Love for the Cold-Blooded (12 page)

Not that Pat had been looking. Except that of course he had been.

“Oh, uhm,” said the lurking superhero with the amazing butt. In a move that seemed almost comically ill-advised, he then attempted to lean casually against the wall, presumably in an effort to convey coolness and suavity.

Talk about total fail. The narrow hallway with its flickering, sallow lights was not the right setting for heroic underwear models propped stiffly against its side. The whole thing was like a sad artistic statement on social awkwardness.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” said Pat. He meant it as an honest question; that it came out sounding decidedly unwelcoming was more or less incidental.

Nick blinked, and then visibly decided to ignore the less than friendly greeting. “Hello, Patrick. How’s it going?”

“Seriously? Come on, bro. What, are you gonna tell me you just happened to be in the area or something?” This shit was just sad. A minute or two more and Pat would be tempted to start a petting zoo for lost little hoagies.

“Ah, no. Of course not.” Abruptly, the superhero in Pat’s hallway abandoned the attempt at coolness in favor of a military-straight posture that suited him a thousand times better. The nod he gave Pat was brisk and businesslike, and would have been way more convincing before all the coolness fail. “I believe this is yours.”

Pat immediately recognized the plastic bag Nick was holding out to him. He leaped forward to snatch it up, hardly registering the way Nick stiffened at the sudden movement.

Yes! There it was, it was really there — Pat’s copy of
Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Ho
! And his cool new cap and t-shirt were still in the bag, too!

“Oh man, this is super awesome!” Pat fistpumped in enthusiasm and held out a hand for a high five, grinning broadly. He’d lost hope of ever getting his hands on this album again. “Where’d you get this?”

Nick gave Pat’s invitingly raised palm a look of blank incomprehension. What a loser — if there was anything that merited a high five, it was the recovery of a unique work of art, right? But whatever, Pat simply clapped his own hands together above his head instead, like he was at a concert. This was so great, seriously. He couldn’t stop grinning, and there might even have been some happy bouncing involved. “You’ve gotta come in and listen to it, bro. BadMadRad is gonna blow your mind.”

It seemed like the obvious and sensible thing — quite apart from politeness dictating and all, awesome things were always more awesome when you shared them with others. Except that in between unlocking his door and ushering Silver Paladin into his living room, Pat was suddenly ambushed by the ice-cold knowledge that nobody should have known where Padraig the Hooker lived except his agency… and Cea sure as hell wouldn’t give out that information.

Pat should probably have thought of this first thing when he’d found a superhero bearing gifts on his doorstep. He’d never been suspicious by nature, though; he generally preferred to assume that everyone was basically well-meaning, if sometimes a little messed up by circumstance

“Hang on a sec.” Pat wasn’t used to hearing that sharp, suspicious note in his voice. He couldn’t say he liked it, either. “How’d you know where I live?”

There was no hesitation, no sign of overt guilt… nothing. “There’s a pre-order label on the CD with the name of the record store and a customer identification number,” Nick said with perfect calm. His attention was as laser-beam concentrated as though he were attempting to read well-hidden government secrets from Pat’s face; so, pretty much the usual. “The store pulled the details from its customer database.”

The relief that washed over Pat was surprisingly strong. Nick was kind of a freak, even for a hoagie, but… well, Pat liked freaks. And — let’s not forget — this particular freak was both hot as burning and willing to repeatedly jump into bed with Pat. The charm of that novel combination was unlikely to wear off any time soon.

Pat was pretty pissed off at the record store, though. Passing out customer info to random superheroes? Had those losers never heard of the right to privacy? Just went to show. Pat’s mom had a point when she talked about the rampant injustice of the world, and of the ruinous influence of superheroes in particular.

Nick was still staring at him, a sharp crease developing between his eyebrows. “The bag was in evidence. I had it released into my custody because — well, you mentioned how rare this CD is, and it wasn’t integral to the investigation. There was no reason to retain it.”

Pat shrugged and snorted a little to show that he wasn’t entirely happy with the state of the universe, but he’d let it pass this once, seeing as the innate flaws of the system had gotten his album returned to him. The philosophical subtleties of Pat’s snort flew right over Nick’s head, though. As soon as Pat shrugged, the dude obviously decided he was off the hook and directed his narrow-eyed gaze at Pat’s apartment rather than Pat himself.

The way Nick swept the place with his laser eyes suggested he suspected Pat’s bookcases (and maybe his couch) of plotting an unspecified offense against all that was righteous and hoagie-like. Pat knew better than to take it personally — it was just the way the man’s face worked. Of course, he might also be thinking the place looked shabby, compared to the high-tech lab the size of an airplane hangar he spent most of his time in.

More fool he, then. Sure, the Andersen Estate had the lab and the giant night kitchen with its walk-in stasis fresher, wicked sound system and comfy office corner… not to mention all those parts of it that Pat rarely if ever saw, like the park, or the swimming pools, the private gym and the library. But here, Pat’s posters were on the walls, and his high school letter jacket was tossed over the back of the chair. The fluffy blanket Hell had given him as a housewarming gift lay draped over one arm of the couch, ready for when he wanted to watch TV and the heating was out again. There was no fancy AI to manage everything, but Pat knew just how to punch the window frame to make the window close. So what if the entire place could have fit into Nick’s bathroom with room to spare, or if the shelving units were wonky because Pat had put them up himself?

“Take a load off, bro,” Pat prodded, and finally resorted to grabbing Nick, bodily moving him over to the couch, and pushing him down. The man sat gingerly on the very edge of the cushion, looking as out of place as an awkward dude in a thousand-thaler suit could possibly look in a small student apartment. “Do you even know BadMadRad?”

Nick shook his head stiffly. Pat decided to interpret this as enthusiastic endorsement of Pat’s plan to show him what good music was. The poor man liked Ghost Matter, for all the gods’ sake. Someone needed to do something before it was too late.

Reverently, Pat opened the jewel case, revealing his brand spanking new album. It even looked awesome, with huge graffiti letters spilling all over. Man, this was so —

“Is this a Jaguar couch cover?” Nick bounced up from the couch as though magnetically repelled. The accusing glare he cast first at the couch and then at Pat should have set both of them on fire, except, yeah. Still not pyrokinetic.

Pat jokingly raised his palm in a warding gesture to repel the look of burning, hissing a little by way of sound effects. “Whoa, dude, don’t be a hater. It’s just a cover, it’s not gonna bite you in the ass. Promise.”

No go; looked like the man was dead set on being indignant. “Jaguar is one of the most notorious villains of our time!”

“He’s also, like, seriously built, ever notice that?” This did not appear to help, and Pat rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Chill, dude, it’s a damn couch cover. I’d offer to take it off, but trust me, you don’t want that. Just sit, I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Pat had always had a soft spot for Jaguar, but the couch cover was cool even from a non-fannish point of view — soft, comfy and slashed with a print of the Jaguar’s awesome trademark claw marks. Pat had almost gotten the cover in blue-black (the shade of the Jaguar’s fur when he shifted), but had settled on a pleasant shade of beige in the end. The color brought out the tastefully shadowed hints of Jaguar’s chest and abs.

By the time Pat had put on the album and adjusted the bass, Nick was once again perched on the couch, though looking vaguely rebellious. Pat didn’t worry about it. And then the wicked, smooth beats of BadMadRad filled the room and Pat flopped down on his back, closed his eyes and submerged.

Not for nearly as long as he’d expected, though. He’d definitely been expecting more than two minutes; they weren’t even past the first song.

“Patrick? Patrick. I think — I should probably —”

When Pat opened his eyes, the hoagie on his couch had once again transformed into a hoagie hovering on his feet, obviously feeling every bit as painfully out of place as he looked. From this angle, he seemed even taller, which didn’t help.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Seriously, you don’t like it?” The first track was the title track —
Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Ho
itself. How could anyone fail to appreciate something so awesome?

“It’s not that.” The helpless, awkward look on Nick’s face spoke volumes, though: the man had no appreciation for musical genius. Well, his favorite band was Ghost Matter. What had Pat expected?

Pat heaved a heavy, put-upon sigh and regretfully sat up to turn off the music. Nick looked no more comfortable with the silence, though. He was now pulling himself into a weirdly official pose, chin firmed into a jutting heroic line. “I will take my leave of you. In fact, I should apologize for — uhm, lingering as long as I have. I hope you do not feel that I have put you into an awkward position.”

“What? No, dude, why would I feel that?” Where was all this stiffness and formality coming from? “I’m glad to have my album back. Nothing awkward about that position, believe me.”

Nick blushed, a faint flush of color rising up his throat.

Pat could feel his frown beginning to settle in for the long haul. “Okay, I don’t get it. We’re good here. Aren’t we?”

“Absolutely. It is important to me that you know I do not — and never will — expect… bonuses of any kind. Including, needless to say, your time.” Nick seemed almost flustered, in a stiff and officious way. The flush showed no inclination to subside, but was instead spreading splotchily to his cheeks. “As I have not presently engaged your services, it would be unfitting for me to take up any more of your day. We should not allow any lines to be blurred, considering our good business relationship is —”

“No way, are you serious?” Pat couldn’t help but laugh. Nick didn’t think it was appropriate to hang out with a hooker because he felt like he was making Pat work overtime without pay?

He only laughed a little bit, though. The way Nick stared at him made him feel weird about it, like he was kicking a really formal puppy or something.

A second later, Pat realized there was an easy way to get past Nick’s unease. If the problem was that nobody was being paid for their time and it was making him feel like he was taking advantage, or uncomfortably altering their business relationship or whatever…

Pat’s wallet was in his jacket, over by the door. He pulled out one of the larger bills, waving it in front of Nick’s blank face. “Here you go, big guy. For you.”

Nick made no move to take the money, so Pat tucked it into his breast pocket. He got it out immediately, handling it much the same way he might have handled a dead rat. “Twenty thalers?”

Pat gave him his biggest, most obnoxious grin. “Should be plenty for a few hours of your company, right?”

Nick blinked. Then he blinked again, face still entirely blank. It was pretty hilarious, actually. Pat should have thought to have his phone ready to record this… though really, considering Cea hacked Pat’s phone at least twice a month, maybe it was just as well.

“I, well,” Nick said at long last, almost hesitantly. “I suppose… yes. That should be… sufficient.”

“Cool.” Pat’s smile threatened to split his face. Man, but he was good — he’d reduced Silver Paladin’s civilian alter ego to stammering, and the evening hadn’t even started yet. “That’s settled then. And guess what? Tonight is party night!” Pat hadn’t been completely decided on going to the Beta Centauri party; strictly speaking, he should be reading up on zoning regulations. But with Nick around he wouldn’t be doing that anyway, so the choice had been taken from his hands, right? “We’re gonna have to do something about your clothes, though, because dude. That suit does not say ‘fun’. That suit does not even speak a language in which fun is a word. But no worries, I’ll get you sorted.”

Ten minutes later, the contents of Pat’s closet were spread out over his bed, and Pat was trying to decide between a
Rise of the Serpent
and an €linore t-shirt he’d bought just a few weeks ago. Given how he’d reacted to Pat’s couch cover, Nick would probably refuse to wear the serpent shirt on principle, even though it referred to the classic movie based on Serpentissima, rather than Serpentissima herself. And as for €linore — Nick voluntarily wore Ghost Matter sweatshirts. He wasn’t cool enough to wear €linore on his lame hoagie chest.

“Patrick…?” Nick was still in the living room. Pat would have placed bets that he was still standing in exactly the same spot Pat had left him in.

“Yeah, hang on, I’m thinking,” Pat yelled back through the open door.

“So it’ll be a while, then?”

Pat snorted and shrugged into the €linore t-shirt himself before checking his hair (awesome, and now just the right length to curl attractively over his forehead without looking messy). Then he grabbed a slightly too-large flannel shirt and a baseball cap and headed back out into the living room.

Contrary to expectations, Nick had abandoned his vigil in front of the couch in favor of crossing over to the bookcase by the window, browsing the titles with every sign of intense interest. As Pat watched, he stepped from the supernatural romance section of Pat’s library over to the stack of books on the windowsill, which was mostly composed of
Principles of Urban Architecture
and some super cool monographs on cityscapes Pat had recently sent everyone on his contact list a bunch of enthusiastic emoticons about.