On behalf of the characters in Crime Brulee I'd like to wish a happy Solstice to everyone who didn't get cornered in a dark alley and get their bones removed
“What are you looking for?” Connie’s voice came from behind JP as he rummaged through the fridge, squinting at the label of every bottle he pulled out and set on the countertop.
“Champagne. I know there’s gotta be some in here.” He’d have gone to the liquor store himself; he was sure there’d be an attractive cashier on staff, or a hot single mom perusing the aisles, whose vision he could borrow. But he wasn’t in the mood to be seen.
So he’d come to HQ instead.
“I’ll pay you back for it.”
“No need; our liquor is your liquor,” Connie insisted. “Wouldn’t you rather wait ‘til the party, though?” He turned around to see her holding up a sheet of paper folded into thirds; he didn’t have to be able to make out the text to know what it was.
“Where did you get that?”
“I found it on the floor, you must have dropped it,” she explained.
He must have missed the trash when he’d gone to throw the invitation away. “Oh, I’m not going.”
“But it’s at the Hawthorne mansion!” said Connie. “Do you have any idea what kind of money you can score at a place like that just picking a pocket or two?”
“I do, okay! I do.”
It was just…
Katie Hawthorne was a super big deal. Born to millionaires, she’d lived her life in the lap of luxury. Everywhere she went, she kept winning, especially when it came to hearts–in fact, once, she’d won everybody’s in the state. (Yes, it was THAT Katie Hawthorne: Miss Oregon ‘94.)
And JP used to count himself among her circle of boy-toys.
Before the telepathy deal.
Before his life had started spinning and spinning, out of his own control.
He’d never minded sharing her. In fact, he’d felt smug, knowing a woman like her would’ve overlooked a middle-class nobody like himself, if not for his dedication to maintaining the physique of a muscle-bound Adonis. It was his looks that had earned him a seat at her table, and now?
Even if the Bloodhound had just gotten done draining all his body fat, neglecting the gym for a calendar season had ground him down to agonizing averageness. He hated to think of how he’d measure up against the rogues’ gallery of men she no doubt bounced between nowadays.
“Well, sure. She has to let you take a plus-one, right? I mean, it’s Blackwater City. It’s just polite.”
“Fine,” he agreed. He still didn’t want to go, and he was sure Katie wouldn’t have the time of day for him, the way he was now, but maybe the celebrities and aristocrats would think he was still as much of a catch as ever if he appeared on the arm of a pretty woman like Connie Cole. “Can we at least pre-game first?” He turned to the still-open fridge again and handed her a bottle of something reddish and festive-looking.
“Sure! But not with sweet chili garlic sauce,” she said. His cheeks heated with embarrassment. “Wait here. I’ll get us some whiskey.”
***
“What’d you say this rental company was called, again?” asked JP as they arrived at the mansion. The road was lined with expensive cars, which Connie had predicted, so she’d decided to pull a grand feat of one-upsmanship by calling in a favor with her friends in the mob, which is how they’d managed to pull up in a limo, with Hacksaw Pete in the driver’s seat, aggressively jerking the wheel to compete for a parking space close to the path to the door.
“It’s called Star Forkers; though it’s technically a subsidiary of Go Fork Yourself, Forklift, Machine, and Truck,” explained Pete. “We figured we’d need the fancier brand for all our fancier money-laundering needs. Personally, I like driving the truck better, even if this is the higher-paying hustle. Always happy to do a favor for Connie, though.”
“You mean ‘Daisy-Mae Maryanne Lancaster’?” said JP, stifling a snicker.
The whole way to the party, she’d run lines with him regarding the alter-ego she’d fabricated–perhaps a long time ago, perhaps for this party specifically; she hadn’t said. Either way, it seemed like a bit much effort to go through for a routine picking of ‘a pocket or two’, but he was quickly learning that ‘a bit much’ was, here with the VA and Connie, par for the course.
“So, who is this Miss Hawthorne to you?” asked Connie as they got out of the limo and walked up the path. “A friend? A business contact?”
“More like…we were, uhm…”
“Oooooh, I get it.”
He was glad she didn’t ask him to explain any further, because he was anything but in the mood to reminisce on his glory days…or, for that matter, his fall from the height of them.
Katie still had the same doorman, but it had been so long since JP had come to visit that he had to give his name so he could be looked up on the guest list. Katie, though? She didn’t have the mercy to have forgotten him.
As soon as he and Connie made it into the grand acreage of the backyard, she was upon them, wine glass in hand. “JP! How lovely that you could make it to my Spring Fling!” Her voice was honey-sweet, just as he remembered, but beneath all that warmth lay something brittle and hollow, undetectable to anyone who wouldn’t know how to recognize it. It was the same jagged edge that used to come on the end of every word from his own throat. “And who’s this?”
“Katie, I want you to meet Daisy-Mae,” he said. “Would you believe I found her at the Riff Raff Club?”
For all its over-the-topness, Connie’s masquerade as an exotic dancer made for a clever ploy. With it, she aimed to daze and dazzle the ravenous hounds of Blackwater’s upper echelon into failing to notice her lifting their valuables. Katie, however, was less than impressed. “Is that so? I hear that establishment staffs the most beautiful women in town. How convenient, for the men who have to resort to buying them rather than winning them over fair and square.”
Ouch. JP had never known Katie to be an angel, but had she always been that mean? Furthermore, had she invited him intending to sink her teeth into his ego, or had it been a snap decision made when she’d seen him?
“Excuse me,” Connie interjected. “Are you implying that I’m only into JP for his money? Because he may be the CEO of Bellefontaine Enterprises, Holdings, Incorporated, LLC, but I happen to value a man for the size of his heart, not his bank account.”
JP winced–they hadn’t discussed what his own disguise would be, and surely with her on-the-spot improvisation, she’d blown their cover with her utter cluelessness about all financial matters that didn’t involve some sort of crime–but then, he remembered Katie would have no way of knowing to call bullshit. After all, she’d never done anything besides stand on a stage and look pretty.
“Wow, that’s a lot,” said Katie. “Just be sure you’re not…spreading yourself too thin.”
“Meaning what, exactly?” he asked.
“Meaning…you just look a bit…drawn, is all. I’d hate to imagine you neglecting your health.”
For a moment, he resolved to settling for what he could get. At least she and everyone else at the mansion got to see him after the Equinox instead of before, when he was plump enough to literally be rolled up the proverbial sacrificial hill.
Then, he realized something: there was no point in trying to scrape any sort of victory from the jaws of a crowd like this, with which there was no winning, anyway.
He realized something else, too: he couldn’t read Katie, nor could he discern the familiar, beautiful features of her face, even as they stood less than three feet apart.
“It’s me that’s to blame, Miss Hawthorne,” said Connie, “although…CAN you blame me? With a guy like him, I can’t even stop myself from keeping him up all night! But I’m sure he’d rather have a girl who wears him out in bed than one who wears on his last nerve. Now, come on, JP! Introduce me to the rest of your friends!”
Katie had no words, and JP could only imagine the furious look on her face as they passed her, Connie slipping a hand into the purse slung over her shoulder and making off, undetected, with her wallet as they went.
