Silver Shorts #31: Personal Business Chapter Five

My first PI novel continues, part of the Silver Shorts anthologies at Silver Publishing. They're available for the low, low price of... free! Just go here and download a copy!

As you'll recall from last time Holden Heidegger has just come face to face with the man who dumped him fifteen years ago. So, will Jeremy recognize him? And how does Holden feel about the situation. Let's find out!

Personal Business: Chapter Five

The years have been more than kind to Mr. Daniels in many ways. Mother Nature obviously loves him—he’s filled out in all the right places. I suspect he has a personal gym and he knows how to use it. Even underneath the expensive clothes, I can tell that is one fine-looking body. Having access to money hasn’t hurt him any, either. He always did like to dress well. It was just harder before. Neither one of us came from money. He married into it and I still don’t have it. But then I wasn’t exactly looking for it; I guess he was.

Is he happy? Stupid question. He’s cheating on his wife. That should tell me something. I know I don’t have any proof of that, not yet, but I’ve taken on enough of these kind of cases to know that when the wife gets a whiff that there’s something going on, there generally is, ‘cause they tend to be the last ones to know.  Part of that where there’s smoke, there’s fire syndrome.

I suspect Mr. Jeremy Daniels is one smoldering fire, waiting to release his flames at the first opportunity.

I catch myself staring directly into his gorgeous brown eyes. I drop my gaze to his pale pink lips, with the perfect Cupid’s bow, and I try not to remember how good those lips used to taste when they were locked with mine. So I drop my gaze even farther and fixate on his broad, smooth jaw instead, lightly stubbled and looking way more chic than any look I could hope to carry off. So much for objectivity. This isn’t working out very well for me, is it? I’m fighting every inner demon I possess, the ones with his name branded on 

them, and they’re screaming at me to do something—anything—and do it right now.

I manage to ignore them.

Has he been talking? I really should concentrate more.

Have I changed so much? Hell if I know. I’ve gotten a little taller, added a little weight; I’m not as skinny as I used to be, I guess, but who is? I can still wear most of my old jeans when I’ve a mind to. The ones that I haven’t worn clean through. I know I look older than the last time he saw me, but hell, it’s been fifteen years. And I knew him in a heartbeat. Why doesn’t he know me? Is that common sense or hurt pride speaking up?

“I asked you who you are, and why you’re carrying a gun in my hotel?”

Damn, he did ask me something.

“Just an ordinary guy doin’ my job, Mr. Daniels.” I pull off my hat, and run a hand through my hair to get it to settle down some, because common sense has just kicked in and booted my emotional side out of the way—I’ve figured it out. Why he doesn’t recognize me. Yet. I didn’t wear one of these back then, and a hat is a great way for people to not pay attention to your face. Criminals use them all the time; I remember my dad telling me that. Witnesses pick up on the fact that someone wore a hat and they can’t tell you what the face beneath it looked like. The silver hoops are new too. Part of my rehabilitation, after he left. I guess when you get down to it I have changed a bit since high school. Only natural. So has he.

I wait for his reaction, force myself to assume a calm demeanor, one that I’m far from feeling, to hide how much I’m quivering on the inside. Damned if I’m going to let him know just how badly he’s upset my equilibrium even after all this time. I watch him carefully as he does a double take. He narrows his eyes and he’s looking straight into my soul now; his expression’s impossible to read; like a poker player studying a potentially winning hand and deciding how to play it. I don’t cut him any slack, simply stare back at him. He’ll either figure it out or he won’t.

“Well I’ll be damned…” And there it is. That slow lazy smile I used to know so well, the one that lights up his eyes and used to make me tingle inside. Guess what? It still does.

And I know that he knows. And he knows I know he knows.

A polite—make that bored—cough from the doorway is a reminder that the rent-a-cops are still standing there. With my gun. 

“I’ll take that,” Jeremy holds out his hand toward them, his eyes still locked on mine.

“Mr. Daniels,” one of the witless wonders ventures, but Jeremy snaps his head toward him, and he ceases and desists whatever protest he was about to make. Quietly lays my piece in his boss’ outstretched hand.

“Thank you for your diligence in this matter. I’ll call you if I need you.” He’s gone from irate to charming in six seconds flat.

While Jeremy deals with his subordinates, I look around me at his grand and glorious office. He certainly has come up in the world.  Large, dark, expensive-looking desk that looks like it’s pure mahogany. No gunmetal grey cabinets in sight, nothing to show that this man works for a living, or does anything quite so mundane as filing. He probably has a pretty little secretary to handle that sort of thing for him; no doubt she has a desk of her own in an adjoining office. Isn’t that how it usually works? Someone to bring him his coffee and take dictation while sitting in his lap?

At least in some of the old movies I’ve seen.

The office is done up in rich, warm tones—all reds and browns—with gold trimmed everything. The art on the walls could easily rival the stuff they got hanging in the Louvre. I’m not surprised to see that he’s got his own elegant bar set against the back wall; the top’s covered with cut glass decanters and bottles of assorted liquors and mixers.

Now this is interesting. I spot two glasses sitting on the bar, looking out of place as though they’ve been hastily set out of the way, and they’re both barely touched. I don’t imagine Jeremy’s devolved into a two-fisted drinker, so I wonder if my unexpected arrival has managed interrupted something. A tryst, maybe? But with whom? Where is this mystery person, and can I be on to something? Of course, this isn’t exactly proof of any infidelity. I need to find more solid evidence than this before I can even think about going back to his wife to tell her the unpleasant news.

Jeremy closes the door, having shooed out the faux lawmen, and now we’re alone, and my stomach is tied up in knots, but I don’t let on ‘cause I sure as hell don’t intend to let him know how badly he hurt me.

Play it cool, boy… real cool.

“Holden…” His voice is whiskey soft as he crosses the room, coming straight for me. For someone who ran out on me without a word of explanation—and I don’t count his terse “We’re done”—he sure seems to have forgotten all about the past. Our past, anyway. I can’t decide if I’m more relieved, or affronted.

“Holden, it’s been so long…” He lays my gun on his desk, removes my hat from my hand and sets it on top of the gun, then reaches for my hands, takes them into his, and pulls me in for a light kiss before I realize what his intentions are. I submit with as good a grace as I can muster—not even going to go there, ‘specially not with my client’s husband. Remember her? The lady who’s paying you?  I take a step backward, but all that gets me is my ass plastered against the bar with nowhere to go.

“You’re looking good,” he says. “Come on, let’s sit down and catch up. Let me fix you a drink. What are you drinking these days? You name it, I’ve got it.”

While it’s a tempting offer, I think I’ve put enough liquor away for one evening, and I am working, so let’s be sensible here. As sensible as I can be, under the circumstances. Better to keep a clear head, all things considered.

“Nothing for me, thanks, I’m working,” I demur.

“Working?”  He arches his thick, dark eyebrows at me; on another man, they’d be considered Neanderthal, but on him, they’re just sexy.  “Sorry I don’t have any root beer. Will water do, instead?”

I’ll be damned. He remembered.

Water actually sounds real good, and I nod, not trusting my voice. He leans down and opens the door of a mini-fridge concealed in the bar, one I hadn’t noticed, and pulls out a plastic bottle, handing it to me. Our fingers touch, and I’m surprised to feel a low-grade tingle shoot through me, like I’ve just touched a live wire. I take the bottle, pull back, and step around him, mumbling, “Thanks.”

I notice he picks up one of the two drinks. I wonder what happened to his partner in crime? Did he shoo her into the next office to await our departure? Was he afraid she’d be recognized if she tried to make her escape, or is he just waiting this out to return to whatever was interrupted?

I notice there’s another door on the other side of the room. If the first one leads to his secretary’s office, I’m guessing this one’s a private washroom. Being boss certainly has its perks. In my office building, we’re stuck with communal lavatories and grateful to have them.

He waves me to the elegant oxblood Chesterfield sofa along one wall and I perch on the edge, afraid if I sink back too far I won’t want to come up for a long time. He takes a seat beside me, turned toward me, his knees touching mine.

“How do you mean, you’re working?” He takes a sip of his drink, regarding me curiously over the rim. 

“What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a private investigator.” I’m a real big believer in the truth. I think that’s part of why I do what I do. Something that was instilled in me by my old man, this love of justice. Of righting wrongs and making things better. Even when the truth is a bitter pill to swallow.

Doesn’t mean I intend to tell him that I’m investigating him, of course. My father didn’t raise any stupid sons.

Jeremy’s smile is so disarming. He’s so at ease with himself, and the situation, and being king of his own hill. Does he have no conscience? No memory of what he did to me? Or is it all part of a past he left behind with 

no regrets?

If he can do it so easily, why can’t I? I thought I had until tonight. Now I’m not so sure.

“Are you investigating one of my guests?”  His tone is even; he shows just the right amount of concern for someone with a business to run, someone who would not care for adverse publicity of any sort.

“Sorry, I’m really not at liberty to say.”

“Okay, Holden, I trust you.” He pats my knee and smiles that smile, and I have to keep reminding myself that this is strictly business. Even if it weren’t, why would I ever take him back again?

“You know, I can remember when all you wanted out of life was to be a cowboy.”

“Yeah, like when I was maybe six. I got over that a long time ago.”

“To be honest, I always figured you’d end up a cop, like Stan.  You and him were always so close. How’s the old guy doing? He ever retire from the force? Or he still making this world a safer place to live?”

I look down at the bottle of water, still unopened, and twirl it between my palms for an uncomfortable moment; I should have realized he didn’t know. “Jeremy, Dad passed on seven years ago.”

“Oh God, Holden, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.” He slides his arm about my shoulder, and the heat I feel emanating from him is echoed by my own rising temperature.

This is not good.

Thinking quickly, I let the bottle of water slip through my fingers, grateful it can’t spill. “Oops, butter fingers,” I mumble, ducking beneath his touch in order to pick it up. “ ’Sall right, I figured you didn’t know.”

I straighten up, slide myself a little farther down on the sofa and manage to put a few inches between us in the process. “What about you?” I aim the conversation in other directions. I don’t want to talk about Dad. Not here, not now, and not with him.

“Me? I run a hotel.” His laugh is a rumble, low and throaty.

“I kind of noticed that.” I force a half-way cheesey grin onto my face. “I mean, how’d you get into this?” I wave my hand, indicating the whole set-up—fabulous office and everything—pretending that I don’t know he married his way in. “Last I remember you wanted to be a drummer in a rock and roll band. What happened to that dream?”

“Reality, that’s what happened.” He shrugs. “And lack of talent. After high school, I got married. To the boss’ daughter. I guess you can say I got really lucky.”

Or she got really unlucky.

“So that’s what happened to you, is it?” Does my tone sound as bitchy as I think it does? Way to not mix in the sins of the past.

“Holden…” He reaches for my hands again, first taking the water out of my grasp, and he’s looking into my eyes most earnestly, and for just a moment I think I see something… A trace of remorse? Repentance? 

Regret for what might have been? “There’s so much I need to say to you… things I need to explain—“

“No, you don’t owe me any explanation, Jeremy. Life goes on, right? I survived… you survived… Hell, the whole world’s still turning, right? No harm done…” I reach down toward the floor to grab the wayward water—something tells me I’ll be better off with something in my hand, something that isn’t Jeremy—but he forestalls my movement, and the next thing I know, he’s pulled me into his arms, and he’s got our lips pressed so slightly together that I can’t properly breathe and my head is spinning.

He pushes me back until I’m lying flat  on that sofa with him on top, and he’s stretched out across me, just like old times, and much as I wish it wouldn’t, my second brain is rising to the occasion. Are those deep-throated moans that I hear? And are they really coming out of me?

I’m afraid so.

I should be pushing him off of me, telling him no, reminding him he’s married… but I’m worse than a teenager in heat, and it’s a bit late now to remember I haven’t had any in a while and I’m horny as hell.

Who am I kidding? I want him and I know it.

Thank heaven for divine providence in the form of a cell phone’s insistent ring. It stops him cold—something I sure wasn’t capable of doing—and he sits up, pulling it out of his pocket, glancing at it, then at me.

I’ve managed to sit up and I’m working at catching my breath, while trying to calm down my better half, who’s making my life damned miserable at the moment, not to mention  it’s making sitting mighty uncomfortable.

“Holden, I’m sorry, I have to take care of this. Hotel business… you understand?”

That’s my cue and I take it. Hightailing it to his desk, I pick up my hat and set it on my head, slide my gun back into its holster, out of sight.

“Give me your card, why don’t you? I can always use the services of a good PI.” He grins at me, not in the least bit sorry, or ashamed, or any of the other feelings I think should be coursing through him but aren’t. Without thinking, I reach for my wallet, pull out a business card, and let it flutter down to his desk. It’s only got my business number and the office address. Nothing personal.

“So we’re good, about this whole thing, right?” I’m referring to the wedding incident, whatever else he may think. Let him make of it what he will.

“I’ll call you,” he promises.

I can hardly wait.

“Keep me updated on that thing you’re investigating will you? I mean, as much as you can. For the hotel’s sake.”

Sure thing, Jeremy, let me just do that.

I give him a noncommittal and probably goofy grin as I slip out his door and close it behind me, and for just a moment I lean against it, gathering the energy to move on. It’s been one hellacious night and I just want to go home.

But something inside of me, some gut instinct, tells me not to go. Not yet. My intuition’s kicking in, and for what it’s worth, I’m going with it.

I spot a door between me and the elevator and without thinking hard about what I’m going to do, I head for it, praying it’s not locked. It’s not, and I step inside. Just me and a bunch of cleaning equipment. Makes sense. Must be one for every floor.

I close the door almost all the way, leaving it cracked just enough for me to peer through. From where I stand, I have a bird’s eye view of Jeremy’s office door. No one can go in or out without me noticing. It’s the out part I’m particularly concerned with, though, if my idea’s correct.

I have a hunch, one that I think I’m about to see proven correct, that his phone call was from his bit on the side, probably tired of having been tossed aside like yesterday’s news. Although I could be wrong, and instead of watching her come busting out with a full head of steam, maybe they’re making up and I’m going to end up standing here until my legs go numb while they party just a few feet away. An unpleasant scenario at best.

No, wait, the door’s opening now. A figure slips out, looks cautiously around, and proceeds toward the elevator. No sign of Jeremy. Lover boy must have said his good-byes already. I know how sentimental he isn’t.

The figure draws nearer, and I instinctively press closer into the shadows, keeping the door cracked the minimum I can still see through, but she never glances my way and as she passes by, I get a good hard look, and holy cow… I didn’t see this coming.

This mystery woman of Jeremy’s is actually a mystery man. Except there’s no mystery involved. I know exactly who he is—the cute blond bartender with the friendly manner and the pretty blue eyes.

Well, well, well, the plot has certainly thickened. There’s been an interesting development in a case that already began on the wrong side of strong. And now I definitely have something to go on; just a matter of following it up.

Looks like Mr. Daniels has reverted to his old ways—or perhaps he’s always had it, and his wife is the exception to that rule, instead of the other way around? That being the case, and if his preferences haven’t really changed, then his wife is in for a very rude awakening, I’m afraid.

And how hard will it be for me to be the one to rain on his parade?

to be continued

Until next time, take care!

♥ Julie

Silver Shorts #24: Personal Business Chapter Four

Welcome to more of the Silver Shorts, free fiction that's available in anthology form at the Silver Site. Just go here to get your copy!

This week, I'm continuing with my PI novel, Personal Business. As you'll recall in the last chapter, Holden was checking out the fancy hotel that his ex manages, owned by his father-in-law. This week, we find out how he reacts to the sighting. Enjoy!

Personal Business

I didn't know he could still affect me like this. Here I was sure that seeing him would do nothing to me, have no effect on me, because this is nothing but business, pure and simple. I've got a job to do, and I'm doing it. It's been over fifteen years since he broke my heart. I'm a big boy now, and I got over him a long time ago.

Yeah, keep telling yourself that.

Even from a distance, even after all the years and all the heartaches and the multitude of nasty names I've called him and the curses I've rained on him and his progeny, should he ever have any, he still makes me rock hard at the mere sight of him because obviously my cock has no sense of either decorum or timing.

Damn. This business just got personal.

I feel a tug on my arm, and I'm drawn from my own little slice of Hell and back to reality by the short brunette at my side. "Looks like everything's kosher now." She grins at me and for a split second I think she's talking about me and him, but how could she possibly know about us; then I realize that she's talking about the situation with the bride and her daddy. She licks her lips at me in a way too obvious manner—subtlety is not this girl's friend, not even a passing acquaintance. "It's time for the toasts. Save me that dance, handsome." She stretches up without warning and tries to lay one on me, but luckily her aim is faulty and her lips collide with my cheek instead, with a soft smack; she doesn't notice as she pivots and wobbles off to the head table, to my immense relief.

I need a drink and I need it right now.

I thread my way through the guests, like I'm wading through the middle of a cattle drive; they're responding to the universal call for attention—a spoon being clinked against a glass. I don't have to look to know it's the father of the bride; he seems to be the man in charge here. Between him and his daughter, they seem to wear the pants in this relationship; as far as I can see, the groom is there as an obligatory placeholder, because you can't have a wedding without one. I suspect they would if they could.

If I were one of the invited guests, I suppose I'd be heading to my seat too, despite the fact that listening to congratulatory toasts, wedding or otherwise, is boring at best, and decidedly cliché and banal, and often painful. Who am I kidding? I'd still be headed toward the bar, but perhaps without quite the same sense of urgency.

Blondie's still there. He seems surprised to see me, since everyone else is headed toward the watering trough. Guess he thought he was going to get a respite from pouring draft beers and mixing cocktails, handing out the occasional bottle of soda pop. Guess what? No rest for the weary. Especially those who serve the public in the form of dispensing alcoholic refreshments.

"The same?" he queries, giving me a bland, yet calculated look. If he remembers what I ordered, I'll be flattered, but I'll also be surprised. Maybe he's a more astute observer of the human condition than I had him pegged for.

Either way, the answer's no.

"Just the Jack. Neat. And make it a double."

If I expected a comment or a question, I'm wrong, 'cause he does neither. Simply turns around, picks up the bottle of Jack Daniels—I see he does remember that I drink black label—and a clean glass, and pours, sight gauging it rather than using a shot glass. When he starts to replace the bottle on the back bar, I reach out and arrest his movement, gripping his arm lightly but firmly.

"Might as well leave that, I aim to have a few."

He nods and settles the bottle back onto the bar. I release his arm, grab the glass and bolt it, letting it burn all the way down. "Another, please."

I bolt the second one as well. "Tough night?" he asks. I detect a trace of human kindness beneath the professional veneer, but he might as well save it, I'm not in the market. Or in the mood.

"Just thirsty." My eyes meet his and I dare him to make something out of my words, almost challenging him. He doesn't take the bait.

"Another?" is all he says. I nod and he does his thing. Suddenly he hands me one of the bar napkins. What, am I drooling or something. He motions to his cheek, and then I understand. The evidence must be in plain view. I take a swipe at it, and it comes away reddened.

Either I'm a slow drinker, or the toasts went down quicker than I expected they would. Maybe they didn't have anything particular to say, or maybe these people find it as boring as I do. For whatever reason, someone seems to have cued the band, because suddenly they've broken into "Unchained Melody", and the happy couple has taken their place on the dance floor while friends and family look on in loving adoration.

Like watching a ten car pile-up before the accident's even happened. Knowing it's going to happen, just not knowing when or how. At least that's my take on it, as viewed through the bottom of a glass of whiskey. No, I'm not drunk by any means, just cynical.

Happily ever after is the perfect ending that everyone strives for, the belief that nirvana can be ours if we only try hard enough. That finding the right person is a simple matter of X + Y = eternal bliss and the boogey man will never come knocking at your door. But there is no true happy ending, not in the real world. It's a temporary state of grace, granted a couple until reality sets in. It's mortgages and kids, and figuring out how to pay the bills, how to keep up with the Joneses, how to be yourself when your spouse is trying to mold you into his or her idea of what you should be. After the honeymoon—if the euphoria even lasts that long—the masks come off along with the gloves; faces are revealed, and suddenly you realize the person you thought you knew was not really that person at all.

Doesn't mean I don't still want it—I'm just realistic about it, that's all. Doesn't help that I'm not at my most optimistic at this moment, either.

"I'm going to take a quick break. Want anything before I go?"

I shake my head, and for one irrational moment I'm half afraid he's going to ask me if I want to go with him, but he doesn't, and I get over myself, and the moment passes. I glance toward the dance floor. Mr. and Mrs. Just Married have been joined by Mr. and Mrs. I'm Paying For This Shindig, and a few others. I raise my glass to them. "Mazeltov." And then I drain it.

The first dance ends to the obligatory polite applause, the second begins, but I'm taken aback a bit when I hear the familiar strains of Kenny Chesney. I hadn't expected that. The music goes straight to my heart, and I'm suddenly feeling too maudlin for comfort. I need to shake this feeling or I'm never going to make it. And fucking up this job is not an option.

Maybe I should clear my head, gain a fresh perspective, and start again.

Naturally Jeremy's nowhere to be seen. What, did I expect him to hang around? It's only reasonable to assume he's got things to do. Things that don't involve hanging around someone else's wedding. Well, good for him.

Dammit, how could I have forgotten that I told a certain someone I line dance? I don't remember my words until they come back to haunt me; she's hanging on my arm and dragging me out to the dance floor. I dart a quick glance at Blondie, who's just walked out from behind the bar; he shrugs and offers me a quirky smile, as if there's something in the situation he finds amusing. It certainly doesn't amuse me.

She keeps tugging at me, and although I'm a lot stronger than she is, my daddy raised me not to fight with women so I just go along with her for now; I'll ditch her as quickly as humanly possible. I clap one hand on my hat, just so I won't lose it, and then we're lining up and the music pulls me along, and I fall into the steps naturally.

Nothing overly complicated; it's still early after all. Just something for the band to warm up on. A few simple shuffles, a little jazz box, and some grapevines for good measure. I think this little gal's drinks are catching up with her. She's less than coordinated, and she slides right when she should be sliding left; we collide smack dab in the middle. Not fazed in the slightest, she grinds her hip against mine, like it's part of the routine. Or maybe she's practicing to be a hoochie coochie dancer. If so, she needs a lot more practice, and a whole lot more coordination. And a lot less coochie.

I try to push her into an upright position, so she can get with the program and fall back into step, but she doesn't seem to be so inclined; in fact, she seems to be under the mistaken impression that she and I are joined at the hip—if not a bit farther south—and I damn near stumble when she slips her leg in between mine. She giggles, as though she's just done something extraordinarily cute, and I firmly, but gently, pry her off of me, and back into her own space. I'm half tempted to tell her we don't even play for the same team, but before I can start to get the words out, a large ape in an ill-fitting suit comes out of nowhere; he sweeps her away from me as I cheer the arrival of the cavalry. My relief turns sour when he plants himself in my path while I'm trying to finish my grapevine, and his eyes are flashing and somehow I don't think he's about to thank me for anything any time soon.

Oh Lordy, this night's going just getting ten kinds of ugly, and it's far from over.

"Whaddya think you're doin'?" He pushes his lantern-jawed face close to mine. I remind myself I'm working, so I need to play nice, no matter what.

"It's called line dancing, maybe you've heard of it?" So much for the diplomatic route.

My wit sails right over his head; why am I not surprised?

"I saw you before, talking to my Darcy, and I don't like it." He narrows his beady little eyes until they almost disappear into his face, and then he growls at me in that alpha male way some guys think is intimidating. I don't happen to be one of them. I just find it ridiculous, to be honest.

"You're standing in my way." I try to be polite, but he's making it hard. When he doesn't budge, I give up and grapevine to the right instead.

He doesn't take the hint; he places his bulk in my path again. He's disrupting the other dancers now, what few there are. Grumbling, they pull back and re-form, leaving a gap around us as though they're afraid we might be catching; they continue to dance, out of harm's way. The song is by Keith Urban, whom I happen to like. Even if Lester McCann isn't doing it justice. This is just plain getting annoying.

"If you want to dance, you're going about it in the wrong way," I venture cheekily. "And you're asking the wrong person."

"What? Do I look like I'm a faggot to you?"

Oh damn, did he have to say that?

"Mister, look." I'm barely keeping myself in check now. At least I don't come out with the first words that pop into my brain, something along the lines of 'no self-respecting faggot would have you'. I tell myself I have to try to get through to King Kong that this is not the smart way to go before one of us does something he'll regret. And it won't be me.

"I don't have any problem with you, or you me, so please don't go there, okay? Go be with your lady and have a good time, why don't you?"

I can see the confusion in his eyes—he's trying to sort out whether I'm gay or not, or if I think he's gay or not, and if I'm gay then why is he bothering with this fight, and as that convoluted bit of logic temporarily occupies both of his brain cells, he doesn't have the wherewithal to continue to argue with me. So he grunts something in his native tongue, and I think that maybe things will just blow over and I'll slip out the door and see if I can locate Jeremy and do what I'm being paid to do, which sure as hell doesn't include getting into a fight in the middle of a wedding.

Just when I think everything's going to work out for the best, and I'm taking a step toward the door, then of course that's when everything goes to hell in a hand basket. That's the unfortunate moment when the little lady who's the cause of this mess chooses to add her two cents to the equation, as though the devil's just sporked her purple-bowed ass with his pitchfork and told her she needs to speak up and put a crimp in the situation.

"Oh Jim, you always spoil everything. Leave my cute cowboy alone!"

Well, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to know this won't go over well, and it sure as hell doesn't. He hollers something unintelligible and takes a clumsy swing at me and I duck, giving up any attempt at dancing, which I really hadn't wanted to do in the first place. But that's beside the point. Nobody with an IQ in the single digits is going to tell me what to do or when to do it.

I don't return his punch. First, it didn't connect. Second, I have the advantage, despite being not as bulky as he is, because I'm lighter on my feet, and I have a bit of training in self-defense. Nothing formal, just stuff I've picked up over the years. And third, he's drunker than I am.

So much for line dancing. Everyone's stopped now, although the band plays on, oblivious. They're playing Billy Currington now, too slow for line dancing, more of a two-step kind of number. Under other circumstances I wouldn't be averse to cuddling up with a cute guy on the dance floor. But not here and not now.

"Dance with your woman," I suggest. "It's a great song."

"You dance with her if you want her so badly," he cries, rather illogically, and while I'm pondering what exactly I should respond to that that'll make any sense, he charges me like he's seen way too many old Three Stooges shorts, and he thinks he's the bull, and I'm the stupid matador with the bull's-eye painted on my back. I manage to step aside when I see him rev up his engine.

Unfortunately, the best laid plans are often destroyed by harmless but clumsy idiots, as some fool proceeds to demonstrate when he bumps into me and pushes me straight into the bull's path, and he lands on top of me and he and I both go down in a heap.

At that point, he simply attempts to pummel me with brute force and while I'm pinned beneath his weight, there isn't a whole lot I can do. At first I concentrate on avoiding his blows, although I feel some manage to connect, mostly in the vicinity of my face. And although discretion is the better part of valor, my motto is don't fuck with me, and I ball up a fist and strike him sharply upside his head. Once, then twice, while attempting to get him to move his bulk.

That finally gets his attention and he shakes his head as if I've just rung his bell. I manage to push him back off of me far enough that I can half sit up, but the clumsy fool grabs at me again; he manages to tear the button loose that's holding my jacket closed and it falls open and damned if he doesn't spot my holster and gun. I've got a license to carry, but I don't like to advertise the fact that I do.

Of course he can't be quiet about it and starts screaming that I've got a gun, which sets off a hundred other screams, some of them female, and the whole place begins to panic as if he's just uncovered a nest of terrorists that are about to blow everyone in the place up in order to strike a blow against democracy.

I scramble backwards, trying to get away from this unmitigated cacophony and rise to my feet and get the fuck out of Dodge while the getting's good. Way not to draw attention to yourself, I castigate myself, thinking maybe taking this case wasn't the best idea I ever had. I don't seem to be able to put it on quite the level of business that I need to in order to maintain proper objectivity.

In other words, he's already got me making a jackass out of myself, and he hasn't said a word directly to me. This is all the result of getting a glimpse of his handsome face. I hate to think what I'd do if I had to confront him or, heaven forbid, talk to him.

We're both on our feet now, and confusion reigns as people grab me, grab him, grab each other.

"What's going on?" an elderly lady demands to know in a high pitched voice. She's standing beside the bride, who's in tears, and her father's looking right at me like I'm the devil incarnate, but he doesn't step any closer to me than he can help, no doubt having also caught a glimpse of my piece. What I don't know is that he must have called security, and that's why he looks so smug, but I figure it out when two guys in cheap imitation blues, sporting embroidered names, grab me. One twists my arm behind my back; the other applies a chokehold that leaves me speechless. Together they wrestle me out of the ballroom, and into the hall, dragging me between them.

I can barely breathe, and I can't free the arm that's beginning to throb like a son of a bitch, which if he keeps on like that is likely to come out of its socket. At least then I can charge the bastard with assault, but I'd rather it not come to that. They snatch my gun and throw me bodily into the elevator. I hit the floor hard, but at least I can take a breath now, as I lie there, clutching my arm and taking great gulps of the stale air; it has a sweaty smell that must be them, it sure can't be the hotel. At least I hope it isn't.

I'm guessing they're going to physically escort me to the front door and make sure I leave the premises, and I've already decided that for tonight that seems to be the way to go—once I get my weapon back—until I notice that rent-a-cop #1 hasn't pushed L for Lobby, but 5 instead. What the hell?

I try to collect my thoughts in the short interval between leaving the third floor and arriving at the fifth. I back myself into the corner, using it as leverage to get to my feet, careful to avoid using my bad arm. Gingerly I feel along my aching jaw. I can taste blood; when I get home, I'll have to check my teeth, just to make sure they're all there. I think he missed my eye, but my cheekbone feels bruised. I shake my head to get my hair out of my eyes, just as the doors open into a large and stunning white and gold room filled with elegant furniture and expensive sculptures. These aren't like the modern crap downstairs, these look like maybe they're Greek or something; not that I know a whole lot about art. But I know a nude male when I see one, and a nicely hung one at that.

"Look," I try to reason with the two goons. "I have a permit, I can show it to you—"

"Shut up," rent-a-cop #2 snarls. He grabs the lapel of my poor abused jacket, and yanks me from the elevator in the direction of a dark wood door that lies on the other side of the room. I stumble on the plush carpet, falling against a white brocade sofa with satin pillows.

"Be grateful we haven't called the law on you," the first one adds. At this moment, I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not. Probably not, since I know most of the cops on the force, and they know me, and they'd probably tell these two posers the same thing I've told them—that I've got the right to carry and to leave me the fuck alone.

Whatever they have in mind, I don't think I'm going to like it, but right now I don't see a way around it, though I'm thinking about it. At least I'm trying to.

Maybe the Neanderthal downstairs scrambled my brains more than I realized, or else I'm not as quick on the uptake as I'd like to think. As they haul me to my feet again, my eyes fall upon the gold lettering on the door, and I actually read them, as it dawns on me just where I'm heading; where they're taking me.

Where else? To the manager's office. Duh.

Just as I think that, the door opens, and a figure stands there, looking finer than a body has a right to. He glances at me, glances at them, then stands back.

"Bring him in," he says, motioning with one hand.

If anything, his voice has only improved with age, gotten sultrier, and acquired a rumble to it that was lacking before. Maturity, I guess. Or fine living. All I know is that I'm about to come face to face with the ghost of long lost loves past. A little more up close and personal than I bargained for when I decided to come here tonight.

Or was this what I was secretly hoping for?

to be continued

Silver Shorts #21: Personal Business #3

Sorry for not posting for a few days, but I've been in Indiana, visiting Katie and leaving Sarah for a two month visit. I'm home now. This week's prompts were:  "I knew it had to be true love when..."
Or "Don't judge a __________ by its __________..."
OR "The star-filled sky reminds me of..."
Or "Did she/he really just slap..."

I hope you're enjoying my first PI story. I'd love to hear what you have to say!

Personal Business #3

The sun's long down and the night kisses the earth like a playful lover by the time I serve my small stack of papers and drop by the apartment to clean up. MoMo is irritated with me that I haven't been around to tend to his every need, but he graciously allows me to feed him, spoiled cat that he is.

I shower, shave, and run a quick eye over my limited wardrobe, deciding what's good and what's not. For a typical night out, it would be flannel shirt and jeans, along with my best cowboy hat, and silver hoops in my left ear. But this isn't exactly date night, it's business, and while that ensemble might easily fill the bill in most of the bars I frequent—the kind where modern country is the music of choice—I know it's not gonna cut it at the Huntley, and the last thing I want to do is stand out like a sore thumb—or a PI.

I finally decide on medium gray slacks with a matching jacket, pale blue shirt, and my best boots. A little country chic doesn't hurt. I keep the hoops in just because I can; I leave my blond-streaked brown hair casually messy. It's not too long or too short—too long and you look like a hippie liberal, too short and they think you're the law. Somewhere in between's usually just right. Though I can't help thinking I'm due for a trim; it's looking just a little shaggy. I leave enough stubble around my lips and along my jaw to be fashionable, before I hit the road. At the last minute I decide to grab my hat. It's a good way to blend in with a crowd; people usually remember the hat before they can pick out the face that goes under it. I've got Jeremy's picture tucked inside my jacket, too, in case I haven't quite memorized his new, hotter than hell features well enough to spot him on his own turf.

Yeah, sarcasm. It's a wonderful thing.

My Nikon's already in the car. I don't know if I'll need it tonight or not, but at least I'll have it. Not that I intend to lug it with me into the hotel; I have my phone camera for that. The Nikon's for surveillance; it's got a telephoto lens and it works well in low light, and it doesn't require a flash. It wasn't cheap, but it was very worth what I spent on it.

Franklin Boulevard is a long damn road; it runs the gamut from the low rent section of the city through the posher, snobbier parts of town—the Huntley Hotel's situated in the latter, along with a few other hotels of like mind, some expensive eateries, an art gallery, and some high end boutiques and office space that would cost me more in one month's rent than I'd earn in one of my better years.

The Huntley's a bit rich for most people's pocketbooks, even for dinner; it caters to those in the higher income brackets as well as a more sophisticated out-of-town clientele. That's probably the big attraction for Jeremy, besides the fact that he can be the big cheese because he's married to the absentee boss's daughter. He can eat his fill of wealthy guys who breeze in and out, whether on business or pleasure—his own private sexual smörgåsbord, with no worries about his bits of fun on the side sticking around for the long haul or getting clingy.

Unlike me.

My first thought as I pull into the parking lot is what time does Cinderella arrive? It looks like something out of a living breathing fairy tale. Big, white and gold, and elegant with a capital E. Swanky enough to have its own valet service—two young guys in matching livery—as well as a doorman. I pass them by, opting for do it yourself—i.e. the parking lot—it's free and then I don't have to wait for anyone to get my car back. Could come in handy if I need it in a hurry.

The lot's more than half-full. I manage to snag a spot for my Malibu not too far from the door. It looks like they've got something going on tonight. Or maybe this is just the fashionably late supper crowd. I close the door and cast a quick glance up into the darkness; the star-filled sky reminds me of a song my dad used to sing when I was a kid, something about the stars at night being big and bright, deep in the heart of Texas. His buddies down at the station used to kid around with him; they called him the Singing Cop. Even if he couldn't really carry a tune.  'Course, neither can I.

As I approach the front door I can't help but notice that the grandeur of the place certainly doesn't diminish with proximity. Makes you realize the huge gulf that separates the haves from the wish they dids. Is that what this is about, Jeremy, your wanting to be one of the privileged? So why are you risking that for the sake of a little dick on the side?

I tip my hat and nod at the doorman. "Evening."

"Good evening, sir." He bows me through the open door and I enter the Huntley for the first time—I suspect not for the last.

The inside is just as white as the outside, even more so. Looks like the designer was fond of marble; it's on all the walls, and the floors, and the blocky pedestals where museum-quality stone statuary sits on display. An interlocking gold pattern runs the length of the hall that leads to the front desk. I'd swear you could fit a football field inside this place, and not be crowded. Hanging above the desk is a large, white chandelier unlike any I've ever seen. I guess it's considered to be a fine example of modern art or something—but it's not my thing. Personally, I think it's ugly.

People in evening dress mill about the lobby. An event board is set up on a gold easel; it contains all the information I need. There are actually two events tonight: a wedding reception, and a retirement dinner. I opt for the former; bound to be more going on that might entice Jeremy's interest. I don't see him spending any length of time on the senior citizen circuit; at least not any more than his job requires.

First I scope out the front desk for any sign of Jeremy. Behind the blocky wood and chrome front stand three people. One woman and two men. Neither of the men are Jeremy; one's too young, the other too blond.  Didn't think it'd be that easy.

On a hunch I follow some of the well-dressed crowd, figuring they'll lead me to where I'd like to go. They drift down a nearby hallway, and we crowd ourselves into one of the elevators. Pressed against the back wall, I find myself standing very close to a diminutive brunette. Judging by her fuschia satin dress with the plunging neckline and huge matching bow that's parked on her caboose, I'd say she's either a bridesmaid or she just has bad taste in dresses. Judging by the gleam in her eye as she glances up at me, I'd say she's either unaccompanied, or she's on the prowl. Or both.

I tip my hat and nod politely. She giggles in that cutesy tipsy way girls get when they're not used to drinking and they're feeling no pain. "I bet you're a friend of the groom."

I smile noncommittally. "I'm guessing you know the bride."

That sets her off and she giggles again. The elevator comes to a smooth halt. I glance at the indicator; it says three. Everyone gets off, and I trail them, Miss Tipsy at my side. She latches on to my arm, and I do nothing to shake her off.

Down the hall we go. I can hear it now, the sound of people gathered together in celebration of the societal kind. We wander through a set of double doors that open into what must be the scene of the crime. The Marlborough Room, according to the legend on the wall.

"Do you dance, cowboy?"

"Yes, ma'am. A little."

"I betcha line dance, don't you?" She's hanging on my arm, and one of her hands is doing an exploratory down my back. I stop, on the pretense of needing to sneeze, and manage to shrug out of her touch without seeming too obvious. Not that I think she'd know obvious if it hit her, not at the moment.

"I've been known to." I try to put a bit more distance between us, but she latches on to my arm again, her fingers almost digging into the flesh. I grin and bear it for now.

"Maybe I can get the band to play something we can line dance to?"

She nods her head, looking away from me, and I follow her glance. The band sits off in one corner of the room, near the empty dance floor—several guys in bright blue suits sporting professional smiles.  The Lester McCann Sound is their name, at least according to what I can read on the bass drum. From the mix of instruments I see, they probably specialize in old school, slow tunes of the romantic type. I could be wrong, but I suspect that they don't have any Blake Shelton, Carrie Underwood, or Keith Urban in their repertoire. Probably just as well.

As I'm wondering how I'm going to disconnect myself from Miss Tipsy, who's decided she wants to play doctor and has started to administer a standing check-up, her hands roaming somewhere too far south of the border for my taste, rescue comes in the form of the irate bride. She's got her white satin train gathered and crushed inside one hand, probably to keep from stepping on it; her cheeks are flushed, and her stilettos sharp as she clacks toward us.

"I've been looking everywhere for you, where've you been?"

"Just went outside for a smoke," the bridesmaid flails. They both turn their eyes on me; I shrug, as if to say nothing to do with me.

"I can see what you went outside for," the bride comments dryly. "Come on, it's almost time for the toasts. Gerald is furious, you need to calm him down." She yanks on the bridesmaid's arm, and although she digs in her heels, the bride manages to overcome her reluctance and drags her off to face the wrath of Gerald, whoever he might be. The last I see of her is a mouthed warning that looks like "I'll be back", before they're swallowed up in the crowd.

Seems like a good time to get a drink and survey my surroundings. With any luck, it won't be a cash bar. If it is, though, I'll just put it on my expense report, like anything else.

I'm in luck, it's an open bar. Judging from the bottles of liquor I can see on the shelves, a pretty nice one at that. Father of the bride must be decently loaded. No call liquor, all brand names.

Three bartenders on duty; I guess this is a heavy-drinking crowd. Or one that doesn't care to be kept waiting. While I'm making up my mind, one of the three approaches.

"What can I get you?"

I glance briefly at him, and then back to the bottles. Normally I choose draft, but since I'm not paying the tab, I think I'll do better. "Jack and Coke." I finally decide. "Black label."

"Yes, sir. Right away."

He turns and quickly picks out the familiar square bottle. While he mixes, I observe. His blond hair is close-cropped and his eyes are a bright blue. He's got a down home look about him, with a firm jaw, wide nose, and lips just a little too thick to be really thin. He wears a long-sleeve white shirt beneath a black vest, with matching trousers; he's got a decent build. When he turns, I can't help but notice he has a nice ass.

No Mr. Universe, but then that isn't my type anyway. I certainly wouldn't kick him out of bed for eating crackers.

"Enjoying yourself?" He makes professional chatter as he mixes my drink.

"Sure. What's not to enjoy about a wedding?"

"What indeed?" He offers me a quick smile, hands me a glass and a napkin. "Have a good night," he bids me before turning to another guest. I take the hint and move along, sipping at the drink. Lotta booze in that. Either he's just naturally heavy-handed on the alcohol or he's sending me a message. I store the information for future reference; right now I don't have the time. I gravitate away from the bar, looking about me.

I can tell dinner is done, and people are getting restless. No one's on the dance floor. That seems a waste of a band, but until the bride and groom take their first dance, etiquette demands that everyone else refrain. So what's the hold up?

The bride mentioned toasts. Someone must be missing, but who? And why?  I guess I'm just naturally inquisitive that way, but I want to know.

"Boo!"

If that greeting was intended to startle me, it doesn't work. Three guesses who's standing behind me, with her arms wrapped around my waist in an overly familiar bear hug. And here I thought she'd be occupied long enough for me to case the joint and go. Guess I misjudged her interest in me.

"Isn't your friend going to be mad that you snuck off again?" I manage to twist out of her grip, and I plaster a well-meaning smile on my face to take away any potential sting in my words.

"Call me Darcy." She leans up on tiptoe, trying to bridge the several inch gap between us so she can whisper in my ear, as if she has confidential information to impart. "She's got her own problems going on, but don't worry. Pretty soon you can take me out on the dance floor and show me whatcha got."

Somehow I think that what she has in mind, the dance floor would be a rather inappropriate location.

"What's wrong with the bride?" I politely ask, trying to get her mind off of dancing—horizontal or otherwise—and me in the same thought.

She shrugs and reaches for my drink. Before I realize what she's about, she's taken a sip, leaving lipstick residue behind on the rim. "Her dad's on it, whatever it is." She looks toward the head table. I see the bride. She's standing next to an older gentleman. Must be her father. He's taken a rather protective stance; I've seen the posture before. Protecting his little girl from the unpleasantness of the world. He's talking, rather animatedly, to a man in a dark suit. Even from this distance, I can see Daddy isn't happy.

The other guy must be a member of the staff. He has a placating hand upon the father's arm. Looks like he's trying to diffuse the situation, whatever it is. All I can see is his back, and his conciliatory attitude.

And then he takes a step back, turning so that I can see his profile. Both men are smiling now, so all must be well. Then my heart gives a lurch, and I damn near drop my drink.

Looks like I've just struck pay dirt. It's Jeremy Daniels. He's looking even better than in the photo. And damned if I don't want to just jump his bones in the worst possible way.

to be continued

You can get the entire Silver Shorts #21 anthology here

Until next time, take care!

♥ Julie.