James

Not too roughly, I pull Phoenix behind me.

"Don't touch anything. Just wrap up in that towel."

Nodding, he does it, circling the thick terry cloth around his steaming body. He freezes, watching me, as I watch the bed. Someone was here. To say so is an understatement.

Seated in the middle of the bed is a person-sized teddy bear. It would be about four feet tall, except its height is reduced by having its head severed. The stump of the plush body and the head itself are both slathered in what I think, from the smell, is ketchup. Its arms are wired together holding a bouquet of dead flowers, helium balloons tied off to one hand, and sitting between its jutting teddy bear legs is a large, pink and red gift-wrapped box.

"Stay close," I say, pulling him by the arm down the hall to my bedroom. He follows along like a puppet, frozen with panic and only moving because I have moved him. Once we're in my bedroom, I grab a shirt and throw it over him and direct him to step into a pair of my jeans. He has to hold the pants up, and he's swimming in the shirt as if it's a dress.

He sits on the bed, staring at me.

"What do we do?"

"I'm calling the police. I don't know what's in that box."

For good measure, I grab my sidearm, check it—whoever was here might have unloaded it, thinking to trick me—and shove it in the holster behind the small of my back, then make the call and explain it all, calmly, to a dispatcher who sounds as if she's wondering if this is a prank. The sound and timbre of my voice takes care of that for me.

Phoenix sits on the bed hugging himself and trembling slightly while I pace back and forth, my eyes on every shadow. We can't stay here tonight; it's good we were planning to leave anyway.

When the front door bing-bongs, I have him come with me to meet the locals. A pair of Los Angeles county police stand on the porch, trim and fit like almost everyone here. The pair introduce themselves and I ask one to wait with Phoenix while I show the other to the bedroom.

He stands there holding his mag-lite and gapes at the display.

"Well shit," he says.

"Tell me about it."

"Should I call the bomb squad?"

"Don't ask me. What's your procedure for suspicious packages?"

Carefully moving closer, I crouch beside the bed. There's no sign of a trip wire and I don't smell any grease or explosives, but that doesn't say much, and it could be rigged to blow, or something else, if the lid is disturbed.

Best not risk it.

"Get your people in here. Better call this in to somebody higher up. Bomb squad isn't my call, but just going from experience, I would."

"Experience?"

"Private security contractor. Used to be military police."

"You the kid's bodyguard?"

"He's not really a kid, but yeah."

The cop leans over the package.

"You handle bombs or something?"

"No. I was investigative command. I mostly dealt with our guys."

"Surprised you didn't get a badge when you got out."

"Had enough of the ignorant repugnant shit," I say. "I paid my dues."

"No doubt. Alright, if you don't mind coming downstairs, my partner and I will seal the place off and call this in. We'll need to take statements from the two of you and all that. You know the drill."

"I know the drill."

"Not your first rodeo."

"You couldn't pick one or the other, so you had to use both?" I say, wryly.

"Look, man," the cop says, "my job is mostly taking drunk girls in bikinis back to mommy and daddy. Professional courtesy, you know?"

"Yeah. You know, this could be on a timer."

He goes pale. "Right, let's go back downstairs."

On the first floor, the other officer is already taking Phoenix's statement, writing everything down. I step up beside him and offer him a belt I snatched from my bedroom on the way down. He threads it through my belt loops and cinches it tight. I'm not going to tell him, but he looks like a circus clown in my clothes.

His partner takes me aside. I give my statement in clipped, professional sentences, leaving nothing out, not that there's much to give.

"How long you been working this?" he asks me.

"Well, I started...day before yesterday," I sigh.

"Never a dull moment, huh?"

"Not when you need one."

"So you have anything on this?" he asks, pen hovering over his pad. "Anybody have it in for the kid? This looks like some stalker shit to me."

"Me too," I say. "Seems a little...much, though."

"Yeah," he says. "Stalkers are usually more of the following around and jerking off in front of people variety. This looks like someone's seen too many movies. Makes me wonder what's in that box."

"I saw that movie," I say wryly.

"Eh?"

I blink and glance at the cop. He must be twenty-five, twenty-six, young enough that he's got a shot at moving up past a squad car. He would have been a kid when that movie came out.

"Never mind," I shrug. "I just assumed you were all movie buffs and wannabe actors here."

"Is your guy in the movie biz? If he is, I have my CV and some headshots out in the cruiser."

I give him a flat look, and he cracks a smile.

"You probably want to get out of here. You got somewhere else to go?"

"Yeah, New York. He's got a private jet chartered for us."

The cop frowns. "Ordinarily I'd ask you not to leave, but I don't think it'd be an issue here. You got a card or something?"

I give him all my info.

"Call me up when you've heard something," I say.

The other cop steps up to us, Phoenix trailing behind.

"I called it in. Crime lab is on the way, and bomb squad is coming just in case."

Phoenix shudders visibly, the blood draining from his face.

"Let's get to the plane," he says. "If we can go?" He looks at the police expectantly, his voice small and weak.

I give them a nod.

"Yeah, we're leaving."

"Name's Bill," the one cop says, offering me a hand. "Pleasure."

"Jim. Wish I could say the same. Call me back, yeah?"

"Yeah."

Outside, I stand with Phoenix until the car pulls up. We're not taking anything back with us, and he didn't ask, but I would have kept him out of any food or drink in the house.

"I'm hungry," he says. "I haven't had anything to eat besides a vegan brownie in the green room."

I swallow, hard.

"Yeah, I'll tell the driver to stop at an In-and-Out. Just pull through."

After we've picked up an Double Double and eaten on the road while the driver negotiates hellish traffic, Phoenix settles, plucking at his oversized shirt.

"You're really big," he says.

I glance at him, and he looks at me, cheeks turning pink. I glance forward at the driver. This is a nice car but just a car, no partition to raise.

"You definitely have a stalker," I say.

"What do you think about all that?"

"The severed head is enough for me, but the ketchup pretty much seals the deal. That was a threat."

The driver glances at me with a confused look, his eyes wide in the rear-view mirror.

"What the hell do you think was in that box? Was it really—" he lowers his voice, "—a bomb, you think?"

"Probably not, but I can't say. It might not have been a threat against you, the whole tableau might have been an elaborate suicide threat. Love me or I'll do myself in."

He swallows. "Isn't it a little weird that I have no idea who it is?"

"You've been stalked before?"

"Yes, but she tried to grab my dick in a shower, not...that."

"Did you just say 'dick'?"

"I did," he says, flinching.

"Language."

"Oh, shut up," he mutters.

"So," I say, "I guess I'm fired."

He shakes his head, then looks at me intently.

"I'm going to write this off because you were distracted. Besides, I shouldn't have been followed here. We flew across the country!"

"Not an assumption I should make," I say. "I need to be more careful, pay closer attention. I shouldn't let myself get distracted."

One of his eyebrows twitches.

"You seemed like you needed a little distraction."

"My job requires concentration."

"You seemed pretty intense at the time."

I glare back at him.

"So I was, but we're not doing this now."

The driver gives me that look but says nothing. Finally, we reach the airport, bypassing the usual dog and pony show to board the charter jet. Phoenix relaxes once inside, probably assuming he's safe here.

I'm not so sure.

He slumps to one side. I surreptitiously, but carefully, look around. The wheels turn in my head. Whoever put that there knew where we were, and that's important.

"Phoenix," I say, seating across from him. "Who knew where we were staying?"

"A handful of people," he says, sitting up abruptly. "Why?"

"Well, whoever put all that in your bedroom knew where you were, and they knew when you weren't there."

He swallows. "So. Either they know my schedule, or they followed us and we're being watched."

I nod slowly. "I'd put it more towards the other. The beach trip wasn't on anyone's schedule."

"I just wrote 'recreation' in my calendar," he explains, leaning forward now, too.

"Gentlemen, will you need anything?" the flight attendant asks, leaning over beside us.

"Not now," Phoenix says, "but thank you. We'll call if we need something."

She slips away and leaves us alone in the passenger compartment. Phoenix hugs himself. The shaking would be much more obvious without my baggy clothes concealing his frame.

"You're alright now. We're safe here."

"Are we?" he says sharply. "Are we going to talk about what happened?"

"Something in the heat of the moment," I say, my stomach tightening. Now that we're alone, it's like I can suddenly see him again, and the rest of the world is swallowed up into a small, unimportant point behind him. It's worse now, damn me. Damn me to hell for this, but he's even more alluring when he's vulnerable. The urge to wrap him up in his arms is unbearable but I don't even dare touch him, for fear of sending the wrong message.

I can't...do things with him, can I? There's so many reasons...

The pretend boyfriend is off limits?

We're staring at each other. I break first, and he keeps staring, his eyes longing.

"Are we pretending?"

"I've known you for less than seventy-two hours."

"I usually don't do anything on the first date," he says.

"Was that a date?"

"I think that once the genitals come out, it qualifies as a date."

"Genitals? Do you have to be so clinical?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"Cock. Try it."

He flinches.

"You didn't 'perform the act of fellatio on my penis' or some clinical sounding garbage, you sucked off my cock. You gave me a blowjob."

"Was it still a blowjob when you were thrusting?" he says, smirking. "Or were you..." he jerks. "Were you fu...damn it, I can't say it."

He seriously can't say “fuck.” He sounds like a cat trying to get out a hairball when he attempts it. The only unsexy thing I've seen him do, all things considered.

"What is it with you and profanity?"

He frowns.

"Normal adults use it all the time. I don't get you running the informal silicon valley office with the ping pong and the pudding cups and you can't say a perfectly normal word that every adult says at least once a day."

He glares at me. "My office does not have pudding cups."

"Fine. Jell-O Jigglers."

He glares, but smirks.

"It worked. I lightened the mood."

"I'm really scared," he confesses. "I know I played it off as no big deal before, but this is another level. My office is one thing, but where I sleep, and while traveling?"

"We need to make it a priority to catch this person."

"Do you think the police will find anything?"

I sink back in the seat.

"I won't say no, but I doubt it. Someone this capable wouldn't be so stupid as to leave prints behind, and things like hairs and fibers are only useful once there's a suspect."

"What about DNA?"

"Don't you know science stuff?"

"An auto mechanic doesn't know how to build a rocket, James. Not my area."

I nod. "There's probably no blood. Shed skin cells are useless. There'd need to be a whole hair with a follicle attached, and again, they'd have to be in the databases already or in custody for it to matter. If this person was careful and wore gloves..."

"It's too bad there were no cameras," he says. "My home has cameras, but how do you find a place to rent with cameras? I don't want to spend my entire life moving from fortress to fortress."

"You won't. We have an advantage."

"Which is?"

I smile. "The person who did that is crazy. We are not."

"I suppose," he says, not sounding convinced. "Can we order a pizza on this thing? I'm still hungry."

"Don't ask me. Private jets aren't my thing."

He stares at me.

"It's masterful how you keep deflecting."

"Deflecting what?"

"The conversation, away from Us."

I can actually hear him capitalize the word.

"Phoenix, be straight with me. Completely straight. When you say you've been on a few dates, what do you mean? How many?"

He swallows.

"Five."

"Ever?"

"I was awkward, okay? And surrounded by people older than I was. By the time I finished my bachelor's degree I was only as old as a freshman, and I'd already started working."

"I guess it's lonely at the top, huh?"

"I guess," he says. "I've never felt particularly lonely. Attachments only ever seem to make people suffer."

"Then you need to take a step back and think. You're obviously attracted to me, and I am attracted to you."

"You are?" he says with sudden, bright enthusiasm.

I sigh. "Yes, Phoenix. I wouldn't have done all that with you if I wasn't, but you need to think things through. You just met me. You barely know me."

"I think," he leans forward, "I'd like to."

I glance out the window, at the fading afternoon light, then back at him.

"What do you already know?"

"Only what I learned in the process of hiring you. Military career with a bachelor's earned while you were still in the service."

I nod.

"Funny," I say. "I probably could have started earlier."

"How so?"

"Well, kid super genius, you're not the only one who's ever accelerated in school. I was offered a chance to skip grades three times before I graduated, but I turned them down."

"Why?"

"No Princeton for me if I finished school early," I say.

"It was MIT, but I follow you."

"I stayed in school out of having nothing else to do but that and work, really. I couldn't go running off, either, not until my sister was grown. She was...is a year behind me."

He looks at me for a moment but says nothing.

"You needed to work?"

"Yeah. It was just me and her and foster parents. I guess I was lucky that they kept us together."

"What happened to...?" he starts.

I stare out the window for a minute.

"My father was an alcoholic and he owned a ratty old Camaro. I'm just lucky we weren't all in the car."

"How old?"

"I was twelve, Kelly was eleven."

"So you joined the military?"

"I couldn't afford college otherwise, had nowhere to go, and needed to support Kelly. I sent everything I was paid back to her until she got on her feet and met a guy. Once she got her job and settled down, things were alright."

He nods. "What sort of work does she do?"

I smirk. "She worked in a department store."

He frowns again, just slightly, processing my choice of past tense, but he doesn't press.

"You stayed in."

"Until I got out. People ask me that all the time, Phoenix. I think everybody that did more than one hitch gets asked why they quit. I always say the same thing: I saw too much. I'd rather not go over and over it. I saw it enough and I don't want to keep seeing it."

"So we have more in common than I thought."

"Well, a few things," I say, sourly. "Everyone has a sob story. That's part of life."

Phoenix studies me.

"You sound very...mature…about it? I don't know what word to use."

"I like to think things through and take my time. I'm not in a hurry. I learned that on the job. It's not all chasing people and hopping fences. It isn't even mostly that. I don't think I chased anyone after I was promoted from military police into investigative command. I was more of a detective."

Phoenix leans forward. "The way you talk about it, something in your voice, sounds like you miss it."

"God help me, I do," I blurt out without thinking. "Did, anyway. I think I've made my peace with it now. It was a double-edged sword. It felt like putting the world back together. Solving chaos. But puzzles aren't fun when the pieces come out of somebody's skull. I saw some things I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy."

Phoenix nods. "I don't know what that's like."

"Thanks," I say.

He blinks.

"That's refreshing. Most people are afraid to say that."

He shrugs. "They are?"

"Yeah. I get sick of being treated like an alien. That happens to a lot of us. You feel like you're not part of the world anymore, so you end up wallowing in it. You can take the grunt out of the shit, but you can't take the shit out of the grunt. Sorry. Language."

"Have you ever talked to anyone about this?"

I frown. "I'm talking to you, now. Which is odd, because normally I'd blow this off."

"How would you do that?"

"Flirt with a girl, buy a guy a drink, change the subject."

"I don't drink, but you're welcome to try flirting."

"I..." I trail off as my mouth goes dry.

I almost want to try. It was easier when he was trying to swallow my cock without even asking first.

"Are you feeling better now?" I ask, changing the subject.

He sits back. "I think so, but I'm still on edge. This is bigger than I thought, isn't it?"

"I need to do more than watch your back. I need to investigate."

Just then, the flight attendant comes back in to inform us that we'll be taking off soon. Surprisingly, Phoenix takes it better. Maybe a real danger is more concerning to him than the relatively safe process of getting the plane off the ground.

He falls into the deep sleep of someone who's been pushed too hard, not long after the plane levels off.

I do not. I lean on my fist and watch him sleep, trying to figure him out, a puzzle so complex I can't even see the seams. Then, beyond him, there's this business with the stalker.

I'd often feel this way at the start of an investigation. Standing there, it felt like I was looking into the surface of something very large, an object whose shape was too big to properly perceive. That uneasy feeling comes back to me now.

It's different this time. It feels personal.

I rub at my scar through my shirt and try to go through everything I know.

The next morning, after Phoenix has settled back in, I walk with him to the office, not saying anything about how exposed we are. I don't like it, at all. I need to talk him into riding in a car. The everyman schtick leaves him too vulnerable. He's in his loft, working as if nothing happened, when I step outside the office itself to take a call from the cop back in Los Angeles.

"Nothing," he says, dejected. "No prints, hairs, or fibers that weren't already in the room."

"What turned out to be in the box?"

"Bugs," he says, disgusted.

"Lovely," I say. "Let me know if anything else comes back."

"I will. Pass on anything you hear, will ya? We want to clear this one."

"Yeah, will do."

Back inside, I find Phoenix working and log into his calendar system that he shares with his assistant, now that I finally have access.

Oh great, we have to go to a party.