“That’s all I needed to know.”
Miles rubs at his neck. “What did Rhett want?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
When the third attempt doesn’t go through, instead of dialing Shelby yet again, I decide to call the hospital. It’s still within the visitation hours—the nurses should put a call through—and I wait impatiently through the ringing. When it clicks, I talk before the nurse can even get a word out.
“I need to speak to Michael Shelby.”
“Who?” the nurse asks.
“Michael Shelby. In room—”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says, cutting me off. “He was discharged several days ago.”
“He’s not there?” My mind goes blank for a moment, thinking back to when last I saw him. “Is he dead?”
“No, not that I’m aware of. He walked out of the hospital, spry as a fox.”
I’m at a loss for words. Where is he? It’s not like the nurse would know. “That’s all I needed,” I mutter before hanging up.
“I’m going to get us some food,” Miles says. “I’ll be right back.”
I allow him to leave without commentary. Lars flips a few hamburgers and turns a couple hot dogs, glancing at me but never striking up a conversation. The smell of the barbecue reignites my hunger, and I focus on that rather than Shelby’s disappearance. Before I mentally return to the party, I text Shelby and ask him to call.
“Hey!”
I look up and see a scrawny guy with a goatee standing before me. Lars gives him a quick nod, but the man never takes his eyes off me.
“It’s nice that you have such a good relationship with your son,” he says, elbowing my arm. “Not a lot of twenty-one-year-olds would take their father to their party.”
Lars half spits in an attempt to stifle his laughter.
Tsk. And Miles wonders why I don’t like socializing with his buddies. I roll my eyes and point to a cooler. “Hand me a beer.”
The guy complies and tosses over some light brew bullshit that gets me frowning.
“I’m Julian,” he says, “one of your son’s classmates.”
Lars’s chuckles get louder.
“I’m not Miles’s father,” I drawl. “I’m his”—I still can’t bring myself to say it—“significant other.”
The statement rocks Julian. He stares at me with wide eyes and shifting eyebrows, caught between shock and confusion. I pop the top off my beer and take a swig. After the gears in his head rotate full circle, Julian cracks a smile.
“Really?” he asks. “Or are you pulling my leg?”
I don’t answer.
“There’s no way. Right? I mean, Miles looks like he should have a hot piece of ass at his side. Have you seen him? Any little Japanese lady would be happy to get with him, I think. Or Korean. Or whatever he said his mother was. Chinese? You would know.”
Lars meets my gaze and mouths I’m sorry. He’s red from empathic embarrassment, and I chortle to myself. Men like Julian don’t bother me. Stupidity knows no restrictions, after all. I wonder how often Julian gets into fights over his unfiltered commentary. That would amuse me more than this inane conversation.
I take another swig of my disgusting beer. It’s foul tasting and watered down. A shame.
“So,” Julian continues, ignoring my lack of participation, “you are his father, right? That other part was a joke?”
I lift an eyebrow. “Did I stutter?”
That statement gets him quiet. Even Lars avoids looking at me. If this had happened while I worked for the Vice family, I might be worried. Some people get upset over simple bullshit or perceived insults, and when they’re upset, they do all sorts of brazen things. Then you add guns and drugs to the mix, and there’s a good chance people end up dead.
But this is a backyard barbecue. Any challenge to authority isn’t going to end in a firefight.
“So,” Julian once again continues, “you are his boyfriend? Like, he’s gay? And you’re gay for him? Because you don’t look gay.”
Lars pulls off a whole host of burgers and hot dogs as he says in a hushed tone, “Julian, damn man, drop it.”
“I’m just curious.”
I ignore their squabbling and pan my gaze over the crowd of people. Miles interacts with each individual as he walks back over to the barbecue. I hear a parade of happy birthdays and you’re finally all the way legal, and Miles takes his time to acknowledge each one. He looks happy—and I know I shouldn’t jeopardize that with my sour mood—so I take another swig of my beer and attempt to force a positive outlook on things.
As if the universe is conspiring against me, Rhett walks over and motions to a hot dog. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence, which is for the best, but Julian takes it upon himself to correct everything.
“Hey, Rhett,” Julian says. “Have you met Miles’s boyfriend?” He leans in closer to the other man. “He isn’t Miles’s father.”
“I’ve met Pierce,” Rhett says. “He’s a private detective here in town.”
“Oh yeah? I guess it makes more sense now. Miles had to learn all his law from somewhere.”
I hold back a laugh. Miles doesn’t need me to teach him law—all I teach him is streetwise and gunplay—well, and “gunplay.”
Rhett, now engaged in the conversation, turns his attention my way. “So, Pierce, why don’t you tell us what school you went to for undergrad?”
“I didn’t,” I state, my tone curt.
“Oh yeah? Do you have any plans to attend? I know a good place if you’re interested.”
“No, thanks. If I’m interested, I’ll find my own place.”
Julian rubs at his copper-red goatee. “Rhett got his bachelor’s degree at the top of his class, and he knows all kinds of things about the legal system. I bet whatever school he recommends is awesome.”
Tsk. I guess some people are born to play the stooge in a relationship. Or maybe he wants to bootlick his instructor. Or, most likely, he’s just a numbnut and doesn’t understand the subtext to the conversation.
“Have you worked on any high-profile cases?” Rhett asks, driving us further into confrontation.
I throw back a mouthful of beer. “I haven’t.”
“Is that right? Well, how long have you
