A Wolf at the Door

And then we had the bodyguards, dressed in black slacks and white shirts just like Bobby and Tai. Some of them had jackets on, hiding shoulder rigs just like Gretchen’s two bodyguards, but most of them were just big, bulky thugs, so muscle-bound they couldn’t have touched their hands behind their backs. Sure, they looked impressive, but when it came down to it, they’d be worse than useless. Mostly because they didn’t know they were useless. I spotted fifteen I was sure of, and another four or five who were “maybes.” Given the size of the crowd, it was obvious that very few people came with personal muscle.

There had to be a hundred people there, easy. A few I recognized. TV personalities, music stars of various genres, couple of football players. Most I didn’t. Probably important behind-the-scenes people or something.

“Jesse, come here and meet Alec.” Gretchen beckoned me over to greet one of the few people in the world skinnier than me. “This is Alec’s house, he’s a dear friend of mine.”

Alec—his painted-on tan only serving to accentuate the age lines he was trying to hide around his eyes—shook my hand with a clammy touch, and gave me an obvious up-and-down look that was more than friendly. “Well, hello.”

“Married.” I wiggled my wedding ring at him.

“Pity.” He turned a raised brow on Gretchen next. “And you, you hussy. Running around with a married man?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “He’s a new bodyguard, Alec. Strictly professional.”

“Again, pity. Now, follow me, my dear. Adrian’s here and you must see what a mess they made of his hair.”

Gretchen gave me an apologetic smile as she was whisked away, Tai following at a distance like a big tattooed shadow.

That left me and Bobby, and the odds of witty conversation there were next to nothing. We looked at each other for about two seconds, then turned and walked in opposite directions. Luckily, mine took me toward the hors d’oeuvres table.

I had no idea what I was eating by the handful, but they were at least tasty. I ignored the glares from the catering staff as I camped at the table, and just let my gaze scan the room. Whaddya know; I was rather surprised to spot a face I knew. And not just in a “Hey, that dude is on TV” kinda way. More in a “Hey, I once punched that guy in the face” kinda way.

The last time I saw Travis Verelli, he was in a YouTube video being hauled out of a hotel room in his tighty whities and sock garters. He was an agent, and one of his clients beat him with a phone and tied him up with cords from the window blinds. Considering that he was trying to have me arrested at the time, it made me grin every time I thought of it.

“Travis! Hey, buddy!” You shoulda seen the look on that man’s face when I walked over and threw my arm around his shoulders. “Wow, you’re looking great!”

“Erm…Hi, Jesse. Been a while.” There was a deer-in-the-headlights look as he tried to decide how to react in front of his friends and colleagues. I’m guessing screaming and running like a little girl wasn’t on the list of acceptable solutions. “Didn’t know you were in town.” There was a distinct green tinge under his tan. I’ll assume he was recalling the sound of his nose crunching under my fist. That’s what I was doing, anyway.

“Only here for a few days, seeing the sights and all that. We should totally get together before I go. Catch up and all that.” Under the guise of a manly one-armed hug, I squeezed his shoulder. Hard.

“Oh yeah. Totally. I um…I still have your number, I think.” His tone said, I would rather eat a plate full of maggots, but he kept that perfect, slightly sick smile plastered in place.

“Rockin’! I’ll talk to you soon then.” I clapped him hard on the shoulder, enough to stagger him a couple of steps, and walked away, pretending like I hadn’t just wiped my greasy hand off on the back of his coat. That gave me a warm fuzzy feeling. Sometimes, evil is fun. I totally get that now.

Other than that, the party was a party. I mean, aside from the fact that no one was wearing entertaining and snarky T-shirts, it could have been a barbecue in my own backyard. Folks mingled, drank, ate. They gossiped and whispered and told bad jokes, just like my buddies, but instead of kilts and cutoff cargo pants, they did it in designer dresses and immaculately tailored suits and tuxes. Same, but not same.

A while later, as I made my way back from the restroom—which was bigger than my kitchen, I might add—I had the distinct pleasure of walking into Travis Verelli again. This time, without his cronies around, his eyes almost shot lasers in my direction. “You.” He made the word sound like the vilest of curses. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

“I think that’s none of your business, Trav.” I leaned against the paneled wall, hooking my thumbs in my pockets to give the air of total indifference. “What about you? Schmoozing more clients to beat you up?”