Page 2 of Mystique of the Fallen
After a quick knock, Grant Calisto walked into an apartment last decorated in the 1980s. It smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and the rose-scented perfume of the woman who lived there.
“Aunt Florrie?” Grant called out as he shut the door behind him while juggling the box in his arms. The fussy drapes Aunt Florrie preferred allowed in little light, so the lamps on the end tables were on despite it being barely four in the afternoon.
“Get in here, Grant,” Aunt Florrie said.
Before she came into view, he heard the creak of the fancy metal walker he’d bought for her. Setting the box onto the floor since he’d catch hell if he put it on her pristine couch, Grant bussed her cheek and moved out of the way so she could get in her favorite recliner.
“How was your day?” Aunt Florrie asked once she was settled on the peachy pink cushions.
Unwilling to discuss anything to do with his semi-legal private investigation business, Grant plastered a smile on his face. “Great. I brought another box over; do you mind if I put it in the spare bedroom?”
“Why do you insist on calling it that? That room has been yours since you were thirteen. How many years has it been since then?”
“Nearly twenty,” Grant said, wincing internally at how much of his life he’d been stuck in the same rut. It wasn’t anything he could discuss with Aunt Florrie. She’d be appalled at the choices Grant had made. He ensured she knew little of his past and kept her far from his current mistakes too. Unfortunately, it wasn’t until recently that Grant had gained any horror of his own at his decisions.
“Still can’t believe that mother of yours ran off. You ever hear from her again?”
“No,” Grant said flatly. His mother had barely bothered to raise him when she’d been around, and it had been up to people like Aunt Florrie—who wasn’t even biologically related to Grant—to pick up the slack. Grant had no father, and he was eternally grateful that caring people like Aunt Florrie existed. But as wonderful as she could be when he wasn’t driving her crazy, she had firm opinions about what she considered right or wrong.
Which was one of the many reasons Grant kept her in the dark about most of his life.
“She did the best she could,” Aunt Florrie insisted. “She was barely more than a girl herself when you came along. I remember the fear in her eyes the day she admitted the trouble she’d gotten herself into. I expected your birth to calm her down, but nothing did. She was into all sorts of nasty business.”
Grant’s mother liked to party hard with drugs and alcohol and refused to allow a child to get in the way. By the time he was in school, he was spending half his nights at Aunt Florrie’s. One day, when he was thirteen, his mother hadn’t bothered returning to the apartment Grant had grown up in.
The landlord had already slapped an eviction notice on the door, and he’d been terrified of being homeless. But Aunt Florrie had bustled in and helped him move his meager belongings into her place. Now, two decades later, Grant was trying to extricate himself from the complicated web of his life, and he planned to call Aunt Florrie’s apartment home again. Hopefully, it’d be a brief stay, but Grant didn’t know what the future held.
Every aspect of his existence revolved around Reginald Bradley—his best friend, lover, and the lone client of his private investigation business. Grant’s car, his apartment, and even his underwear had been purchased by Reginald. Unlike Grant, Reginald had grown up with wealth and prestige. He was used to getting his way and hated to be told no.
When Grant mustered the courage to tell him things were over between them, Reginald would not take it well. Grant needed to have his affairs settled and the things he wished to keep moved out of his place because he had a feeling he wouldn’t be allowed to step foot in there once Reginald learned they were finished.
“I take it from your silence you don’t want to discuss her, but you need to forgive her, Grant. Not for her, but for you. Hatred festers in you. I can see it,” Aunt Florrie said, her blue eyes pinning him to the spot through her thick glasses.
It was true. Grant was cynical. But everything was a fucking mess and had been since he was born. Some of it was his own doing in trusting Reginald and somehow convincing himself that the man loved him, but Grant had also been slapped with reality far too often. Long ago, he’d had ambitions and had graduated from the police academy. He could recall that day so vividly. Grant had been so proud of himself, and he’d thought things were finally getting better.
But he’d been fired in disgrace. It was Grant’s fault. He’d been trying to help Reginald, and his police department didn’t take kindly to lying or falsifying reports. Grant had known it was wrong, but Reginald needed to make a splash in his father’s law office. Reginald had thanked him by insisting he get his license as a private investigator.
As if thinking about him had summoned Reginald, Grant’s phone rang. While his instincts were screaming at him to ignore it, he wasn’t ready to make his stand yet. A small, insidious voice inside him wondered if he ever would be—his escape plan had already dragged on for many months.
“I have to take this call, Aunt Florrie,” Grant said as he scooped up his box and headed to the bedroom Aunt Florrie had kept for him for twenty years. She didn’t approve of Reginald. Nor did she like that Grant was involved with a man, but he’d accepted that despite her love for him, she was also inflexible. However, she’d proven to be an expert judge of character throughout the past thirty years, and why it’d taken Grant so long to trust her instincts was a mystery he’d probably never solve.
Chapter 2
Because sitting around the apartment Reginald paid for in Georgetown or Aunt Florrie’s modest apartment in Arlington, Virginia didn’t appeal to Grant, he sat in his car devouring a bag of popcorn. Although Aunt Florrie’s building was surrounded by the ridiculously overpriced housing market of the Washington, DC metro area, she’d moved in many years ago, and thankfully her landlord kept the rates reasonable. If traffic wasn’t bad, Grant could get between the apartment Reginald had decorated according to his own taste and Aunt Florrie’s dated space in around thirty minutes.
Unfortunately, traffic was often a bitch in the DC metro area, but Grant was used to it. He hadn’t lived anywhere else. When he was halfway through the salty treat, his phone rang. Since the device was resting next to him on his car console, he glanced over and wasn’t surprised to see Reginald’s name on the screen. Grant was torn between being excited that he’d have a task for his day instead of driving around aimlessly and dreading whatever awful thing Reginald would insist he accomplish.
Grant rubbed the butter from his fingers onto his dark jeans and answered the phone.
“Hey,” Grant said.
“Are you in a better mood this morning?” Reginald asked in a bored tone.
“What?”
“It was last night; how could you have forgotten?”
His brows knitted together as Grant quickly replayed the events of the previous night. Reginald had demanded he meet him at the Georgetown condo, and he’d willingly obliged. He didn’t have to worry that Reginald would notice that some of his personal things were missing. Reginald never stepped foot in Grant’s closet—he had one of his own and it was far larger than the one he’d allocated to Grant. They kept their toiletries in separate cabinets in the primary bathroom as well. Reginald preferred everything in perfect order and hated Grant’s messiness.
