5. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Mosby

Why the hell am I pretending to be in pain? And seriously? Sticking my finger down my throat? I've lost my mind.

Yes, the young man was very pretty. Yes, he had a very welcoming face, and that smile nearly did me in.

Yes, I was letting him draw his own conclusions about me because it seemed like he'd put me out of his modest apartment if I said I had more money than I could ever spend, a six-bedroom home, and a mountain cabin.

Looking around the tiny space he called home, I could see any commentary from me about his living arrangements would be demeaning and arrogant. Hell, the way I looked, I doubted he'd believe me if I told him I was a world-famous painter.

I walked out of the small bathroom having just taken a shower. My face looked busted as fuck, but maybe that was a good thing. It would make me less recognizable, not that I thought anyone in Foggy Basin would recognize me.

I went to the small bedroom and pulled on Tyler's T-shirt and lounge pants—which hit me just below the knees because he was shorter than me—and I walked into the open-plan kitchen and living room where he was finishing a phone call. His smile was a mile wide.

"Ah! How was your shower? Do you want to chance eating a sandwich? Maybe half? I'm sure you must be hungry. Maybe some soup? Mom makes great chicken soup, and I'm sure she has some in the freezer. I know it's not really soup weather any longer, but it might be lighter on your stomach. She just lives a block away. I can be back in five minutes."

Tyler ushered me over to the couch where he'd placed another bottle of water, the remote for the small television resting on a milk crate, and a box of tissues on the old oak coffee table. It was thoughtful.

"Soup would be good. "

I hoped if I limited my responses, I wouldn't say something that would ruin our time together. Having the sweet guy around made me feel better than I had in a year.

"Okay. I'll be right back. Make yourself at home, please."

I nodded, and he rushed out the door, his feet pounding down the wooden stairs. I stood and looked out the window, watching him run down the sidewalk. I walked over to the door and stepped out on the small porch. My truck was still in the parking lot across from the shops on Main Street, which was good. I was guessing my grocery cart had been emptied while one of the cashiers cursed me under their breath.

"How long are you going to play this game? What is the game?" I was talking out loud to myself without the cover of Barbara Bushy, but maybe I was the only one who could talk some sense into me.

"Who am I hurting? One night in town, and then I'll return to the cabin for another three months."

I stepped back inside the apartment and glanced around. There was one picture on the wall. I walked over to take it in, seeing Tyler with his mother, Marlena. She really must have had Tyler when she was young. She looked younger than me in the photo .

It appeared they were standing in front of the small Kia they'd used to take me to the clinic in Miller's Point, but the background in the photo didn't look familiar. It was more industrial. There was a chain link fence with razor wire at the top, so I had no idea where they were or why it was so secure.

They were both smiling, so it must have been a happy occasion. I vaguely remembered those with my own parents.

The apartment had decent furniture, though none of it was new. Everything was clean and tidy, which was more than I could say for the cabin. Since I'd started playing around with acrylics, I'd given up on keeping things neat.

I really had let myself go to hell. I'd shampooed my hair in his shower, and Tyler had left a comb, but instead of using it, I balled it up into the rubber band I'd had in it earlier.

I searched for my paint-splattered jeans and ragged T-shirt, hoping my truck and cabin keys were still inside. I hadn't locked the truck, and those supplies I'd picked up at the locker area by the post office were inside.

Just as I found the pocket doors hiding the stacked washer-dryer unit, the front door opened. "Mr. Leslie?"

I hurried down the short hallway to the living room and slowed, holding onto the wall. "I'm here. "

"Are you okay?" His face showed concern.

"Used the bathroom."

Tyler nodded before he went to the kitchen area, so I followed him. "You live here alone?"

"I just moved up here. I lived with Mom after I—when I got back to town. That was a little more mothering than I wanted, so I moved in here, and I'm renting from her. Why don't you take a seat while I get this ready for you? I'm not really a cook, but I can heat things up."

I grunted like the rude bastard I could be, according to my late partner, Alistaire. Tyler had already decided I was living on the streets, so what was the harm in letting him believe it a little longer?

I picked up the empty bowl from the chicken noodle soup he'd heated for me. It'd been delicious, which was a surprise. It was better than anything I'd had in Los Angeles, though I hadn't been there in a year.

I'd hired a private security company to check the Montecito house daily, so I had no worries. They were paid by automatic debit from a business account I'd established after Alistaire died. I used it to pay expenses from his estate and for things I needed that couldn't be traced to me at the cabin. It was convenient and kept my identity a secret, just as it was designed to do.

"I'll get that, Mr. Leslie." Tyler was in the living room on a laptop. I had no idea what he was doing, but more importantly, how did he know my last name?

"Is that my name? How did you find out?" I might be pretending not to remember things, but now I wondered if I was concussed.

"Reuben Bennett, the mailman, said he thought that was your name. Is it not?" Tyler walked over to where I stood by the sink.

I swallowed. "I don't know. I don't remember. Where are my clothes?"

"Oh! Sorry. They're in the washer. They'll be dry in a while." He went to the washer and pulled out my things. The clank of keys startled him. He reached into the washer drum, pulling out the small keyring holding two keys that I'd had in my pocket.

Tyler held them up. "Do you know what these are to? Do you know where you found them?" He had a skeptical eyebrow aimed in my direction that I didn't like, but honestly, he didn't know me from a signpost .

"I don't remember them specifically, but they seem familiar. Do you think I'm a thief?" I took them from his hand and stared at them.

"I'm sorry, Mr— What should we call you?" His face was so sweetly sincere that I wanted to kiss him. He had not one evil bone in his body. What was his story? Where had he been before he'd returned to Foggy Basin?

Finally, I relented. "Call me Leslie." It was a half-truth, anyway.

"Okay, Leslie. How about we get you settled in my bedroom? I'll wake you up every hour or so, and if you have a headache, I'll give you a pain reliever. If you feel nauseous, I can get a bucket when I go down to the shop to lock up. I just changed my bedding this morning, unless you'd rather stay here on the couch. It was in the shop until I needed it up here, but I just put the slipcover on it. Either way is fine. It's up to you."

"Your bed!" That came out too fast. "I mean, it's kind of bright in here. I believe I'd rest better in your room."

Where I drew that witty conclusion, I had no idea. I'd glanced around his bedroom when I changed clothes. It was very neat, and there were black-out shades on the windows.

"Damn. I didn't think about that. I was Googling the symptoms of a concussion, so I'd know what to watch for. It mentioned that a dark room was best. Let's get you set up back here before I run down and close the shop for the day."

I nodded and followed him down the hallway. Tyler turned down the bed and extended a hand for me to climb in, so I did. It was a nice mattress, though it was only a full-size bed. Mine at the cabin was a queen because that was all that would fit in the loft. The mattress in Montecito was a California king—the same one I'd shared with Alistairesince we'd bought the house. I hadn't even considered changing it, even though I was sure that after a year it no longer smelled like him.

Once Tyler had both pillows under my head and the sheet and thin quilt folded over me, he gave me a kind smile. "I won't be long. Do you need anything?"

Guilt slid down my spine at my deceptive behavior, but there was so much to learn about the young guy that I couldn't walk away yet. The last three years of our relationship, Alistaire and I hadn't had sex—well, with each other. I'd had my hand, and he'd had half of LA.

We occasionally went out together at the insistence of both our agents to keep our faces relevant, but we mostly lived separate lives. Tyler Rockwell was the first person I'd met who'd piqued my interest in years.

"I'll be fine. I just need a nap. "

Tyler nodded. "I'll be back in about an hour."

He walked out, pulling the bedroom door closed with him. I put my keys on the nightstand and noticed a notebook, so being the nosy bastard I was, I picked it up. Flipping open the cardboard cover, I saw a folded piece of paper and opened it.

It was a list of typed questions. I glanced at the first page of the notebook to see neatly printed answers corresponding to the questions.

What is the most important lesson you've learned due to your incarceration?

That was interesting. Tyler had been incarcerated. My god, how old had he been and what crime had he committed? I couldn't imagine that beautiful young man doing harm to anyone on the face of the earth. I moved the paper to see the handwritten answer corresponding to the question.

After making a stupid mistake as a seventeen-year-old kid just trying to fit in with anyone, I've realized I allowed myself to be influenced by people who didn't have my best interests at heart. Through counseling in Folsom, I've learned to be more observant and cautious when meeting new people. Any new friends I make will be carefully vetted before I begin to trust them and take them into my confidence.

I was guessing that pretending to have a concussion and not remembering my name would be a big no-no in the trust and confidence department.

Shit...