L. A. Heat (9 page)

“At least with Kyle I’m trying,” Des said. “You
can’t see past a pair of tight jeans and a pretty face.”

“Des—”

“Rick, I was hoping to see you.” Bobby slid his
hand down Chris’s neck, kneading the tight skin above his collarbone. “Spare a
seat?”

“This one’s free—” Des stood up so fast his chair
crashed into the table behind them. A heavily rouged and hennaed drag queen
shot them an evil look before going back to her Cosmo, her three-inch fuchsia
nails beating an irritated tattoo on her glass.

Chris scrambled for the door, but Des was faster.
By the time he hit the sidewalk Des had already snared Kyle and was walking
down the boulevard toward Sunset.

Chris got in front of them and forced Des to stop.

“What are you doing?”

“Leaving.” Des walked around him, his hand firmly
tucked into Kyle’s. “I’ve had enough of your lectures. I’m going home with the
man I love.”

“Jesus, Des.” Chris eyeballed Kyle with a
jaundiced eye. The look was returned. “Let’s at least have dinner—”

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Des said.

Kyle squeezed Des’s hip and nuzzled his throat.
“That’s if I let you out of bed, stud muffin.”

Chris watched them disappear behind a wall of
jostling men. A shiver crab-crawled up his spine. Suddenly it was as if he was
back in the disturbing dream he’d had the day after his Lexus was vandalized.
All at once he didn’t want to leave the safety of the bar. But he didn’t want
Des to walk off like that.

Did he dare follow? Was he willing to risk his
friendship with Des over a stupid argument they’d both forget the next day?
Spinning around, he hurried back into the noisy, crowded Pit.

He squeezed past the press of bodies crowded
around the bar. Bobby was sitting at their table, drinking what was left of
Chris’s martini. He was already drunk.

“Shit, man.” He tilted the glass back and drained
the last mouthful. “Why don’t you drink something decent like Bud?”

“Feel free to order what you want.” Chris snatched
his drink back. He grimaced, put the glass back on the chintz tablecloth, and
stood up. “On second thought, I’m going anyway.”

“Why don’t you grab some shooters while you’re at
it?” He smirked. “Get me a blowjob.”

Chris had no intention of indulging in a game of
downing shooters with this guy. If he got drunk he’d probably do something
stupid like take Bobby home. He came back with the beer, another martini, and
the Kahlúa, Bailey’s, and Amaretto concoction for Bobby, which he downed with
smooth practice. Only then did Bobby seem to realize Chris had not indulged.

“Waiting for another emergency?”

Chris shrugged. “I’m on call.”

“Life sucks.” Bobby swallowed half his beer and
burped. “And then you die. Well I’m not—on call that is, or dead.” He lurched
to his feet, waving his shot glass. “I’m gonna have some fun. Hey, bartender,
another one of these.”

Even half drunk, Bobby moved with a grace that was
enviable. Chris sipped his martini and watched, remembering what Bobby looked
like in bed. Naked and hungry. All a brilliant fake-out.

Chris suddenly didn’t feel like playing the game.

“Most people come to these places to have fun,”
the voice in his ear made him jump.

He swung around to find Trevor smiling down at
him.

“You do not look like a man having fun,” Trevor
said.

“You just don’t recognize extreme ecstasy when you
see it.”

Trevor leaned down until his warm breath brushed
Chris’s face. “Hmm, you’re right. I don’t.” He slid his fingers through Chris’s
short hair. Lowering his head, he covered Chris’s mouth with his.

After some serious tonsil hockey Trevor finally
backed off. He straddled a chair and grinned across at Chris. Chris’s mouth was
numb and his heart beat a rough tattoo. “Jesus, what was that for?”

Trevor ran his thumb over Chris’s lips. “I don’t
need a reason. Do you?”

Chris shivered. He thought of what Des had said
and wondered if there was any truth to his words. And would going home with
Trevor change anything? It would be fun, but would it end up being just another
one-night stand he regretted the next day?

“Hey, lover, let’s ditch this dump and go have
some fun.” Bobby slid back into the seat he had vacated only minutes before. “I
got some nose candy. Or I know where we can score some X, if you’re
interested.”

“He’s not,” Trevor said. He tugged at Chris’s ear
and slipped warm hands up under Chris’s Izod shirt. “Let’s go back to your
place. We can crack open another bottle of wine and compare notes.”

“Maybe,” Chris said, refusing to commit, tempted
all the same by Trevor’s offer. He wished Bobby would take the hint and find
someone else. Still, he couldn’t resist saying, “Maybe I’ll go home alone.”

“That’d be a real waste,” Trevor said.

The noise level in the bar cranked up. A band was
warming up on the tiny stage, and the sound check throbbed over the speakers.

It was retro night at the Pit. The band struck up
the opening chords of ABBA’s “Dancing Queen.” Chris leaned back, letting the
noise and a warm haze of lust wash over him. Maybe this evening wouldn’t be
such a waste after all.

The yelling sounded like it was outside at first.
It quickly moved inside. A surge of bodies near the door broke apart as someone
came hurtling in from the street. In the garish light from the stage the blood
covering him looked black on his dark skin.

“Oh, God,” Des shouted. “They’re going to kill
him!”

Monday,
7:10 pm, The Nosh Pit, Hyperion Avenue,

Silver
Lake, Los Angeles

David could still make out the
words “cock” and “
joto
,” the Spanish slang term for faggot, on the
whitewashed walls of the Nosh Pit. He stared at the windowless building with
growing apprehension. Did he really want to go in there? More obscenities
covered the sidewalk and the business next door. It looked like someone had
wielded a sloppy brush in an attempt to cover up the nastier obscenities.

Joto
was a term he’d heard all too
recently, when he’d called Martinez to tell him he was going to check out the
Nosh Pit.

“Better you than me,
mi hermano
,” Martinez
had said. “Do me a favor, and don’t tell me all about it tomorrow, especially
if some cute little
joto
hits on you.”

There was a knot of men crowding around the
recessed entrance, and at first David thought it was a queue. Then he realized
the tension in the crowd had nothing to do with waiting.

He heard the yelling and grabbed his radio,
calling for backup.

A motley collection of four Latino teens had
pinned a fifth man to the graffiti-covered wall. They had already given him a
bloody nose and split lip. Ignoring David’s shouted warning they pushed their
victim to the sidewalk and one raised a booted foot.

“Police,” David shouted, hand resting on the butt
of his Glock. “Stand down. Hands where I can see them. Now!”

One of the teens looked at David and sneered. “
Bastardo...
joto... usted merece esto
.” When the black-and-white skidded to the curb,
doors flying open before it came to a stop, the teens broke and ran. David
grabbed one and slammed him against the wall, jerking his arm back and sliding
out his cuffs all in one move. He snicked the cuffs in place and shoved the
teenager to the ground. With a grunt he stepped sideways to avoid the man’s
boot. He shot his left foot out and clipped a second one on the kneecap. The
teen yelled and stumbled backward.

David was on him before he could recover his
balance. Under a barrage of curses in Spanish and English, David cuffed him,
then knelt by the battered man slumped against the wall, making a quick
assessment of the victim. Blood from his face dripped onto the sidewalk,
collecting in a dark pool. His lip had been split and already one eye was
puffing out. In a few more hours he’d have a nice shiner. David flipped out his
cell.

“I’m calling an ambulance, sir—” he said as he
started punching in numbers.

“What the hell is going on here?”

Fingers still poised over the keypad, David spun
around to find Chris Bellamere standing less than three feet away, arms folded
over his chest. “Jesus. What’s going on here? You always bring this kind of
trouble with you?”

Return to Contents

Monday,
7:35 pm, The Nosh Pit, Hyperion Avenue,

Silver
Lake, Los Angeles

“HEY.” TREVOR SKIDDED to a halt
beside Chris. “What the hell’s going on—”

“I’m not sure.” He turned away when Trevor slipped
his arm around his waist. The guy was definitely into staking his claim
tonight. “Des, are you okay?”

“Kyle! Oh, honey, are you all right—” A battered
Des darted forward and fell to his knees at Kyle’s side. His lover’s normally
pretty, perpetually sneering face was a mask of pain. He flinched when Des
gently touched him.

“Excuse me, Mr. Bellamere,” David said. “You know
these people?”

“Yes.” Chris shook off Trevor’s possessive arm.
“Des, hon, why don’t you get Kyle to a hospital—”

“Ambulance is on its way,” David said. He snapped
his cell phone shut.

“Thank you, officer,” Des said.

“While we wait, can I get a statement?”

“They just came out of nowhere,” Des said. “They
started shouting, then one of them hit me. The next thing I know Kyle was
screaming—”

From the ground Kyle protested, “I was not
screaming.”

“Honey, it’s okay. They’re animals. We were both
afraid.”

Chris studied the two shackled bodies lying on
their stomachs on the sidewalk and the other two who had already been deposited
in the back of the black-and-white. The grungier of the two, his nose a smear
of blood from his abrupt contact with the pavement, glared up at them.

“Did you see anything?” David asked Chris.

“What good would it do if I said I did?”

“We take these crimes very seriously—”

“Sure you do. What are you doing down here
anyway?”

A siren howl warned of the approaching ambulance.
Des helped Kyle to his feet.

“It’s all over here.” Trevor squeezed Chris’s arm.
“Why don’t we go back to your place?”

Two EMTs emerged from the ambulance and began a
low-voiced conversation with Kyle. One of them flashed a light in his eyes and
probed his head for the extent of his injuries.

“You should accompany us to the hospital, sir,” he
said.

Kyle shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“Come on, Kyle.” Des tugged gently at his lover.
“Go with them.”

“I just want to go home.”

David snapped his notebook shut. “I’ll drop you at
your place. You can finish giving me your statement there.”

“Thank you, officer.” Des all but dragged Kyle
over to David’s car. “We accept your offer.”

“I’m going with you,” Chris said.

Chris was sure David was going to protest. So when
David jerked his shaggy head at his car he was surprised. Just then a second
police car angled to a stop behind the ambulance.

After loading the two cuffed men into the back of
the car, David spent another ten minutes giving a report while the uniformed
cops eyed them all suspiciously. For a while Chris thought for sure they were
all going to be arrested, then the cops took their prisoners and left.

Trevor tried one last time to dissuade Chris. He
leaned in through the open car door and said, “Come on, man, these guys can
look after themselves.”

Part of him wanted to go. He’d been looking
forward to some fun before all this started. But he knew he’d feel like shit if
he left now. “Des is my friend. I want to be there for him.”

“Chris—”

Chris spoke through clenched teeth. “Not tonight,
Trev.”

Trevor threw Des a look of pure frustration before
he stalked off. Chris sighed and slid into the front passenger seat.

David cranked the engine. “Where to?”

“North Palm Drive.”

“Sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?” David
asked.

“We’re sure. They said there’s no sign of
concussion,” Des said. “He’s just bruised.”

The house Des shared with Kyle in the flats of
Beverly Hills was a well-tended two-story cottage that, according to Des, had
once been owned by Imogene Coca. It was concealed behind a screen of trimmed
boxwood and a towering jacaranda tree. While Des led Kyle into the living room,
Chris ditched his jacket in the front foyer and went into the kitchen to
prepare an ice pack.

Des eased the pack over Kyle’s swelling eye. The
younger man winced. “Keep it on,” Des said firmly when he tried to push it
aside. “It’ll take the swelling down.”

David perched on the edge of the spindly-looking
Louis XIV chair that matched the sofa Des and Kyle occupied. He had his
notebook out. The cheap vinyl briefcase was on the floor beside the chair.

Chris made himself scarce in the kitchen. He
fussed with the kettle and put a pot of coffee on, and readied a tray with
mugs, cream, and sugar. He could hear the drone of voices from the living room.

David stood when Chris reentered the room. He left
Des to comfort his lover. “Any idea what happened back there?”

Chris shrugged. “They left the bar together. Next
thing Des is back, yelling that they’re killing him.” He studied David’s lean
face, wondering what lay behind that enigmatic countenance. What was it with
cops that they always seemed so cold? Were the unemotional ones drawn to the
job or did they have to learn to be unemotional? “What brought you around so
conveniently in the nick of time?” A thought just occurred to him. “You weren’t
following me, were you?”

Monday,
8:10 pm, North Palm Drive, Beverly Hills

DAVID THUMBED OPEN his briefcase
and pulled out one of the photos Richard Blake had given him earlier. It was a
picture Richard had taken on a family picnic at the Los Angeles Zoo. It was the
last family outing Jay had attended.