Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/ works/13776234. Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage Category: M/M Fandom: Panic!_at_the_Disco Relationship: Ryan_Ross/Brendon_Urie, William_Beckett/Ryan_Ross, Brendon_Urie/Dan_Keyes Character: George_Ryan_Ross_III, Brendon_Urie, Spencer_Smith, Dallon_Weekes, Jon Walker, Kenneth_Harris, Dan_Keyes, Travie_McCoy, Patrick_Stump, Pete Wentz, Joe_Trohman, Linda_Ignarro, Cassie_Vandenboom, Keltie_Colleen, Vicky_T, Z_Berg, Elizabeth_Berg, Gabriel_Saporta, William_Beckett, Zack Hall, Minor_Original_Characters_-_Character Additional Tags: Ryden, Murder_Mystery, Male_Homosexuality, Alternate_Universe_- Prostitution, Alternative_Universe_-_FBI, Alternate_Universe_-_1950s, 1950s_Slang, Alternate_Universe_-_Detectives, Explicit_Sexual_Content, Smut, Male_on_male_sex, Hurt/Comfort, whorehouse, Brothels, lounge, Underground_Clubs, Gay_Sex, Closeted_Character, Love, Dark, Crime_Drama, American_Noir, Sociopath, Blood_and_Violence, Thriller, Detective_Noir, Alternate_Universe_-_Noir, Minor_Character_Death, Minor_Original Character(s), Sex_Worker Stats: Published: 2018-02-28 Updated: 2018-03-30 Chapters: 7/? Words: 17100 ****** It's a Sin to Tell a Lie ****** by DeedeeLauren, JennFoozie4bz Summary It's a sin to tell a lie. It's also a sin to steal, cheat, and kill. Officer/Deputy George Ryan Ross III has been polished with these "golden rules" during his Catholic upbringing in the 1940's, while in the midst of a desolate West Texas town. Demoralized by his own fundamental principles of "truths" and "lies;" he must untangle a web of deceit, chauvinism, prejudice, and intolerance before more women end up dead. Brendon Urie is an FBI rookie in training. He's sent to the "middle of no-where" Texas on a case of dead barmaids. Love is something he never thought he would obtain with his type of lifestyle. Houston possesses underground clubs for men of his taste. Then he lays eyes on a certain West Texas cop with curly brown hair and amber eyes. "Be sure it's true when you say I love you It's a sin to tell a lie Millions of hearts have been broken Just because these words were spoken..." Notes Inspired by: The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas; The Killer Inside Me; ID Channel-A Crime to Remember. ***** Life Could be a Dream ***** Chapter Notes See the end of the chapter for notes Padded feet in clown-pajamas, running down a wooden floor hallway. It’s lit by a Craftsman trimmed window at the end off the hall, casting a golden glow on the floor from the rising sun. The footsie clad feet turn left into a kitchen, where he heard the two women chatting over the banging of pots and pans. There is a slender woman, with light red hair standing at the farmhouse sink, her back to him, looking out the laced curtain kitchen window unto the dry plains and hills on the horizon outside. Upon hearing the child’s giggle, the woman turns and has a radiant, dimpled smile along with bright, sparkling brown eyes. She is still in her baby blue, short sleeved sateen pajamas; her hair set in pin curls and clips, with a sheer white scarf tied over them. Her “glamour” style makeup is already done; thin eyebrows, a healthy blush but smooth complexion, and rouge lips. She kneels down, with her arms reaching out, signaling the child to run to her. Dropping his teddy bear, another squeal escapes the light reddish-brown headed toddler while running into his mothers arms. Happy to be scooped up, held, and loved; belly laughing at the raspberries his mother plants on his cheeks. “Ryan, honey, it’s too early for you to be awake! Gramma Anna and I are putting a pork roast in the oven for lunch after church. Do you wanna help Gramma with the green beans?” The woman coos happily. “Gamma!” The little boy shrieks, his little legs and feet already moving before he’s set back down. He runs over to the dark wooden farmhouse table, placed near the wall and back door, the opposite side of the long hand crafted kitchen counter and window. There’s a blonde-grey haired woman with a bun, blue eyes, and the same dimpled smile is sitting; snapping beans. She is still in her pink house robe and slippers, a cup of coffee next to a bowl of green beans. A small bushel basket is next to her feet, where she is collecting the garden fresh vegetables. Ryan runs over to the basket, peering in. Gramma hands him a bean stalk, and he proceeds to snap one end off, then the other, while the unwanted pieces fall to the floor. He hands her the one bean stalk, beaming with pride. As he’s reaching for another, the older woman picks up the child and sets him in her lap. The boy is too busy popping the ends of his bean stalk to notice he’s been relocated, precariously dropping them beneath their chair onto the linoleum checkered floor. “George Ryan Ross III! You’re making a mess.” His mother laughs as she stoops to pick up the discarded ends, and tossing them into the paint-chipped metal compost bin by the backdoor. The little boy holds up his freshly snapped bean to show her “his best job yet,”  before setting it into the bowl with the others. His Gramma hums quietly, kisses the back of his bed-hair head, she reaches for another stalk from the pile of freshly picked green beans that are placed on the mornings newspaper. Both content with their chore and company. “Ok. You two look busy, so I’ll fry up some eggs, make some toast. Pork roast, carrots, and potatoes are in the oven. You’ll make your peach cobbler when we get home, Momma?” Gramma Anna smiles to herself and nods her head; not taking her eyes off of her work. With both child and grandmother sitting side by side, you can notice the resemblance. Even in the manner of their work. “Denise, I’m really happy that you and Ryan came home. It has been quiet these past few years since your Pa has been gone. The farm hands check on me, but it’s usually once a week and for a short time. I know your situation hasn’t been easy, and I’m sorry that you are a widow too. But I do love having you and Ryan here.” Gramma says sincerely, with tears glistening in her eyes. “Oh Momma. I’m glad to be home. I don’t have to worry about you, and you know I’m going to need a hand with this little one. George may not have left much, but this boy will be all I need.” Denise replies and she reaches over to ruffle Ryan’s hair more. She pats her mother lovingly on the shoulder before walking to the stove, lighting the pilot, and setting the cast iron skillet on the burner. The basket of eggs she collected that morning from the coop is set on top of the wooden Knickerbocker icebox. There isn’t many, but just enough for the three of them; and with toast from the homemade bread, will be more than filling. They never wanted for anything, and always had what they needed. Denise’s parents had a quaint vegetable garden for their salads and side dishes, but her mother had trouble maintaining it by herself these last few years. With Denise there to water from the well, compost often for fertizler, it has flourished and provided. Their red meat and pork was always bought at Piggy Wiggly, owned by the Halls’ in town. The few acres they owned of land was leased to a neighboring farmer who grew cotton, one-third his profit belonging to them. This is the simple life that Denise had missed, and she hopes to instill the hard-working values her father raised her on to her son. She places a plate of one fried egg and buttered toast in front of Ryan. He immediately drops his bean stalk and reaching for his fork. This emits a hearty laugh from his Gramma, and she switches him to her left knee; so she can use her right hand to eat her breakfast as well. Denise sets both of their plates down on the table too, smiling warmly at her boy and mother. Denise sits down in a chair across the table from them, places a napkin in her lap and sighs. "Where those stories that Papa told us true? About the chickens and The Jackrabbit Ranch? Or was he just bumping gums?" Gramma sits up straighter in her chair, takes a deep breath, and pauses to think. Little Ryan's unaware of the change in atmosphere while he achieves to get half of his breakfast in his mouth, the other half on his pajamas. "Some of the men thought it would be cheaper to take a chicken out to The Ranch instead of paying for ‘services.’ This was during The Depression, of course. Oh, but your Daddy was a smart man, though! He would charge thirty cents a chicken, just to buy them back the next morning for twenty.” The older woman chuckles. “I'm sure they kept a few of the chickens out there for meat and eggs. So, in his opinion, no one was getting hurt." Denise, slowly pushes her plate aside and leans forward across the table to look directly at Ryan. "But someone has gotten hurt, haven't they Ryan? Someone has gotten themselves killed! Our young man is also smart like Papa, Momma. A downright Goddamn genius! He'll find out who the fucking murderer is." The change in his mother’s tone terrifies Ryan. He notices in his peripheral vision that he is no longer a toddler, but a grown man with long, lanky arms in a long sleeved khaki button down shirt and pants. Patches along the shoulders, consisting of a star and bars, his uniform is finished with a black tie, gold star tie tack, polished black boots, and his revolver holstered unto his belt. The sudden change in his appearance shocks him, his hand growing numb, dropping the child-sized fork with a clang onto his yolked plate. Fumbling backwards off his grandmother's knee, tripping and knocking over the bushel of green beans, scattering them and himself across the black and white floor. He's attempting to stand up, when his mother appears kneeling in front of him. Her face a molten grey, her eyes are bloodshot and slightly bulging, and she is wheezing, having difficulty breathing. As he is kicking-crawling away to escape from her; violet bruises, shaped as hands, form around her throat, squeezing and crushing. Ryan is watching as she is strangled before his very eyes. She raises her hands to her neck, scratching as if trying to claw the invisible hands and arms away. Her eyes rolling back as she is looking up to the Heavens for help. Mouth open, but no noise escaping, not even breath. She looks like she is being pulled up by her neck, head lolling to the side, her arms fall limply. "No! Mom!" Ryan yells. He is sitting up in his own bed; white, crisp sheets tangled around his legs. He’s no longer in his Gramma’s two story farmhouse, in the outskirts of Celene, Tx; but in his two bedroom rental in town. Cold sweat and tears rolling down his cheeks, caused by his hellish nightmare of his mother being murdered by unseen forces. He’s gasping for oxygen as if he was the one being choked. Billy Holiday is crooning in the background, a magical yet haunting voice; accompanying his panting and sobs. A symphonic melody filling the room from his 1956 Zenith clock radio. “Be sure it’s true when you say I love you It’s a sin to tell a lie...” Chapter End Notes Sh-Boom (Life Could Be a Dream) — Songwriters: James Keyes, Claude and Carl Feaster, Floyd F. McRae, and James Edwards. It’s a Sin to Tell a Lie — Lyricist: Billy Mayhew. ***** Deep in the Heart of Texas ***** Chapter Notes See the end of the chapter for notes I should've known this was going to happen, the nightmare; since I had witnessed my first dead body at the crime scene just the day before. A blonde, the beautiful Keltie Colleen who had moved to Celene 4 months before from Sweetwater, Texas. I had heard that she was a dancer at The Dallas Civic Ballet, until she injured her knee and was told to retire. What I don’t understand is why she moved here instead of back to her hometown. As pretty as she is, or was, with Dyess Air Force base just down the road, she would’ve had no trouble finding herself an officer ranked husband. Instead, she was working as a "barmaid" at Spencer's and living in one of the rented rooms above the renovated Victorian two story in the middle of nowhere Texas. Celene really isn’t in the middle of nowhere, it is a small town town that many residents think it as obsolete. Right on the border of Hill Country, close to the “heart of Texas,” with West Texas looming at the backdoor, you really did have the best of both worlds. To the East; hills, green grass, where live oak, walnut, pecan, and cedar scatter the fields in the humid climate. Blue bells, and Indian paintbrushes grow wild along the roads and in the plains. If you don’t stop, you’ll eventually run into Austin, our state capital. Travel West a few miles and you will find drier lands, prickly pear cacti, yuccas, mesquite, and sage; keep going and you’ll end up in Mexico. The best part about this town are the South Llano River and Fall Leaves Creek that feeds into Lake Celene. It’s not only irrigation for our farmers, but a refreshing relief from the scorching dog days of summer. If you head over there after dark, you’ll see the cars scattered along the shore, with teenagers necking. The worst part of my job is having to go down to the lake in a paddy wagon to break up the occasional party. It wasn’t that long ago that it was me running from the cops, so my mother wouldn’t be called to pick me up from the station. I’m sure I wouldn’t be working for them now if that had ever happened.. We may be small, but because of our perimeter to San Antonio, San Angelo, and Austin, we do get a lot of traffic from El Paso and New Mexico. There is our one cafe, called Pete’s Diner that is owned and operated by Peter Wentz. Painted white with turquoise trim on the outside to attract attention, and a neon sign. The inside has a modern feel with a checkerboard vinyl floor, a jukebox with blue and pink bubble lights, turquoise booths and boomerang, metal-banded, chrome tables inside. His father went on a mission to the Caribbeans for the Church of Christ and met his mother, so Pete is biracial. He grew up in here in Celene, just like I did. He worked at odd jobs during the summers; mechanic, roofer, car washes. He attended college in Chicago the rest of the year. It’s been a mystery how his parents could afford it, his father being a lawyer for a town that doesn’t prosecute one another. I’m not one to be nosy on things I don’t need to know. But it acknowledges our town is progressive for Pete to be an entrepreneur. Plus, he has the best pies in town. Our grocery store here is The Piggly Wiggly, run by the Hall family ever since I could remember. Old Mr. Hall is nearing his retirement and has started training his only son, Zack. I went to school with Zack too. He’s one of those big guys that look mean and tough, but is actually soft hearted. He applied for Police Training School the same time I did, but didn’t qualify. Some have said it’s because of his weight. Others have said it’s because he couldn’t hurt a fly. I think it’s a little bit of both. Most of the time you can catch Zack at Pete’s Diner, being sweet on a pretty blonde waitress there named Brittany. Or he’s working in the back of the grocery store, carving up carcasses in the meat department. Just like any town, we do have a public library. Though it’s a small, red bricked building, right next to our town’s school. There wasn’t enough funds for the city to build the school its own library, so this was the outcome. The head librarian is Ruby, a dark haired, curvy beauty with long eyelashes, emerald eyes, and glasses, of course. If you met her walking down the street, you wouldn’t know she is a librarian. Her pencil skirts fit just right and her blouses may have one button less than need be, but she makes it classy with her cardigans and tasteful makeup. Yes, she’s another woman that Gabe has tried to pursue. I don’t know what she said to him that day he wanted to “drop in and grab a book.” I didn’t know that he could read. I parked the Ford Mainline right in front of the glass door so I could watch this latest fiasco of Gabe’s. He sauntered up to the reference desk, leaned over, and proceeded to stare at her breasts while he talked to her. I don’t know what she whispered in his ear, but he came back to the car looking like a whipped puppy. He commented on how prude the girls in town are while I laughed hysterically at him. Gabriel Saporta is my partner at work. He claims to be Italian, but I suspect he’s Hispanic. You never know with Gabe. Tall and lanky, like me. He’s always clowning around, always ready for a good time. He’s a ruthless flirt and hound with all the single women in town, but calls himself a ladies man. The reactions I see from women of Gabe is either annoyance or disgust. But who am I to burst his bubble? He is very smart when the moment calls for it. Those moments are sometimes few and far between. When people say this is a one horse town, it’s not a lie. Our town vet, Dr. Helzer, has the one horse here, named Diablo. Ok, that may be an exaggeration, but we do have only one stoplight on Main Street. Fresh out of vet school in 1955, the town has prided ourselves with her being the first woman to have been admitted to the Texas A&M vet program. I can only guess at the inequality she had to endure, being the only woman. You will see her in overalls most of the time, I assume because dealing with cows, horses, sheep, goats, dogs, and cats can be messy and would need to have freedom of movement that’s impractical in a dress. When she would see patients and the owners inside her clinic, she will slip on her white doctors coat over those overalls. Bobbed blonde hair, she usually pulls it away from her face with a red bandanna. She has what a lot of the men would say, “the bluest eyes in Texas.” Most people in town will schedule an appointment with her for their pet, when in reality they were seeing her for themselves. The medical doctor in town, Dr. Miller, really needs to retire. He’s eighty-two, can’t see without his coke bottle glasses, and prescribes castor oil as a cure all for everything. Anyhow, she’s smart as a whip. Joe Trohman, the city’s Commissioner and my boss, trusts her on second opinions for death certificates; since Dr. Miller always lists “natural causes” on all of them. That is how most people die here, except for these recent events. Gabe bragged that he, “got with her,” claiming they had sex on the surgical table in her clinics OR. He’s telling me this story in the truck ride over to the station this morning. I’ve never heard Nikki Helzer to be fast while we were all in school, so I’m sure he’s pulling my leg. “She ignores me half the time since that night anyways.” He whines. “Maybe because of the course of antibiotics and rabies shots she had to take afterwards, Gabe?” I cut back. This is how we communicate, insults and sarcasm. After I park my grandpa’s faded red and peeling truck, a 1939 International Harvester at the station’s parking lot, we head inside. Right after you pass the glass doors at the entrance, is the stations tall cherry wooden desk, where Carrie greets visitors to the station. "Greet" might be an embellishment of what Carrie actually does. She is the department’s secretary. Being the only woman in the office, I’m sure the job comes with it’s own challenges; one being Gabe Saporta. Most of the time I arrive for work, I will tell her good morning, while her response is a deathly glare. Gabe tries to butter up to her every day, sometimes with a “Good morning, beautiful,” or the occasional “How’s my doll this morning.” Her reaction can vary from an icy stare to ridicule and sarcasm. This morning being no different from the others. “Good morning, Kitten. What’s got you purring today?” Carrie briefly looks up, spots Gabe, rolls her eyes and goes back to her work. He stops briefly in front of her, drumming his fingers on the tall counter. Carrie is doing a great act of ignoring him today. Eyes to the books, scribbling something down in the Supply ledger. She’s not flinching, not paying any attention to him at all. He gives up on his attempt, for now, and heads to the back of the station with me. Carrie, our secretary is an enigma all of her own. Red haired with green eyes, she wears her hair up a lot. We don’t know her last name, and she won’t tell anyone either. Gabe made a game of guessing what it is. He came to work and singsonged as he walked through the door, “Good morning, Ms. Ingalls.” Carrie picked up a metal ruler and swatted the back of his head, hard. He hasn’t tried to guess her last name again. The rumor in town is that Carrie is a widower, the main reason the color of all her clothes and dresses are black. Her late husband died in an “accident,” six years ago, which Joe was called to. A week later, Carrie was sitting at the front counter, answering the telephone and typing Joe’s reports. She doesn’t talk much, but when she does, it seems it is only to Joe. I’ve been more than impressed with how she deals with Gabe, if there is a proper way to handle him. All of us here at the station have learned that she will not put up with our male chauvinism or gender stereotyping. Gabe still finds a way to insinuate something inappropriate into conversation just to piss her off. He may think it’s flirting, but I see it as courting death. My mother has mentioned that Carrie buys eggs from her, and they have coffee together on occasion. I assume their main topic of conversation is me, but I don’t need that business going to my head. We have a debriefing with Chief Trohman this morning. He really gets irritated when we are late. So far, we are walking in the door a quarter after. There are only five of us on the police and county force, including Joe. Celene is isolated, quiet, and rural, so there is no need for two separate departments, so we are city and county police officers. We take turns on rotation, which usually last a month. If there is an emergency, such as a fight at Spencer’s, then we can all get called in. This month, Gabe and I have the day shift, which is fast approaching to be over. The other part of our team is Jon Walker, a dark haired, brown eyed handsome man; and Kenny Harris, shorter and stockier than all of us with light brown hair. Both are swell guys, and have been amiable to work with. Jon is from Celene. We went to school together, in fact. I was more of a farm boy. I knew everyone, but rarely participated in sports or clubs. I just didn’t have time. I didn’t want to leave my mother with all the responsibilities on the farm. Too many times our lessee would be short a farm hand. It was beneficial to the quality of the cotton that it is planted and harvested under certain times of the year, and under certain weather conditions. A lot of my mornings before school were spent helping my mother feed chickens, cows, goats, and pigs. My afternoons were helping in the fields. The hard work never bothered me at all. It’s like my mother always said, it builds character. Jon is from a wealthy family, his father being the judge, and then mayor, so I don’t know why he passed on the chance to go to college. He was the school’s quarterback and all American-boy who married the lead cheerleader/girl-next- door, Cassie Vandenboom. They had been going steady since 6th grade, and still together at age 23. Maybe this is the life you end up with if your father doesn’t die in the war. They have a young daughter, I believe she is three or four now. He’s mentioned how nights are an inconvenience to his family’s schedule. His daughter is growing up too fast, and he’s already missed important milestones. He keeps talking about the “big break” for him to get his promotion to full time detective or Corporal. Maybe even move out of Celene to a bigger town with “more action.” He thinks he will be able to impress Joe and be assigned full time on days only. He’s tried to talk me into volunteering for nights, “since I am not married nor have kids.” I like the rotation sifts, the opportunity to experience and understand both the day and night, and what happens during these times. Kenny transferred here from Austin. His wife wanted a quieter life for them and his new baby. There was talk from Gabe, he got the story about Kenny, on the reason for the move. According to him, a shootout occurred during a bank robbery. Kenny got hit in his left shoulder, and that was just too damn close to his heart for his wife’s liking. So his Assistant Chief called up Joe, and he decided we needed one more. Joe was patrolling with Jon before Kenny came, so I think Joe was ready to go back to his desk job, more for the peace and quiet from Jon's incessant talking. As we are walking to the back, we pass our two stations of desks, which are two desks each facing each other and on opposite sides of the walk way. Just by personality, I’m sure the average observer would be able to pick out which group of desks belong to Gabe and me. He’s not the neatest, and always complaining of not finding reports. I usually remark his mother doesn’t work here and to clean up his area. He never listens. We see that Kenny, Jon; who have just gotten off their night shift, are waiting at the long gray metal and silver banded meeting table in our debriefing room. Rectangular shaped in size with half windows and blinds. Joe is standing at the end by the door, arms crossed. His hair is looking more frizzed than usual, which means a restless night. When he sees us approaching, he glances at his wristwatch. This makes me pick up my pace a little and I motion with my head for Gabe to hurry it up too. Chapter End Notes Deep in the Heart of Texas — Lyricist: June Hershey. ***** The Great Pretender ***** Chapter Notes See the end of the chapter for notes “Glad you boys have finally made it.” Joe says in a sarcastic tone as we walk in and take two empty seats across from Jon and Kenny at the rectangular table. They glance up, then their eyes avert back to the surface of the table. This must be one of those days where Joe isn’t in a good mood. Carrie walks into the room behind us with a notepad and pencil, obviously ready to take notes of our debriefing. Gabe pats the seat of the wooden swivel chair beside him. She sashays right on by without a glance his way, to take the empty seat at the other end of the table. I hear Kenny snicker and I try to hide my grin with my hand. At least he gave it the ‘old college try.’ “Let me catch you slowpokes up to speed. Keltie Colleen, twenty-two, found dead in her apartment room above Spencer’s yesterday evening. She didn’t come down for breakfast that morning, but Linda Ignarro, the ‘house mother,’ thought nothing of it, claiming that Keltie had been acting more tired than usual and decided to let her sleep. Concern arose when she didn’t come down for lunch later that day either. A few hours before Spencer’s was to open and her shift at the bar begins; her roommate Vicky T decides to check on her, knowing that Keltie had recently broken up with her boyfriend a few days before. There’s no answer when she knocked on her door, no sound coming from the room. No one had seen her leave the room all day, not even for bathroom visits. Linda Ignarro decides to use her master key to open her door. They then find Keltie on the floor of her room, strangled. Looks like the killer used their hands. Yes, strangulation is the cause of death confirmed by Dr. Helzer, somewhere between midnight and three a.m. I’m sure you boys can agree after witnessing the purple bruises that were on the victim’s neck. Questions?” I briefly flashback to my mother in the nightmare this morning. How she looked, how she suffered. I make a mental note to call her when this meeting is over. “Ok, good. Continuing.” Joe leafs through his pile of recently typed report of our findings last night. No doubt courtesy of our hard working secretary who came in earlier than usual to help Joe prep for this debriefing. “You were all called to the house to investigate the room and bag evidence. William Beckett has reported back that the processing of the photographs may take 24 hours or more. You all were each assigned to question Linda Ignarro, Spencer Smith, and Vicky T. Findings? Ryan.” “I questioned Linda Ignarro. She didn’t stray much from the story that you just reported. Keltie didn’t come down for breakfast or lunch that day. She figured she was nursing a broken heart. Vicky alerted her that Keltie wasn’t seen all day and no answer to her door. Linda used her key to open it. Keltie was on the floor in front of her bed and door. This was one of the smaller rooms in the back by the hallway, so I don’t know how no one heard a struggle. Laying on her back, knees slightly bent to the sides and arms beside her body. Her head rolled to the left, facing her dresser, eyes still open and slightly bulging. Rolled tape was wiped on top of her yellow dress for fibers. I scraped her fingernails, but no skin was found, so she didn’t fight her attacker. Maybe she knew him or her? Uh — Gabe helped me dust her room for fingerprints and we allowed William to take photographs of the scene. Her bed was made, so we don’t expect any sexual acts to have happened. Her jewelry was still on her body; which was a pair of pearl earrings and a ring on her right hand. Looked like an heirloom wedding band. Maybe her mother’s or grandmother’s. We plan on checking the finger prints on the door knob and compare it to our victim’s. I suggest the other girls in the house to be fingerprinted too to eliminate them as suspects. Other than going back over the pictures, maybe question more people who were in the house that night?” I recite to Joe and my co-workers in the room. I had practiced what I was going to say in the shower. Now is not the time for blunders. “Jesus, Ryan, didn’t expect that much detail. Good luck on getting anyone to admit they were in the lounge at Spencer’s that night and I doubt Spencer will tell us either. Next? Kenny?” “Jon and I questioned Spencer Smith. He acted indifferent to the fact someone was killed in his establishment and more concerned about his business. If this incident is going to cause less foot traffic and less earnings for him. He mentioned that the night before, Keltie acted restless and kept checking her watch. I broached the subject of, uh, personal customers, and he said that after her first month there, she had developed a relationship with someone. She never would say who, that was kept secret. She switched to being a barmaid only and not, uh, other entertainment. This cut back her pay, so she moved into the smaller room that only had a full size walnut poster bed and dresser. She seemed depressed and withdrawn, but he blew it off as boyfriend troubles. She was looking for work in town, but was also having problems finding a job because of her address. He said he didn’t want to throw her out on the street, but she was having difficulty paying the rent. He’s now in the process of finding her family in Sweetwater to send her belongings to.” “He seems to be hiding something, sir. I think —“ Jon interjects. “Jon, I need facts right now. We can’t be led with prognostications and predictions. We need to gather facts and evidence. How many times must I remind you? He also lives in that house and does maintenance for the rooms. We must wait for prints. Saporta?” Gabe leans forward on his arms on the table, looking between all of us like he has the latest news before the newspaper. “Vicky T. told me that Keltie and Spencer had been arguing lately about her pay, and she suspects Spencer cut her wages to force her to take johns again — and...” “Saporta! Can you please tell us this information in a more formal report manner and not like you’re a hen spreading the towns gossip. We will have plenty of that in the next few weeks while we work on this case.” Joe interrupts with crossed arms and a click of his tongue. Carrie snorts a laugh and is trying to hide her smile. “Yes, sir.” Gabe leans back in his chair, and we all get a glimpse of the serious Officer Saporta that briefly graces our presence at the station. “I questioned a resident of the house, Vicky T. She expressed concern that Spencer may have been abusing the rights of Keltie Colleen while working in his establishment and living in the upstairs room. She had heard arguing between the victim and Spencer Smith about her wages for waiting tables in the lounge. Keltie came to her about her concern on Spencer cutting wages in the hopes she would go back to entertaining the men. She had changed her mind on that type of lifestyle, wanting to prove to the new boyfriend she was wife material. Again, there was a claim that Keltie seemed to be tired and depressed. Not eating much, sleeping a lot. Vicky commented that it could’ve been because of boyfriend problems.” Gabe finishes his statement solemnly. An idea springs up in my mind, and I don’t know why’d I hadn’t thought of it before. “Sir. I would like permission to question another resident at the house. I believe Elizabeth Berg may have some valuable information. She wasn’t spotted that evening and it’s not clear if she was in the premises, but I believe she befriended the victim and may have information on this boyfriend.” “Permission granted Officer Ross. Interview her and also get her prints. Is there anyone else we are missing from the house?” Joe asks while he taps his pen on the table. “I don’t think so, sir. I would like to ask permission to interview Spencer Smith again. Since we have new information on him and the victim’s relationship. Maybe Saporta can get a written statement from Vicky T.?” Jon suggests to Joe. “Good thinking, Walker. So you all know what you need to do? Plus, I wanted to talk to you about a new shift schedule.” Joe replies. I notice that Jon sits up straighter in his seat, and he glances at me, then back to Joe. “Finances for this investigation will prohibit overnight patrolling, and right when we need it most. Kenny and Jon, you’re new schedule will be four to midnight. Ryan and Gabe, I’m going to need you two from eight in the morning til four. It would be nice to stay an hour late to debrief each other on your findings of the day, or any other police business. These new hours will continue after our investigation is concluded. I’m suspecting we have a jealous boyfriend on our hands, or Spencer Smith wasn’t able to control his anger. Ross, see if Keltie mentioned any names to Z— Elizabeth Berg. Get her prints so she doesn’t have to come in. I don’t want a scene or the newspaper getting their hands on any of the girls. Kenny and Jon, question Spencer again, get a written statement to see if his story falters. Saporta, get that written statement from Vicky. Questions? I’m proud of you boys. Go get this killer.” “Sir?” Jon raises his hand and voice to get Joe’s attention. “Kenny and I have just came off the night shift. Isn’t it time that we rotate? I thought—“ “Jon, I decided that I need Ryan to work on this case. He’s good with questioning people. But if you think you’re superior knowledge and decisions could run this department better than — “ Joe’s voice elevates, his face flushing. One thing we have all learned very quickly is to not piss Joe off. Unless you want to walk downtown, giving parking tickets to expired meters. “No sir.” Jon interrupts before Joe has a complete meltdown. “Thank you for your better judgement Officer Walker. If there’s nothing else, you and Kenny are dismissed to rest up and come back here at four for your shift. I trust you are happy you no longer need to stay overnight, since we don’t have anyone in the jail or other numerous emergencies. Speaking of emergencies. Any calls that come in at night will come to me and I will make the executive decision on who will respond. So Saporta, make sure you pay your phone bill this month and from now on. You’re dismissed.” Joe finishes. He closes his file folder as a signal that he is finished, and it’s time for us to leave. He steps over to the chalkboard behind him. He writes Keltie’s name in the middle with all the factual information encircling it. Visual representations keep you focused, Joe has said. You’ll see in the chart what you can’t see in front of your nose. This theory is about to be tested. Technically we are all still in training, with Kenny having the most experience of us all. We need to solve this case efficiently and effectively. As we are leaving the meeting room, I hear an orchestral of conversations around me. Jon is telling Kenny his theories on the reasons why Spencer would want Keltie gone. Kenny mentions that maybe Spencer put Linda up to doing his dirty work. Gabe is brainstorming on ways to win Carrie over. “Chocolates? Cliche’. Flowers? She may be allergic. I know! I’ll hire a mariachi band and serenade her outside her house. Women love to be sung to.” Gabe reflects. I stop in my tracks when I see the lean, brown haired man lingering around my desk. Light grey trousers, matching jacket with thin dark gray pin stripes, white button up shirt, geo-metric design tie in shades of blues and grays. His hair is cut shorter than mine, with a side part and slicked back; Cary Grant style. I have to admit, he looks good, damn good. As soon as he spots me, he stands up straighter, fidgeting with a brown envelope. I could only assume these are the photos from the crime scene. William Beckett works for the daily newspaper West Texas. Celene being such a small town with nonexistent crime, our department doesn’t have a crime scene photographer. For a little extra pay by the city, William will take the photos for us. This also gives him a first person perspective for his reporting, but he’s not allowed to use photos he’s taken of the victims. I’m sure his front page story of the strangled barmaid will feature a photo of Spencer’s, the house previously known as The Jackrabbit Ranch. His hunch is right, that’s not gonna be good for business. I guess I should mention that William is also my ex-lover. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes. It’s been way too long, Ry.” He extends his hand for a shake. I hesitate momentarily, looking around in my peripheral vision to see if anyone caught his greeting or how he’s undressing me with his eyes. “William. I see you’ve finished the photos already. You could’ve left them with Carrie.” I reply smugly. “And miss my favorite man-in-uniform?” William stepped closer to me to counter. “Besides, Carrie wasn’t there, so I let myself back. I knew you were probably debriefing. Didn’t think you would mind.” He finishes with his charming smile, baring perfect white teeth. He hitches one eyebrow up at me. This is going to be a lot harder than I thought. “Just busy around here now. Have people to talk to. Next time you can leave it on my desk.” I retaliate. “I’m starting to think you didn’t want to see me, Ross. Didn’t get to chat much the other night. Shall we get together for drinks?” He presses, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket as he rolls on the balls of his feet. We haven't talked in a month and a half, and that was a casual hello when we ran into each other at the diner. He’s being extremely eager now. Right at that moment I glance over my shoulder and notice Gabe has sat down at his desk, shuffling through papers to appear busy. I can tell by the expression on his face he’s been eavesdropping. I take William’s elbow in my grip, leading him to the glass door in the lobby. “Not here, William.” I hiss under my breath. Carrie looks up from her work to watch us walk out the front door and into the parking lot. I have let go of his elbow by then, but I’m headed straight to his 1951 baby blue Studebaker. It’s only a two seater, confining but very intimate. This car has a ‘single and ready to mingle’ ambiance. “I have some questions to ask you about the investigation, Ryan. If you could call me up, we could meet, maybe — “ He’s handing me a piece of paper. This is how it all started eight months ago. A piece of paper with his phone number. ‘Call me’ written below with a smiley face. Questions about a car accident by the river. In fact, he didn’t have any concerns about the incident at all. I think his main question was what I look like naked. “I really don’t think that’s wise, William. We need to keep our relationship professional. If you have questions, you can call the department. Carrie will be able to give you the information we are releasing to the public.” I crumple up the paper and throw it to the ground. Heartless? Cruel? Maybe. But William is relentless, this is just banter and foreplay to him. “Give me a call when you decide to be honest with yourself, Officer Ross.” He remarks curtly while opening his car door, climbing inside, placing his black Stetson fedora on this head. I take this as my stage exit, turn to walk back in the building. I’m doing my best to remain calm, flexing my fingers, counting to ten. I make it to five before I growl “Fuck you, William Beckett,” under my breath, open the glass door and walk in. Chapter End Notes The Great Pretender — Lyricist: Buck Ram. ***** I've Got You Under My Skin ***** Chapter Notes See the end of the chapter for notes The day ended up being filled with traffic stops, Travie McCoy jaywalking to Pete’s Diner for his shift, and a cat stuck in a tree. I didn't have the chance to go to Spencer’s, to talk to Z. Which may be more of a blessing in disguise, since I don't have all of my questions ready yet. Plus, I need to gather a print kit so she won't have to come to the station. Joe really goes out if his way to show respect to the women who work there. I don't know why. It's always has been a ”turn the other cheek” situation. What we don't know or won't get anyone arrested. No proof that money exchanges between the john and woman, no proof its prostitution. Vicky T has been picked up in town, hanging on out on a corner on Main. She claimed to be waiting for someone that was to pick her up ”for a date.” Can’t prove she's actually soliciting, so Joe had to let her go. There was a raid on the place when I was a kid when it was called The Jackrabbit Ranch, or just Jackrabbit for short. Didn't understand the name til middle school age. Anyway, twelve men were taken in for possible solicitation of sex, along with four women. There were scandals of divorce, and a few stayed married. I'm sure those were eggshell situations. The girls were bailed, but not without a picket line of ”good Christian protesters” waiting for them. Someone in the crowd threw horseshit in one of the woman's face. I was in High School at the time, and one of the many reasons why I stopped going to church. I was tired of being told by a ”man of God,” reading from a book written by ”men who became enlightened by the Holy Spirit,” that I was going to hell for being attracted to other men. No, I hadn't come out publicly, that is a sure fire way to get yourself killed in this day and age. I had a strong suspicion that my mother knows. They just tend to hone in on these things. But to say my sin is greater than the married pastor pinching the choir women’s butts during rehearsals? The church secretary having an affair with the youth pastor, lesser than mine? If we were to get technical, wouldn't they be under scrutiny for eating pork? I've written the church off as hypocrisy a long time ago. I know it sometimes hurts my mother that I don't go, but she has seen and heard for herself how man has twisted ”the Good Word” to benefit themselves in the name of Christianity. I'm just sitting down to watch Tonight Starring Steve Allen, with plans to eat my ham sandwich when I hear a knock on my front door. It's been a long day and all I really want to do is relax. I've already taken off my uniform, so I'm just in my white undershirt and boxers. Maybe Gabe has come by with some beer. It wouldn't be unlike him, but we haven't just sat, drink beer, or just hang in a long time. It would be something fun and out of my usual routine to do. Anything to break the monotony. When I open the door, William is standing on my Welcome mat on my front porch. First thing I notice is how he's dressed. He took time to choose what to wear for this visit. Khaki colored slacks, a navy blue knit shirt, dark brown penny loafers with a bomber style suede jacket the same brown as his shoes. His hair is impeccably styled, slicked back, and I have to admit he smells good. Canoe, I believe. Sure, making me feel slightly uncomfortable with the way I'm dressed, but he has come unannounced. Whatever it is he has to say will be done on my front porch. On second thought, I don't need the neighbors seeing William Beckett on my front porch and me in my underwear. I stand aside while he's been standing there, nothing said and just a slight smile on his face. I wave him in with my hand. He shrugs out if his jacket, folds it and places it on the back of my monstrosity called a sofa. I've already walked back to my wood and black leather recliner, my solace in this house. I sat down, picked up my plate, took a bite of food, just watching him. He sits on the Danish modern couch Gabe named “god awful orange” that came with the rental. He’s on the edge closest to my chair. Legs crossed but arms spread out on either side of him, resting on the back of the couch. He's leaning back, I guess that is supposed to be an invitation. ”We didn't get to finish our conversation today, Ryan.” I pick up my beer, take a sip, place it back down on the 3 legged, wooden kidney-shaped coffee table in front of me. Never taking my eyes off him. I've taken another bite of my sandwich, because damn it, I didn't get the chance to eat lunch today and no matter how scrumptious William Beckett is looking on that couch, I'm going to eat. Even if it's only two bites and a beer. ”What do you want, William? I thought I made myself clear yesterday, and a few months back when I said this needs to remain professional. Whatever this is. It can't be anything more. We are too different. It didn't work, and it won't work between us. City mouse and country mouse. Remember that story. We visited each other's world. I'm not impressed. I don't know why you are still in this town. You talk of nothing but moving to Dallas, becoming a famous photographer. Go. There is nothing holding you back.” It's the same speech I gave months earlier, and its a speech I won't falter from now. ”Is there, Ryan? Nothing to keep me here? I remember the sweet nothings you'd whisper in my ear. It's not what you said then. Though, nothing was ever said about love or devotion, but I don't see how we couldn't try to make this work.” William counters me, he's leaning forward with elbows on knees. Staring at my eyes, travels down my chest and to my crotch. He's not being subtle at all. My dick betrays me and twitches at the sudden attention it's getting from William’s stare. ”There is only one thing that you and I have in common William. We like cock. And you think that is enough to build some kind of relationship on? And I told you we could never have a relationship in this town. We couldn’t hide forever. I'm not leaving my job, my mother, or the life that I have built so far. This isn’t breaking news. So why are you here?” I ask again. ”Jesus you are thick, Ryan. Why are you so serious? We could have fun, you know. I'm not proposing forever. I just thought — “ ”Some fun? Just some fun, you say. That's rich, William. Where you’re from, maybe that's the lifestyle. Just fucking around. I'm not comfortable with that. I'm not saying I want to fall in love, but I don't want meaningless sex. Just - -, you need to leave. This is going nowhere.” I stand up from my chair, set my beer down and start to walk to the front door. I then hear William snicker. ”Classic Ryan Ross. His mouth says one thing, but it's obvious his dick wants something else. Good luck fighting those urges in this shitty little town. After I leave, will it just be Rosie and her five sisters? How long before the cows asses are tempting?” William teases. ”William!” I yell. I have already grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, pulling him off the couch. I shove him into the nearest wall next to the sofa, and I'm just holding him there. Fighting the urge to both kiss and punch him. ”Goddamn, I always liked it when you got rough.” He palms my cock and starts rubbing. Unfuckingbelievable. ”I'm under your skin. You will always want me. You can't resist me. Why don't you put your small town, good old boy principles away and fuck me?” William purrs inches from my lips. A switch in me has been flipped, maybe because I let my dick win this argument. I don't love him. I never will. But damn, I need to get laid. ”Is this what you want, William? Is this what you came here for?” I growl as I cup his cock in my hand. I grab his jaw with my other hand and I start to kiss him roughly. No sweet pecks or light necking. He won't leave me alone, and something in me gets angry at this thought. Because we are the only two homosexuals in town. Does that automatically qualify as friends with benefits relationship? Again I'm cursing myself in my head for ever getting involved, while my cock is praising that William has dropped by, horny and wanting to fuck. ”Is this what you want?” I snarl into his neck while I place my right leg in the middle of his crotch. Lifting my knee, rubbing my cock on his left leg while he starts to grind into mine. I grab a fistful of hair and slam his head back into the wall, attacking his mouth with my tongue. Something in me has been released. I'm surprised by my own actions while a voice in my head tells me that William deserves this. Yes. Yes, he does. I then grab William by his hips, pull him closer to me so our cocks are rubbing together. With on hand, I unbutton his trousers, pull the zipper down, then slide my hand inside his underwear. I place a tight grip on his cock and start stroking. ”Is this what you fucking want?” I breathe into his mouth. We've been reduced to panting and moaning, no longer able to kiss. Just mouths open next to one another while hands grope, rub, and stroke the others dick. With one hand still around his waist, I turn him to sit back on the couch, his trousers down mid- thigh and his dick hanging out of his underwear, just as he should be. I pull my own boxers off, step forward to offer his mouth my cock. He takes it, right down to my pubic hair and my knees quake. He was always fantastic at sucking dick. My hands go to his hair and I can't control myself. I start pumping into his mouth, his lips tight around my dick feels so damn good. He rests his hands on my hips, trying to get me to slow down my actions. I feel possessed and I tighten my grip on his hair. He came here, practically begging for it. I'm going to get what I want. I pull my dick out of his mouth with a vacuumed pop sound. I’m yanking off his shirt over his head and using a foot to push the trousers down. I reach for his underwear, and he lifts his butt up for me to slide them off. Good boy. I pull him up under his shoulders for him to stand, when he does, I turn him around and push him back onto the couch. He's facing the entryway of my house and across from that, my two chairs and dining table. Arms on the back of the couch, knees resting on the cushions. I step forward til my dick is rubbing into the middle of his ass cheeks. I slide my hand down and start massaging the ringed muscle to his entrance. It's quivering under my touch, and damn, that makes my cock grow even harder. I bring my hand to his mouth, leaning forward to whisper in his ear. ”Lick. Get it wet.” I command. He goes for some seductive move and sucks on my fingers. I just need to get some spit so I don't have to stop to get the lube from my bedroom. If I stop, my subconscious will kick in and this could all come to a screeching halt. So I hope William is in the mood for a rough fuck. I bring my wet fingers to my mouth, spit on them myself, then back to his asshole and push in. It's not fast or rough, but I'm not wasting time either. He moans, leans his neck back, and pushes against me. As my finger sinks further and harder into his ass, my cock is brushing up against his cheeks. I can't handle the wait any longer, I slip my finger out, align my cock to his hole and glide in. I'm not slow and gentle, but I'm not slamming into him. Yet. He groans even louder and pushes back against me. He's starting his own rhythm against my cock. Back arched, ass sticking out for me, taking it like a whore. ”Is this what you wanted, you fucking cock slut?” I growl. William mumbles something into his arm, he's incoherent and bucking up against me harder and faster. I place my hands on his hips and start pulling him back to me with the thrusts. He's pushing back against me like he was told this would be the last fuck of his life. I see one hand leave the couch, reach down to his own dick and starts to jack off. The visual of the sweat forming on his back, his ass slamming onto my dick, and his incoherent moans set me off. The light dizzy feeling in my head, the white light that flashes in my vision, as I pull my dick out and beat off against his butt cheek while I come. He's moaning too, so I assume he's spilling over onto his hand. I stand up, walk into the galley kitchen that adjoins to the small dining room. Grab a cup towel off the fridge door. I'm wiping my hand off, then toss it to William, who’s facing me over the back of the couch. I see him sit up on his knees, looking down at himself as he's wiping his hand and dick off. He then reaches around to get the cheek with my come. Smiling at me like the Cheshire cat. I walk back to the couch, put my boxers back on. I then realize I never took off my shirt, and he still has his socks and loafers on. For some reason, that makes me chuckle to myself. ”What's so funny, cowboy?” William had turned around and is sitting on the couch. Looking over at me, smiling, reaching for my hand to pull me closer, and he's still naked. Fuck, this is the part where I have to be a jerk. ”William. You need to go now. I don't need the neighbors noticing that godforsaken Studebaker of yours in my driveway and have the rumors fly. You've been here too long as it is.” I say nonchalantly. ”You're kidding me? Right? You've got to be fucking kidding me Ryan fucking Ross. You're an asshole! Did you know that? You're a bastard. Why the fuck did I even think of coming here?” William starts yelling with disbelief. He's gathered his clothes and is getting dressed while he's spatting curses my way. ”William, I told you. I don't want a relationship. You knew what the outcome would be and if you thought different, you were lying to yourself. Go home. Don't come back. I'm not going to change my mind.” I reply while holding his jacket to him. ”Fuck you!” William yells as he storms out the door, not before slamming it shut behind him as hard as he can. If anyone ever tells you that dealing with men is easier than women, they are lying. Chapter End Notes I’ve Got You Under My Skin — Lyricist: Cole Porter. ***** Life is Just a Bowl of Cherries! ***** Chapter Notes See the end of the chapter for notes I convinced Joe to let me take my truck to Spencer's. My argument was that if I take the squad car, Spencer will be be on guard, thinking he's about to be arrested. If I take my own truck, and Gabe comes with me, then there isn't a threat. For all he knows, we are there for a drink. Even though it's two in the afternoon, and the lounge isn't opened. This is the "daytime" hours of the house; where the girls are just waking up from the night before. Possibly performing their day jobs. Vicky T cuts hair in a little side parlor room next to the kitchen. Z makes dresses for a boutique in town, if she's not working on her own costumes. This gives the girls the means to declare their earnings, so the mayor won't call for an audit. It's a cover up basically, and the police department are all in the know. We don't need a mess like the raid caused back in '51. A lawyer was disbarred. Dr. Miller's assistant was basically driven out of town. A few entrepreneurs lost their business, forcing them to liquidate and close their doors. I think that gave Pete's father the most business of his life while here in Celene, the disbarment of his competition plus the divorces that were filed. Gabe hops out a little too enthusiastically once I park on the gravel half circle in front of the white picket fence that encircles the two story Victorian house. I cast an eye his way, a warning to keep professional. I fish the print kit case out of the bed of my truck. He's at the gate entrance, holding it open for me with a grin that goes ear to ear. The gate swings back with a clang, as he follows me to the wrap around front porch. Three steps up and we are at the door before he says, "Remember that night..." "Shut up, Gabe. We had vowed not to speak of the night we came here. If Joe knew..." I begin. "It was your birthday! A surprise. He can't get mad if we just came out here to listen to Brooklyn Jane sing and have a few drinks." Gabe retaliates. Still, the stupid grin hasn't left his face. "And you thought it would be real funny to 'buy Keltie' for me. I had drank so much I puked on her head while she was sucking my dick. Then all over her bed before passing out. Should've saved your money." I mumble that last sentence. He doesn't know that Keltie really couldn't do anything for me. I was imagining it was William or David while Keltie was blowing me. Something about her hair, her red lipstick, and the way she kept looking up at me made me lose my lunch, as they say. It could also be because I mixed beer and whiskey that night. Jesus, it really wasn't that long ago. She had just moved here and was the new attraction at Spencer's. I hope to God I wasn't her first customer. David. That is a name and face that hasn't popped into my mind in a long time. I guess you could say he was my first. First boyfriend, first male kiss, first male fuck. I had dated a few girls in high school. I had sex with the ones who would put out. I tried to be "normal." I thought if I ignored the emptiness, dated girls like boys were supposed to, I'd be heterosexual like everyone else. Normal. Til I met David. We met in Calculus our Senior year, became study partners. Tall, dark haired boy with a simple kind of style. Jeans and t- shirts. He kissed me for the first time in the library parking lot. Instead of attending the Spring Formal, we found an isolated pump-jack in the boonies and jerked each other off. We had sex the first time that summer before he went to A&M for school. I made a surprise visit to see him the end of October. You could say he was surprised all right. More like shocked. He was expecting his date to pick him up, but it was me at the door. I didn't ask questions. His reaction and facial expressions was all the reason I needed to get back in my truck and drive home. We haven't spoken since. The house is painted a light pink, with white shutters and a white door. The trim is painted white also, along with the corbels, gables, posts, brackets, and finial to complete the Victorian look. The barn in the back of the house has been converted into living quarters for Linda and Spencer, so they have their own space away from the lounge/rooms. To keep with the look, the barn is also painted light pink and white. Pretty horrifying to the eyes. I knock on the front door. Just a few seconds later, it slowly opens to reveal Linda in a black and pink floral swing dress, cap sleeves. Her blonde hair is up in a french twist, which must be casual wear for her during the day. I've seen her in sequined cocktail dresses at night, hair long and loose, keeping a close eye on the girls and making sure the drinks kept flowing to the men. "Hi Linda, I'm here to talk to Eliza-- Z." I try on my boyish charm. Linda hesitates with the door, and I can see resignation cross her eyes. She opens the door wider for Gabe and me to enter. The entry has a miniature landing/balcony with stairs along the right side that lead to the second story, where the bedrooms are located. There is a parlor room to the left and a bigger living room to the right. The parlor room is set up with a bar on the far left of the room, complete with four bar stools. The bay window facing the porch has a built in seating and table for extra seating in the room. There is a bathroom and the kitchen is right behind that. The right side of the house is where the lounge is located. I guess you can say the house is off-balance, with the right side being slightly wider than the left. Two rooms, the living and family room were combined to form on long rectangular shaped lounge. The walls are wooden, the floor is wooden with scattered bookcases along one wall. A fireplace along the opposite, outer wall marks where the one room ended, and the next one began. A burgundy and gold Oriental rug with a simple drum kit, a baby grand piano tucked into the corner, and a microphone stand at the front of the room marks the "stage" where the entertainment performs. Which is usually Brooklyn Jane. Brooklyn Jane is a long blonde hair, blue eyed beauty that definitely not from around here. Z had told me she is from England. She sings at Spencer's most nights, but has traveled to other lounges in bigger cities to sing. I believe she's been to California and New York to audition for musicals, movies, and off-Broadway. She's gotten small parts as extras, mostly as the lounge singer. She has an amazing voice, so it's just a matter of time until she gets that big break. Maybe that will be something that will make this small town famous, like Lubbock is for Buddy Holly. Linda leads us upstairs, or I should say me, because I look back over my shoulder and Gabe is gone. I'm sure I'll find him later in Vicky's parlor. He needed a trim. When we are on the landing, Linda points to the back of the hallway, but I already know. It's not the first time I've visited Z in her "establishment." Oh, no, not for sex. She has been like a sister to me ever since I can remember. Her father died in the war too. That made us both bastard children and whispered about. My mother had the support of my Gramma Anna, so there was no real need for her to remarry. In fact, she's remained single this whole time. Z's mother; I wish the same could be said about her. I think she was on husband number four when she died of tuberculosis. Z was eighteen at the time. At first she stayed with her stepdad, because that is who she had for family, besides us, at the time. Grandparents are gone, no aunts or uncles that she knew of, no one else. I will never forget that stormy night she was banging on our door. I think it was a year after her mother had passed. We hadn't had rain for months, then one hot night in June the heavens just opened up. The lightning and thunder made it hard to sleep. Then I couldn't distinguish if I was hearing thunder or banging fists on the front door. My mother and I ran into each other to get downstairs at the same time, with only a warm yellow hall light illuminating the living room. My mother opened the door to a sopping wet and crying Z. She's wearing only a white, sheer nightgown that's sticking to her thin body, arms wrapped around herself and obviously shivering. My mother ushered her in and guided her to the couch. I was already running upstairs for towels when I could hear my mother's hushed words and consoling noises in-between Z's incoherent sobs. When I entered the room, Z had stopped talking and my mother reached for the towel. She told me to go to the kitchen to heat up milk for hot chocolate. Z looked scared, pale, and sickly. My mom had wrapped her in the rose patterned afghan my grandmother knitted from the back of the sofa, placing the towel on her head and gently drying her rain soaked hair. My mother wrapping her arms around Z's shoulders and rocking her. I noticed tears streaming down both of their cheeks, sitting in silence, when I came back to the room. After a few sips of the hot drinks, my mother and Z went upstairs to put her in dry clothes. My mom stayed with her all that night in my grandmother's old bedroom. Z had never gone back. She stayed with us for the next few years. She helped my mother with her cake orders in town; sewed her own dresses and shirts to save money. Confiscated my jeans from my room for work wear. My mom never asked for rent, but Z was more than willing to help feed the chickens, water the goats, and harvest vegetables from the garden. She stayed in my grandmother's bedroom ever since that night. She didn't want to go back to her stepdad's house to claim her things. She said she had all she needed with us. I have noticed that she still wears a locket that her mother had given her when she was younger. She showed me the gold heart locket when we were eight, how it made a click sound when opened. Inside was a black and white picture of a little girl that looked very similar to Z. She said it was her mother, that the locket had belonged to her grandmother. That was her most precious treasure, and the only thing her mother had left her. I don't recall Z ever taking it off. Maybe just when we would go swimming in the lake, or splash in the river. When we both turned twenty-one, it was time for me to leave home. I wanted to more for privacy and the convenience of living in town for my job. I just think that Z didn't want to wear out her welcome, even though my mother insisted that she could stay. She talked about being independent, living on her own, and not wanting to rely on a man. She worried about becoming like her mother. Clingy, dependent, and fearful. Z was the opposite of afraid. I would describe her as vivacious, spirited, enthusiastic, memorable, and uninhibited. Not the submissive personality for a 1950's woman, so this could be the reason why she has never met a man who could handle her. So she found a room to rent above Spencer's, and she drove my grandmother's white 1937 Plymouth Sedan I was fortunate enough to keep running. She came out to our farm everyday to help my mother with cakes and deliveries. I was hopeful she would meet someone while living there, but my mother didn't have the same optimism as me. Then soon, Spencer offered her a job to wait tables in his lounge. She has sung a few times when Brooklyn Jane went out of town. Those are the times I try to go to Spencer's to watch her perform. Joe wouldn't be pleased to know this. It wouldn't be hard for anyone to accuse us of some kind of involvement. I personally don't care what other people in this hypocritical town think. Her room is at the back of the house, on the upper level. She rents out the master bedroom of the house, which has its own private bath. I don’t know how she can afford the biggest and best room of the house, and it’s probably best I don’t. I pray it’s from earnings at the boutique. I knock on her door, and I'm greeted with a cheery, "Just a sec." Z opens the door, and her smile gets wider when she sees me. She envelopes me in a bear hug while singing, "Ryyyyyaaaaannnn!" She pulls me into her room and closes the door. That's when I notice what she's wearing. It's the traditional full swing halter dress, in a navy blue with white trim, to look like a sailor's uniform. She is wearing a bright red haired wig, with tendril curls and a white bow. Longer hair than Shirley Temple, but it looks like she is trying to imitate that same innocent look. She's already moving her hands about while she's talking, motioning me towards her sewing table at the front of the room. She has a work area set up, complete with a side table and mannequin bust. Material is stacked on the table along with bright colorful ribbons. It looks like she's working on some type of evening dress, attaching the sequins by hand. She's talking animatedly, walking back and forth between her bed and sewing table. I'm at a loss for words, and so I'm just standing there, staring. "Elizabeth." I interject between one of her inhalations of breath. I've gotten bits and pieces of what she's been saying. "Singing next 3 months while Brooklyn Jane is gone; got to get my dresses ready; I need to rehearse and make a playlist; should I sing 'Dream'; how much is too much Sinatra?" My mind is spinning and I need her to focus. I have work to do. "Elizabeth!" I yell. She stops in her tracks, and I feel guilty for having sounded so harsh and loud. "I'm here to ask a few questions. About Keltie. I also need to get your prints. To exclude you as a suspect." I simplify for her while also calming my own racing mind. She blinks twice and sits down on her bed, hands in her lap. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell. I am on a time restraint here. I'm late getting your prints in." She smiles and nods at me. She then stands up and gives me a quick hug, sits back on the soft yellow laced bedspread. "I've missed you, Ryan. I miss seeing you every day. And teasing you about the amount of food you consume, but how skinny you are! Where does it all go?" She gives me a wink and a smile. Unfortunately, we went skinny dipping in HS and she hasn't let me live down that peek she stolen. I think she is the only person who knew before I did about my sexuality. Doesn't mean that at six years old I tried to give her a kiss in the schoolyard. She immediately placed her hand on my face, pushed me back, saying, "You didn't ask for my permission, Mr. Ross!" She was a fireball then, and still is. "Are you ready?” I ask. “The night of November 15th, did you see Keltie Colleen alive?" I begin. "Yes. She was waiting tables in Spencer's. Moving quite slow actually. She seemed distracted." "Distracted? How was she distracted, Z?" I prod. "She kept looking at her wristwatch and the clock at the bar when she would pick up drinks. Like she was expecting someone to show up?" She answers. "When did she start this? Looking at the clocks?" I urge. "I noticed her looking at her watch at eleven. She would also look at the door each time it would open. So I would say she was expecting to see someone." She replies. "Did she ever tell you who?" I inquire. "I asked her if Prince Charming was coming to swipe her off her feet that night. She just shrugged and looked sad, like she might burst into tears at any moment. I couldn't handle that, so I didn't say anything else. Left her alone." She explains. "Did you ever see her talk to anyone she might've been waiting for? Did you see her go upstairs with anyone?" I implore. "She worked until midnight, maybe one in the morning. She said she wasn't feeling well and wanted to clock out early. We weren't busy and not a lot to clean up after, so I told her to get some sleep. Whoever she was waiting for, I don't think showed up. I think that is why she was even more upset. When she went upstairs, she was alone. I know that for sure. Her room is right next to mine. Just a closet of a room. I didn't hear anything after I went to bed at three that morning. I didn't hear anything that next morning, she didn't come down for lunch. None of us heard ANYTHING from her room. That's when I decided to get Linda to let me in and check on her. Keltie wasn't answering her door either and I wanted to make sure she was going to her shift in an hour." She responds. "Alright Z, that is all I needed. Can we use the edge of the table for your prints? I'm sure you've touched her things in her room, but it's still good to have your prints on file. As a resident in the house." Z crosses the room and carries the materials she has on her side table to her bed. I place the kit down on the side table and open the bag. It looks like an old fashioned doctor's bag, but slightly bigger. I pull out the blocked paper, ink, ink pads, and a pen to write her name and information. She looks at the collection with wide eyes, like I’m about to perform a magic show. I motion her to stand next to me, and I take her left hand while watching her face. She's relaxed, but I see the worried lines on her face. The process can give people the sense of accusation and guilt. I roll each finger, one at a time, on the ink pad then paper. By the time we are on her right hand, she's picked up the pattern and not led by me. I pick up the papers, fan them in the air for a bit, and place them in the bag. "That's it. Painless, right? So, Thanksgiving. In a week. I'll see you at Mom's, right?" I make small talk. We are both more relaxed now that the police work is done and formality is gone. "Well, Spencer and Linda invited me to stay here and have Thanksgiving with them. So I'm not sure..." She trails off and is looking out her bay window in the bedroom, into the backyard. I know the holidays are still hard for her, but she's been practically adopted by us, and so she can't say she's alone and has no family. "I'm going to tell my mom you're not coming this year. I'll let her come here and drag you to her house. I just wanted to save you the dignity and let you show up on your own." I laugh as I respond. "We can't have that! O.K., Ryan. Let Denise know I'll be there. I can come early if she needs help. Just let me know. O.K. And don't be such a stranger!" She lightly punches my arm, the smile fades, and she's hugging me tight again. She's holding onto me and suddenly I miss our late night talks in my mother's kitchen with homemade chocolate chip cookies and milk. Listening to her complain about so and so being a jerk, so and so thinking he can treat her how he wants. She would tease me that I would be the perfect husband, except for the one obvious reason. "Elizabeth, are you O.K.? Is there something wrong?" I ask over her shoulder while rubbing her back. She steps out of my embrace and slides her red wig off. I get a glimpse of her pretty blonde hair. She shakes her head slowly, but she has such a sad face. "Is there is anything you need to tell me. Has Spencer done or said something to you?" I ask, trying to get her to tell me what she is thinking. "No, Ryan. They are really nice people. I know there are rumors or suspicion that maybe Spencer or Linda did something. But they really do take good care of us girls. They keep the abusive drunks from taking advantage. We aren't forced to do anything we don't want to do. It's our choice. Spencer will advise us about the men, since he keeps tabs on them while they are drinking. They really do look out for our well-being." She sighs at the end of her speech and I can't help but feel that it was rehearsed. I must give her the benefit of the doubt. After all we have been through together, I trust Z. "I'll see you in a week. With pumpkin pie. You know it's gonna be homemade and it's gonna be good! You look like you could use some desserts." I tease as I poke her in the rib. "Look who's talking!" She nudges my stomach and smiles. I feel more comfortable leaving now that she's not looking as upset as before. I walk towards her door, I'm reaching for the shiny glass knob. "Ryan. Please come see me perform in a few weeks. Brooklyn Jane is going home and I have a chance to sing again. I would really like you to come." Her eyes are glassy and she looks hopeful. "Wouldn't miss it for the world." I respond. I kiss her cheek, give her my brightest smile, and walk out her bedroom door. Chapter End Notes Life is Just a Bowl of Cherries — Lyricist: Lew Brown. ***** Bloodshot Eyes ***** Chapter by JennFoozie4bz Chapter Notes See the end of the chapter for notes "God damn it!" Brendon breathes out exasperatingly. He adjusts his fedora lower over his brow, to protect his eyes from the freezing rain on this December night. He pulls the upturned collar of his trench coat closer to his neck, trying to keep something of him dry. He's crouched by the dead body of Carlos, his informant, in a dimly lit and deserted alley in downtown Houston. Carlos was of Hispanic descent, maybe nineteen, with a father in Harris County Jail for robbery and attempted murder on a liquor store clerk. He was Brendon's inside eyes and ears on the beginnings of the Mexican Mafia, whose tentacles were reaching outside of the prisons and jails. Who were behind the orders of the killings? Who was being recruited, and for what purpose? He's been stabbed several times with what looks like a switchblade, according to the width of punctures. Brendon won't be getting his answers anytime soon. He rolls the body over with gloved hands to discover the pooled blood underneath the right lower back. He was stabbed in the kidney multiple times, brought down to the ground to "talk." It would be enough time for Carlos to have given his assailant the information he was seeking. Who was watching them? Who did he work for? Are the police involved? What are the agents names? He was then stabbed all along the abdomen, chest, throat; and a few to the face, just for good measure. Some of these wounds have the appearance that the assailant hovered over his victim, maybe trying to calm him; to be able to read his lips. Then stabbed up and in, puncturing his liver and spleen. He was able to watch, up close and personal, as the life drained from his eyes. As he suffocated for those last breaths. This thought gave Brendon Urie shivers down his spine. "I hope he didn't suffer." Dallon says to no one in particular, to God maybe, in a low voice. "Jesus! Dallon! When did you walk up. You scared the shit out of me." Brendon hisses at the tall, lean, brown haired and blue eyed man, standing beside Brendon. He's also dressed in a grey pinstripe flannel suit, a trench coat, and fedora. He's holding an umbrella above Brendon to block the rain from his view and the body. "I'm sure they made him suffer plenty. Look at this wound on his kidney." Brendon gently lifts the hem of the blood soaked, white t-shirt. "It looks more slashed than stabbed. The perpetrator went in and then up from behind." Brendon does the action of stabbing in and slashing up in the air above the body. "He pushed Carlos to the ground, making him lie on his back, even straddling him." He then steps over the body, with each foot on either side of Carlos. "Do you see these cuts here?" Brendon points to the victims face, to the lines running vertical along both cheeks. The blood, washed away by the rain. "These were made slowly and deliberately. He suffered Dallon. Then when he was done with the torture, he stabbed him and watched him bleed out." Brendon steps back over to the left side of the body, next to Dallon. He squats down to get a better look of the scene. "Diabolical." Dallon sighs. Dallon Weekes has always been a man of few words. Born and raised in Houston, like Brendon. A big city boy, with the big city experiences, but raised in a heavily religious household. Church of Christ, to be exact. So was Brendon, but he is no longer "practicing" the faith. Dallon walked the straight and narrow, followed the Ten Commandments, theorized if it's not mentioned in the Bible, then it's got to be a sin, and believed others should do the same. Married to his wife, Breezy, whom he met in college, they have two children, one boy and one girl. You'd say he has the perfect life. But if the perfect life included church on Sundays and a strict moral code to live by, you can count Brendon out. "I radioed Patrick. The coroner should be here soon. He wants us at Headquarters in a half hour." Dallon finishes as he stands, never taking his eyes off of Carlos. If it wasn't for the pool of blood oozing out from underneath the jean jacket and flowing to the gutter with the rain, you would think he's asleep. Dallon walks away to the black 1955 Ford Customline Fordor Sedan, taking the shelter of the umbrella with him. Brendon has the choice of getting soaked in the rain, along with his dead informant, or he can head back to the car. Listen to the sermon of how the deplorable choices Carlos made was inevitable for him to end up dead in a Houston alley next to a food rotten reeking and filthy dumpster. He made a promise to the kid. He told him no harm would come of him. Just get in; see who was in charge; where the orders came from. If he was asked to kill anyone, let him know. If he was asked to recruit someone, tell him. It was supposed to be an easy assignment. He didn't think it would end up him being killed. Which meant one thing. They figured out he was a snitch. But did he give them names? "I'm so sorry. I should've known. I'm sorry, Carlos." Brendon whispers to the motionless body on the dirty, trash strewn, and rain drenched pavement. He stands, and turns to walk to the curb at the entrance of the alley where Dallon parked the car. It's their issued patrol vehicle. A step up from what the police drive, but not as fast as their superior colleagues. Still, it's a nice car and a far cry from what Dallon usually drives; a "family hauler," 1955 Chevrolet Nomad. Brendon has an auction bought navy blue 1955 Chevy One Fifty with a bent-eight. It was used as a getaway car in a bank robbery, a story that always gets the attention of the gents. The perks of working for the government. Brendon sighs as he sits down in the passenger seat. Dallon looks over at him, he's placed his fedora on the dashboard to let his hair dry. Long, and straight tendrils of hair from the top of his head fall across his face. He has to use his hand several times to push the hair out of his eyes, giving it a swept look. He's doing it more out of nervous habit than keeping his hair in check. "It wasn't your fault, you know." Dallon finally states to a tired and sullen Brendon, while tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, to particular beat at all. "I don't want you to carry the guilt of this boy's murder. Obviously he wasn't careful and made choices --" "Dallon. Not now. I put him in this situation. I need to take some responsibility. I'm sure he was following up on a lead." Brendon sighs, takes off his own fedora, places it on the dashboard in front of him and sleeks his own dark brown hair back from his face. It didn't need any help, it has already been waxed and combed back to look perfect. He turns to look over to the pair of black and white Chucks sticking out of the alley, sopping wet and lifeless. Brendon closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to stifle a headache. Does he need to inform his mother and sisters that the last male figure of the house is gone? Will they send someone else over? Right now, he will take the cowardly way out and let a policeman do the deed. He can't face the boy's mother right now. He can see the drama play out in his head. The mother screaming, grabbing onto his coat and asking 'why,' the daughters crying and clinging to each other. A 1953 Chevy paneled white One-Fifty delivery sedan has pulled up behind them on the curb. No lights on top indicate it's from the morgue. Two gentlemen step out, both in trench coats themselves. The one on the passenger's side side knocks on Brendon's window, and Brendon manually rolls it down halfway. It's sometimes a harsh reality that his car is also the make and body for the ambulances and morgue trucks. "I'm from the city morgue, this is the coroner. We are here to declare time of death and take the body to examiner's office." The streetlamp is shining behind the gentleman, making his features black, shadowed and non distinguishable. The line is rehearsed; emotionless. "Agent Urie. He is over there. Please have the autopsy results sent to Houston Headquarters addressed to Assistant Training Director Patrick Stump, HR Branch." Brendon then hands him a small card. Business as usual. "We will take it from here. Thank you." And the gentlemen walk over to the body. One is carrying a black medical looking bag, while the other is pushing the stretcher. They open the kit, start to pull on the gloves. Brendon turns his head to face out the front windshield. He's seen his fair share of corpses, but he had never known the victim. In his dazed state, he notices the rain has stopped. "Let's go debrief with Patrick. Get this over with." With that, Dallon silently starts the engine of the Ford. He looks over at Brendon like he wants to say something, then thinks better of it. They pull away from the curb and head to FBI Headquarters. Patrick Stump is waiting for them in his office. He even has cups of coffee for them, along with stacks of folders and papers covering his desk. Brendon is always impressed with how methodical Agent Stump is. He calculated the time it would take for the coroner to arrive, the drive back to HQ, the walk into the building and the elevator ride to his office; to have fresh, hot coffee waiting at three-thirty in the morning. But a simple task of alphabetizing and organizing is beyond him. Dallon shuts the heavy wooded door in the one window office, then sits down in the opposite seat beside Brendon across from Patrick. Patrick Stump is a redheaded, stocky man with kind green eyes. He clears this throat, places his arms on his desk, then leans forward to face both of the men. He looks exhausted and would like nothing more than to go back to bed. Brendon is pretty certain that Stump is wearing the same suit he had on yesterday. He couldn't help but observe how wrinkled and tired his clothes looked too. "I want to begin by saying I do not place blame on any party for the death of this boy, Carlos. The risk was explained to him and he willingly volunteered for the assignment. I will have his mother notified of his death, and of his bravery and service to us. I'm afraid that this situation puts his father in grave danger behind bars, so I am going to look into a transfer to another facility for him. Also, I think the government can pay their respects by assisting the family in relocating to the same city or town that Carlos Sr. will be transferred to." Brendon inhales and exhales loudly. A relaxing breath, but it is anything but. "We now need to discuss the importance of your safety. This case has been compromised. If they will kill the informant, then they will kill the agents that are investigating the case. This form of "mafia" is more dangerous than I had expected. I'm handing it over to the Criminal Investigation Division since there has been a death. You both handled it well thus far, but I'm not risking my top training rookies. Dallon, your wife and kids will need to go out of town for a while, til we can get our new agents on this and somehow derail the perpetrators. This is just for precaution. Visit in-laws out of state if you must for the holidays." Stumps suggests. Dallon gives a nodding approval with no argument to the orders. "Urie. I'm sending you immediately to Celene, TX. There is a --" Stump starts to explain, but is cut off by an angered Brendon. "What? Celene? That's in the middle of no-where. Celene can't decide if it wants to be Hillbilly Country or desert. Send me to Austin, or San Angelo even, boss. But not Cel --" Brendon begins to argue. "Urie! You-have-been-compromised! You can't stay here. If you stay here, they will kill you. I found an assignment for you to begin working on in Celene. There have been two women murdered in that town. No evidence left. No fingerprints. No known cause or motive. They don't know if they are linked or not. Dallon will meet up with you after the holidays. You will brief him when he arrives. That gives you two to three weeks to catch up on the facts of this murder case. I expect you to be driving your ass to that 'middle of no-where' town by this afternoon. You'll be staying at the hotel there. It's the only hotel there, so it shouldn't be hard to find. I want to hear you've checked in by tonight. That gives you this morning to pack and the day to drive. Report to their police department tomorrow morning to Police Chief Joe Thurman. Understood, Agent Urie?" "Yes, sir, Agent Stump." Brendon answers reluctantly. There went his plans to meet with his friend, Jake Sinclair tonight at The Eldorado Ballroom, the red-brick, three story building used as a nightclub. Located in the predominantly African-American segregated side of Houston, it is known as the most popular venue for jazz, blues, and rhythm and blues. Few Caucasians were welcomed, but everyone knew Brendon. Or the Brendon that he wanted people to know. There he is the sharp-dressed jokester who loves jazz, Old Fashioned cocktails, dancing, and the occasional blowjob in the restroom stalls or basement. No, not in the women's restroom nor performed by a woman neither. He was really hoping to catch Josiah tonight, his most recent conquest. He is a lighter shade of milk chocolate that made Brendon's mouth water. Lean, but muscular with deep brown eyes and long lashes. He played the saxophone for the live band that performed there. Those lips of his that blows a vibrating reed were amazing, and thinking of them wrapping around his shaft made his cock twitch. The lust was still there, and as soon as this euphoric state faded or he lost disinterest, which usually was an ephemeral cycle. He'll have to wait until he returns. That is how Brendon liked his love life. With no love, actually. He doesn't want the commitment. He can be sent out of town at a moment's notice. He could be called out in the middle of the night. He doesn't want to have to lie about where he is going or what he is doing. This is what he tells himself. He prefers his hook ups to be discreet and with no attachments. No one gets hurt this way. After arriving to his one bedroom apartment, Brendon packs his suits, loafers, wingtips, Chukka boots; along with his white undershirts, socks, underwear, dress shirts and ties. He grabs his toiletries and zips them up in his travel bag. He deliberates buying what he may forget, if what he needs or uses are supplied in Celene, Tx. He places his suitcase in the trunk of his car. He rubs his burning and bloodshot eyes, decides he will sleep when he gets there that afternoon. Should be about a five to six hour drive. He will call Patrick when he wakes up to let him know he arrived, grab something for dinner. Hopefully this town will have a diner along with the one hotel. Although it was never mentioned on how long he has to stay, he is hoping it will only be a month or less before Dallon and he can crack this case. Maybe he will wager a bet with Dallon, win a little cash on this endeavor. He climbs in his navy blue One Fifty. Throws his suit jacket, then fedora in the passenger seat. He starts up the engine and sighs. He slowly shifts his car into drive. He looks out the drivers side window at the scenery of the city block he's known and loved for all his life, the people walking by to work among the tall buildings. The milk man making a delivery to the bakery across the street. A 1953 Ford truck slows down across the street, drops off a pile of newspapers from the truckbed to the gentleman waiting on the curb. He's setting up for his day of shouting the headline and hoping to make a sale. The city is waking up and starting to show life. Brendon then cautiously eases out onto the road leading away from his apartment building, and busy city block. He's heading northwest, towards the interstate. He isn't paying any mind to the music on the car's radio. If he took notice, he would recognize Hoppy Jones, the talking bass from The Ink Spots say: "Be sure it's true when you say I love ya, honey. Because you got sense enough to know it's a sin to tell a lie. A whole lotta folks' hearts have done been broken. Just over a whole lotta foolish words that were spoken."   Chapter End Notes Bloodshot Eyes-lyrics written by Hank Penny and Ruth Hall. ***** Dear Diary ***** Chapter by JennFoozie4bz July 15, 1958   Dear Diary, I have been out of the hospital for just a few weeks and my knee seems to be doing better, but the doctors' say I can never dance again. Another injury and it may be impossible for me to walk. I've been very depressed with this news lately. My physical therapist thought that writing down my thoughts would 'help cheer me up.' I've been dancing since I was a little girl and it's the only thing I ever wanted to do. The girls at the Dallas Civic Ballet sent flowers to me. It was a beautiful bouquet of yellow daisies, with white and yellow roses. My favorite color. It was a nice thought, but I couldn't help but cry each time I looked at them. This year will be the first performance of the Dallas Civic Ballet for The Nutcracker this December. I can't help but think they are in rehearsals right at this moment. Especially with only 5 months away; I'm sure they are being fitted for costumes now. I wonder what part I would've end up performing. A sugar plum fairy? I may be a little too old to play Clara, but there are ways to look younger. I would have liked to have finished out my career with the best role a dancer could ever hope for. I can't go home to Sweetwater. My parents never wanted me to move to Dallas anyway. They had told me how impractical it is to live on a dancer's salary and that I was just dreaming. My father wanted me to attend a secretary school part time while I was living there. 'Just in case this doesn't work out.' He had motioned to me and my studio apartment. I don't want him to know that he was right. I should've thought of another plan in case dancing didn't work. But in my mind, how could it fail? All my mother wants to talk about during her visits are her friends' daughters. Who has gotten married. Who has had a baby. Who went away to college. The prospect of being a dance teacher crossed my mind, but I don't see how a dance studio in Sweetwater could make enough money for me to be on my own. I don't want to live with my parents again. If you have ever moved out and then had to move back home, you would understand. It was embarrassing when my parents found me in the hospital's emergency room in Dallas. My mother wailing while my father patted my hand and repeating, 'It'll be ok.' I was transferred a week after surgery from Parkland Memorial to Hendrick's Medical Center in Abilene by ambulance to start physical therapy. I hear my parents whisper about the medical bills, so I figured the last thing they need is the added expense of me living with them. My original plan was to move to Austin, I was thinking of attending Texas State and working on my education degree. Austin does seem to be expensive, also with the medical bills that will be coming in. So maybe I can move to San Angelo, go to San Angelo State. But I will need to save up money first. I just tell Mom and Dad this is a hiccup for me. I need a year to literally get back on my feet. I need to figure this out on my own, and I can't do that with them hovering over me. Time for therapy. I'll be released soon! My therapist said to keep my mind busy so I don't have down time to get sad. I need to think of this as a new chapter in the adventure of my life. Keltie   Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed their work!