Chapter Five
Rick hadn’t planned to speak to anyone. He’d gone to the café because he didn’t want to be in his apartment.
He’d spent the last hour pacing, checking his phone, turning the TV on and off, staring out the window, then walking away again.
He told himself he just needed to get out.
That he was restless because he hadn’t been sleeping well.
All week, Graham’s face had been everywhere.
Not on TV in a way that mattered to the public.
Not a breaking headline with a name everyone knew, but enough that Rick saw it every time he turned something on.
Enough that he saw it online when he scrolled for distraction, and the same story showed up again.
Music manager found dead in his home. Police investigating suspected burglary.
Rick read the words several times. Burglary. Break-in. Random attack. No arrests. It appeared his plan was working.
They’d called Rick two days after it happened. The officer’s voice had been calm and polite. “Mr. Marcus? We’re investigating the death of Graham Barclay. We understand you saw him the night he died.”
Rick had kept his voice steady and agreed to come in. He’d sat across from them in a small room with plain walls and a table and chairs. He’d noticed the notepad in front of the detective, the way she didn’t rush, and the way she watched his face as he answered.
Rick gave them what he’d rehearsed. They’d had dinner and a tense conversation, but when he’d left Graham had been fine.
They’d asked what time he arrived. Rick answered without hesitation.
They’d asked what time he left. Rick gave them a time and stuck to it.
They’d asked what they talked about. Rick made it sound normal. A little awkward. Maybe a little sad.
They’d asked if Rick and Graham had fought. Rick laughed once and shook his head, as if the idea was ridiculous. “No. We talked. It wasn’t… great, but it wasn’t a fight.”
They’d asked if Rick had been angry with him. Rick had shrugged. “I mean. He was my manager. There were frustrations, but nothing like that.”
They’d asked if he owned any weapons. Rick said no.
They’d asked if he’d ever been violent. Rick smiled slightly, as if he was embarrassed for them. “No. I’m not that guy.”
They’d asked if he’d touched anything in the house. Rick had spread his hands. “I ate, so I sat at the table. I opened the door. I probably touched a glass. A chair. Normal stuff.”
They’d shown him photos of the house. A door left unlocked. Drawers dumped. A room ransacked. A phone smashed. A missing watch case.
Rick had kept his face neutral as he’d looked at each photo. He’d breathed slow and evenly and let silence sit for a second too long, as if he was trying to process what he was seeing.
“I didn’t see any of that when I left,” he said, and they believed him.
Maybe not fully, but enough that they didn’t make him repeat everything. To Rick, it appeared as if they were looking for someone else, someone who had entered after he had left, which is what he’d intended.
When the interview ended, Rick walked out with his stomach churning. He got in his car and drove three streets away before he pulled over and sat still, breathing deeply.
Then he’d smiled. It had been quick at first, then it stretched until his face hurt. He’d done it. He’d killed Graham and built a story, and the police were following it. That should have made him sick. Instead, it made him feel alive.
That was why he’d ended up at the café. He’d wanted noise. Needed to be around people. He’d wanted to sit somewhere warm and watch strangers and not be alone. He’d wanted to remind himself he could do that. He could move through the world, and no one would see what he’d done. No one would know.
The café had been packed when he walked in. It always was at that time of day. He’d paused near the entrance, eyes scanning the room, irritation pulling tight in his chest when he saw every table full.
Then he saw Allen.
Rick hadn’t meant to look at anyone too long, but he’d noticed Allen.
He’d been standing near the counter holding a chai with both hands, his shoulders tense, as if he didn’t want to be noticed.
Blond hair and blue eyes with a slim build.
Maybe five feet ten to Rick’s six feet one.
Young, too. He looked like he’d come here for someone else and been left behind.
Rick watched him for a second and felt something settle in his chest. Warmth, maybe. He didn’t like how fast it hit him, but he didn’t stop himself from walking over and asking if Allen was waiting for someone or on his own, then asked to share because there were no empty tables.
Allen had hesitated and lied about friends, but had let Rick sit with him. Rick sat down across from him and felt his shoulders drop. It annoyed him how much he’d needed that.
Allen didn’t react the way Rick expected. There was recognition, yes. Rick saw it in the flicker of Allen’s expression and the way his grip tightened around the cup, but he didn’t gush. He didn’t ask for a photo. He didn’t say the song had changed his life. He just said he remembered it.
Rick hadn’t realized how badly he wanted that. They’d talked about normal things. Work, the café, and about Allen’s friends. The way people got angry on the phone. The way life filled up with routines that didn’t feel important.
Then Allen’s friends had bailed, and Allen still didn’t leave. He’d stayed with Rick.
Rick watched him fight it at first, watched him try to act like it didn’t matter. Rick watched his hands, the way they tightened around the cup. He watched the way Allen looked down as if he didn’t want Rick to see too much on his face.
Rick didn’t push. He didn’t need to because Allen was there, and that was enough.
When Rick bought him cake, Allen complained, but ate it anyway. When Allen asked if Rick wanted his number, Rick didn’t hesitate. He typed his contact in and watched Allen stare at the screen afterward.
When Rick finally left the café, he walked out calm. Once outside, the cold air hit him hard. Rick headed for his car, got in, and started it. He pulled away from the curb and drove a few streets over before he parked again.
Allen’s face kept coming up in his mind. Allen’s smile. The way he stayed when he could have left. The way he looked relieved and annoyed at the same time when Rick didn’t move away after his friends canceled.
Rick pulled his phone out, seeing a single message from Allen. Hi.
He stared at it for a few seconds, then responded. Hey.
He waited, eyes on the screen, and when Allen didn’t respond, he put his phone down and drove home.
The apartment felt too quiet the second he stepped inside. He turned on a lamp, then went to the kitchen and poured a glass of water, drinking half of it as he stared out of the window.
Checking his phone, Rick saw that there were no new messages, so he put it down on the counter and stood there, looking at it. He didn’t like the waiting. He didn’t like wanting a reply either, so he picked the phone back up and opened Allen’s message, then hesitated before typing a message.
Did you get home okay?
Rick sent it before he could talk himself out of it, then put the phone down again. He went to the bathroom and washed his hands, then stared at his reflection and made himself look. He looked normal and not like a man who’d stabbed his manager to death and staged a break-in.
When his phone buzzed, Rick walked back into the kitchen and picked it up, reading the message from Allen. Yeah. I’m home. Thanks.
Rick let out a slow breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He paused before responding. Good. Cake okay? He sent it and immediately regretted it, because it sounded like he gave a shit.
A few seconds later, Allen responded. It was. Even though you ignored me saying no, lol.
Rick read it twice and smiled softly, then typed his reply and sent it. You looked hungry.
Maybe I was.
Rick stared at that one longer than he needed to. Rick went to the living room, sat on the couch with his elbows on his knees, and tried to think.
Allen wasn’t a fan, and he didn’t want anything from Rick. He didn’t act impressed, and he didn’t ask questions like he wanted something personal so he could tell someone later, which had happened far too many times over the years.
Allen had been lonely, and Rick had seen it, and he’d liked seeing it. That should have bothered him. It should have felt like taking advantage, but instead it had felt like finding something he didn’t know he needed.
Rick’s phone buzzed again, and he picked it up, reading Allen’s message. Are you okay?
Rick stared at the screen, and that simple question threw him for a second because Allen shouldn’t ask that. They’d met once and maybe talked for an hour. Allen didn’t know him, but it didn’t stop Rick from responding. Yeah. Just tired.
Same. Work’s been rough.
Rick stared at the message, then replied. What time do you start tomorrow?
9. You?
Rick paused before answering. He could lie. He’d been doing it all week. He’d lied to the police and held their gaze while he’d done it. He could lie to a twenty-two-year-old without breaking a sweat, but decided not to. I’m working on stuff at home.
Must be nice.
Rick’s mouth tightened when he read that one word. Nice. Rick thought about that interview room and the detective’s eyes. The questions asked in a calm voice, like they were talking about weather and not Graham’s murder.
He also thought about the missing watch case in his drawer and how easy it had been to stage a scene and steer the situation in the direction he’d wanted.
He typed his reply and sent it. Sometimes it is.
Rick put the phone down, leaned back, and stared at the ceiling. He let his mind go where it wanted to, and of course it went over what had happened. Graham’s death was being treated as a burglary gone wrong. A break-in. Some random act. Rick wasn’t being treated like a suspect.
They’d asked, but their attention was on the broken phone, the unlocked door, the ransacked rooms. They were following the story where Rick had wanted it to lead.
That thought slid through him again, that small thrill under the skin, the one that had started when he sat in his car after the interview and smiled until his cheeks hurt.
Rick’s phone buzzed again. I had fun tonight. Thanks for the company.
Rick stared at it for a long moment. Fun. Company. Simple words that made his chest tighten.
He typed back and sent it. Me too. Glad you stayed.
He hit send and sat still, waiting for regret to hit him. Me too.
Rick swallowed and put the phone down carefully. He stood up and walked to his bedroom, opened the drawer, and stared at the watch case. It was wrapped in a towel and shoved to the back.
He pulled it out and held it for a second, then shoved it back inside the drawer.
He didn’t open it because he didn’t want to know what was inside.
Rick shut the drawer and sat on the edge of his bed.
He stared at the floor and tried to slow his breathing the way he did before a show, when he needed his body to do what he wanted.
Allen had felt warm and safe, and Rick didn’t know what to do with that.
He’d wanted control for so long he didn’t know how to want anything else.
He’d wanted the charts and the crowds and the feeling of being seen and the adoration that came with it.
When it had ended, it had left an empty space inside he couldn’t tolerate.
Graham had tried to shove him into a different life of being behind the scenes, doing writing and producing.
Rick’s jaw tightened. No, that wasn’t who he was. Allen was different, though. He wasn’t a stage or a number. He was real and it made Rick want him more.
Rick picked up his phone again, stared at Allen’s last message, then locked the screen and put it down. He lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
He could keep the police believing the story, and he could also keep Allen. He didn’t know if he wanted Allen for Allen, or if he wanted what Allen made him feel. Either way, he knew he wanted him.
Closing his eyes, Rick pictured Allen at the table, his hands wrapped around his chai, looking at Rick like he wasn’t the washed-up pop star Graham had made him feel like.
Rick opened his eyes again. He wasn’t used to wanting something that could look back at him, but he did, and now he had to decide what to do about it.