“Do you want to?” Bowie asked out of nowhere.
“Why do I feel like your train of thought jumped the track? Do I want to what?”
“Live here. In Mexico City. It’s your home.”
Javier seemed to think about it. “I don’t know if I’d want to live here all the time, but maybe keep a house here so we could come visit often. I like what I do back in LA.”
“It’s kind of grim, no?”
“The fact that I’m needed at all in that capacity is, yeah. But not rescuing animals from a miserable life. Not keeping kids safe and free of intimidation. These kids need to confront their accusers in order to heal. No matter the outcome of the trial, they always feel…empowered by standing up for themselves.”
“Unlike me,” Bowie said.
“What they did to you wasn’t fair. What I did wasn’t either. You deserved your day in court. You were deprived of that twice.”
Before Bowie could answer, an odd sensation spread over him. A hollow feeling in his stomach, followed by that same trickle of unease he experienced back in LA. At first, he thought it was just his brain misfiring again. He tried not to let himself fall down the rabbit hole of memories, but thinking about dance always led to Giordano, which led to sadness and frustration.
He looked over his shoulder before slowly turning in a circle, his heart racing, beads of sweat beginning to bead on his upper lip and forehead as adrenaline fired through him. The museum wasn’t crowded. There was another couple in the room, paying Javier and Bowie no mind, but outside the large windows was a courtyard. There were a few people dotting the landscape, but nobody who appeared to be looking directly at them. He had to be imagining it.
“What’s wrong?” Javier asked, hand on his lower back, voice tight as he scanned their surroundings.
Bowie tried to relax. “It’s probably nothing. I just feel…strange.”
Javier frowned, glancing at Hurley who had stayed close but still a respectful distance so they could at least have some semblance of privacy.
Hurley approached them instantly. “What’s wrong?”
They both stared at Bowie with such intensity that he almost didn’t want to say. “I feel… It feels like somebody’s watching me.”
If he expected them not to believe him, he was wrong. Javier reached for the gun he had holstered at his lower back. Bowie now knew Javier favored baggie button downs because it was easier to conceal a weapon. He didn’t pull the gun, just touched it, as if reassuring himself it was there if needed.
Hurley gazed out the window to the courtyard. “I’m going to do a quick sweep. You got him?” he asked, nodding towards Bowie.
“Yeah.”
“Take him to the car. I don’t want to take any chances.”
Bowie’s heart sank. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t want to ruin our date.”
Javier frowned. “You getting hurt would have ruined our date. This was perfect. Really. It’s getting late anyway. You know Sylvia gets mad when we’re late forcomida.”
Bowie kept his head down as they walked, feeling like a bullet was imminent. He was probably just freaking himself out. It wouldn’t be the first time, but there was something deep in his gut telling him somebody, somewhere, was watching him, even if he couldn’t see it. He just knew. He wanted to go home, back to the compound with the armed guards and hot food and family Bowie could trust.
The car was idling nearby and swooped around to skirt the curb. Javier opened the door for Bowie then sat down beside him. Manuel, Sylvia’s driver, eyeballed Bowie just as he always did. Bowie found it unnerving, but Sylvia said he was just old and set in his ways. He didn’t seem that old to Bowie, not old enough to use his age as an excuse for his seemingly overt hostility.
Hurley said the man creeped him out, too. Not because he was a threat but because he had beady eyes like a crow, always narrowed and watching. He said he’d gotten used to it after all the years they’d both worked for the family but that he’d once been in Bowie’s shoes. Specifically, he’d said, “The son of a bitch is just always watching like a painting where the eyes always seemed to follow you.”
Bowie thought that was a great analogy. Javier said the man was just a homophobe, harmless but hateful. But no matter how much Bowie disliked Manuel, he was still grateful to be in the backseat of his car, waiting for Hurley to finish his sweep. The car wasn’t really any safer than the street if somebody decided to take a shot at Bowie, but his nerves were so fried, he’d take the illusion of safety over being a sitting duck in a window.
When Hurley yanked open the front passenger door, Bowie jumped then blushed, feeling like a wuss. He gave Bowie an apologetic look. “I didn’t see anything out of the norm, but I don’t know exactly what I’d be looking for. It’s not like the bad guys go skulking around in trench coats and sunglasses looking like super-villains.”
“The world would be a much more efficient place if they did,” Javier muttered.
Bowie slouched against Javier, resting his head on his shoulder. He was just so ready to be done with this…all of it. At what point did he just say enough was enough and go back to LA and wait for his stalker to make a move?
Javier had said he wasn’t weak…had even called him a badass. Maybe he should just handle it himself. Bowie deflated. It was all bullshit. He wasn’t leaving Mexico City, and he wasn’t confronting anybody without Javier. It was true, he hadn’t been afraid of a room of armed detectives, but he’d been afraid when it counted. When he’d been trapped beneath two hundred and fifty pounds of sweaty, vicious muscle.
When it came down to it, he froze. Maybe he wouldn’t have made it out of that room with armed guards there watching, but after he’d bitten Giordano—after that first hit—Bowie had just disassociated, drifted up into somewhere far away and tried to pretend the whole thing hadn’t happened.
