Seven

SEVEN

I was dreaming. I had to be.

There was a noise, like tapping, like computer keys, and then the bed jolted, then again, and finally there was a groan before irritated words.

"For fuck's sake, get up," came the low rumble.

Rolling my head to the left, my face no longer resting against Ash's nape, I slowly opened my eyes because it was bright in the room—and found myself looking up at none other than my colleague Nash Miller. He was the oldest guy in our office, older than my boss, but even though Jared Colter had gone gray years ago, Nash only had a few stray silver threads running through his thick brown mane, which had always, in all the years I'd known him, hit his shoulders. I always told him I was certain he'd peaked in the seventies. What I normally got back was that at least he'd peaked, unlike me, who was still working up to mediocre. To say I liked him was an understatement. Once you got to know him, he was simply the kindest, gentlest man I knew, except for my father. That didn't mean he wasn't giving me heart palpitations at the moment, being in my bedroom.

" What are you doing here? " I mouthed the words, not wanting to wake the man lying in my arms, as Nash stood looming over me, arms crossed, those shoulders of his that were always impossibly wide seeming even more so from where I was looking up at him.

He was not as big as our friend and colleague Shaw James—few men were, as Shaw stood six five and weighed two hundred and sixty pounds—but Nash was taller and wider than our boss. But whereas Jared Colter came off sleek and professional, and even in Kevlar and carrying an assault rifle looked like he could simply leave both behind and walk into a boardroom, Nash was just…rumpled. All the time. I had never seen the man in a suit in all the years I'd known him. His beat-to-crap green Marine Corps field jacket, or his similar leather one, were it. In the winter there was flannel, and in the summer lots of rock-band T-shirts and short-sleeved Aloha shirts. At the moment, standing beside the bed I was sharing with a movie star, he was in a new horror, a brown quilted barn coat that looked like it had come across the plains with the settlers.

"The hell are you wearing?" I couldn't help asking.

"What do you mean?"

I pointed at him. "What is that?"

His brows furrowed. "Get out of the bed."

"Again I ask, what are you doing here?" I whispered hoarsely, horrified that Ash would wake up and order all of us out.

He gestured to the other side of the bed, where Owen Moss stood with an open laptop balanced on his right hand and a bug detector in the other.

"Oh God," I groaned softly.

Tipping his head at Ash, Owen smiled. "That is a gorgeous man."

"That man is going to lose his shit when he wakes up and finds you two in here," I tried to yell quietly, sounding ridiculous.

"Get out of the bed," Nash demanded through clenched teeth.

"I'm naked under here," I snapped under my breath but sat up.

Charging into the bathroom, Nash returned moments later with a really nice-looking velour robe that must've belonged to Ash. Wadding it up instead of passing it to me like a human being, he beaned me in the face with it and then turned around, as did Owen, so I could get up.

Once covered, I herded the two of them out, closed the door to the bedroom, and followed them to the living room.

"What the fuck?" I snarled at Nash under my breath.

He gestured at Owen, who turned his laptop around to face me.

"What am I looking at?" I asked irritably, because to me, it was a picture of a high-end restaurant overlooking a large body of water. It was hard to tell what body of water, as there were no discernible landmarks.

"This is from Ash Lennox's camera roll," Owen said. "This photo was taken in San Francisco, in North Beach, last week."

The significance was lost on me, but the picture evidently meant something to Owen. The thing about him—infuriating and endearing at the same time—was that Owen always thought that everyone around him was both as smart and as informed as he was. The photograph was important, but for the life of me, I didn't understand why.

"This is a picture you think Ash took?" I repeated to Owen.

"That's right," Owen said, then blew up the photo of the table so I could see the other people there—a woman and three men.

"Okay. Tell me what this is."

"Ash was sitting here," Owen shared, pointing at the empty chair next to the woman.

"Okay…"

Swiping left, I saw the next photo was a close-up of Ash with the man who had been seated across from Ash's vacated chair. I glanced at Owen, who was looking at me expectantly.

"Seems like Ash wanted to take a couple pictures of this guy, but not the woman or the two others?" I guessed.

Owen nodded.

"I'll bite. Who is he?"

"That is Elliot Voss," Owen explained.

I knew that name, didn't I?

"He's a fugitive, as he was supposed to appear before the United States Securities and Exchange Commission to testify against his business partner, Gregory Rhodes, regarding accusations of?—"

"I know who Rhodes is. He's the guy who bankrolls all those start-ups. He's a shipping magnate, tycoon, whatever, right?"

"He was, but at the moment, as he stands accused of defrauding millions from his investors after a string of bad investments, he's a fugitive like Voss, as he too failed to appear before the SEC to answer questions about fraud and embezzlement."

"So Rhodes got in trouble first, and then Voss got in trouble for not answering questions about Rhodes. Do I have that right?"

"You do."

"And now, since you're using the word fugitive , I can only assume that both are on the run from the FBI."

"Well, Rhodes is."

I would have asked him to explain, but I was trying to remember… "Isn't Voss in trouble for something else besides money?"

"I see you're on top of the current news cycle across the country," Nash chimed in. "The San Francisco police labeled Voss a person of interest in the disappearance of his wife."

"Which means they think he killed her."

"Yes," Nash confirmed. "There's not enough evidence at the moment that he did anything wrong other than Carrie Voss going missing from their house in Bodega Bay."

"Define missing."

"Bijou de Loughery, Carrie's best friend, was supposed to meet her there, but when she arrived, Carrie was nowhere to be found."

"And was there evidence that she had been?"

"Yes. Her car was parked in the driveway, her purse, wallet, keys, phone, and some shopping bags were in the kitchen."

"Signs of a struggle?"

"No, everything was pristine."

"Huh. Okay, well, who reported her disappearance to the police?"

"Bijou. She was distraught and assured the police that Voss had done something to her friend."

"Have they been able to locate Voss and question him about his wife?"

"No, he's in the wind."

"When did he disappear?"

"He skipped out on the SEC the week before his wife went missing. The Thursday that Carrie disappeared, the housekeeper and their personal chef arrived at the house in Presidio Heights around nine, and Carrie Voss was there to greet them. She had breakfast, gave the housekeeper some extra directions because she was planning to have friends over for dinner, and then left. She did tell both ladies that she was going to the house in Bodega Bay to meet Bijou and play tennis."

"So in theory, she could have driven from the mansion to the beach house, and Voss could have been waiting there to kill her."

"That's what the police think."

"But you don't."

"I just—I'm not finding any evidence that Voss didn't love his wife, and I've been through everything ."

Owen's middle name was thorough, so there was no reason to doubt him. Plus, he had his own software that worked faster and drilled down deeper than anything I'd ever seen when I was a cop.

"You think Voss loves his wife."

"I do."

"Why do you look upset about that?"

"I'm not upset. It's just, this part doesn't make sense. Everyone—family, friends, business acquaintances—they all said the same thing, that Elliot Voss was crazy about his wife."

"So you're thinking the police have it wrong."

"I don't know. I don't want to make assumptions. Maybe they have evidence I don't have access to."

I shot him a look that I hoped conveyed my skepticism. "You're not just a hacker, Owen, you're a great hacker, so what don't you have?"

"Yeah, all right."

"Honestly, then, what do you think?"

"I don't think he killed his wife."

"Okay, good. What do you think happened?"

"I'm not sure."

"You said her car was at the beach house?"

"Correct. And none of her credit cards have been used, no cash was taken out of their shared bank account or her personal one, no one in her family has wired her any funds, and nothing has been cashed out, like a 401(K) or an IRA or anything."

"Which, assuming Voss didn't kill her, seems to lead to the conclusion that she was probably kidnapped."

"Right."

"Have the cops considered that?"

"Not with the house being perfect."

"Like whoever took her couldn't have lured her out of the house or cleaned it up after. Has no one ever watched a movie?"

Owen smiled.

"Or we're wrong and they planned her disappearance together."

"Which is another possibility," Nash said with a shrug. "I mean, they're rich, right? Mr. and Mrs. Voss? There could have been cash in the house, or she could have driven to see someone on the way to the beach house and picked up money from them."

"The GPS on her Lexus says she went from their mansion in Presidio Heights straight to the house in Bodega Bay," Owen pointed out.

"But you're saying she conveniently disappeared at the same time her husband failed to show up to speak to the SEC."

"Yes."

"No one thinks that's related?"

"I'm not arguing with you," Nash grumbled.

"So one of three things happened. Either Voss had his wife safely flee the country, they fled the country together, or she was kidnapped, but whichever happened, he didn't hurt her."

"Seems reasonable," Nash replied flatly, "but SFPD is not gonna bite. They're certain he killed her and chopped her up into little pieces."

"But what's his motive?"

"She had a life insurance policy worth five million dollars," Owen informed me.

"But that doesn't matter," I grumbled. "First off, Voss is a fugitive. Second, at the moment, Carrie's missing, presumed dead. He wouldn't get a dime since the insurance company isn't paying out on her maybe being dead, only on her for sure being dead."

"True," Nash agreed.

"And even if her body shows up, at that point they're certainly not paying Voss. Murderers don't get paid for killing people to get the insurance money."

"That's all valid," Owen agreed. "So then what? Why is Carrie missing?"

"She has to have been kidnapped. Maybe Rhodes took her to keep Voss from talking," I suggested.

"No. It's not Rhodes," Owen stated.

"How do you know?"

"Because our boss was asked by the FBI to locate the man, which of course he did."

The government employed lots of contractors, and Jared Colter—between his friends, enemies, and his web of contacts—was at the top of that list.

"Where is he?"

"Lying low in Moldova."

"Which is a non-extradition country," I said, crossing my arms. "That sucks. Does our boss have a plan to bring him back?"

"That is a CIA decision, and one that hasn't been made yet."

I understood. You didn't just ask a sovereign nation if you could pop in and grab someone like drive-thru. The only thing worse was not asking and then getting caught with your hand in the cookie jar.

"Apparently," Nash took up the explanation, "Rhodes is hanging out in wine country there in Moldova, in Nistreana, and Jared has eyes on him. Did you know they make some really good red wine there?"

"I did not."

Nash shrugged.

"And is Rhodes alone?"

"Yep. No Carrie."

"Well, he could have had someone else kidnap her and is having her held someplace for him so he doesn't look guilty."

Owen shook his head. "Rhodes is living with friends who are footing the bill for his stay. All his assets are frozen. He can't hire anyone to do anything."

"Someone else could be footing the bill."

"No, that makes no sense. Rhodes has nothing. No money, property, investments, anything. And he's not going to miraculously get his fortune back. He needs to build a new one, and that will take time. Why would his friends help him kidnap Carrie when he's basically dead in the water? There's no payday for anyone, and even if Voss doesn't testify, they have Rhodes on so many other broken laws. The man is never returning to US soil unless he's in cuffs or a body bag."

"Fine, you've made a good case for Rhodes not taking Carrie, but that doesn't mean my original supposition, that Voss got his wife out of the country, is not valid."

"Anything's possible at this point," Nash conceded.

"Okay, so back to Voss. At the moment, he's actually only wanted on the SEC charges, which means the Feds are looking for him and he is a fugitive."

"To be precise," Nash said, "he was a fugitive, and they were looking for him."

"What do you mean was ?"

"Well, he's dead."

"Who's dead?"

"Voss."

"I'm missing something."

"No, you're not," Nash assured me.

"This picture," Owen said, tapping the close-up of Voss with Ash, "the time stamp tells us it was taken last Wednesday at twelve thirty, and according to the FBI, Voss was killed three hours later when he lost control of his car on Interstate 5, heading south from San Francisco."

"What?"

"The car flipped over several times, came to a stop upside down, and exploded. The body inside was burned beyond recognition."

"You're telling me that Elliot Voss, a wanted fugitive, was having lunch with world-famous actor Ashford Lennox last Wednesday, three hours before he died."

"That's what I'm telling you, yes," Owen confirmed.

"And no one thinks that's weird?"

"Our boss does," Owen said. "This type of accident is always cause for concern in his book."

"But highway patrol thinks sure, nothing nefarious, just an accident."

"Correct."

It took me a moment because I'd only been awake for a very short time. "Backing up, you're saying Voss went to a lunch with Ash and was dead a few hours later?"

"Why're you repeating this?" Nash asked me.

"Because I just—I mean, what are the chances?"

"We don't know. That's why we're here to talk to him," Nash explained. "Because at the moment, Ash and his director of acquisitions—Inca Hill, the woman in the picture—are the last two people to see Voss alive, along with these two other men."

My brain was running at that point. "Is it possible that the car accident was a hit?"

"More than possible, of course."

"And since Voss was defrauding people with Rhodes, there's no end to the list of suspects wanting him dead."

"That's right, but the FBI wants to start the questioning with Lennox."

"Why?"

"You know why," Nash said, gesturing at the picture of Ash and Voss on Owen's laptop. "Again, one of the last people to see Voss alive. Plus, for all the Feds know, Voss lost some of Ash Lennox's money. He defrauded a lot of people, and maybe your boy was one of them."

Trying to correct Nash's "your boy" assumption would be useless since he'd found us in bed together. "So the Feds have questions."

"They do."

"Then why is it you guys and not the FBI standing in my bedroom this morning?"

"Because our boss wants to keep our client out of the FBI's clutches, and he has enough clout to make that happen."

"How did the Feds find out about this picture?"

"They didn't—not about this one Ash took, but there were others, taken by fans, posted across platforms, and Voss has an alert attached to him since he was a fugitive and all," Owen reminded me like I was an idiot. "I have no doubt that the FBI had facial recognition alerts set up for both Rhodes and Voss, which is how they found him sitting at a restaurant with your movie star."

"How did you find them?"

"From the pictures on Ash's cloud. I mean, you know, once the client or their proxy signs a contract with us, I get to go through their whole lives, top to bottom, starting with financials and ending with their social media accounts. And I look until there's nothing else to find."

"So when you found the photos Ash took, you went looking for more, and that's when your path crossed with the FBI."

"Yep."

"Well," I said, exhaling much of the adrenaline from waking up and finding them there, "good work as usual. Also, I want to thank you both for flying out to ensure Ash's safety."

"The client is important, without question," Nash assured me. "But you are just as important. No way we would've left you alone when you could be in danger."

"I appreciate that."

"And of course, our boss put us on his private jet this morning when it was still dark outside because he's a fuckin' sadist."

"You're not even kidding," I agreed.

"Both of you need to shut the hell up," Owen said sternly. "You're talking about the love of my life."

"Gross," I said flatly.

Nash gagged.

"Fuck off, all the way off," Owen retorted, glaring at us, but his slow smile took any heat out of his words.

"So the FBI is waiting to hear from Jared?" I asked Nash. "Do I have that right?"

"You do."

"Amazing that if Jared says he'll question Ash, they just back off."

"I suspect that when your network all over the world is bigger and a helluva lot scarier than theirs, they'll sit instead of taking matters into their own hands."

"Were the Feds going to put Ash into protective custody?"

"No," Owen said. "They were planning to just take him into plain old custody."

"That makes no sense."

"It does if you look at those photos as a whole. To them, Ashford Lennox looks pretty fuckin' cozy with a known fugitive who died not long after their encounter."

"What are you talking about?"

Quickly, Owen moved through other pictures for me, all the ones not taken by Ash, and in them, he was at the table, leaning forward, talking, listening, laughing, and smiling. I had to admit that it did look like he and Voss were buddies.

"Yeah, okay, this doesn't look great."

"This is why we're here," Nash said flatly. "To help you guard Mr. Lennox, and more importantly, to get answers."

I shook my head. "There's an explanation, I know there is, and anyway, Ash is not some nobody off the street that the FBI can just toss into some off-the-books black site and press him until they get answers. He's a huge star."

"Great. Good," Nash was quick to agree with me. "But our boss would prefer that our client not be interrogated by the FBI on our watch. We're looking to prevent trauma, not allow it to happen."

"Of course," I agreed.

"Good. So go back in there and wake your boyfriend up so we can figure this shit out. We're wasting daylight."

"I will. I just have something I need to ask Owen."

"Hit me," he said.

So I told him all about Burke Furniss, and how he'd tried to seduce, then attack Ash in the middle of the night. I also told him that Burke had been rough because he'd known, presumably from watching, how Ash preferred his sex.

Owen nodded. "You're worried he has pictures or video of Lennox in bed with men at his home, in hotel rooms, on location where he filmed movies?—"

"Yeah. All that. And Ash is being very calm about it, very whatever happens, happens, but I don't want that for him. I can't have that happen."

"Of course," Owen told me. "I'll get into it now."

"His old bodyguard, she runs her own business now. Her name is Preeya Shah, and she never liked Furniss and didn't want Ash to hire him when she left to give birth."

"You're thinking what?"

"Well, she says she has a new bodyguard for him who sounds great."

"You want me to check up on that?"

"No, Preeya sounds amazing, and because of that, I'm wondering if she already dealt with Furniss."

"I'll talk to her," Owen assured me.

"Hello?"

And there was Ash in pajama bottoms and a T-shirt—one of mine, actually. Nash had been standing at the sliding glass doors, looking out at the rain, while Owen and I sat on the couch. We all turned to Ash at once.

"Good morning," I said hoarsely, so happy to see him.

"As nice as that robe looks on you," he said sharply as he reached me, taking hold of my bicep, "I need you to come with me and put on some clothes, since we apparently have guests."

"Wait," I said, stopping so he would too. "I need to introduce you to?—"

"Clothes," he snapped. "Let's start with underwear."

"I—"

"Now," he insisted, his grip on my bicep tightening as he tugged me after him, not interested, from how quickly he was moving toward the bedroom, in any explanation.

Once there, he slammed the door behind us, then rounded on me.

"Listen, Ash, there is?—"

"Fuck," he growled, which surprised me, and I was even more so when he started to pace.

Not what I was expecting. "What's wrong?"

"I promised myself when I woke up this morning and turned my head and found you beside me in bed, still holding me, still spooning me, that I would absolutely not get attached."

I just stared.

"Did you hear me?"

"Yeah. You don't want to like me."

"No. You're not listening."

"But that's what you just said."

"No. I told myself I, me… me , that I would not get attached."

I squinted, unsure if he knew what he was saying.

"When I rolled over and watched you sleeping, I thought, I could get used to him so very easily, and I was even planning to get up because I needed to put some distance between us, but then you realized I wasn't right next to you, and your eyes opened just a bit, and you told me to lie back down and hurry up because you were getting cold. Do you remember that at all?"

I shook my head.

"I knew you weren't awake, but you were so insistent, and when I got close to you, you grabbed me and wrapped me in your arms, and seconds later you were breathing on my nape and?—"

"Listen, I'm sorry I?—"

"No," he said sharply, "you're still not paying attention."

I shut up, feeling lost.

"You see, lately," he began, then stopped. "No. More than that. For a while now, I've been missing a feeling of normality. I've been going nonstop, which is why I usually have Benny with me because looking at my dog gives me just enough of a tether that I don't completely forget who I am…but I digress."

I remained quiet, listening.

"You see, the question becomes, if you're never actually home, do you, in fact, have one? Isn't home where you feel grounded? Where there is nurturing, if not from others, then simply from being in a space that belongs to you alone?"

"Of course," I agreed. "Mine is like that. I walk in, and whatever went on outside doesn't matter now that I'm inside."

"Yes. Exactly. Home is that feeling of being cared for."

I smiled at him. "What are you trying to say?"

"I haven't had that in so long, but last night, and then this morning… I felt like I was home."

His words hit me down deep.

"I just love everything with you. I love kissing you and having sex with you and hugging you and holding you and I—I've been overwhelmed since you first took my hand, and all of it, everything I told you, and simply the time we've spent together has been intense …which is why when I woke up and you were gone, I was utterly bereft."

Which was to say, I'd scared him by not being where he expected me to be. "Okay," I said, smiling. " Bereft is a good word."

"It does encapsulate my feelings quite well," he replied, giving me a trace of a smile in return. "I thought for a second that my normal had been a dream, and I didn't want it to end."

I exhaled sharply. "Saying I'm a dream is gonna get you laid again."

"Well, I should certainly hope so," he said, staring at me like I was something he wanted. I'd been looked at like that before sex but never after.

To be honest, him saying how he felt had me tumbling headfirst into his web. I hated game-playing, and Ash Lennox was apparently not the kind of man who was anything but upfront. He said exactly how he felt, and since I was the same, whatever line there was between us was getting blurrier by the second. Already, overnight, I was getting used to him. And it was stupid. He could have anyone he wanted, and it made no sense that he would possibly want to settle for a mere mortal.

"I don't want you naked under my robe, talking to strangers in our room," he apprised me, his voice strained.

"Those aren't strangers. They work with me at Torus."

"Wonderful. I still want you in clothes. As soon as I walked out there, all I could think was, he's got nothing on under that robe."

"You didn't want me out there in just this?" I baited him, undoing the sash and letting the expensive robe fall open.

"No," he assured me, stepping in close, slipping his hands around my hips. "And until I figure out what precisely I do want from you, I would appreciate it if you had clothes on when there's more than just you and me in the room."

"You don't know what you want?" I asked, studying his face, how he was staring at me, and how every time I took a step back, he took one forward.

"Clearly, I want to be all over you."

"Which is good, but not enough," I said, moving toward the closet, only to have him step in front of me, barring my path.

"I thought you wanted me in clothes?"

"I do, but I need to tell you something more important before you get the wrong idea."

"Which would be what?"

"That I don't know what I want."

I crossed my arms. "Do you know what you're saying?"

"No. Not really. I—I want to spend time with you. Beyond that, I don't know, but I certainly don't want you not to be there when I wake up."

I shrugged. "But that's just for this week."

His brows furrowed.

"Actors are supposed to be good at expressing themselves, and you're not into playing games, so…what?"

"You're driving me a little crazy."

"You just have to be honest."

Another sharp exhale from him. "I don't have any idea what this could be or…if it can be anything, but I already know I won't be able to get on a plane and fly away from you if there's no plan for a next time."

I grinned. "So you're telling me you don't want this—us—to just be a hot memory."

He took a breath. "No, I don't."

"You want to see me again."

"Yes, I do. I need to."

"So you're planning to do what?" I pressed because it was necessary. "Come visit me in Chicago?"

"Of course."

His quick reply, plus that of course , stated so matter-of-factly, made me smile like a simpleton, and I couldn't have cared less.

"And you? Would you come to LA?" He leaned in and kissed the side of my neck. "Is that doable?"

"I would love to fly out there and visit you," I said, then kissed him. It wasn't long, but I did taste him.

He pulled back and looked at me.

"What?"

"You mean it."

"Why wouldn't I mean it?" I squinted at him.

"Holy shit, you really would fly back and forth."

"Who wouldn't? You get that you're Ashford Lennox, right?"

His scowl was quick. "That doesn't mean anything. Not after you wake up the next morning. No one expects this—me in my pajama bottoms and a borrowed Nirvana T-shirt, which I appreciate the loan of, by the way."

"Anytime."

"People expect me to be the guy I am in the movies, the suave guy, the sleek guy, the guy with all the best dialogue, good hair, and no morning breath."

"Your hair is great," I said, smiling. "And you do taste minty."

"That's because I brushed."

"Sorry, I haven't yet."

"I don't care. That's the least of…" He gestured at both of us. "We have dried cum on us, and sweat, and I don't even care."

"No?" I teased him.

"I love that neither one of us cared. I mean, we made a mess of the bed and each other, but after, I rolled over and you held me, and that was perfect."

Perfect was a big word.

"You think I'm crazy."

"No, sir, I just… You have to be patient if I'm not perfect all the time."

His eyes were so soft and warm as he looked at me. "Just be you, and everything will be great."

"You're setting yourself up for disappointment."

"It's only been a short time, but so far, you've let me be me, and you have no idea what that means to me." He took a quick breath, as though girding himself. "If you agree, I would really like to see if you could, or would, fit into my stupid, crazy life."

"A life you love."

"I do love it, and I'm grateful for it every day, but it is hard work, and I've been solely devoted to my career for a long time."

"And now?"

"Now I want my person. I'm ready to prioritize that guy."

"Prioritize, huh? You sound so healthy."

He sighed deeply. "And now I want to smother you with a pillow."

I scoffed. "Nah. You want to fuck me again."

"I want you to fuck me again, but that's not all I want, and you can't possibly think?—"

"No," I rushed out, putting my hands on his hips so he couldn't move. "I don't think for a second that what we did was just fucking."

"Good," he whispered. "Because that's not what it felt like to me."

"Same here," I said, and brushed my lips over his. "So yeah, I would like to see if you could fit me into your amazing life."

"You really would?" He sounded so hopeful, my heart squeezed in my chest.

"Yes, please."

He took my face in his hands. "I haven't had butterflies when a man looks at me for a very long time. I forgot that it's exciting and really fucking scary."

"Don't be scared. I've got you."

He kissed me then, and if I wasn't clear how he felt before, it was there in the way he devoured my mouth and claimed what he wanted, which was very clearly me.

How slowly he moved, the way he cupped the back of my head and pressed me forward against him at the same time with a hand on my lower back, made me lose myself in the swell of emotion that I returned with my lips, my tongue, and my arms wrapped around his neck.

The knock on the door brought a moan out of his throat.

"We're on the clock out here," Owen let us know.

I broke the kiss, turning my head, and he immediately pressed his lips behind my ear, his hot mouth feeling like a sultry brand on my flushed skin.

"We're so different," I husked. "I really hope this works."

"It's going to work, have faith," he ground out, retaking my mouth.

I knew the FBI wasn't coming to break down the door in moments. Jared had sent Owen and Nash to head off law enforcement, so really, my focus was on nothing else but Ash and starting something with him. I wanted that. I had regrets in my life for not acting on things when I should have, for not jumping, for playing it safe. With my life, as a cop and now a fixer, I gambled. You had to take chances to save people, and it was right to be selfless. But with my heart, I'd been careful. And then when I finally took a chance, with Damien, I had been so stupid and wrong.

But now, suddenly, a stranger had stepped into my life, and I didn't want to be anything but brave. The possibilities if I leaped without a net could be everything. We were talking about my happiness here.

Or not.

It could all end horribly, with lots of heartache. But what there couldn't be was regret. There would be no more of that. The old saying about loving and losing…even that was better than playing it safe.

"You won't be embarrassed to introduce me to your friends?" I asked him.

"I…no," he said, cupping my neck and lifting my chin with his thumb, holding me still, staring into my eyes. "I would be very proud to have my friends meet a man who fixes the lives of people for a living."

"Okay. Then I will tell my boss that I can't go out of town on jobs anymore. I certainly can't be anyone else's fake boyfriend, since people will know I'm with you because they'll see us together, so all I could be would be yours."

His warm breath puffed across my face. "You would lose your value to him."

"No," I whispered. "When my buddy Shaw fell in love with the guy he's gonna marry, he stopped going out on long jobs as well. There's enough of us for him to stick around Chicago, fly out on two-to-four-day assignments, and be back home in time to pick his guy up from the airport when he flies in for the weekend."

I watched his eyes darken, his pupils dilate. "How accommodating you are."

I shrugged. "If it's really worth it, that's what you do. You bend."

"I agree," he said before he leaned in and kissed me again.

He still smelled and tasted and felt like the night before, and my body remembered and was more so reminded when his hand slipped inside the robe, to my bare skin, and then gently took hold of my cock. He stroked me languorously, and I caught my breath.

"I want you back inside me," he whispered in my ear. "And this time I want to ride you and stare down into your beautiful eyes the whole time."

"I made you look at me," I rumbled, kissing along his jaw. "And I want to see you every time, Ash. Every. Time."

He shivered hard before his mouth was back on mine. I wanted him, all of him, but even more, I wanted him to feel the closeness with my words. He had to know this was a promise I was making him, that I would try so hard, with everything I had, with all the right intentions, to be the best man I could be for him.

"Ash," I managed to get out and manhandled him into a hug, pressing my face into his shoulder, clutching him so tight, I could feel his heart beating next to mine.

"You mean it," he said shakily, his arms holding on. "You want this. You want me."

"I do, so don't—don't disappear on me. If you get tired, or if at the end of this you don't want to do what you said, tell me so I?—"

"I want to meet your mother and your father and your sisters and everyone. They're all going to know me, and I will kiss you so there will be no mistake who you are to me."

Well, now.

"And no, sir, the way my heart felt when I woke up alone… I will not disappear. I'm a grown-up and everything."

"Good to know," I said, chuckling, squeezing him that much tighter.

The knock got harder then, not knuckles on the door, but a fist. "Did you hear the part where I said the FBI was gonna come calling?" Nash yelled.

Easing back, Ash looked at me. "I'm sorry, did he say the FBI?"

Nothing killed passion like being threatened by a three-letter agency.

I put on clothes, we returned to the living room to Owen and Nash, and this time, Ash was in full movie-star mode and met them both with a dazzling smile, a warm, firm handshake, and quick words about how much he appreciated them being there even though he had no idea why they were.

"I'm a big fan," Owen told him. "I really loved Words in Water . The idea that you can love someone but neither of you understands why… That movie meant—means—a lot to me, and you were amazing in it."

"Thank you," Ash said, hand on his heart. "I appreciate that."

Owen smiled sheepishly. "I don't know why I felt the need to tell you."

"When I read the script for that one," Ash began—and it was kind of him to distract my friend, defusing his embarrassment—"I thought back to losing the person I thought was the one, and I carried that with me throughout the making of the film."

"Yeah," Owen agreed after a moment. "I felt everything with you in that film—everyone did. It's why you got the Oscar and all the other awards."

"That's very kind of you to say."

"It's funny, but when you think you've lost your one chance at love—because you were cowardly, or just didn't believe in it enough—all that worrying screwed me up for so long."

"But you did it," Ash said, smiling at him. "You stepped up and told the person you loved the truth, didn't you?"

Owen was staring at him, bemused. "I did. How did you know?"

Ash shrugged. "You look settled, happy." He glanced at Nash, and his brows furrowed. "Unlike your friend here."

"Pardon me?" Nash said, his tone clearly saying he took offense.

"You seem…twisted up."

"Emotionally constipated," I offered.

Ash groaned and smacked me on the shoulder as my buddy's eyes narrowed.

I shook my head at him. "I have worked with you too long for that face right there to scare me. None of the ire you think is coming at me is, in fact, coming at me."

"Yeah, we're just getting the…what did you say?" Owen asked me, baiting Nash.

"The emotional constipation," I reiterated.

"Yeah, exactly," Owen said.

"Leave him alone," Ash ordered me and Owen.

"All done now?" Nash growled at us, arms crossed, biceps bulging, looking the picture of annoyed.

"He's actually very kind," Owen defended the man whom we'd all take a bullet for, giving Nash a hard pat on the shoulder. "It's just, until you know him, all you really see is the hard outer shell and none of the warm gooey center."

"Have you lost your mind?" Nash snapped at him.

"He's a lot like Locryn," Owen went on, directing his words to me. "Locryn is even more closed off, except with people he cares about. Nash is the nicer of the two."

"Really? You think that?" I asked him.

Owen was silent a moment. "Well, other than us, Nick, of course, and his mother, Sherri, can you think of anyone Locryn doesn't growl at?"

Now it was my turn to put some thought into that.

"Oh, for the love of—we have shit to ask you," Nash barked at Ash. "So come over here and siddown so we can."

The movie star turned to me. "Does he know who I am?"

I grinned. "Maybe don't open with that."

Ash scoffed playfully.

Moving from the living room to the dining-room table, the four of us all took a seat. Ash took my hand. Already, one of the best things about him was that he could not keep his hands off me.

"Okay," Owen began, smiling at his favorite actor.

I understood the feeling. It was surreal. Normally Ash was on a screen, and we watched him. Big ones, small ones, we took him places with us on our phones. The characters were like friends we counted on to make us feel a certain way. And now, suddenly, here he was, speaking back to us. Surreal was exactly what it was.

Slowly, Owen turned his laptop around so Ash could see Voss's picture. "Do you know this man?"

"Sure. That's Kit Riggs."

Owen shook his head. "No, that's Elliot Voss."

"No. That's Kit Riggs, and I'm sure of that because first, I know him well, and second, he came to the meeting looking like that, transformed into Voss for the pitch."

The three of us just stared at him.

"I was amazed ," Ash gushed, oblivious. "I couldn't get over it, so though I'm not usually the one taking pics, this time I simply had to snap a few because it was seriously impressive."

No one spoke. It was hard to wrap my brain around what he was telling us.

"I mean, between the makeup and the prosthetics—that is so not Kit's nose—it's an incredible transformation."

We were all still staring at him.

"Was that it?" Ash sounded a bit disappointed.

"You're telling me this guy right here"—Owen pointed at the man who looked so remarkably like Elliot Voss, I would have sworn it was him—"is not Voss?"

"That's right."

We were all silent again.

Ash said, "May I ask something?"

"Yeah," Owen answered him.

"Why do you care who I was having lunch with?"

"We only cared because it looks like you're sitting with a wanted fugitive."

"Oh, I see. Because if I'm recalling the Torus contract correctly, I cannot participate in any illegal activity while being protected."

"That's right," Owen said, going with that, though it had been a much bigger deal earlier when the three of us were discussing what the FBI wanted with Ash.

"Okay, well, you can definitely let Mr. Colter know that I was not, in fact, meeting with Elliot Voss, but instead with a friend of mine who wants to play him in the movie he's looking to have made."

"So your friend was pitching an idea to you?"

"Yeah. He wants to make a movie based on Voss's life and—" He stopped himself, thinking a moment. "I want to say it's called Maelstrom or Heart of the Maelstrom or something like that, but yeah, he had an idea for a movie about Voss, and because he loves the writers who work on his show Snap Back , he had them write the screenplay."

"And he pitched it to you in San Francisco at lunch a week ago."

"Is that where it—yeah, that's right. Sorry, I've been globetrotting lately, but I had some other meetings there, and since I've been putting him off, when he said he would fly up from Palm Springs where he's shooting Peace Out , I just gave in."

" Peace Out is that sci-fi series on Netflix, right?"

"Yeah. He got an Emmy for that last year, which was very much deserved."

"I'm sure I knew you had a production company…" Owen said. "It had to have come up in my research."

"Oh, I'm sure it did, but just to refresh your memory, my buddy Bronson Racine and I own Side Hustle Productions. We made three films last year, Petals being one of them, which won everything but the Oscar," he said irritably.

"But you're not upset about that," I teased him.

"What? Me? Bitter? Heavens, no," he said dramatically. "But later this year we're putting out Lava Lamp with Julianne Moore, and if that one doesn't win, I'm gonna be loud about it."

I was chuckling as Nash said, "I thought Bronson Racine was a music producer."

"He is, but he also had a dream to make movies, and when he asked me if I wanted to do that with him, I jumped at the chance. We've been friends since college, so I know I can trust him and vice versa. We ate a lot of ramen together back in the day."

We all sat there staring at him.

"Okay, sorry," Owen said, "it's just, it looks like you're sitting with Elliot Voss, and it's really hard to wrap my brain around the fact that it's not him. I had questions to ask you about how you knew Voss, like did you invest with him, or did he lose your money, or?—"

"No, no. I've never met the real Voss, only Kit looking like him."

"It's uncanny," Owen told him.

Ash shrugged. "Well, good makeup will do that."

"So, are you interested in making a film about a man like Voss?"

"Well, I told Kit if he made some changes, I would be. Not about the fraud part. The way he's got it in the script now, the fraud is not Voss's fault. He's Rhodes's patsy. And though Kit doesn't know if that's true, it makes it more fun that way. It makes the character of Voss more sympathetic, more romantic. In the film he'll be oblivious to what he's doing with his charm and power, and that way the audience will like him being the hero at the end," he explained. "I told Kit I loved that."

"What didn't you like?" I asked him.

"At the same time as all the sort of Ocean's Eleven stuff is going on, Kit has Voss killing his wife. I told him that totally corrupts the character, and if he keeps that part instead of writing the wife in as, let's say, knowing what Rhodes is doing, that I would pass."

"I agree," I told him.

"Kit wants it to be edgy, but it needs to stay fun, and then he'd have a blockbuster on his hands. Plus, if he took an ordinary guy like Voss, again Rhodes's patsy, a doofus, but a likable doofus, and had him totally become James Bond at the end and save his wife from whatever Rhodes is planning for her, since she knows too much—oh! he'd take her away to the Swiss Alps, I'm thinking… Oh my God," he said, laughing. "It would be like printing money."

"But then the story isn't real," Nash reminded him.

"That's where the words based on a true story come in," he replied, grinning. "As long as there are some facts in there sprinkled like fairy dust over the production, you can do whatever you want. And people are smart enough to know the limits of a guy like Voss. But they'll root for him anyway."

"This goes back to your Ocean's Eleven reference," Owen agreed. "If the bad guy is stealing, or in this case, saving his wife from a bad guy, then the original bad guy becomes the good guy simply based on degrees of evil."

"Exactly," Ash agreed. "In Kit's script, he takes the character from being a bit of a scoundrel to irredeemable in a matter of frames. He's smiling and oozing charisma one second, and the next there's a flashback to him bludgeoning his wife with a hammer."

"It didn't work for you," I surmised.

He glanced at me. "No, it didn't. The rogue is no longer charming if he hurts the people he's supposed to love. That goes for pets too. I'm sick of the dog or cat dying. What's the purpose of that?"

"I agree," Owen told him. "So basically, you were at that lunch to hear a pitch, nothing more?"

"Yes. That was all." Ash's phone rang then, and the ringtone—"Walking In LA" by Missing Persons, a song my mother had loved back in the day—was a surprise. "Sorry, hold on a minute. My agent, Levi Klein, is calling." He swiped to answer and put it on speaker.

"So is it as bad there as it looks on the Weather Channel?" Klein asked without preamble. "Marida checked this morning and told me it was still raining, and on top of that, you have fog. What the hell? This is March already. You want me to send my plane?"

"No." Ash chuckled. "But thank you for thinking of me. Now, you know I always pick up for you, but I'm very much in the middle of something, so not to be a dick, but why are you calling?"

Klein took a breath but stayed silent.

"You hate delivering bad news, so just rip the Band-Aid off and tell me what happened."

Quick clearing of his throat. "Okay, well, it appears that Kit Riggs is missing."

Ash glanced at me, and I understood. Here we were talking about the guy, and suddenly he was the headline of a new conversation. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that after your meeting last week, he seems to have disappeared, along with his two writers."

"What does that mean? Disappeared?"

"Exactly like it sounds. No one has heard from him or seen him. He was supposed to do a photo shoot for Men's Health the next day, and he no-showed."

"So his publicist reached out to you?"

"That's right. Since you were his last official meeting, she wanted to know if he made it to that or if he blew you off too. Though why she called, I have no idea. There were enough fuzzy, crappy pics of you two having lunch together. All she had to do was check online."

"So all three are missing?"

"Yeah."

"Are the police looking for them?"

"Of course, but it turns out Kit was planning on driving back to Los Angeles?—"

"You mean Palm Springs."

"No, the publicist—I cannot for the life of me remember her name—said Los Angeles. So that's a lot of area of Interstate 5 for the highway patrol to search. It's gonna take some time."

"Why would he drive?"

"Who knows why Riggs does anything? You know he's weird."

"He's a free spirit," Ash said defensively. "He probably thought just the air changing from the Bay Area to the desert would do something amazing for his process."

"That's nomenclature for weird ."

"I—off topic, the FBI wanted to know why I was meeting with Voss, a wanted fugitive."

"What?"

"They thought Kit was Voss."

"Well, whoever did his makeup should be thrilled about that compliment."

"But what I'm telling you is, the FBI thought I was actually sitting down with a fugitive."

"Well, there's a rich tradition of actors meeting with infamous and sometimes frightening individuals—Sean Penn comes immediately to mind—but…wait. Did they come there? To the wedding, to interrogate you?"

"No. Jared Colter, the owner of Torus, he had his guys question me instead, and they promised to get back to the Feds."

"I love this full-service protection Mr. Colter's got going on. Plus, keeping your name out of the press when this is all a big misunderstanding is very appreciated."

"Agreed."

"Please convey my thanks."

"I will."

"Are you fine? Do you need me to put Gina on a plane?"

"No, Levi, I don't need a lawyer. I'm fine."

"Okay, well, just be careful, because not knowing where Riggs is…I hate that. He's not a household name like you, but still. He's well known enough that if someone saw him, they would recognize him and reach out. That he's missing makes no sense."

"I agree."

"And with no one calling, that must mean something bad, right?"

"Don't jump to conclusions. I'm sure they'll find him."

"Okay," he said, taking a breath. "And don't forget to do the Wordle today. The first one who misses doing it this month owes the office lunch."

"I'm on it."

"All right, I'll talk to you later, and I'll call if there's any news. You do the same."

"Will do," Ash said, hung up, then turned to me, Owen, and Nash. "What are you guys thinking? Because I'm wondering what could have?—"

"Okay," I said softly, taking hold of his hand. "Did you see on the news that Elliot Voss was dead?"

He squinted at me. "I didn't. Other than talking to Kit about his film, I haven't followed Voss's story at all."

"Well, it seems he died a few hours after you met with your buddy, which is why the FBI was so interested in talking to you."

"I get it." He squeezed my hand, holding my gaze. "If Kit were Voss, me and Inca and the writers would have been the last people to see him."

"That's right."

"But it was Kit, not Voss, so now what?"

I cleared my throat. "Well, it turns out, Voss was killed on that same stretch of road that Kit would have been driving to get back to LA."

"What does that—" He laughed nervously, then suddenly stopped. "You think what? That Voss killed my friend and staged it to look like it was him?"

I said nothing.

He gasped. "No, that can't be—" He glanced at Owen and Nash, then back at me. "Is that what you all think?"

I nodded.

"Why?" His voice sounded strangled.

"Voss was—is—a fugitive. If someone died in his place, and the cops are thinking he's dead, that leaves him free as a bird."

"So you think my friend is dead and not Voss?" Ash repeated, his breath catching.

"That's one possibility," Nash chimed in.

"But that doesn't make any sense, does it? Because even if Voss killed Kit, aren't there things like DNA and dental records and all kinds of other…"

"Sadly, it depends on the state of the remains," Nash replied. "And Voss—or who SFPD believe to be Voss—was found in his own car, Voss's car, and everything was very burned."

"Everyone, you mean," Ash said woodenly. "All three."

"That's the thing," Owen said. "There was only one set of remains in the car."

"Well, then that couldn't have been Kit." Ash exhaled, sounding relieved. "He had his writers with him."

"Or," I said, and Ash turned to me, "the writers were killed and left somewhere else and only Kit was placed in the car."

He stared at me. I didn't say anything, just letting his brain work.

"That's horrible," Ash whispered. "I can't imagine being killed simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Collateral damage and nothing more."

I moved closer, holding his hand in both of mine. "Listen, the FBI, SFPD, highway patrol, and most importantly, my boss, are all on this. They will figure out what happened."

"The man they found, was he in Voss's car or a rental?" Ash sounded robotic, and I understood. He wanted all the information we had at the moment.

"Voss's car."

Ash nodded. "So that's why they assumed it was Voss."

"That's right."

"But the remains were…they were burned."

"The FBI crime lab is examining the remains," Owen chimed in. "They will figure out precisely who died in the car."

"But if they're not sure yet, why would the police announce it was Voss?"

"For two reasons," Owen said gently. "First, it's a good assumption that it is Voss, given that it was his car. And second, if it isn't Voss, and it is your friend instead, then Voss would be confident to try and get on a plane or drive to Mexico or do whatever it is that will get him safely out of the country."

"And that way law enforcement would apprehend him."

"Correct," Owen replied.

"What happens now?"

"Now the search for Riggs?—"

"For Voss, you mean," Ash clarified, shivering.

"For whoever is alive, Riggs or Voss," Owen apprised him. "The search will continue."

"I don't get this at all," I rushed out. "How would Voss even make contact with an actor?"

"That's easy," Ash answered me. "Writers usually want to make sure their research is authentic, so they reach out to the subject."

"But if they knowingly met with a fugitive, afterward they should have reported that contact to law enforcement. The police, the FBI, everyone is expending time and resources to bring this guy to justice. If the writers met with Voss and didn't tell anyone, they could be charged with obstruction of justice."

Ash grimaced.

"No? Not in Hollywood?"

"All I'm telling you is that in the name of getting the story right, I know more than one actor or writer who've met with someone they shouldn't have. And when it was revealed to the press, it's been treated like journalists with confidential sources."

"Journalists go to jail for that," I reminded him.

"Yes. True. But most journalists don't have the same fanbase as an actor making fifteen million a film, nor their Instagram following."

"That is some bullshit," Nash grumbled.

"But it's done over and over in the name of trying to get the story to be as credible and factual as possible, just like a news story."

"Actors and journalists do not have the same job," Nash made clear.

"No, but a writer's job is similar," I told him, understanding Ash's point. "And while I can see a fugitive not wanting to meet with the person writing the screenplay, I could see them wanting to sit down with the person playing them in the movie. That would be a real thrill."

"Star power," Owen concluded.

"So then maybe Riggs wasn't just dressed up for you that day," I suggested to Ash. "I'm sure he wanted to impress you, show you how awesome he looked in the role, but maybe he was also planning to meet with Voss somewhere on the way to LA."

Ash nodded slowly. "Yeah… First, he pitches to me, and then he goes to meet Voss, with his writers, so they can fact-check what they have."

"Check for texts or emails about meeting times, places," Nash said to Owen. "That all seems probable, but we need confirmation."

"I don't know their?—"

"Dennis Ing and Bob Abernathy," Ash answered.

"There's no way they all just exchanged emails," I threw out. "It will be more cloak and dagger."

Owen began, "I have to wonder, did Voss plan it, or was it spur-of-the-moment?"

"You're saying Voss planned to meet Riggs and the two writers to answer their questions, but then when they all got to the rendezvous point and he saw Riggs looking just like him, Voss saw an opportunity and took it?"

"I have no idea, but perhaps there's something more to be found in their communication. I just have to do some additional digging."

"Well, just don't look for anything, anywhere, that you're gonna get in trouble for. Search, don't hack," I told Owen, who was punching the keys on his laptop as screen after screen popped up.

"Why are you warning him?" Ash asked.

"Owen is a very accomplished hacker, so he needs to always be on the right side of the law, absolutely no question."

Owen groaned. "I'm not a child. I know what not to do."

When the silence dragged, he looked up at me.

"Listen, I haven't hacked my way into any government agency in over two years."

"Alert the media," Nash grumbled, calling someone on speaker at the same time.

"Speak," our boss ordered instead of greeting us.

"First off, Mr. Lennox is here with us," Owen told him.

"Good morning, Mr. Lennox," Jared Colter greeted him.

"Good morning, sir. Thank you for sending Owen and Nash here and making sure I didn't have to deal with the FBI."

"Of course," he said gruffly. "Now, Owen, what do you need?"

"Okay, do you have access to the report about Voss's crash site?"

"I do. Lemme get it open."

"We're wanting to know if there was any sign of movement around the car. Drag marks, footprints, anything at all."

There was silence, and then our boss said, "No. Just the car, flipped on its side and burned."

"All right," Owen began, "from questioning Mr. Lennox, we think that Voss possibly killed the actor Kit Riggs, who would have played him in the movie Riggs and his team pitched to Mr. Lennox—that's what was happening in those pictures: Mr. Lennox was having a pitch meeting with Riggs, who was impersonating Voss at the time, and Riggs's two writers, Dennis Ing and Bob Abernathy. Furthermore, it would follow that Voss killed the writers—they've been missing since then, along with Riggs, but since they were not found in or around the car, he probably dumped their bodies somewhere else. We need to find them."

"So the conclusion can be drawn that Voss killed Riggs so he can walk around free, presumed dead," Jared stated. "Do we know that Riggs and Voss were in contact?"

"I'm looking for that now—Voss talking to Riggs or the writers. They would have wanted to get the facts from him."

"I'll talk to the Feds and give them this new information," Jared told us. "The remains at the site are proving difficult to identify. They're going with Voss being dead because it's his Mercedes, but the gas tank exploded, so the fire burned really hot. There's not much left."

Ash got up then and left the room.

"Shit," I groaned.

"What happened?" Jared asked.

"I forgot for a moment that we're talking about Ash's friend probably being dead. I think the finality of this just hit him."

"Well, please, give him my condolences," my boss said gently. "And yes, there's a slim possibility that this is not what happened, but I think it's far too much of a coincidence for Voss to be dead and Riggs to be missing over the exact same time period."

"Agreed."

"Okay," he said with a sigh. "I think we've bothered Mr. Lennox enough. Again, please tell him how sorry we are, and Nash and Owen will clear out of there."

"Before they go, can I get Owen to do something for me?"

I found Ash sitting on the end of our bed, looking absolutely wrung out for someone who had only woken up less than an hour ago.

Saying nothing, I closed the door behind me, walked over, and took a seat beside him. I put an arm around his shoulders and kissed his temple.

"I'm sorry I just walked out of the room, but?—"

"You have nothing to be sorry for," I assured him. "Learning that your friend has probably been killed would be hard on anyone."

We sat there together in silence for a while.

"Your friends must think I?—"

"They think you're great, and they're looking forward to seeing you again."

"Again? Did they leave?"

"Yeah."

He groaned. "Shit. I wanted to say goodbye and tell them how much I appreciated that they made the trip out from Chicago just to keep me from being interrogated or?—"

"You said that to our boss. That was more than enough."

"Yes, but?—"

"And you can tell them to their faces when you see them again," I soothed him.

"When will that be?"

"Hopefully when you visit me, right?"

Jolting, he sat up straight and turned to look at me. "Shit. Yes, of course. I—God, what was I thinking? I'll see them, of course I'll see?—"

"It's okay." My tone was gentle as I took his hand in mine.

"I don't want to give you any reason to doubt me or my feel?—"

"You haven't. But just don't worry about anything but your friend, all right?"

"But that's the thing," he said, exhaling deeply, holding my gaze. "And why I feel so shitty right now."

I waited because he was working through something.

"I don't know if I have the right to be sad."

"Why not?"

"We weren't close. We didn't talk every day or even every week. We weren't that kind of friends. I would have never shared a confidence with him I didn't want everyone to know. We were more like really good acquaintances. Does that make sense?"

"Of course."

"I mean, when I knew I would see him, I always looked forward to it, you know? We got along so well, and being an actor himself, he understood that desire to have people love you and love your work and want them to ignore you in public at the same time."

"When you were together, you clicked and it was easy."

"Yeah. That's it. That's it exactly."

"I think some of what you're feeling at the moment is guilt, don't you think?"

"Guilt?"

"You didn't want to make the movie about Voss unless he changed it, and knowing what you know now, that you might never see him again, you feel bad that you didn't give him a blanket yes."

He nodded.

"I didn't know him, but was he the kind of guy to let that stop him?"

"No. Kit was probably making calls as soon as he got in his car."

"Well, then let that go too."

Deep breath in and then a long exhale from him.

"And you are allowed to grieve, Ash. You'll miss him, and that's enough."

"Yes."

"I'm glad you had him in your life."

He turned into me then, arm over my shoulder, hugging me tight. "He had a good heart."

I hugged him back, giving what comfort I could in the face of loss. "If Voss did this, he won't get away with it. My boss would never let that happen."

After a moment, he whispered, "Good."