Page 10 of Houston, We Have a Problem
He looks up, narrowed eyes taking us in, and then he flashes a wide, crazed grin. “Looks like my next victims are here.”
A scream tears out of me, and I run, stumbling back up the stairs as fast as my legs will carry me. Jesse! But no, he’s on his own. He’s the one who wanted to go into the serial killer’s basement. I make it to the truck, but Jesse locked the doors, and I’m thinking about booking it down the street when a charcoalpickup pulls up in the driveway and a kind-looking man hops out, his dark eyes on me.
“Hey, are you okay?”
I can barely breathe enough to get the words out. “Murderer,” I gasp, pointing to the house. “Need to…call…police…” And I’m only just now realizing that this could be one of his accomplices. He doesn’t look nearly as frightened as he should, and he did pull into the driveway. What if he’s the guy’s partner? Did he just drop off the body somewhere?
“Easy,” the man says gently, holding up his hands and giving me a smile that makes me want to trust him. Pretty much everything about him is warm, from his dark complexion to his friendly expression. “Take a deep breath, okay? You said there’s someone in that house?” He points to the duplex, and I nod. “Did you see them?”
I tuck my arms around myself, finally calming down enough to think a little more rationally. “Of course I saw him. He was—heavens to Betsy, what if he’s killing Jesse!”
The man’s smile grows. “Is that Jesse?”
My head whips around to find Jesse coming out the front door, stoic as ever. Relief washes over me. “You’re alive!”
Jesse furrows his eyebrows. “Darcy?”
“You’re Darcy?” The man beside me perks up, and he seems to notice the moving truck behind me for the first time, matching Jesse’s confused expression. “You weren’t supposed to get here until tonight.”
“Why? So that maniac down in the basement would have time to hide the body?” I snap. At this point, I know I’ve probably overreacted, but my heart’s still pounding and I need to put that energy somewhere. “We drove through most of the night,” I add. “The place is supposed to be move-in ready.”
The man chuckles, shaking his head. “I told him that would bite him in the butt, but did he listen to me? Of course not. Ah, there’s your murderer.”
I tense as the basement psycho comes through the door and joins Jesse on the porch, covered from head to toe in…purple. Not blood.
“I see you found a way to get the paint out of the cement,” the guy beside me says with another laugh.
The one on the porch—who is clearly Houston Briggs now that I’m seeing him in the daylight—scowls at his friend. “It was washable paint,” he mutters before his eyes turn to me.
A shiver runs through me. His scowl is still in place, and now that it’s directed at me, I’m not sure what to do with it.
“You weren’t supposed to get here until tonight,” he says, repeating the other guy’s intonation and everything.
I can’t help but frown. “I thought the place was ready for us to move in on Sunday. Today is Sunday.”
He takes the steps down the shared porch, and instinct sends me back a step as he gets a little too close for comfort. At least he pauses, folding his purple-stained arms over his broad chest. Goodness, when he’s just in a t-shirt like this, I can see every muscle strain and stretch with his movement. He’s not at Jesse levels, but I can see why he’s paid for his arms.
He looks me over for a second, his blue eyes hard to read. “Sorry for the scare, but you really should have—”
A stream of water in his face cuts him off, and I jump, turning to find the source. The other guy has the garden hose in his hand and is gleefully washing the pitcher down.
Houston, with eyes shut tight, spits water from his mouth as soon as the hose turns off. “Jordan,” he growls.
“Sorry, man, but you looked ridiculous. No one wants to be talking to a landlord who looks like Tinky-Winky.”
Houston looks like he’s ready to strangle Jordan, but instead he turns his attention back to me. “I apologize for my idiotic friend,” he says.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing, which is surprising given the way I was running for my life a moment ago. Despite his still-present scowl, now that he’s soaking wet, I’m less intimidated and more amused by this whole thing. Did I really think I had walked into a murder scene? Now I know not to listen to true crime while driving across several states.
“Actually,” I say when I’m sure I’ve reined in my laughter, “I’m with Jordan on this one. You can hardly call any of this professional.”
“Again,” Houston growls through gritted teeth, “I wasn’t expecting you yet. But you’re right. I should have had the house ready for you.” He glances behind him to where Jesse is still standing on the porch like a silent, broody sentinel, and all of his muscles tense and tighten as if to try to match Jesse’s bulk.
It’s a good look for him, let me tell you, even if the display is a little ridiculous.
Jordan gives him another squirt in the face with the hose, killing the pose. “I have an idea,” he says, completely ignoring the thunderous look in Houston’s expression. “How about the two of you hang out in Houston’s living room while he takes a shower and I finish clearing out the basement? And since he seems to have forgotten how politeness works, hi, I’m Jordan Torres. That’s Houston Briggs, your landlord, and some people consider him to be sort of famous.”
I take the hand Jordan holds out, enjoying his company far more than I’m enjoying Houston’s right now. “I’m Darcy Paxton. That’s my, uh, brother, Jesse. And what kind of famous are we talking here? TV spot for depression meds? Or local celebrity after streaking through the high school football game?”
