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  “Don’t ask me. I was a theater major.”

  “Ah. Then we can rest assured it wasn’t Shakespeare. You are an actor, then?”

  Trent’s stomach clenched. “Not anymore.”

  “A student?”

  “Nope. I more or less dropped out years ago.”

  “Years ago? You must have been a mere child.”

  “I was nineteen.”

  “How old are you now?”

  Trent glanced at Christophe from under his lashes and took a deliberate sip of his bourbon. “Nineteen.”

  Christophe blinked, his eyebrows lifting. “I don’t—”

  “Or twenty-six. Maybe two hundred and five. Depends on who you ask.” And whose skin he was in at the moment.

  Christophe turned and leaned an elbow on the bar, his knee brushing Trent’s leg. “What if I ask you?”

  “Then I’d say I’m old enough to know a wolf in sheep’s clothing when I see one.”

  This time, Christophe did a full-on double take that would have made Trent’s old comedy teacher proud. I should take notes. In case I can ever face an audience again.

  “You think you know so much about me, yet we’ve barely met.”

  Trent nodded at the credit card the bartender had returned. “Know you’re not hurting for cash.” Christophe inclined his head. “You’re multilingual. I’m guessing . . . two, possibly three other languages besides English, but you learned them at the same time, and you’ve practiced. So your accent isn’t heavy.”

  “Four. French, German, Italian, and Japanese.”

  Trent’s eyebrows shot up. “Japanese? Doesn’t fit into the Euro-aristocracy vibe.”

  “The aristocracy was far in the past. In today’s world, the only ruling house is commerce. The Japanese are important trading partners, with strict notions of manners and protocol.”

  “Commerce, huh? So you’re a captain of industry? You really like that?”

  Christophe’s gaze dropped to his drink. “No.”

  “Then why do it?”

  “We cannot always indulge our own whims. Sometimes we must bow to a greater responsibility.”

  “Bullshit. Who benefits from that?”

  He smiled wryly. “Commerce.”

  “Fuck commerce.”

  “I’d prefer a more congenial partner, thank you.”

  “Wouldn’t we all?”

  They drank in silence for a couple of minutes. “Latin,” Christophe murmured.

  “What?”

  “I know Latin as well.”

  “Not much call for that in commerce, is there?”

  “Not these days, no. However, that is not why I learned it.”

  “So?” Trent gestured with his glass. “Don’t leave me hanging. Spill.”

  “I learned it for . . . medical purposes.”

  Trent laughed. “First time I’ve heard that Latin is good for the health.”

  Christophe joined in the laughter, but his had a rough edge. “No. I’m interested in medicine.”

  “That’s what you want to do? Study medicine?”

  “Yes. Genetics.”

  Trent couldn’t say he saw the attraction, but he was more than familiar with pressure to follow a path not of his own choosing. He leaned in, shoulder to shoulder with Christophe. “Then do it. The world has enough salesmen. Be a geneticist.”

  “Perhaps I shall take your advice.” Christophe clinked glasses with Trent, and held his gaze. “There is a flower that grows near my family’s home in Brittany,” he murmured. “Gentian. Your eyes are exactly that color.”

  Trent got lost for a moment, pinned by that amber regard, as if Christophe could see straight through him. It activated a quiver in the pit of his stomach and a tingle in his balls.

  No, damn it. I’m here for Logan.

  Trent broke the gaze and took another sip of bourbon, idly scanning the bar. “Is that your best line?”

  Christophe chuckled. “Perhaps not my best, but the truth nonetheless.” He followed Trent’s line of sight, no doubt trying to figure out what was so damn fascinating about the walls and ceiling fans. “Stumptown Spirits is busy tonight. I’m lucky to have secured a seat at all, let alone one next to you.”

  “Nice recovery.” Trent saluted with his glass. “Why is it so packed anyway? Do you know?”

  “As I understand it, the place has become something of a tourist attraction, at least among those who watch certain occult programs.”

  Trent’s hand wobbled, sloshing bourbon up the side of his glass. Shit. Had that damned show aired again? He’d watched it the first time, back in the hospital, and had relapsed so badly he’d been on double meds for a week. Would anyone recognize him?

  He swiveled to face the bar and scoped out the crowd in the mirror. Shit-damn-fuck-it-all. Some of them were definitely familiar. The bear trying to attract the attention of the perky waitress, for instance. Had he been there that night? And the woman the waitress was flirting with, the tall blond with Bernadette Peters hair. Was she the one who’d spoken to Trent briefly as he’d been hustled off by the show’s medic?

  He hunched his shoulders. Would it draw anyone’s attention if he pulled his hood up?

  Christophe put a hand on Trent’s thigh, and for some reason, instead of pissing him off, the uninvited intimacy calmed him the fuck down.

  “You are not a fan of such television, I take it?”

  “No.” Trent took a gulp of his bourbon and winced as it burned its way to his belly. “That supernatural shit? Keep it away from me, that’s all I’ve got to say. Either it’s bullshit and you’re a moron to believe in it, or it’s real and you can’t depend on anything. A door might not be a door. The ground might be quicksand. A man might be a monster. I prefer to avoid both the bullshit and the quicksand, thanks.”

  “The touch of the uncanny isn’t necessary to turn most men to monsters. Each of us can manage that quite well on our own, given the right trigger.” Christophe removed his hand from Trent’s leg and gestured to the crowd. “I myself have little partiality for such entertainments, but apparently others have different tastes.”

  Trent immediately missed the warmth, the grounding of Christophe’s touch. He took Christophe’s hand and placed it back where it had been. Just because his hand is on my thigh doesn’t mean his dick will be in my mouth or up my ass.

  Did he believe that? Did he want to? Impulse control—God, he sucked at it. But while the way Christophe’s eyes glinted when they held Trent’s, his focus, and his self-assurance said predator, his mouth held no hint of cruelty. Not predator. Protector.

  “Good thing the only two guys in the bar who don’t give a fuck about the show found each other, am I right?”

  Christophe grinned, a flash of white teeth with pronounced canines. “You are most assuredly correct.”

  Oddly, he felt safer with Christophe’s hand steadying him than he’d felt since falling out of the ghost war in October. More, he felt wanted. This was what he’d been searching for. Why he’d come for Logan. Not that Christophe would understand—or believe—Trent’s experiences. But Jesus fuck. He been so broken since he’d been back that he hadn’t felt desirable until now.

  Christophe didn’t know about the broken. Didn’t know anything about him really, and that was incredibly comforting. Maybe what you need is a stranger after all.

  “Zack.” The blond woman’s voice cut through the bar chatter. Trent tore his gaze from Christophe’s to watch her in the mirror. “Leave Heather alone. We need releases from everyone in the bar. Riley said we can’t film without them, and we’ll need the footage if the follow-up special gets green-lighted.”

  “On it.” The bear—Zack—rose from his chair and turned toward the bar. His gaze landed on Trent and he frowned. Trent could almost hear his brain click. Oh shit. Danger! This guy was a cameraman? He was used to seeing things. If he recognized Trent—

  “Excuse me. Gotta—”

  Trent pushed away from the bar under Christophe’s surpris
ed stare, and bolted for the john.

  Christophe half rose from his stool, ready to follow Trent. Two things stopped him. The first was the cluster of bar patrons who were eyeing the empty stool with covetous intent. The second was that Trent might only need to use the facilities and wouldn’t need an assistant. Christophe doubted this bar was the type—Logan and Riley’s trip to the stockroom notwithstanding—to encourage sexual encounters in the restrooms.

  Christophe hadn’t abandoned the notion that he and Trent might yet find a way to their mutual release tonight. Although Trent’s attitude toward the supernatural didn’t bode well for a long-term relationship, Christophe didn’t have time for one of those anyway. Less than a week. He’d have to make it count.

  Zack paused behind Trent’s empty barstool. “Hey, man. Did you see where the guy who was sitting here went?”

  Ah. Perhaps that’s why Trent left so suddenly. He was evading this man. I wonder why? Issues. Mother of God, but he loved a man with issues. “Sadly, I did not.” A not-entirely-false statement. He could certainly extrapolate Trent’s destination, but he hadn’t actually seen where he’d ended up.

  “Shit. I could have sworn . . . If he comes back, could you ask him to check in with us?” He fumbled a business card out of his shirt pocket and handed it over. “You might have heard of our show. Haunted to the Max?”

  Christophe shook his head and shrugged. “Je m'excuse.” He studied the card. “This is, how do you say . . .” He let his accent thicken as if he’d never sweated for hours over his diction. “Télé réalité?”

  “Little classier than that, but I guess we don’t play well in the international markets.” Zack grinned through his scruffy beard. “Listen, if this guy’s who I think he is, we really want to talk to him about appearing in a special we’re pitching. We’ve got an appointment across town, but we’ll be back. So if he shows again?” He pointed at the card. “Ask him to wait?”

  Christophe nodded. “I shall pass the word, although I can promise nothing.”

  “Right. Thanks, man. Later.”

  Zack returned to Julie and the two of them left, apparently to Heather’s dismay, judging by the longing look she cast at Julie’s retreating back. Their table was immediately captured by another group, this one made up of young women no older than Trent, who had an unfortunate tendency to giggle.

  Trent. Yes, definitely intriguing. A brash young man, to be sure, unafraid of challenging Christophe, yet he seemed terrified—or at least reluctant—to speak to the television personnel.

  The tingle in Christophe’s hand from their contact hadn’t faded. He’d been afraid he’d been too forward, overstepped. Trent had definitely been broadcasting mixed signals, one moment flirty, the next withdrawn.

  Issues. Christophe longed to explore them, preferably naked and in bed. Shite, where is my self-control? Perhaps it would be better if Trent didn’t return. Before a shift, Christophe’s libido always spiked, perhaps to compensate for the fact he felt no sexual desire in his wolf form. He wasn’t sure he could trust himself tonight.

  A young woman approached, her gaze inquiring. “May I?” She indicated the stool.

  “I am very sorry, mademoiselle, but this seat is taken. My companion will return momentarily.”

  Or so he fervently hoped.

  Trent braced his hands against the cool tile of the stall. Jesus, way to be subtle. He should have stood his ground and fucking lied if the cameraman asked him if he was that Trent Pielmeyer.

  It’s not like any of the show’s audience would recognize him. He’d been barely visible—nothing but a dark figure on the ground, while the cameras had been focused more on the ghosts and Riley and Logan. But freeze the frame and anyone who knew what he looked like might be able to pick him out, huddled in a pathetic lump in the mud.

  He hadn’t signed the release—he hadn’t been in a state to sign anything at that point—and his father had made damn sure nobody on the show mentioned his name. He’d boasted about how he’d forced them to reshoot several of the background scenes to eliminate any reference to Trent.

  Would Logan care that he’d been an asshole about that? Well technically his dad had been the asshole. Trent had been the basket case. Apparently you’re not out of those particular woods yet.

  He shuddered. Don’t think about woods.

  Instead, he needed to man up and deal—not enough to get cozy with the TV crew, but he could at least have a conversation with Logan. Maybe more than a conversation. Considering the way he’d nearly humped Christophe’s leg based on a couple of admiring glances and a hand on his thigh, he really needed somebody to fricking touch him.

  First step? Quit cowering by the toilet and get the hell out of this stall. As he washed his hands, he checked his reflection in the mirror—Jesus, he was the walking definition of freaked-the-hell-out. He tried to arrange his face to look less like a doomed teenager in a slasher flick and more like the guy who arrived in the nick of time, wielding dual chainsaws.

  Raise the chin. Thrust the jaw out slightly—but not too much. I want determined, not belligerent. He narrowed his eyes so the whites weren’t showing around his irises. There. Ready for his close-up.

  Taking one last fortifying breath, he marched out of the restroom—and collided with a man carrying a stack of bar towels.

  “Shit, man. Sorry.” They both bent to retrieve the bundle at the same time, knocking their heads together. “Augh. Damn it.”

  “Nah, it’s nothing. Don’t worry—” The man’s eyes widened. “You. You were there.”

  Fear staged a comeback, and his careful character work in front of the mirror went to hell. “I— Sorry, where?”

  The man glanced up and down the hallway, then waited for a server to pass on her way to the bar, carrying two plates of burgers and fries. “In the park. The ghosts.”

  “I don’t know what you—”

  “’S all right. You don’t want to talk about it. I understand, more than most, I expect.”

  Trent peered at the man in the dim light—he was familiar, yeah, but the clean-shaven face, the neat button-down shirt, and khakis seemed wrong. With a sudden jolt to his belly, Trent recognized those eyes—he’d locked gazes with them every night for seven years, just before The Drop. He looks totally different without the spectral jawline beard and flat-brimmed hat.

  “You’re the other one. You were trapped like me.”

  He nodded. “Joseph Geddes. You’re— He called you Trent.”

  “Yeah.”

  “He—” Joseph swallowed. “He came back for you. And you had someone to come back for. Friends. A family.”

  “Friends, not so much, and the family isn’t that great.”

  “But you came back to a world you could recognize. I’m . . .” He hugged the towels. “Sometimes I feel like I’m still a ghost.”

  “I know what you mean.” Or did he? “How long were you in there?”

  “I lost count of the years, but they tell me sixty-three.”

  Jesus. “Your family?”

  Joseph dropped his gaze. “Gone.”

  Shit. Trent had nothing to complain about. All his moping around, whining, acting out. What a giant entitled asshole. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t— I mean, you had it so much worse—”

  Joseph shook his head. “Don’t apologize. I was trapped for longer, but I only had to watch.” He tucked the towels under his arm. “You had to die.”

  With a final nod, he disappeared into the kitchen.

  Trent ran a shaking hand through his hair. Nothing like a little perspective. Hell, if Joseph could face the world and carry on, Trent could hardly do less. Face down the cameraman. Tell him to mind his own business, and you know, be cool about it if he doesn’t.

  He squared his shoulders, marched down the hallway, and emerged into the bar. But his mini-pep talk had been pointless, because although the crowd hadn’t thinned, the blond and her cameraman were gone. Still no sign of Logan though. Maybe the bar owner didn’t have t
o show up every night. He really needed to plan his surprise visits so he wasn’t always the one getting surprised.

  At least Christophe hadn’t split. He remained at the bar, Trent’s unfinished bourbon at his elbow. He smiled and indicated the empty stool. Amazing that the guy didn’t take off. He must either be desperate or else as nice as he seemed. I’m opting for door number two. Because two desperate guys? Too fucking depressing.

  Trent threaded his way through the crowd and sat down. “Thanks for holding my seat. Sorry about the . . . you know. Vanishing act.” He winced inwardly. Regardless of his resolution to cut back on the self-pity, he still didn’t want to think about vanishing.

  “It was no hardship. I take it, however, that you won’t be interested in this.”

  Christophe passed Trent a business card. A Haunted to the Max business card. Anger flooded his chest. Shit, he hadn’t considered a third option. Entrapment. How stupid was that, considering his recent face-off with Bishop. “You’re one of them, aren’t you? ‘Commerce’ my ass.”

  Christophe put his hand on Trent’s arm, and sucker that he was, he calmed. “No. I’ve told you no less than the truth. The gentleman whom you . . . wished to avoid left it for you. I made no promises to him, so if you like, you may pretend you never saw it.”

  Fucking ironic that back when he was an aspiring actor, he’d have been all over this chance to make a Hollywood connection, even though he’d preferred stage work. Now, though, the last thing he wanted was to get caught in that public lens.

  “Sounds like a plan to me.” Trent ripped the card in two and tossed the pieces on the bar.

  “I’m intrigued, though. If you have no interest in the show and are actively avoiding its staff, why pick this particular bar? There are others not as populated by fans, many with customers who might be closer to your, shall we say, demographic?”

  You mean fucked-in-the-head morons with no impulse control? No, thanks. I can barely handle my own drama. “For that matter, why are you here? You’re a little upscale for this joint, aren’t you?”