Chapter Sixteen
Sitting on the couch, Allen ate his dinner while the TV played in the background. He wasn’t paying much attention to it. He’d put it on so the apartment wasn’t silent while he ate.
The presenter’s voice washed over him while he chewed, eyes on his plate, mind drifting to nothing in particular. He reached for his drink, and the words on the TV caught his attention.
“—at the Briar House Hotel—”
Allen froze with the glass halfway to his mouth. He put the glass down slowly and turned his head toward the screen. The camera cut to a building at night, blue lights flashing. A strip of police tape. People in coats drifted at the edges, eager to hear or see something.
“…where police were called in the early hours….”
Allen swallowed. The food in his mouth suddenly felt dry. On-screen, a photo appeared of a woman smiling at something off-camera, her hair pulled back, and a mic in her hand.
Allen stared at the hotel’s name in the corner of the screen.
Briar House.
His stomach churned. He knew that name because he’d seen it printed in a particular font on a cream card with a thin gold border. In Rick’s car.
The memory of seeing it came back to him.
He hadn’t even been looking for it. It had just been there—on the passenger-side console, half tucked under a stack of receipts and a charging cable.
He’d seen it when Rick reached over him to grab something from the glove box.
Allen had clocked the card without thinking.
Briar House Hotel. There had been a number and a little embossed logo in the corner.
He’d assumed it was old. A leftover from touring. Rick had been everywhere. That was the point. But now—
“No. It’s nothing. Rick has stayed in so many hotels over the years.”
He turned back to his meal, stabbed the chicken harder than necessary, and took a bite that tasted like nothing.
“—identified as Cassandra Lane, thirty-six—”
Allen’s eyes flicked to the screen again, against his will.
“Police are currently treating the death as suspicious. A post-mortem—”
Allen exhaled heavily. Rick had a hotel card. That was all. People had hotel cards. He’d probably picked it up from a lobby a year ago. It could’ve been a different Briar House. There were a million hotels with the same bland name. He forced himself to keep eating.
The presenter’s tone shifted. “Ms. Lane was a backing singer and had recently worked on multiple tours—”
Allen’s fork paused. Backing singer. He looked up again. The screen showed footage from a stage with a band he didn’t recognize. A crowd screaming. A woman at the back line, microphone up, mouth open mid-note.
Backing singer. Could she have—
No, Allen clenched his jaw. Could she have worked with Rick? Maybe. Rick had worked with dozens of people. Hundreds even. A backing singer was a backing singer. They moved between gigs and between tours, and between artists.
Allen swallowed and forced another bite down. He didn’t like how quickly he’d had that thought. He didn’t like that it had happened at all. He wasn’t the kind of guy who watched the news and tried to wedge his boyfriend into it because he was a singer.
His phone buzzed on the counter, and he jumped, hand going to his chest. On the TV, the presenter kept going.
“—friends described her as talented and kind. Police are appealing for any information—”
The camera cut to the hotel again, but this time showed it from a different angle.
Allen stared at the entrance longer than he meant to.
He tried to picture the card again, and he could.
Far too easily. The cream stock with the gold edge.
The name in the center. He’d noticed it because it hadn’t looked cheap.
Allen pushed the last of the food around his plate.
He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter, and that it was a card.
Rick had probably picked it up because someone had handed it to him, because it was in a bowl by the concierge, because he’d been bored waiting for a driver.
There could be infinite reasons why he had that card.
It had probably sat in the car for months, possibly longer, and Rick had forgotten all about it.
Rick was a little controlling, but murder?
Allen snorted quietly at the idea. No, Rick wasn’t a murderer.
He’d met Rick and had been in his apartment.
They’d had sex. He’d seen him when he thought no one was watching, when he laughed at something stupid, when he got that flat look in his eyes because someone had interrupted them, when he’d gone quiet instead of losing his temper.
A murderer didn’t… feel like that. That was a stupid thought, too.
People were complicated, and he’d seen enough news reports to know that people who had been married for years never knew the other person in their life was a murderer.
Monsters weren’t always obvious, but Allen couldn’t make the idea fit the Rick he was beginning to know.
Allen scraped his plate into the bin and ran water over it, the sound of the tap loud in the small kitchen. He kept his back to the TV, like that would somehow help change the course of his thoughts. It didn’t. He could still hear the hotel's name.
Briar House. It bounced around inside his head.
Drying his hands, Allen turned back to the TV and watched until the segment ended. When the news moved on to something else, Allen realized he hadn’t moved. He tried to forget about the hotel, tried to move on, but it was there inside his mind and refused to disappear.
The café was busy by the time Allen arrived, and when he stepped inside, Jamie waved from a table near the window. “There he is.”
Allen slid into the seat opposite him, shrugging out of his jacket. “It's loud today.”
“Yeah, well, it’s got food, and it’s not my apartment,” Jamie said. “Win.”
They ordered at the counter, then came back to the table. Allen tried to relax and enjoy the normality of being here, talking about nothing serious.
“So,” Jamie said, as he leaned back. “Rick.”
Allen rolled his eyes. “Of course.”
“Come on. How’s it going?”
“It’s… good.” Allen stared at the menu board even though they’d already ordered. “It’s fine.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Allen glanced at him. “It’s going well.”
Jamie smiled. “Yeah?”
Allen hesitated, then nodded once. “Yeah.”
The coffees arrived. Allen wrapped his hands around the cup as Jamie started talking about his girlfriend for a while, telling Allen about her work drama and her sister moving in. Allen listened and asked questions and tried to keep his mind off Rick and the card.
“You look different,” Jamie said, and he wasn’t teasing now. “Happier.”
Allen felt his cheeks heat up, and he ducked his head as he shrugged. “Shut up.”
“I’m serious. It’s good. I’m glad you’re happy. You were only saying the other day that you wanted someone who wanted something more serious than a hookup.”
Allen nodded, still not looking up. “I am happy”
“Just don’t ignore any red flags because he’s paying attention to you. You know?” Jamie shrugged and glanced away.
Allen’s head snapped up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Jamie looked back at him, blinking rapidly. “It’s not—”
“No, tell me,” Allen said, sharper than he meant to. “Are you saying he’s with me because he thinks I’m easy? Because he feels sorry for me? Is that what you’re implying?”
“I’m not implying anything,” Jamie muttered. “Jesus, Allen. Why would you think that?”
Allen’s hand clenched. “You said red flags,” Allen told him. “Like there’s something wrong with him. Like there’s something wrong with me for being with him.”
“That’s not what I said at all.” Jamie leaned forward. “I just want you to be careful.”
“It’s what it sounded like, and did you tell Mark or Connor not to ignore red flags or only me?”
Jamie narrowed his eyes. “I’m saying you deserve someone who’s good to you and stays good to you. That’s it. I’m happy you’re happy. I just don’t want you getting hurt because you’re so relieved someone wants you that you stop asking questions.”
Allen stared at him. The worst part was that Jamie wasn’t being mean. It was… accurate in a way that made Allen look away. “I’m not doing that.”
Jamie’s voice softened. “Okay. I’m sorry if I upset—”
Allen swallowed, jaw tight. “Rick’s not a red flag and I’m not a charity case.”
“I know. I wasn’t—”
Allen cut him off. “I’m with him because I want to be. Not because I’m desperate and will grab the first man who shows me any attention.”
Jamie held his gaze for a second, then nodded. “Alright.”
Their food arrived, and it gave Allen an excuse to stop talking.
He ate without tasting much of it. Jamie filled the silence with small talk about work, his girlfriend, and some idiot he’d dealt with that morning, but Allen only half listened.
He nodded at the right moments. Smiled when he was meant to.
When they were done, Jamie checked his phone, then put it down. “Hey,” he said. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
Allen looked up. “Like what?”
“The red flag thing.” Jamie sighed. “I wasn’t saying he’s using you. Or that you’re… anything. I just — I don’t want you getting hurt.”
Allen nodded. “Okay.”
Jamie watched him for a second. “You’ve gone quiet.”
“I’m fine.”
“That’s not what I said.”
Allen held his gaze, then shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Please drop it.”
Jamie exhaled and rubbed a hand over his face. “Alright. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Allen nodded again. “Okay.”
When they’d finished, they walked outside. Allen pulled his coat tight, and at the corner, Jamie bumped Allen’s shoulder lightly. “Message me later, yeah?”
Nodding, Allen said, “Yeah.”
Allen waited until Jamie turned down the street, then headed home, trying to ignore what Jamie had said, but finding it difficult to do so.
When he reached his apartment, Allen kicked his shoes off by the door and didn’t bother turning the main light on. He grabbed a drink, went to the couch, and turned on the TV. He told himself he was just putting something on in the background and not because he wanted to see more about the hotel.
It took ten minutes before the story came back around with a different presenter this time. Same footage of the hotel with the same flashing blue. Briar House. Allen sat forward without realizing he’d moved as his brain pulled the card up again.
The presenter said the victim’s name again, called her a backing singer, and mentioned a tour. All the information Allen knew from earlier. Allen’s eyes stayed on the screen, but his focus had shifted to Rick.
When the segment ended, Allen didn’t change the channel straight away. He stayed for another minute, the remote in his hand, his thumb resting on the buttons without pressing any of them.
He didn’t want to be that guy who couldn’t trust his partner. He didn’t want to go snooping, but that card… Allen shook his head. No, Rick wasn’t like that. He might not know Rick well yet, but Allen knew Rick wasn’t a killer. He knew it.