Chapter Eight
Lake
There was some sort of drama playing out at the table across from me.
I’d like to say that’s why the two men had snagged my attention, but it had more to do with the younger one being gorgeous.
He was all windswept dark hair, high cheekbones, and elegant posture.
I reckoned most people would have said the older man was more conventionally attractive, but not in my eyes.
Verity would have pointed out, somewhat acidly, that he was too young for me.
The drama comprised the young man trying to leave and the older man grabbing his arm so he couldn’t, the grip pretty damn tight—tight enough to make a point.
The show of dominance had me looking around to see if anyone else had a problem with it.
Either they hadn’t noticed, or they deemed it none of their business.
The need to intercede warred with the need to stay out of it.
The former had just won out—because what kind of man would I be if I turned the other cheek to blatant coercion? —when the younger man leaned forward.
For a moment, I thought they were about to kiss and that I’d misconstrued the situation, but then the younger man turned his head and spoke directly into the older man’s ear.
Not a few words. A stream of them. All delivered with body language that said he’d carefully chosen them for maximum effect.
I watched with fascination as all the color drained from the older man’s face and perspiration broke out on his forehead.
I couldn’t imagine what anyone could say to bring about such an instantaneous and visceral reaction.
When the younger man sat back, the older man stood and walked away without looking back.
There was an air of satisfaction to the younger man’s body language that said there’d been a problem and he’d dealt with it.
But then that self-assuredness drained away, almost as if someone had pulled the plug, leaving the weight of the world on his shoulders.
I hated to see anyone look that despondent.
Surely, I could help, if only to give him someone to talk to.
Leave the pretty fucked-up boys alone.
Verity’s words. And he seemed to fit both categories.
Yet, I was already climbing to my feet. I didn’t ask if I could sit once I reached him, assuming he’d tell me what I could do with the idea.
Instead, I just eased myself into the seat recently vacated by the sleazeball—so recently it still held his body heat.
His head jerked up, his eyes a sapphire blue that made me wonder if he wore contacts.
He had a line of silver earrings in his right ear that I found myself studying.
He opened his mouth to say something, but I got in there first. “You look about as miserable as I feel, so I figured rather than us being miserable on our own, we could be miserable together, and that way, everyone else will leave us alone.” I finished with a smile that I hoped came across as both harmless and reassuring. “Unless… your friend is coming back?”
“He’s not my friend.” The slight slur in his voice said he was a lot less sober than I was, my plan to get blinding drunk not having been that successful.
“Yeah… I kind of got that,” I admitted. “He was getting a bit… handsy.” I held out my hand. “Lake Larson.”
He eyed it suspiciously for a moment before taking it. “Baxter Stuart Canmore.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize we were doing middle names.
” I kept hold of his hand, enjoying the warmth of his palm against mine.
“In that case, I’m Lake Emmett Larson.” I had no choice then but to let his hand drop, alarm bells ringing at how disappointing I found it to do so.
As soon as I had, Baxter slid off his seat with a drunken elegance I could only marvel at. “I need a drink.”
“Sure.” Once five minutes had passed, I faced the possibility that he wasn’t coming back.
Another couple of minutes had me leaning as far out as I could while remaining in my seat to search him out in the crowd.
No sign. Just as I’d become resigned to it being a brush-off, he returned.
I schooled my face not to look too pleased as he slid back in his seat, depositing a half disco ball full of liquid and ice, all topped off with decorative blackberries and flowers, in the middle of the table.
Two straws stuck out of it. Baxter waved a hand at it in invitation.
“What is it?”
His lips curved into a smile. “Dirty Dancing.”
“Of course it is.”
Baxter leaned forward, wrapping his lips around the straw and sucking so hard that it made his cheekbones stand out even more. It also forced X-rated thoughts into my head. Concentrate on the drink, Lake. The drink. Not how it’s being drunk and what that makes you think of. “I meant… what’s in it?”
Baxter thought for a moment. “Dunno. I just asked for something with vodka as a base.” He took another long suck. “Passionfruit. Other stuff.”
“’Other stuff,” I echoed.
“Going to make me drink alone?”
I held my half-full glass of vodka up. “I’ve got vodka.”
Baxter snatched it off me and drained it in one long pull, slamming the empty glass back on the table. “No, you don’t.”
He waved his hand, and I gave in to the inevitable, leaning forward to clamp the other straw between my lips and take an exploratory sip. It was surprisingly pleasant considering I wasn’t a cocktail drinker.
“See,” Baxter said, as if I needed convincing. Rather than annoying me, it made me grin at him, Baxter returning it.
We finished the cocktail within an hour, both of us drunker than when we’d started it.
Alcohol had loosened my tongue, curiosity getting the better of me and making me ask what had been on my mind ever since I’d approached his table.
“What did you say to that guy to make him leave? He went white. Like a…” I cast around for a suitable descriptor.
“A snowman.” I knew that wasn’t right, but my alcohol-addled brain couldn’t come up with anything better.
Baxter’s expression turned serious. “I told him I liked to have as much fun as the next guy, but luring me to a dungeon where he and his friend could have their perverted way with me wasn’t my idea of fun.”
“What?”
Baxter nodded. “Yeah, that’s what he had planned for me.”
I frowned. “He told you that.”
Baxter tapped a finger against his temple. “Didn’t need to, did he? Just needed to think it.”
I laughed. When Baxter didn’t laugh along with me, I examined his words more carefully.
I was still examining them when Baxter carried on speaking.
“And I asked him if his wife would appreciate a visit from a stranger. If she’d like to be taken to his friend’s address with the newly converted dungeon.
I asked him how much longer he thought his marriage would last once she knew what he was doing instead of working late. ”
This was getting more confusing by the second. “I didn’t think you knew him.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then…?”
Baxter shot me an exasperated look. “I just told you how I knew.”
“You read his mind?”
“Yes.”
“You can read minds?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not possible.”
Baxter reached into his pocket and pulled out an ID, pushing it across the table toward me.
It had his photo on—a very good photo where he looked far more put-together and clear-eyed than tonight’s version.
It also bore the familiar logo of the Paranormal Problems Bureau.
I’d seen their adverts; you couldn’t really avoid them.
“That’s not a real place.” I corrected myself.
“Well, it is a real place. I’m not disputing the building’s existence.
I’ve even passed it a few times. But the whole people being able to do extraordinary things, that’s nothing but a scam, right? ”
Baxter crossed his arms over his chest. “Who’s Carl?”
The question made me blink. “What?”
“Carl. You were thinking about him earlier. Someone called Carl and someone called Glenn. And Verity. But she’s your sister. I got that loud and clear.”
I looked around for the punchline to the joke, expecting Verity to pop out from behind a pillar and admit that Baxter had been some sort of pretty boy test. One I’d failed miserably. When she didn’t appear, I turned my focus back to Baxter. He stared back at me resolutely.
“What am I thinking now?” I asked. I cleared my mind of anything but the most obscure historical fact I could come up with. There was no way on earth, no matter how good Baxter might be at parlor tricks, that he’d guess the information.
Baxter’s brow furrowed in concentration. “Alcohol makes it more difficult.”
And here came the excuses. A triumphant smile spread across my face.
“1977.”
My smile withered and died. “What of it?”
“The guillotine in France.” Baxter leaned forward a few inches, his gaze locked on me. “That was the year they last executed someone. A man named—”
“Hamida Djandoubi,” I provided. “He was a Tunisian murderer convicted of the kidnapping, torture and murder of élisabeth Bousquet, a 21-year-old woman he’d forced into prostitution. Most people think that public guillotine executions ended way before that. Like at least a century before.”
I kept talking. If I kept talking history, I didn’t have to consider the bigger picture: the knowledge he’d picked such an obscure thought out of my head and that there was no other explanation for that other than that he really could read minds.
Which was… yeah. “It was the last time any Western nation carried out an execution by beheading. Fifteen people were sentenced to death after him in France, but it wasn’t carried out before capital punishment was abolished in 1981.
The last public execution by guillotine was carried out in—”
“1939,” Baxter finished for me.
My fingers curled into a fist. “Eugen―”
“Weidman,” Baxter said. He narrowed his eyes in concentration. “He was a German criminal and serial killer.”
I nodded, my heart beating faster.
Baxter’s gaze had dropped to his ID. He’d pulled it back across the table and was running his thumb over the edge, his expression tight, almost pained.
“Sorry,” I said. “I get carried away sometimes with historical facts. Verity constantly has a go about it.” No response.
“Do you… er… like working there? I guess it must be… interesting.”
Baxter’s gaze lifted to mine. “I got suspended today.”
“Oh. That sucks. I’m sorry. What did you do?” It was invasive to ask, but he was the one who’d broached the subject. I geared myself up to offer reassurances that they were out of order, that their expectations had been ridiculous.
“Abandoned what I was supposed to be doing and went home with a man named Blade instead. We drank vodka and fucked.”
“Right.” There was no defending that without lying through my teeth, so I just repeated myself. “I’m sorry.”
“I deserved it.”
The bar was emptying. I calculated we had ten more minutes at most before we got kicked out.
“Listen, if you need someone to talk to, you’re welcome to come back to my place.
” Verity’s face came to mind; she was shaking her head.
I pushed it to the back of my mind and concentrated on Baxter, trying to decide whether it would be a disappointment or a relief if he said no.
He did neither, asking a question instead. “Who’s Glenn?”
“A man I went on a date with tonight.”
“What happened? Did it not go well?”
“It went surprisingly well.” I grimaced. “Until I left him at the restaurant to run after another man.”
“Carl.”
“Yeah.”
“Why did you run after him?”
“He stole my jacket. Among other things. He turned up outside the restaurant wearing the jacket, and I saw red and chased after him.”
“Did you catch him?”
“No.”
“And Glenn?”
“He wasn’t there when I got back to the restaurant.”
“So you came here.”
“So I came here,” I echoed.
Baxter nodded, and we lapsed into an easy silence. Miserable and more miserable.