Page 53 of Tested
Picking up the flowers, I nod toward the door. “Lemme toss these, and then we can…” My voice trails off, because I’m not sure what he’s in the mood for.
“I’ve got to talk to Stone.”
I blink at him over the death lilies. “O-kay.”
He nods, as if he’s agreeing with someone besides me. “I’ll be back in an hour or so.”
“You’re not going to call him?”
“I’ll be back.” He pivots in full Terminator mode, and before I can track him, he’s disappeared.
Standing there with my hands full of flowers, I address the place he had been. “Okay, that wasn’t weird at all.”
I’m dismantling the arrangement when I hear him leave. “Somehow,” I tell one of the pristine white blossoms, “I don’t think Connor’s the only one with a secret.” Whatever Jacques told Trajan had clearly rocked his world, and not in a good way.
Once I dump the flowers, I open some windows to clear the air of their lingering perfume. I drag my laptop into the living room and settle in, determined to find some kind of connection between the three murders.
If I keep my mind on Google, I might not start conjuring the perfect question to get Trajan to spit out what’s got him all twisted, or planning ways to slip him Connor’s secret without breaking my promise.
A promise that he extorted from me under extreme circumstances, I might add.
All right. Extorted might be too strong. Extracted maybe. Dragged out of me because, under certain circumstances, I’m better at conflict avoidance than anything else. Certain circumstances like this unexpected ménage relationship I’ve found myself in.
And what I’d do to keep it from ending.
Not just because then I’d be a lone wolf without a pack. And not just because I might have to choose between them. No, the real reason for my dread is that I’ve got as much invested in their relationship as either of them do. Their decisions affect me in a way I hadn’t anticipated.
Opening my heart to more than one man has given both of them the tools to hurt me. I’ll keep Connor’s secret, but the words are clogging my throat and I’m worried they’ll spill out before I can stop.
Google. Keep your mind on google.
In a couple of clicks I land on a website with an archive from the LA Times. I think my search terms are fairly narrow – events that occurred between 1978 and 1982 that are associated with Beverly Hills High School – but once I click “enter” I’ve got almost fifty thousand hits.
Well damn.
It’s going to take me some time to plow through all of them.
I click on the first link and learn that it’s going to cost me eight dollars a month to actually see anything.Oh ffs.
I need some long-lived supe who might remember those days. Like, I don’t know, Trajan maybe? I rub my temples where a headache is trying to settle in. Sheena’s been in town as long as Trajan has, although I don’t know if either of them were here in 1980.
Lydia? Yeah, she’s old enough to remember those years. I shut down the laptop, figuring those fifty thousand newspaper mentions will still be there later. Lydia and I might not be friends, but I don’t know many other people in this town. It’s only eight or so. Worse case, she ignores me completely and I have to come up with another plan.
I send her a text and arrange a meeting. She asks me if I’m hungry and when I respondI’m a twenty-three-year-old wolf, she gives me a La Brea address. The street number suggests it’s close to the place we’ve met before, so I aim for pseudo-grunge so I’ll blend in with my surroundings.
As if. I put on a flouncy little dress that barely covers my butt and my favorite pair of semi-shredded jeans over fishnet tights, plus Doc Martens and a pearl necklace that Sheena was going to throw away. My coral lipstick clashes beautifully with my purple dress, andYes ma’am, baby is good to go.
Turns out, I clash even harder with our destination, a treasure of a joint called Pinks. Lydia and a couple of her girls are on their bikes in the parking lot and they all grin when I hop out of the Uber.
“What in the world?” Lydia looks me up and down, chuckling to herself. “We’re going to have to make you an honorary lesbian.”
“Oh no.” I match her tone, figuring if she’s going to play nice, I can too. “I like dick far too much for that.”
Lydia’s two accomplices make appropriate gagging noises and we all head into Pinks, a real live, honest to goodness hot dog stand.
The two women with Lydia are butcher than me, even if I weren’t wearing a dress. We make introductions and order from the eclectic menu. They’re all appalled when I order something called a Tamale Sundae rather than a hot dog but I just shrug it off. “Sorry, ladies. I’m into adventure.”
“We can tell,” Lydia says, and that brings on another round of teasing. They like my dress but they’re worried that I’m hot in both jeans and tights. They’re not wrong.
