Twice Upon a Blue Moon (8 page)

The accomplice?

Hazel buried her apprehension deep. She had watched enough TV to know that pairs of serial killers were rare. More than that, she wanted to believe Dylan was a good egg. Why else would he have encouraged her to send Sadie a text when they got to the restaurant?

That indefatigable voice at the back of her mind whispered that he was obviously trying to make Sadie jealous. That it was
her
he wanted all along. But he wasn’t introducing Sadie to his friends. He wasn’t mouthing ‘sorry’ at her as Ward launched into a convoluted tale about the loft’s history as a shoe polish manufacturer’s and a speakeasy before it came into their possession.

Hazel pretended to listen, but she couldn’t shake the suspicion that Ward was pulling double duty, at once playing master of ceremonies and observer.

She was relieved when the moment came to order.

“So, Mr. Parrish,” she said in the ensuing lull, “what is it you do?”

“Ward,” he corrected with a flinty sneer. “Have you heard of Apex Engineering?”

The name rang faintly in her memory. “Weren’t they the guys who took all that government money only for the CEO to go down on tax evasion charges?” She followed the news, but only because Marco liked to have the radio on in the kitchen. He despised the music he inflicted on his patrons.

Ward smiled thinly. “The CEO was my father.”

“Oh.”
Insert foot in mouth.

“I inherited the mess when he went to prison.”

“So you’re a CEO.”

“At the ripe age of thirty-three,” Ward confirmed, raising his whiskey glass. “Feel free to let your astonishment show. I hear some variation of ‘you’re much too young for the job’ every other day of the week. This one,” he added, jerking his head toward Dylan, “keeps telling me to sell and wash my hands of the whole putrid business.”

Dylan arched his eyebrows and sighed. “You ask my opinion.”

“I keep hoping it’ll change.”

“You always were an optimist.”

The look they shared was at odds with their body language. Hazel couldn’t help but think of feral beasts that hunt together, then lick each other’s fur clean of the blood spatter.
I guess that makes me prey…
It wasn’t the most flattering mental image.

“Can’t be easy,” she mused, “feeling like everyone’s ganging up against you.” Whether or not it was the case was another story, but paranoia was popular among the powerful even when their parents weren’t indicted felons.

“Not
everyone
,” Ward scoffed.

He didn’t need to smile at Dylan for Hazel to understand that she was the third wheel to their homoerotic love-fest. She wanted to feel affronted, but it wasn’t as if Dylan hadn’t told her that his relationship with Ward was complex. He’d done his best to prepare her. As late as the drive to the restaurant, he’d told her repeatedly that he could call Ward and cancel. His gaze was wary even now, as if he expected his eccentric friend to lash out. Like he thought Hazel might react badly to the company.

“Must be hard knowing who to trust,” she added, fingering the stem of her water glass.

“It is,” Ward agreed. “That’s why I keep Dylan around.”

Now we’re getting somewhere.

“Interesting choice of words.”

Ward smirked, sharklike, behind his tumbler. “Spoken like a true English major.”

Icy fingers cast down Hazel’s spine. She fought not to flinch. “You looked me up.”

“Just keeping an eye out for my friend’s wellbeing. That’s all.”

“Ward—”

A raised finger curbed Dylan’s objection. Ward wasn’t finished. “It’s nothing personal. Dylan so rarely gets attached that when it happens, I’m extremely wary of anyone who might be trying to use him. Don’t worry, I didn’t hire private detectives to follow you around. I Googled.”

Hazel would’ve preferred the private dicks. There was only so much they could dig up from her daily routine. For a twenty-six-year-old in a city with a decent nightlife, she led an exceptionally boring existence. Six years ago would have been a whole other matter. And those pictures
were
still cached somewhere. They certainly popped up a lot.

If not the pics, then the video. Christ…

She leaned forward, twisting to face Ward head on. “And what’s your conclusion?
Am
I using your friend? I mean he washed my dishes last night, so that’s like…a step below stealing his credit card and going crazy at Nordstrom, right?” Her voice shook. She couldn’t help it.

Ward still wore that infuriating smile—the same one that made her want to punch his teeth in. Not, on reflection, a good way to endear Dylan to her.

“Just as long as you don’t actually let him cook. He once tried to boil water in the dorm kitchen and nearly burned the building down around us.”

“In my defense,” said Dylan, “I was high.”

“You put a plastic bottle in the microwave.”

“It was a very old microwave!”

“Yet it survived twenty-five years of idiot boys… Until you.” Ward shook his head, but his expression was fond when he turned to Hazel. “He has other uses around the house. For instance, he’s wonderful with pets or small children. And he can reach high shelves. If you have any curtains that need putting up, he’s your man.”

“Are you trying to sell him?” Hazel quirked her eyebrows, feigning ignorance.
I know what you’re up to
played like a mantra between her ears. It hadn’t escaped her that Ward hadn’t answered the question.

He knows. He knows and he’s saving it to lord over you if you get too serious about Dylan.
It was a sobering thought.

“More like rent me out,” Dylan muttered under his breath, oblivious. “I’m not a piece of meat, you know. I have
feelings
.”

Ward rolled his eyes. “So says the man who spends his days tallying other people’s money.”

“Ah, what better way to skim from the top? But you’d know that, wouldn’t you?”

Ward pressed a hand to his chest. “And my heart goes crack.”

“What heart?” Dylan pouted.

The frantic thump of Hazel’s pulse began to beat at a steadier cadence. Dylan and Ward seemed content ribbing each other. After initial hostilities had been exchanged, Ward left off trying to threaten her into playing nice.

The first course was brought out—fennel soup, as per Ward’s recommendation—while he regaled them with tales of his baboon board members.

He was one of those men who enjoy the sound of their own voice. He did it so faithfully that he barely seemed to taste the soup. Hazel thought about suggesting they swap plates because the velvety cream was sort of addictive, but she refrained.

Her dress was tight enough already.

The main course dashed her hopes of slaking her hunger on anything more consistent. Two medallions of salmon and a thin strip of black rice did not a supper make.

“Should have had the sole,” Ward said when the waiter came to retrieve their plates.

“Free will is a beautiful thing,” Dylan countered. “And on that note.” He flashed Hazel a smile. “If I promise to let you lead, would you do me the honor of this dance?”

“I don’t want to say that you sound like a time traveler from the eighteen hundreds, but…” Ward held up his hands when Hazel glowered.

Perhaps it would’ve annoyed him to be thwarted yet again. Perhaps he wouldn’t have cared. Either way, Hazel slid her chair back and stood. “Let’s go, Mr. Darcy.”

Dylan followed her onto the dance floor as the in-house pianist started on the first notes of Nat King Cole’s
Unforgettable
.

Yep
,
definitely feels like Buddy’s wedding.

She banished the pang of guilt she felt at the thought of Rhonda and the baby shower. After her mother’s call, Hazel had wound up declining the invite on Facebook, in the most impersonal way she could possibly have replied.

Thanksgiving would be interesting this year.

“I’m sorry he’s so difficult,” Dylan whispered in her ear as he pulled her close. “If you want to leave…”

Hazel wrapped an arm around his shoulders and let Dylan fold his hand around her wrist. “Already? But I’m having such fun.” It wasn’t a complete lie. Ward had ‘life of the party’ practically stamped on his forehead. He wasn’t
likable
, but he was entertaining. Hazel had no desire to capitulate just because he’d annoyed her a bit. “You’ve known him for a long time, haven’t you?”

Dylan hummed a note of acquiescence, the sound bubbling out from deep within his chest.

“We met in freshman year. That’s… God, is that really twelve years ago?” He shook his head, brushing her temple with his lips. “He’s a good guy. A little standoffish, but a good guy.”

If you say so.
It wasn’t Dylan’s past that Ward had gone digging into.

“And will he be a good guy at the loft tonight, or… Is he going back to San Diego, by any chance?”

She felt Dylan’s smile more than saw it. “I think he’s headed back.”

“Excellent.”

“Yeah?” Dylan spun her under his arm. “You have designs on my virtue, do you?”

Hazel shook her head. “It’ll all be very spontaneous. Not like I spent all day thinking about it—or you.”

“Oh, really?” Dylan tipped forward, close enough to press a delicate, chaste kiss to the hinge of her jaw. “That makes two of us.”

“How narcissistic.”

His chuckle gusted against her cheek, rippling like a caress across her skin. She wanted nothing more than to kiss him as he pulled back, but Dylan didn’t stop at a few inches. When he turned, Hazel glimpsed Ward over his shoulder.

“May I cut in?”

Dylan hesitated, wary puzzlement on his handsome face.

“Sure,” said Hazel. There was no other polite answer she could give. Ward would be offended if she refused and, hands down, he’d win Dylan in the custody battle. He’d known him longer.

Appropriately, the house band transitioned into the eponymous
Habanera
as Ward offered his hand. She took it. “I don’t tango.”

“Neither do I,” Ward replied. “But if I were to learn with someone, I could do worse.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That I’m a fan of your work.”

Couples of all ages swayed and twirled around them, some more skillfully than others. Hazel remained mostly stationary.
At least it’s a short piece.
Even on an empty stomach, she still would’ve felt a little sick standing there, like a rabbit who’d misguidedly ventured into the foxhole.

“You don’t like me very much,” Ward noted when she didn’t respond.

“I don’t know you.” The not so civilized variant?
I think you’re a manipulative Ritchie Rich. Whatever hold you’ve got over Dylan, it won’t work with me.
Hazel swallowed it back, because it wasn’t true, not a bit. She’d run from men with far fewer resources at their disposal than Ward Parrish and she was still looking over her shoulder. “I don’t even know where you’re from.”

“Pretoria.”

“South Africa?” Hazel smiled thinly. “Huh. Of course,
you
don’t need to ask the same question. Google already told you.”

Ward hummed a note of acquiescence, his palm warm on the small of her back. “Google told me many things. For instance, turns out there’s some interesting material of you on certain websites…”

Hazel’s feet became rooted to the floor. Her blood congealed in her veins. “What do you want?”

Ward’s gaze was more pitying than cruel, as though he was disappointed that she had confirmed his suspicions. Perhaps he would’ve preferred staunch denials. Perhaps he expected Hazel to make a scene. But what would be the point?

His forbearing sigh did nothing to shift the chill that had slithered into Hazel’s bones.

“A dance, Ms. Whitley. Nothing more.”

Hazel made herself move.
Dance, monkey, dance.
Inside, she was screaming.

Chapter Six

The Tesla slid to a seamless stop. The engine’s subsonic hum gave way to silence. Cars still whistled past them, rattling the sedan with their speed.

Hazel startled when Dylan took her hand.

“You’re very quiet tonight,” he opined. It was a tentative overture and so unlike the man who’d brazenly written his phone number out on a cheap paper napkin—or picked Sadie up in a fetish club. “Is everything—?”

“Just tired, I guess.” The lie had legs. She’d worked from eight that morning to six in the evening. She hadn’t had much of a weekend. She’d spent the evening making nice with Dylan’s boyfriend-cum-roommate.

“Want me to drive you home?”

Dylan’s offer seemed genuine, much like the rest of him, but Hazel shook her head.

She followed Dylan out of the car, shivering a little until he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her against his flank. They had to part again to negotiate the stairs, but just for a moment, Hazel could inhale his cologne and revel in his body heat. Her vision blurred.

This could never work.

She’d blinked away the tears by the time Dylan led them into the loft. It was, as Ward had boasted, a large, sprawling apartment. The scant, sleek furniture made it seem even grander. Everything, from the bare brick walls to the curtain-less windows, was utilitarian, cold. A metal staircase right of the front door led up to a second story. Ward’s domain, Hazel guessed.

Her heels made soft clicking noises on the bare hardwood floors. She’d spotted the austere, grunge-chic lines when she’d come to pick Sadie up all those weeks before. Being inside was a different story, though. There was a game console under the TV, for one thing. And a pizza carton rested conspicuously on the kitchen island.

“Do you want something to drink?” Dylan asked, sliding the front door shut and securing the latch. “I have coffee—”

“I want to see your playroom.”

He froze, a deer in the headlights look snagging on his features. “Okay…” He flicked a hand toward a corridor left of the door. As best Hazel could tell, the loft wrapped around the main stairwell, more L-shaped than strictly square. Bookshelves lined the walls, overflowing with brick-size paperbacks. Hazel kept an eye out for de Sade, but all she could make out were mystery writers.

Someone—either Dylan or Ward—had an obvious fondness for Agatha Christie.