Javier shrugged. “I don’t know. Instinct, I guess. They haven’t steered me wrong yet.”
“Haven’t you done a bunch of time in prison?” Bowie asked, unable to stop himself from smiling.
“That was a business arrangement. Prison ain’t no thing when you know the people I know.”
Bowie watched Javier’s profile as he drove but didn’t ask the question he truly wanted to know. He didn’t know how. How did you ask a stranger to just confess his whole life to a stranger? But Bowie wanted to know. He wanted to know who Javier was and what he was and what he used to be. Javier was dangerous, Bowie would be stupid to believe anything else, but he trusted that he wouldn’t hurt him. But, unlike Javier, Bowie didn’t know how to trust his instincts. Not anymore.
He didn’t speak again, just watched the world pass by until they pulled into a garage for a fancy apartment building off of Olive Street. Javier’s engine purred loudly in the echo of the garage until it turned into a numbered parking space and he turned off the car.
“Where are we?” Bowie asked.
“My place. You didn’t seem like you wanted to go home. If I’m wrong, I’ll take you back. But I really need a shower. You can hang in the lobby or by the pool until I’m done if you don’t want to go upstairs with me. I get it.”
Once more, Bowie’s emotions overwhelmed him and he wanted to cry. “No. No, this is fine. It’s good.”
“You sure?”
Bowie swallowed the lump in his throat, then nodded. “Yeah, totally.”
“Cool.”
Bowie followed Javier to the elevators and upwards to the third floor apartment at the end of the hall. Once inside, Bowie stopped short. The apartment was huge. And immaculate. It was very eco-inspired, like most upscale LA apartment buildings, all blanched wood and greenery. There wasn’t so much as a dust bunny on the floor and the stainless steel appliances didn’t have a single smudge.
“This apartment probably costs more than a year’s rent at my place.”
Javier shrugged. “Maybe.”
“It’s so…clean.”
Javier barked out a laugh. “I look like somebody who lives in a dirty apartment?”
Bowie’s head was on a swivel, taking in the flat screen television, the mid-century modern furniture. “You look like somebody who definitely doesn’t live with girls.”
Javier chuckled. “Nope. But I do have a roommate. His name is Lawson. So, if a blond shows up sounding like he just rolled off the set ofThe Beverly Hillbillies, that’s him. Don’t be scared.”
Bowie had never heard ofThe Beverly Hillbilliesbut he assumed it was a tv show. “Where will you be?”
“I told ya, I just spent about two hours scooping up a bunch of feral cats. I’m gonna go shower real quick. The kitchen’s right there if you want anything to eat or drink, though I have no idea what’s in there. We eat takeout a lot. If it looks green, don’t eat it. Otherwise,mi casa es tu casa. Make yourself at home. Other bathroom’s in that hallway. If you hit a room with a bunch of half naked cowboys, you’ve gone too far.”
Bowie’s head was spinning. “Okay.”
With that, Javier was gone. Bowie listened as the water started running, then began to prowl the apartment. If he had to guess, it came furnished. There were pictures and chachkies, but nothing personal. No family photos, nothing that looked like Javier lived in the space. All the pictures in the hallway were framed prints of pricey originals, but there was nothing personal about them.
Bowie stopped at Javier’s open bedroom door. He’d told him to make himself at home. Did that extend to his bedroom? Bowie only hesitated for a moment before deciding it did. Javier’s room was much more lived in than any other part of the house.
A large mattress sat on top of a platform constructed from stained wooden palettes, and a hanging lamp dangled beside the right side of the bed. Books sat stacked on both sides of the bed with more spilling over a bookcase that ran along the entire far wall. Had Javier read all those books? Bowie couldn’t remember the last time he’d read a book for pleasure.
He wandered to the bookcase. The text closest to Bowie was a non-fiction book about the gang wars in Mexico, but the one beside that was a romance novel. Bowie traced the couple on the cover, a smile tugging at his lips. Javier had books on everything from gardening to applied physics—whatever the fuck that was. There was no system, no rhyme or reason to his shelves. He seemed to just drop a book in the first space available, regardless of size, shape, or topic. It was organized chaos, just like Javier.
Bowie returned the book before moving to the floating shelf just to the left of the door. In a black frame, Javier stood next to an older woman with his same hazel brown eyes and dark hair.
Bowie took the frame from the shelf to get a closer look. There were mountains behind them, and it must have been windy because her hair blew in front of her face. Still, it didn’t mask her huge grin or how pretty she was.
“That’s my mom.”
Bowie jumped, hands shaking as he put down the picture frame. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” His words died as he turned to see Javier standing in nothing but a knotted towel slung low on his hips, another in his hands as he toweled off his damp hair.
Javier grinned. He had his mother’s smile. “Didn’t mean to what, angel? Snoop? Yeah, you did. But, like I said, I don’t mind.”
