Page 1 of Deceiving Grier

Chapter One

Sawyer

BythetimeIparked at the edge of the road in front of the 1930s Craftsman house, a thin sheen of sweat slicked my skin. I cut the engine, wiped my damp palms on my jeans and peered up at the house through the passenger window of my ancient Jeep.

It was a charming house, in keeping with others on the curving street—a collection of tidy mismatched cottages, most painted in a variety of pastel colors—but nothing about Oliver Mackenzie’s house made it stand out from the others.

I had been expecting something more impressive, grander, considering Oliver Mackenzie had been something of a local hero until he’d died earlier this year.

Built into the sloping landscape, the house seemed to loom over me, disapproving somehow. Ridiculous, of course. I was projecting, and I knew it, but I had a lot riding on this interview. Hell, I hadeverythingriding on it. If I couldn’t convince the men inside that house to play ball and answer my questions, I’d never have the leverage I needed to get Greyson Mackenzie to talk to me.

I blew out a slow breath and pulled myself together. I needed to stay focused.

I unclipped my seatbelt, twisted around, and grabbed my beat-up messenger bag from the backseat. I’d picked it up at a thrift store during my freshman year, and it had been my longest companion since starting university. Slung over my shoulder so the thick strap crossed my chest, it felt almost like pulling on armor before going into battle.

I opened the flap, double checked I had notepads and pens, then the battery on my phone. The last thing I needed was for my phone to run out of juice mid-way through the interview while I was recording.

Assured I had everything I needed, I climbed out from behind the wheel and started for the house. The warm afternoon sun glared down from a cloudless blue sky. The breeze off the ocean was gentle and cool. I walked up the sloping driveway, past the two cars parked there, a strong indicator that both men were home, then followed the flagstone path across the neatly trimmed lawn. Clusters of colorful flowers grew along the edge of the raised porch, still full and vibrant despite officially crossing into fall and leaving summer behind a few days ago.

From the porch, Oceanwind Square, the LGBTQIA Plus community Mackenzie had been instrumental in founding, stretched out before me until giving way to the dark blue waters of the Pacific.

Mackenzie must have felt like a king up here, looking down on his subjects. Maybe I wasn’t being fair. The man had been well known for his dedication to the community. He’d been a professor at the university, and had a reputation for being generous with students, helping them when he could, an activist for gay rights and even a town councilman at one time. On the surface, Mackenzie was a paragon, which made me immediately distrustful. In my experience, people rarely did anything out of the goodness of their hearts unless there was something in it for them. Altruism rarely came without a catch.

I turned away from the stunning view to the front door but hesitated before ringing the bell. I wasn’t usually this nervous before an interview, but under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t be showing up cold like this, either. Typically, I would have called or emailed setting up a time and place, but not this time. I couldn’t risk these men turning me down. Let’s face it, it’s a hell of a lot easier to say no to an email or phone call than face-to-face. Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission, wasn’t that how the saying went?

I drew a deep breath and hit the button for the bell. A few muffled footsteps behind the door, then the heavy wood swung back. A man about my own age stood in the opening, his hair a wild mane of curls. His face lit up when he saw me, as if we’d known each other for years.

I knew the names of both men living here. Even without the media attention the fire that had burned down their last home had garnered, gossip rolled through the university like a tsunami sweeping over everyone, whether or not they tried to avoid it. And god knew I never turned down a story—especially one that stank of corruption and deceit like whatever the hell was going on with Oliver Mackenzie’s heir and these men he had so generously and inexplicably installed in his father’s home.

“You made it after all,” the man said.

I blinked, confused, trying to remember if I’d met him before and coming up blank. He sure acted as if he knew me, though. I knew Grier Miller to see him from when the roster for the university’s newspaper had saddled me with the misfortune of covering sports. Miller played for the school’s soccer team. So, by process of elimination, I assumed the man before me was Jett Feilding, but I was nearly positive I’d never met him before.

“I’m sorry. I think there might have been a mistake,” I said.

For a moment, Feilding’s smile slid away, and a frown clouded his features. “You’re here about the room, right?”

The room? I turned his words over in my head, trying to figure out what he was talking about, as though I was translating another language. Then it hit me. There’d been three of them living in the other house, and now, only two. One roommate had obviously moved out, and now they were looking for someone else to rent his room.

“Yeah,” I said, nodding before I could ask myself what the hell I was doing. “I’m here about the room.”

Feilding’s expression brightened, and he stepped away from the door, so I could enter. “Come on in. I’ll show you the place. I’m Jett, by the way.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” I said, holding back my own name since he clearly thought I was someone else.

“So, this is the house,” Jett said, closing the door behind me and shutting out the afternoon daylight. Without the light from outside, the foyer turned dim and shadowy. The gleaming dark wood floors and wide staircase with heavy newel posts and thick banisters did little to brighten the space. “Grier’s and my room are upstairs. Yours would be down here.” Then he leaned over and looked up the stairs before yelling, “Grier, that guy’s here about the room!”

“He’ll be down in a second,” Jett said, turning to me. “He was just getting ready for work. We didn’t think you were coming.”

Jett led me into a spacious living room decorated with the same dark wood as the hall, but with deep red accents. The space, which was a decent size, was packed tight with expensive-looking furniture, art and tchotchkes, almost to the point of clutter, but rather than looking messy or disorganized, the room looked cozy and welcoming—and way nicer than any other student digs I’d ever seen in my going-on four years of university. In fact, the only evidence that students lived in this house was the video game consoles on the floor in front of the T.V.

“Oliver Mackenzie lived here, right?” I asked, pretending I wasn’t sure.

“Yeah. This is all his stuff.” Jett waved his arm around the room. “The room is furnished. I told you that, right?” His face scrunched up as he struggled to remember if he had.

Since I knew he hadn’t told me a damn thing about the room, I neither confirmed nor denied his words. I still wasn’t certain what my plan was here. I’d come to interview Jett and his roommate, not move in with them.

I eased past Jett, through a wide opening off the living room into what was obviously a dining room, with a long rectangular table the same wood as the pieces in the living room, but not a matched set. The pieces in this room, much like the living room, were eclectic and expensive-looking.

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