I’m standing outside the pool house, trying to gauge the tenor of the argument happening inside when there’s a loud thump that sounds like a body hitting the floor. Adam lets out a bereaved, animal-like wail, which I interpret to mean he needs me. I throw open the door and bound into the room ready to rescue my damsel in distress when I discover my fair maiden is…
What in the ever-loving fuck happened here?
Elliot is on the floor, bleeding from a head wound. Adam is rocking back and forth on the ground cradling a tripod in both hands—his bludgeon, I assume—while babbling incoherently. It takes me all of ten seconds to piece together what the hell happened, and fuck me with something sharp and uncomfortable because I didnotexpect the situation to escalate to this degree.
“Drop the tripod,” I tell Adam sharply. When he doesn’t react, I grab him by his hair and yank. “Drop the tripod and back away from Elliot.”
He does so slowly, eyes swollen from crying, lower lip quivering. I must be insane because I still find him incredibly attractive, even after possibly committing homicide.
“Keep going,” I command, and only when his shoulder blades are flush against the plaster, do I release hold of his hair. “Now turn around and put your nose to the wall.”
Adam complies, broad shoulders heaving, blubbering like a child. With him sorted for now, I’m able to assess the situation properly. Elliot is inverybad shape. I crouch over him, careful not to disturb where he’s fallen or step into the puddle of blood. There’s a nasty wound at his temple, the source of this mess, I’m assuming, and his skin has taken on a waxy pallor. I wind my handkerchief around my fingers and press them to his neck. No pulse.
Damnit.This just got a lot more complicated.
I rise and back away from the body, returning to where Adam dutifully stands with his forehead pressed against the wall.
“I didn’t mean to do it,” he wails. “I was aiming for the painting, and he got in the way. It’s hideous, can’t you see?”
I assess the painting, which looks perfectly fine to me, except for the horrific blood splatter across it.
“What about the painting don’t you like, Adam?” Time is of the essence, but I need to know what the hell I’m dealing with. Is Adam a goddamned psychopath or just a dumbass with hulk-like strength and terrible aim?
“He made me look fat and ugly. He gave me a fucking FUPA, Cassius.”
Elliot did neither of those things, but that is not the most pressing discussion we need to be having.
“Well, he was never going to be the next Leonardo da Vinci,” I agree. And now, sadly, he never will. “Unfortunately, Adam, Elliot is no longer with us.”
Adam turns just enough to look at me with cold terror in his eyes. “He’s… dead?”
“I’m afraid so, dove. You swung that tripod with a bit too much conviction.”
“Oh fuck, fuck me, fuck my life…”
Adam continues with his self-recriminations while I take a centering breath and analyze the situation from a pragmatic point of view. Objectivity is key in these sorts of situations, and an area where my dearth of empathy really comes in handy. Do I feelbadabout what happened? Certainly. But do I feelresponsible? I didn’t put the tripod in Adam’s hands or tell him to hit a home run using Elliot’s cranium as the ball. It was an accident. A terrible, freakish,tragicaccident.
Could I dispose of the body myself? Outside of burying it in my own backyard, it’s unlikely. And dragging anyone else into this mess as an accomplice would only result in disaster, not to mention I don’t believe for a second Adam would be able to withstand a police interrogation. Even with my stellar law team and healthy bank account, Adam will get a plea bargain for manslaughter at the very least, which will most definitely result in prison time. With his looks, it won’t be long before he’s the resident cum dumpster for a bevy of rough-hewn men with DIY tats and Hepatitis. That sort of coarse treatment won’t improve his temperament at all and will really put a damper on my future plans to wife him.
“We are in a real pickle this time,” I say at last.
“What’s going to happen to me, Cassius?” he pleads with tears in his eyes. Christ, he’s good at wringing the sympathy from my stone-cold heart.
I shake my head because he’s not going to like it. “Every scenario I envision where you admit the truth ends with you being prison raped, repeatedly.”
His ass clenches and he lifts onto his toes. His whimpering starts anew. “What the fuck am I going to do? I didn’t mean to hit him. He jumped in the way.”
“I know, dove, I know that, buttheydon’t. And unfortunately, this looksreallybad for you.” Even with his very excellent publicist and my lawyers, this is going to be a tough one to spin. “There’s only one solution I can come up with in the limited time we have to deliberate.”
“What is it?” he asks, a tenuous thread of hope alight in his eyes.
“I’m going to have to claim I did it.”
“You?” He blinks at me with befuddlement. “You would… take the blame? You would do that for me?”
Would I? Christ on a cracker, I suppose I would.
“No offense, love, but you’re a terrible liar. And even your pretty face won’t get you out of this one. I’ll say I did it in self-defense.”
