I didn’t kill the fuck. How could I? I don’t even know where he lives.”

  In the days of ubiquitous GPS units and Google Earth, did he trust that? Grey knew his name—he could find out the information easily. He didn’t seem like he was lying, but then again, he could just be very good at it. Why would he feel any guilt? He’d just said he’d kill anyone who touched his girlfriend. He’d kill anyone who hurt his friend’s little brother.

  Huh. Why did that just put a weird thought into his head?

  Roan asked, “Jamie was just a friend, right? No more?”

  Grey had stepped into his jeans and was in the process of putting on his T-shirt when he paused and looked at Roan again, shrugging his head through the shirt’s collar. “What d’ya mean?”

  “I think you know what I mean.”

  He scoffed, but mostly in a humorous way. “I ain’t gay, dude.”

  “You don’t have to be. I could sleep with a woman once and it wouldn’t make me straight.”

  There was something in his eyes, a sparkle, maybe mischievous, maybe humorous. He was amused by this. “Have you ever slept with a woman?”

  “No. Have you ever slept with a man?”

  His grin became wolfish. “Nope.”

  “Let me rephrase that. Have you ever slept with a transsexual?”

  “I think you’ve got the wrong angle on this. Jamie was like my little brother, you know? That’s all.”

  Did he believe him? “Those letters Jamie sent to you… I thought perhaps he had an unrequited crush on you. Maybe it wasn’t so unrequited.”

  “You don’t believe me.” Not a question, as he slipped on a windbreaker with the Falcons logo on the back.

  “I don’t know. I think you’re very loyal to your teammates, Grey, to anyone you see as family. I think anyone hurts one of them, you will find them and make them pay, off the ice as well as on. I totally respect that, and I’m probably the same way. I think you have a bright future in the NHL, and I think Sean Brand is best left to the legal system, don’t you?”

  He shrugged, not quite committing to it. “Guess it depends on what the legal system does to him.”

  “He’s a dead man walking. Everybody on the streets knows he hurt Holden, and Holden surely has friends in prison. The end result won’t be pleasant.”

  “Good. He doesn’t deserve pleasant.”

  “No, he doesn’t. But I am telling you, for the sake of your future, walk away. Let this be done now. Jamie wouldn’t want you throwing everything away on this.”

  Grey gave him a measured look, one of intensity that confirmed Roan’s gut suspicion: Grey was a lot smarter than he let on. “You’re not gonna believe I’m innocent, huh?”

  “Would you believe I was?”

  He smiled again, but this time it was almost charming, far more gentle, and less calculated. “Guess not. If we’re giving out advice, can I give you some?”

  “If you’re gonna tell me to fuck off, you can skip it.”

  He was still all good-natured smiles. “No way. You’re a good guy, Roan, and you’re really good at your job. That’s awesome. But why don’t you stop holding back?”

  He honestly wasn’t sure what he meant by that. “Huh?”

  “I’m at peak fitness, you know? I’ve trained hard to be, and I got what, about twenty pounds of muscle on you? But you kicked my ass out there. You kicked the ass of those skinheads while everybody just stood back and gawped, and you weren’t afraid of their redneck buddies who jumped us over at Grind. Switzer and Brand never had a chance, did they? You shouldn’t hide it.”

  “Hide what? I’m a freak, Grey. I thought that’s why you hired me.”

  “It’s a gift.” Roan scoffed at that, but Grey seemed oddly sincere. “It’s a talent. If the world ain’t ready for it, fuck ’em. They need you, they just don’t know it. Show ’em.”

  Roan shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “Course I do. The world needs its enforcers too. Someone has to keep the jackholes from preying on the weak. Sometimes you need a predator to take out the other predators.” He donned his iPod but only stuck one earbud in, letting the other dangle around his neck. When he turned it on, Roan recognized the song.

  “You listen to These Arms Are Snakes?”

  “Well, I wondered about that shirt you were wearing, so I Googled the name. They rock, man. I was gonna see if I could play ’em at our next warm-up skate. They’d get us pumped. Oh, and the offer still stands, you know—whatever team I’m on, you and the boyfriend get free tickets. You’ll always be on the list.”

  Grey headed for the exit, and Roan’s head was reeling. He’d thrown so much at him in so little time. It was feasible that Michael, ruin of a man that he was, finally couldn’t take it anymore and had killed himself. It was equally likely Grey had killed him. He was a big man, and he honestly could have forced Michael to hold a gun to his head and pull the trigger. Michael was so broken, and Grey was so forceful, he could have easily made him do anything. He could have even berated him into suicide, shoved pictures of Jamie into his face until he snapped from the guilt. Absolutely anything was possible. And the worst part? Roan didn’t want to know the truth. He was content to leave it here, as long as nothing happened to Sean before sentencing. “Walk away, Grey,” he said.

  Grey glanced at him over his shoulder. “That’s exactly what I’m doin’,” he replied, still smiling, and winked as he tucked in his loose earbud and walked out the door.

  Well, whatever team ended up with Grey, they were going to get a guardian off the ice as well as on. He honestly hoped that they were ready for it.

  For a time afterwards, Roan sat in his car, trying to figure out what to do. Not about the case; the case was closed. He was wondering what to do with himse
lf. Once the Vicodin kicked in, he kind of didn’t care.

  It was funny, the dichotomy of his day. Dropkick telling him to hide his lion tendencies and now Grey telling him to show them off. One was a friend of his for quite a few years, the other a client who just might have calmly killed someone before showing up to spar with him. It was obvious who he should listen to, but did he want to?

  He shoved it aside and went to Holden’s place to pick up his iPod and get him some clothes. He looked in his bedroom closet for a bag, finding a backpack, but at the same time he saw Holden’s closet had an obvious division in it: the left half had some clothes in it, pretty much average, everyday clothes, while the more crowded right side held what must have been his hooker gear. Leather, tight T-shirts, spandex shirts even, designer jeans, camouflage clothing, a couple of random whips. (He already knew about it, but it was always a little surprising to see it. Although he was used to Fiona carrying a riding crop in her purse, because in her hands it was a weapon of self-defense.) But how weird was it that Holden kept the closet sides separated like that? There was a huge empty space in the middle, so none of his regular clothes touched his hooker gear. There was Holden’s dichotomy in an obvious, visible form; he kept his Fox identity so different from his Holden identity that he wouldn’t even allow their clothes to touch. How did he keep from going insane or using crack?

  Roan then swung by a used bookshop on the way and picked up a couple of paperbacks, mostly for Holden, good stuff he thought he should read, and then went to Dick’s Drive-In and got a couple of monstrously greasy and unhealthful—but oh so good—burgers, one for himself. He ate his in a QFC parking lot before running into the store to pick up a can of papaya nectar imported from Mexico. Hey, Holden wanted papaya juice, and he was going to get it.

  Sadly, they all knew him at the hospital. Busy nurses waved him past, at least one doctor (and possibly an intern) said hello to him in the corridor, and no one looked at him twice as he walked into Holden’s room.

  Holden must have been doing okay, because even though he was hooked up to at least one IV, he was sitting up, flipping through a magazine he must have gotten from a waiting room. “Can you believe there are people in the world who actually give a shit about Miley Cyrus?” he asked, tossing the magazine onto the floor.

  “It’s a fucked-up world,” Roan admitted, slipping off the backpack and gently plopping it on Holden’s lap.

  “You got my food, right?”

  “Look in there, greedy.”

  He unzipped the backpack and found the grease-stained brown bag first, eagerly tearing into it as Roan made sure the curtain separating Holden from his roommate blocked the view of the illegal food. Whoever they were, they must have been on decent drugs, as they were very faintly snoring. “Thank you,” Holden said around a mouth full of burger, cracking open the can of papaya nectar. “I’d marry you if I believed in monogamy.”

  Roan found a chair and brought it over and sat there as Holden inhaled his cholesterol bomb in a few big bites. After he was done, wiping the grease off his face and hands with the paper napkins, he gave Roan a funny look. “What?” Roan asked.

  “You okay, Roan? You seem… gone.”

  He looked down at himself to make sure he hadn’t suddenly become a hologram. “I believe I’m here.”

  “You know what I mean. Has something gone wrong with the case?”

  He shook his head. “Case is closed. Sean and Switzer killed Jasmine. Switzer will get blamed for it, and Sean will go to jail for assaulting you. It’s done. How are you feeling?”

  Holden stared at him for a long moment, as if studying him. Finally he said, “Okay. I’m a little achy, but I’m on heavy-duty painkillers, so it’s all good. What about you?”

  He shrugged. “I’m okay.”

  “No, I was asking if you were on heavy-duty painkillers too.” Roan gave him an evil look, but Holden was already going through the backpack. “Ah, thanks for the clothes. I can’t wait to get out of here. What’re the books?”

  “Ken Bruen and Joseph Hansen. Classics that will probably never make it into any literature class.”

  Holden looked at the cover and the backs of the books, frowning in thought. “Mysteries?”

  “Yes, but not Agatha Christie. Also, gay people apparently exist, and not just as villains or sissy hairdressers.”

  He gasped in mock horror. “No! Those filthy perverts?”

  “It takes all kinds.”

  “Apparently.” Holden put the books aside, and stared at him in an eerily intense way. “What’s wrong?”

  “What makes you think something is wrong?”

  “Your thousand-yard stare, for one. I mean, it could be pills, but you usually function amazingly well on pills.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Take it as a compliment. Now what’s wrong?”

  Roan wasn’t going to tell him, but was he really going to be mad at Holden for accusing him of being on pills? He was on pills! He supposed Holden should get points for being observant. “I think my life is slipping out of control.” Why on Earth did he say that?

  Holden gave him a look suggesting he was thinking much the same thing. Then he sighed and scratched his head, making his IV line wiggle. “Wow, I expect that from clients, not from you. Three things spring to mind: One, you’ve finally noticed? Two, you didn’t use the past tense, suggesting some further illumination is necessary. Three, do you want a hit from my IV?”

  “Are you done?”

  “I think so. No, wait… yeah, I’m done.”

  “Good, ’cause I think I have to go to the office. I have things to do.”

  “Like what? Slip further out of control?”

  “See if I ever tell you anything again.” He got up but was too tired to feign anger. He was a little annoyed, but not angry. Maybe because all Holden’s hits were painfully on target.

  “You’ll have to. I’m your assistant investigator.”

  “Then you’d best learn pig Latin.”

  Holden shook his head and gave him a strangely weary, affectionate look he was more accustomed to seeing from Dylan. “Thanks for the stuff. And maybe you need to take a break, step back, and decide what you want in life.”

  “What I want? That’s easy. To pay my bills on time.”

  A nurse showed up then, and Holden hid the burger wrappers as Roan kept her momentarily distracted by asking what the time was. He was shooed out, but Holden had successfully stowed away the evidence.

  Even though he’d told Fiona to take the day off, Roan went back to the office and cleaned up some paperwork, as well as running a background check he’d put off, along with a skip trace. All painfully boring, which might have been why he fell asleep at some point. Presumably, the Vicodin and the adrenaline crash didn’t help either.

  He woke up to find it had become night on him. Already? That was quick. He’d also drooled a bit on his desk, but on papers that didn’t matter. He had several messages waiting for him on his cell, but he didn’t bother to check them. He wasn’t ready to face anyone just yet.

  Still, he closed up the office and stopped in the first fast-food place along the way (a Jack In The Box) and scarfed down a breakfast burrito and a shake, as he was utterly famished. He hadn't partially transformed during the sparring match—at least not to his knowledge—but his body was behaving like it had. Which was fine, it always kind of did its own thing anyways. He looked out the windows at the traffic driving by, eating in his car so he didn’t have to listen to that fucking pop music everybody pumped everywhere nowadays (he missed the days when stores were quiet—good lord, how old was he?), and wondered what he wanted from life beyond paying bills. He wasn’t sure anymore. Probably not a good thing.

  He checked his phone. A couple of messages were from Murphy, and he wasn’t sure he could take her yet; one was from Grey, and again, not ready; the last one was from Dylan, and he listened to it. “Where are you?” he asked, sounding equally worried and annoyed. “I hope you’re ok
ay. I was expecting you back by now. Murphy’s called, she says you’re not answering your cell… she doesn’t sound happy. So if you’re ducking her, I understand, but… oh shit. I’ll see you after work, I hope.”

  Dylan was worrying about him again. He hated that. He also hated that Murphy calling in high dudgeon probably made it worse. He called Dylan, but got his message, and checking the time, Roan knew that was because he was at work and away from his phone. So he decided to pay him a visit instead.

  Since it was midweek, he found a place close to Panic to park and was mildly surprised to see a few people waiting to get in. Mighty Mouse—the huge bouncer with the tiny voice—saw him and waved him in, bypassing the line, which made the crowd complain. “He’s security,” Mighty Mouse told them, quieting them down.