Tales of the Otherworld (35 page)

“Found him, I presume?” he said.

“Umm-hmm.”

A soft sigh, then he started to say something, but stopped mid-syllable. “Ah, he’s calling me now. That was prompt.”

Countdown: fifteen minutes

I watched my reflection in the mirror, tugging a curl over my shoulder, then brushing it back. Over, back. Over, back. The noise from the tiny chapel was a distant rumble, like the far-off roar of the ocean. I had asked for a few minutes to practice my vows, but I didn’t need it. I knew them by heart. Felt them by heart.

The door creaked open and a face appeared above mine in the mirror. For a second, Adam just stood there, staring.

“Now that is a sight I never thought I’d see,” he said finally. “Paige Winterbourne in a wedding gown.”

I turned and grinned, and he faltered.

“Looks that bad?” I said.

“Awful. Doesn’t suit you at all. Take it off and burn it while you still can.” He walked over and handed me my bouquet. “You left this in the front room. Lucas found it, and I think the poor guy had visions of a runaway bride, dropping her bouquet and bolting.”

“How is he?”

“Happy.” Adam swung around me, getting a full view of my dress. “His dad’s pretty pleased, too. That was a smart idea Lucas had.”

“It was my idea.”

Adam rolled his eyes. “Of course.”

The door swung open. Savannah popped her head in, then let out a dramatic sigh.

“There you are. You’re supposed to be at the front of the church, loser.”

“Yeah,” Adam said. “Move it, Paige.”

“Not her.” Savannah grabbed Adam’s arm and dragged him out. At the door, she looked at me. “I’ll be back for you in a minute.”

I walked into the church to the tune of popping flashes. Elena and Talia led the procession. Savannah was ahead of me, her “bridesmaid” role having been upgraded to maid of honor. You need a maid of honor if you have a best man. And we now had one, standing beside Adam and Clay at the front of the room. Benicio, beaming brighter than any of the flashbulbs.

And to Benicio’s right, Lucas. My destination.

“I think I have rice in my bra,” Savannah hissed as we posed on the front step for pictures.

“Join the club,” I murmured, teeth clenched in a jaw-aching smile.

Lucas leaned into my ear. “I’ll help you with that in the car.”

“I bet you will.”

Another blinding round of flashes. Then the crowd parted, path opening to the limousine that would whisk us to the reception hall.

As the last of the people moved out of the way, and the opening cleared, I stopped in my tracks.

“Oh my God,” Lucas murmured.

Savannah started to snicker.

“That’s very…fancy,” Elena said.

“Not my idea,” I muttered between my teeth.

“Oh, I didn’t think it was.”

Talia let out a small laugh. “Last time I saw something like that was on TV. Lady Di’s wedding, I think.”

Lucas and I both turned to see Benicio smiling.

“You never did actually say no to
that
idea,” he said.

I looked at Lucas. He shrugged, then swooped me up and carried me down the red carpet to the coach and four waiting at the end.

S
OMETIMES THERE’S A THIN LINE BETWEEN
cowardice and common sense. Sean had made the mistake often enough to recognize when he’d made it again. Recognizing it
before
he made it would be nice but, it seemed, too much to ask for.

He looked around the small, crowded bar. The patrons were over 90 percent male, which was the only sign it catered to a specific clientele. A typically understated small-city gay bar. Or so he’d heard. His only other visit to one had been in New York City where, drunk and in a rare rebellious mood, he’d gone into a popular one…only to walk out again five minutes later.

Common sense, he told himself. If you’re a Nast Cabal prince who is desperately trying to hide his sexual orientation, you don’t go to gay bars. Yet that little voice had always gnawed at him, telling him his decision was cowardice.

“You look like you could use some company.”

Sean looked up into the slightly bloodshot eyes of a man standing by his shoulder. Midthirties. Decent enough looking in a bland, pleasant way. A nice smile. Overall, about a seven. Sean liked sevens. Easy on the eyes, but not high maintenance. Yet buried in that “nice smile” was a nervousness that, combined with the bloodshot eyes, told a story Sean had heard too often and never wanted to hear again. So he said he was waiting for someone, and the man retreated to his seat across the bar.

Sean sipped his Scotch and looked around. More than a few men caught his eye, trying to get his attention, but they were all brethren to
the one who’d approached him: over thirty, in town on business, and hoping to score before driving home to the wife and kids.

Sean shuddered and stared down into his glass. He wasn’t getting what he wanted tonight; that much was obvious.

Any of the guys
he
was eyeing—the ones his age and here for a good time—were giving him wide berth. It wasn’t his looks—he was twenty-three, blond, physically fit, and attractive. The problem was what his last visitor had said: that he looked like he needed company. Not “a wild night of anonymous sex” company, but a shoulder to cry on. The former was exactly what he
did
need, but he wasn’t going to get it by staring morosely into his drink like a jilted lover on the rebound.

Sean straightened and slugged back his Scotch, wincing at the icy burn.

Not jilted, he reminded himself. He’d ended it.

Atta boy, Sean. After being lied to, betrayed, and humiliated
, you
ended it. Takes courage.

He slammed back the rest of his drink and motioned to the server for a refill.

He’d been a fool. He saw that now, the realization made all the harsher by knowing that if he’d had a female friend in the same situation, he’d have seen the truth right away.

He’d met Chris at his health club, almost two years ago now. It had started with a locker room conversation, Chris noticing Sean’s racket and lamenting the shortage of racquetball partners. Sean had offered to play with him. It took a few weeks to get going, both uncertain, but when it did start, everything had happened very fast. Like a slow fuse on a keg of dynamite, Chris always said, grinning in that way that—

Sean took his fresh drink from the server and downed most of it.

Chris. High school science teacher. Thirty-two years old. New to New York City. Lived with his in-laws. Yes, in-laws. Normally, Sean avoided married men, but he’d understood Chris’s predicament better than most.

Chris had been raised in a small conservative town, growing up as the son of an evangelical minister. Being gay wasn’t an option. So Chris had done what he was supposed to do. Dated a cheerleader. Married her. Had two kids.

Living up to expectations.

Sean knew all about that.

But now Chris was in love, and he was tired of hiding. He wanted to leave his wife for Sean. He just needed some time before he took the plunge.

How many married men say that to their mistresses? Everyone around them knows it’s bullshit. Everyone thinks the women are fools for buying it.

Yet Sean
had
bought it. The situation wasn’t the same, and he couldn’t fault Chris for not coming out of the closet when he was still in it himself. So Sean made a decision. If Chris was willing to risk his family for Sean, then Sean would take the same chance.

Chris had been all for it. But he wanted to wait until after the holidays, so he’d have one last family Christmas with his kids. Then his son had chicken pox, and that wasn’t a good time. Then his wife had plans for a spring break getaway, and he couldn’t tell her then….

Sean considered coming out first, both to prod Chris and to prove his commitment to the relationship. When Chris had suggested he wait, and he’d agreed, his conscience had called him a coward.

Cowardice? Or common sense?

As Easter had approached and Chris had continued to stall, Sean’s bullshit radar finally switched on. He’d hired an investigator to check a few things. To quell his suspicions.

The investigator had only needed a week to make his report. That small midwestern town Chris had grown up in? Chicago. The evangelical minister father? A United Church minister who preached acceptance of all diversity, including sexual orientation. Chris even had an openly gay uncle.

So all Chris’s “excuses” for maintaining his heterosexual life were just that: excuses. For him, Sean was the equivalent of a hot young mistress—someone who could scratch the itch his wife couldn’t, add a little excitement to his life, and be strung along indefinitely with promises.

The server brought over a fresh glass of Scotch. Sean’s stomach churned at the sight of it.

He lifted a hand. “Had my fill.”

“It’s from the gentleman at the bar.”

The server’s lips twitched, as if to say: “Can you believe this guy, sending over drinks like you’re some pretty girl in the corner?”

“Shall I send it back, sir?” the server asked, mock-formal.

“Please.”

“Don’t blame you,” the server muttered under his breath.

Sean glanced at the man who’d sent the drink, and saw his reaction when it was refused—the confusion and dismay and embarrassment. Another thirtysomething businessman, thinking Sean looked like a tempting morsel. A pretty boy, yet respectable; someone he wouldn’t be ashamed to be seen walking down the street with.

Better take a good look, Sean, because in ten years, that will be you. Wife and kids at home, sneaking into small-town bars on business trips, looking for pretty boys.

Sean’s gut twisted, too much Scotch drunk too quickly threatening to come back up the way it’d gone down.

He pushed to his feet, tottered, and grabbed the chair for support. The room spun, suddenly too hot, and his stomach lurched.

Toilet.

A sign over the back hall pointed in the right direction. He headed toward it, as fast as he could without staggering.

The restrooms were occupied. It was a small bar, and they only had two single-occupancy bathrooms, though Sean suspected they weren’t always used for single occupants. In a town that courted business conventions, most of the people here weren’t the type who’d even walk out the front door with their date, let alone take him back to their hotel.

One couple waiting for a bathroom looked like they’d be finished needing it before one was free. Sean averted his gaze as he passed them. Farther down were two guys, separate, on cell phones, getting away from the noise of the bar. One, around Sean’s age, pulled his phone from his ear and said, “If you need to take a piss, better head out back.”

He jerked his thumb down the hall. As Sean passed, he felt the guy’s gaze on him, appraising. He considered looking back but, faced with the possibility that he might get what he came here for, he realized he no longer wanted it, and it had nothing to do with his churning stomach.

When he avoided gay bars, that little voice called him a coward. Maybe there was some cowardice in the decision, but there was a bigger dose of common sense. Why take the risk to do something he didn’t
really want to do? If he’d been straight, he wouldn’t be in a bar picking up women. It just wasn’t him.

His younger brother, Bryce, called him a homebody.
You can always count on Sean
, he said, with that mixture of envy, pride, and derision that was pure Bryce. But it was true. Sean had never held wild parties when their dad had been away on business. Never skipped class to smoke up with his friends. Never came home puking drunk.

Making up for it now, aren’t you?

His stomach lurched, and he steadied himself with one hand on the wall as he walked.

How much longer was this hall? There was an unmarked door to the left. He didn’t want to throw up in a storage room. Maybe the exit was around that corner—

Another stomach revolt, telling him he wasn’t going to make it. He grabbed the nearest doorknob. The door was ajar, and flew open. He stumbled, then righted himself, and blinked in the darkness. A storage closet, but there was a sink across the way. He started toward it.

Always the good boy, aren’t you, Sean? Can’t puke on the floor if there’s a sink. Wouldn’t be right.

His foot hit something, and he pitched forward. He grabbed a pile of boxes. His gorge rose at the sudden movement. Then he saw what he’d tripped on. An arm, stretched out in front of him.

He followed the arm to a body. It was a man, lying on his back, eyes wide and lifeless, face unnaturally pale. On his neck were two ragged gashes. Bite marks.

P
AIGE WAS ON THE TELEPHONE. NOT UNUSUAL
at three o’clock on a weekday afternoon. Though she encouraged her business and volunteer contacts to communicate via e-mail, when something went wrong, her name was at the top of their call list. What
was
unusual was that she’d been on the phone for—I checked my watch—eleven minutes.

When it came to business, Paige was nothing if not efficient, and for even the most convoluted problem, she could take the details in minutes and end the call to begin working on the solution. A lengthy conversation meant it was a problem of another sort: personal. One of her friends or witch students or fellow council members with some crisis that needed a sympathetic ear more than a quick solution. I admired Paige’s ability to empathize, yet it was at this moment somewhat inconvenient.

I’d come home a day early, eager to see her, and had slipped into the house unnoticed. Now I was stuck waiting. Rather awkward, like crouching behind the sofa at a surprise party while the guest of honor chatted with a neighbor at the door.

As the call reached the fifteen-minute mark, I checked the display on the kitchen telephone and felt the odd twist of pleasure and consternation I always had on seeing Adam’s name.

While I was certain that Paige’s feelings for Adam were platonic, and probably always had been, I’d never been as positive with him. I had the sense that my relationship with Paige had come as an unwelcome shock. I suspected he’d harbored, not a great unrequited love for her, but some
romantic interest and the complacent confidence that should he decide to act on those feelings, she would always be there to receive them.