“And modest, too,” Bowie interjected.
“—Andyou know I’d never let you or your sexy ass spend even one second in a jail cell.”
Bowie preened. “I should hope not. I’m far too pretty for prison.”
Javier’s stomach dropped. “You are pretty. So fucking pretty. I was so scared, angel. I can’t imagine what you went through in there.”
“Nothing, really.” At Javier’s frown, Bowie shrugged. “Maybe it was the adrenaline or maybe it was two life threatening situations in as many months, but I was just sort of…numb. Part of me knew you’d rescue me. Though, I admit, I was a little freaked out when you just casually walked in like you were about to order a burger.”
“I had to keep her and her goons trained on me. It’s not easy to sneak ten guys into a building that’s built like an echo chamber. Especially those guys.”
“It was pretty impressive,” Bowie conceded. “Do you think she was really stupid enough to think you’d show up alone?”
Javier sighed. “I think she was too pissed off to think things through. Love makes you do funny things.”
“I don’t think she was in love. I think she was enraged.”
“That’s even worse,” Javier said. “People do dumb shit when they’re angry.”
Bowie nodded. “Do you think Sylvia feels bad for killing her?”
“No,” Javier said, “and you shouldn’t either. Her husband was a human trafficker, and she was complicit in that. She was only mad about her husband being shot because it interferes with her bank account. The only reason I didn’t shoot her myself is because she killed Giordano Senior—which was just fucking handy—and also, I don’t kill women.”
“I can’t tell if that’s…heroic or sexist,” Bowie mused. “Sylvia’s kind of a badass though, right? Did you know she could shoot like that?”
Javier shook his head. “Until I watched her load a clip earlier, I didn’t even know she knew one side of a gun from the other. I suppose it makes sense. I can’t imagine mytíomarrying a woman who would wilt at the first sign of trouble.”
“I’m gonna miss her and our little shopping trips.”
Javier laughed. “Tell her that and she’ll be on a plane once a month to take you shopping in Beverly Hills. You think she doesn’t love any excuse to travel?”
Bowie hooked his leg over Javier’s, and then, suddenly, he was looking up at him from flat on his back. “What’s up, angel?” Javier asked, amused by Bowie’s antics.
“I think I’m getting my second wind,” he said, trailing his lips across Javier’s nipple. “I never properly thanked you for saving my life.”
“It wasn’t no thing,” Javier said, his words catching on a gasp as Bowie trailed his lips lower. “But, I suppose, if you’re offering…”
“Hands on the headboard. Keep them there.”
Javier did as instructed. “Anything you say, angel.”
The building was in utter chaos. Far too many people had packed into Bowie’s tiny dance school to celebrate his opening. There was only a tiny lobby, two studios, and a small kitchen and bathroom in the back, but there were easily a couple of hundred people milling around.
He might have worried about what was probably an expensive health code violation if the building’s inspector wasn’t currently clapping and cheering as her four-year-old daughter pirouetted in a bright pink tutu in front of the large mirrored wall. They’d invited the kid’s from Pam’s program as well. Bowie had created a program just for them. Something to help with their confidence. Nobody knew better than him what it meant to have his mind or body violated. It was his way of giving back.
Everybody had shown up to support them—Wyatt and Linc, Cy and Nicky, Memphis and Preacher, even Knox had taken a break from baseball practice to come and help wrangle the impossible number of children running amuck in the studio. Wyatt’s YouTube following had virtually guaranteed people would come, but then he’d gone and invited Elijah. Elijah had always just been a name to him, another anonymous person in a text thread who treated him like a friend. He hadn’t realized Elijah was Elijah Dunne, Oscar winning actor. He was just as laid back in person as he’d been via text. His husband, Shepherd was…weird but seemed nice.
It was safe to say the studio’s opening was a success. None of it would have been possible without Javier’s time and money or Odette’s interior design skills. He was overwhelmed by how many people had come together to help make his dream a reality. He had no idea how to express how full his heart was. He went from having no family to having almost too much family.
Lawson still lived with them in Javier’s apartment, seemingly content to overstay his welcome indefinitely. Odette spent more time at their place than her own. Their couch practically had an imprint of her body, she slept on it so much. Though, Bowie didn’t mind that as much as Javier pretended to.
Wyatt had introduced Bowie to his friends, Charlie, Day, and Robby, and they all texted each other several times a day in a group chat they’d added Bowie to almost immediately. The messages in the group always came fast and furious and were riddled with idle gossip, salacious sexual details, and inside jokes Bowie was finally starting to understand.
The cops had finally closed their investigation on Bowie and Javier, somehow concluding that Galina Yakhontov, wife of Russian mob boss, Dima Yakhontov, and secret kidnapper, was somehow responsible for not only both Giordano deaths—ironically shot between the eyes—but also the murder of her now deceased husband. Turned out, she’d stood to inherit a large sum of money. Bowie sometimes wondered how it all would have turned out had she known that. Maybe she’d be lying by a pool somewhere instead of… Well, Bowie wasn’t sure where her body ended up.
Bowie often spun wild theories to Javier as they laid in bed at night. Sometimes, in his imagination, Odette had called in some favor with her District Attorney uncle. Other times, Linc had dropped some information to the cops anonymously. Bowie didn’t believe the cops could have come to those conclusions all on their own. It was all just too neat. But Bowie thought it best not to look too closely at anything that had worked so well in his favor.
It was seven o’clock before Bowie locked the front door behind the last guest, leaving just him and Javier to survey the damage. Plastic cups, flyers, and streamers littered the floor, a chair was lying on its side, and balloons bobbed in the corners of the room, though maybe not as buoyant as they’d been that morning.
