A/N: This is another AU of the Avengers, post movie. Many thanks to ladygris for doing the Beta services again.
Warning: This story includes explicit and veiled references to drug and alcohol use and abuse.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers, Marvel, Facebook, Twitter, YouTube or any other social media. If I've left anything out, aside from the OC characters-which are totally mine, I don't own them/it either. Someone else does.
Namaste,
Sandy
How cruelly sweet are the echoes that start,
When memory plays an old tune on the heart.
~Eliza Cook
Avengers
Echoes
Chapter 1
SHIELD Compound
Quantico, Virginia
The sun warmed the early spring earth outside, sending hordes of people to the parks to soak up badly-needed rays before winter reared its ugly head for one final roar. Inside the SHIELD compound, however, things were not so light-hearted. Seldom were, but less so today than most.
At the lowest underground level, Agent Natasha Romanoff and Director Nick Fury stepped out, heading to the only door. After each used the retinal scanner to verify their identities, they were admitted to the lab overseen by Dr. Erik Selvig.
At their approach, Selvig excused himself to the colleague he was talking and greeted them. "Director. Agent Romanoff. I was expecting Agent Barton."
Fury nodded at Natasha. "Agent Romanoff will be supervising security for your department going forward, doctor."
Selvig's bushy eyebrows drew together over his nose. "What happened to The Hawk?"
"He asked to be reassigned."
The astrophysicist's confusion stayed. "Does he understand that no one here holds him responsible for the events that occurred during Loki's incursion?"
"He does. However, he believes that his talents are better served elsewhere at this time." Glancing at his watch, Fury nodded once. "I have a meeting with the counsel. It's all yours, Agent Romanoff."
Natasha watched Fury leave then turned a grin on Selvig. "Translation: Barton doesn't want to be anywhere near your lab. Not that he doesn't trust you. He'd just rather not take the chance."
"Understood." Selvig waved a hand vaguely around the vast room. "Feel free to wander around. We've nothing to hide from you, Director Fury or the Counsel. Just let us know what additional precautions you wish to take."
"Of course. Once I get an idea of how everyone works, you and I can go over any ideas for enhancing security." Selvig had returned to his work on the computer and hadn't heard or was pretending not to, leaving Natasha standing in the middle of the room talking to herself. She slipped on a pair of HUD glasses and roamed around the room getting photos of each of the scientists and guards, their stats flashing across the inside surface of the lenses. Tapping the left side sent the info to her personal workstation where she could go through it at her leisure when she returned to her quarters at the end of the day.
Those who noticed someone new in their midst smiled blandly in welcome. None of the scientists cared as long as she didn't interfere with their work. One fellow with glasses and wildly curly hair ran right into her, scowling as if it were her fault.
One thing she noticed, though it didn't bother her as it would some, everyone in the room was taller than she by three inches on the low side to more than a foot on the high. With a brief flash of humor, Natasha admitted that Clint had a point about seeing better from a distance. Down here among the staff, she couldn't see all the players at once, what they were doing or where they were going and with whom.
Reaching into her pocket, she fingered the handful of Stark tech Tony had given her. If she encountered suspicious behavior, a device the size of a two-carat diamond could be stuck in an inconspicuous place to monitor activity. She'd chosen that over the one Tony had used to hack SHIELD because it gave her more control by focusing on an individual rather than the entire system. These little guys could track a specific person, no matter if they logged in from home, the lab, or a secret hideaway filled with hordes of bad guys.
The most senior of the guards trotted to her side when she motioned him over. "What time do they usually close up shop?"
The man, easily six-three and two thirty-five, all of it muscle, shook his head with a wry grin. "They don't. Most nights, Selvig is here 'til midnight or later. Usually by himself, but sometimes he has company. Before the invasion, it got so bad, that Agent Barton started shutting the power down at 2330 just so he could get some shut-eye."
Crossing her arms, Natasha shifted her weight onto her left leg while chewing on her lower lip. "Sounds like a plan. I'll get with Selvig tonight and give him the word."
"Yes, ma'am."
The guard returned to his post and Natasha continued her patrol. After the third circuit of the room, she found a place to stand where she could see some of what was going on, but not all. What she needed was a better vantage point. WWCG, Nat? Where would Clint go?
High above everything, a maintenance catwalk was guarded by a yellow railing. Yeah, just like the lab that had been destroyed. Natasha sent a junior agent to bring her a rappelling rig, strapped herself in, and climbed up to the catwalk. Still in the rig, she sat down with her legs hanging over the side. From here she could see everything and everyone. Nodding in satisfaction, she waited for the night to end.
Hours later, she was back on the floor still waiting on Selvig to call it a night. Sitting in a chair in front of a dark computer, she watched the scientist fiddle and tweak and tinker and adjust whatever the hell that piece of equipment was. She wasn't a scientist by any means, though she got the gist of what Selvig and his team were doing. He was trying to recreate the power of the Tesseract on a smaller scale. In its final form, it would still generate clean power, but not enough to attract the attention of other realms.
Natasha had passed being hungry at least three hours ago. Now her need for fuel was becoming critical. "How much longer, doctor?"
Selvig's head jerked up at the sound of her voice, having forgotten she was there. "I'm nearly to a stopping point, Agent Romanoff. Why don't you have a cup of coffee and relax?"
"You know I can't do that, doctor." She tapped the screen in the lower right corner over the time. "Fifteen minutes then I'm shutting it all down. Don't forget to save your work."
~~O~~
Selvig knew better than to take Romanoff's statement as an idle threat. Keeping the fifteen-minute timetable in mind, he saved everything just before the power went out. "Agent Romanoff, I still had three minutes."
She appeared next to him, the curves of her face barely visible behind the beam from the flashlight. "It wasn't me. Stay here. Gilroy!"
Her voice calling for the guard echoed in the now-silent room as she headed in the direction of the main entrance. Romanoff had only gone a few steps when the device Selvig had been working, a low-tech version of the Tesseract, began to glow. "Agent Romanoff!"
He pointed at the dais when she reached his side, a low growl coming from her throat as the guards joined her, raising their weapons and surrounding the device. "Please tell me Loki's not coming back."
"It wouldn't be him. This device, while similar to the Tesseract, does not possess nearly the power to open portal to another realm. It shouldn't be on at all with the electricity off."
"And that worked out so well for us last time." Her sarcasm matched Barton's making him wonder, however briefly, if the rumors of them being a couple were true. "Loki's spear is in a super-secure location that I don't even know so I hope we don't need it." Over her shoulder, she nodded at Gilroy. He acknowledged her unspoken order, gesturing to his squad, the team of five men and three women advancing on the dais.
Gilroy pointed at three of his people and they immediately shucked their backpacks, stuck clay-like clumps of a grayish substance at strategic points, inserted the blasting caps, set the timers and returned to their former positions in under a minute. Gilroy took out a detonator, flipped up the red trigger guard and said, "Fire in the hole!"
Two things happened so quickly that they seemed to occur simultaneously. The C-4 was ignited just as a bright white beam of light tinged with red shot through the ceiling from above, swelled and encompassed the entire room. All the occupants of the room dropped to the floor covering their heads and squeezing their eyes shut.
Romanoff, still at his side, grabbed Selvig, tumbling them both to the floor as the beam drove itself through his computer equipment. The computers lit up and information in an alien language carried within the beam began downloading itself into the network.
~~O~~
What no one could see was a small part of the beam shooting through the network overriding security and firewalls as if they didn't exist, reaching its goal with almost no resistance. It augmented the information Selvig and his team had entered with its own programming then activated.
There was another flash of light, different from that of the beam, that came out of the computers as if controlled by an otherworldly intelligence, striking Romanoff and Selvig. A millisecond later, it all stopped, and when Gilroy got to his feet, he ran to where they'd been standing. He exhaled loudly as he activated his headset. "Gilroy to Hill."
"Go ahead."
"We got a situation in Selvig's lab, ma'am."
There was a barely discernable pause, then Hill replied, "What kind of situation? And where's Agent Romanoff? Why isn't she reporting?"
Ignoring the whispers from his team as they searched the room, with a grave tone, Gilroy said, "She's gone. Selvig too. One second they were there and gone the next."
A long moment of stunned silence greeted his announcement before Hill's response. "What do you mean 'gone'? Where did they go?"
"That's just it, ma'am. We don't know. They've completely vanished."
Savanah, Georgia
The spring night settled over the city like a thin blanket leaving the city chilly, but not cold. Or not what Natalia thought of as cold. In her home town, the normal night temperature for February hovered around the mid-twenties Fahrenheit making the current forty-seven degrees feel pleasantly warm. The citizens of Stalingrad would be out on the beaches basking in the sun wearing nothing but a few scraps of cloth. But here, they bundled themselves into coats, hats, scarfs and mittens.
None of that mattered to Natalia now nor would it had she been awake. All she cared about was the next contract, the next mission, and the next payment to her already substantial bank account. Over the years, she'd accrued more than enough money to keep her in luxury for the rest of her life, but she couldn't abide boredom and that's why she kept working.
In the day-to-day, her dreams were rather ordinary. Rehashes of the day's events or random flotsam her mind decided to churn up from the recesses of her subconscious. Nothing like what she was experiencing tonight. Images floated near then moved away when she tried to touch them.
One of the images twisted and changed, becoming clear and sharp. A man with laughing blue eyes, deep dimples and an impertinent grin. He was dressed all in black and carrying a bow with a quiver of arrows hung over his shoulder. His mouth moved, but she couldn't hear what was he was saying. She tried to tell him, but he didn't understand. He winked, turned around and walked away, swallowed up by a bright beam of light that overwhelmed them both. Suddenly scared, she called out to him, "Clint! No!"
She ran after him, both arms coming up to block the light as it expanded and swelled, then winked out leaving her in darkness so completely she couldn't see even her hand.
Natalia shot up in bed, panting and looking frantically around the dark bedroom, trying to locate the source of the terror that had wrapped its cold fingers around her throat. But she was alone, just the way she always was. Trust didn't come easily and for good reason. Though she'd tried to keep her past behind her where it belonged, it continued to influence her every moment of every day. When you've been betrayed by the ones you loved and counted on to guide you safely through life…
Something prickled the periphery of her senses telling of danger that was near. Very little frightened her, except maybe the dark places inside her own mind. She made no sound as she moved to the partially open bedroom door. Dropping into a crouch, a knife appeared in her left hand. Easing the door open a few inches, she dived into a roll, coming to her feet. The blade swished through the air stopping just short of its target.
The end table light to her right flicked on to show the face of a woman with dark hair calmly sipping a glass of white wine. Her legs crossed, the woman displayed no fear. "Is that any way to greet a guest?"
"Guests wait to be invited instead of breaking and entering." The knife was removed from the woman's throat, Natalia's gaze not leaving hers as she came around the end of the sofa to face her. She stuck the point of the knife into the top of the coffee table as a reminder that this could've ended much differently. Dropping into the armchair across from her guest, Natalia accepted the second glass of wine, taking one small sip then holding it in her right hand. "What do you want, Maria?"
The blasé expression showed just a touch of humor. "A man who will cater to my every whim and more money than I could ever spend in one lifetime, but that's beside the point." Maria Hill crossed one leg over the other, her foot making a small up and down movement. "He's stepped up his game."
"Fury?"
"He's put a bounty on your head."
Natalia snorted, one side of her mouth turning up in a smile. "Again?"
Maria uncrossed her legs, leaning forward to refill both their glasses. "Just thought you could use a head's up. He's doubled the reward." She tossed back half the wine in her glass and made a face.
"I'll be careful." Sipping the wine, Natalia thought it was time to broach a subject she'd left alone for too long. "Why haven't you removed Fury from the equation and taken control?"
One slender shoulder went up and down. "Maybe someday. He's more useful to me alive than dead. At least for the moment. That could change in an instant."
The women were a study in contrasts. Maria was lean, five-seven, dark haired with brown eyes and naturally tanned skin. Natalia barely topped out at five-three with fair skin, hazel-eyed and blonde. At least for now. Maybe tomorrow she'd return to her original color.
Uncharacteristically, the dream Natalia had invaded her waking mind. She didn't know anyone by the name of Clint though he did look familiar in the same way random people on the street looked like celebrities, but without the charm and charisma to make them famous. This Clint had it all. Looks, charm, charisma, humor, all wrapped up in a compact package that oozed sex appeal…and danger.
"Something on your mind, Natalia?"
"It's nothing." Crossing her knees, one foot swinging and the light falling only on the right side of her face, Maria held Natalia's gaze without blinking. Still unsettled by the dream, Natalia didn't have it in her to hold onto the usual posturing. "I've been having strange dreams."
One side of Maria's mouth turned up in a smile. "I'm not surprised."
"About a man."
A half-smirk twisted one side of Maria's mouth. "Now that is a surprise."
"Not that sort of dream. The feeling I get is that this man is a good friend. In these dreams, he and I have fought side by side. We've saved each other's lives many times. Once, we went into battle with four others, all of us members of a super-secret government agency that fights evil in all its forms." Maria's swinging foot stopped then started again. "Go ahead and laugh."
"Wasn't going to. I will, however, suggest therapy to begin ASAP."
"I'll keep it in mind." Getting to her feet as a signal to Maria that it was time to go, Natalia was better able to see both sides of her friend's face. The left eye was covered with a black eye patch. Scars above and below gave an indication of how she'd lost the eye, and though Natalia was curious about the circumstances, she would never ask. If Maria wanted her to know, she would say so. All Natalia knew was that Maria had left on a mission with Fury and his top men and women, and when she returned more than two months later, she had the patch. Natalia walked Maria to the door, both maintaining their distance out of professional courtesy. "Next time call first. I could've killed you."
"That would've been awkward." Maria's smirk said she either didn't care or didn't find the threat credible. "For future reference, I prefer red to white. Cabernet Sauvignon or Shiraz. Riesling will do in a pinch."
The door closed and Natalia was alone once more. She engaged all the locks and reset the alarm, though it hadn't kept a dangerous mercenary from getting in. Picking up the glasses and the bottle of wine, Natalia carried them to kitchen, replaced the stopper and left the glasses for the morning.
On the way back to her bedroom, she pulled the knife from the table and returned it to its hiding place before crawling back under the covers and staring up at the ceiling where the shadows danced, wishing things were different.
The fact that the leader of one of the most ruthless mercenary factions in the world, Nick Fury, had put a price on her head wasn't a news flash. But he must really be desperate to eliminate the competition if the price had been doubled. Fury was a brutal and cold-blooded professional. An attribute in an adversary that she greatly admired, even if he was trying to have her killed.
Privately, the man enjoyed the luxurious lifestyle that his chosen career afforded him. Only the best for Nick Fury. Not that Natalia blamed him. She had her own indulgences. But unlike Fury, she didn't take it to extremes. Her house and car were modest. Expensive clothes and jewelry were her weaknesses though she didn't consider them such.
Giving up the thought of going back to sleep, Natalia dressed for a workout and put on her running shoes. At the door, she strapped boot knives to each ankle, a third at her lower back and the fourth to her left forearm that was spring-loaded. All she had to do was flex her left wrist and it would be in her hand. To the bicep of her right arm she strapped an iPod. Natalia locked the door, reset the alarm, stuck the ear buds in and jogged down the street.
Mira Mesa, California
Two Days Later
At the end of a long private road sat a stunning 11,000-square-foot estate built to the original owner's specifications. When he passed away, the family sold it to the current owner, musician Jimmy Blue.
The home had been built next to the El Sol Poniente State Reserve. Composed of stunning spans of glass, concrete and metal, its clean lines, towering ceilings, and open floor plan provided the perfect atmosphere for entertaining. The home's spectacular views overlooking Morning Bay stretched for miles on a warm sunny day like today.
Inside the home you would find five bedrooms, six bathrooms, a combination media and game room, a music room, and an underground garage filled with an eclectic variety of vehicles, some that had never been driven by Jimmy. Only his mechanic.
The gym had every type of equipment one could wish for to keep the body fit. Jimmy had never used it. Probably didn't even know how to get to it except by accident. As a musician, he spent most of his time in the music room.
The patio in the center of the home received the bright California sun from an angle unless it was directly overhead, providing an asylum of tranquility from the fast paced world beyond the front gate.
The exterior design gave guests the illusions of quietude that usually ended when one stepped into the foyer. At the rear of the home, the garden was a riot of color. From the outside, all seemed peaceful and serene even in the face of the number of cars parked in a driveway rivaling that of an exclusive five star hotel. That is until one entered and wandered the not so hallowed halls.
There had been one hell of a party the night before. Dirty linens, dishes, silverware and glasses sat on virtually every surface, including the indoor fountain. The bartenders had served beer, wine, hard liquor, water, soft drinks and so forth, and all that remained to prove the existence of such was the presence of empty and broken bottles strewn everywhere.
Thick pile carpeting covered the floors in the living rooms, bedrooms and the media room. Once pristine, they now sported spots that ranged in sizes from the very small to one very large pool of purple that smelled of stale wine. Thirty-six hours ago, it had been one of the most sought after red wines in the world. Now it was just another headache for the cleaning staff. But they were used to it. Jimmy Blue had parties on a regular basis and they always ended the same way: with the cops being called to clear everyone out. This time, however, they missed a few people who had deliberately hidden or had shown up after the fact.The master bedroom covered at least a thousand square feet of the west wing and was done is neutral tones. Sports and music memorabilia hung on the walls and battled for dominance on every flat surface excluding the bathrooms.
The bed was unmade, and that was due to it being occupied. He lay face down on the side away from the floor-to-ceiling glass walls that faced the Morning Bay, the covers up over his head to block the light even though the shades were drawn. Snores kept time with his breathing and every couple of minutes they would stop then start again. One arm stuck out, the knuckles touching the floor. On the bedside table, the phone vibrated as yet another call came in.
At the same time, musical chimes sounded through the home, but the owner didn't even twitch until the chimes turned to pounding. First, just his left arm, the one hanging off the bed, jerked. Then the legs and head. Rolling onto his side, he battled from under the covers, swung his legs over the side and sat up with a groan. "Michaela! Get the ******* door!" There was no answer from the housekeeper reminding him that she was off for the next several days. He rubbed both eyes and yawned as he reached for a pack of cigarettes on the bedside table. Managing to light one without starting a fire, he sucked deeply and expelled the smoke as he got to his feet.
He scratched his stomach around his navel as he walked the hall toward the front of the home. A pair of legs hung over the back of one of the sofas and he barely managed to avoid bumping into them. However, in the process, he tripped over a pair of bodies lying spoon fashion in the walkway, catching himself on the opposite wall.
Through the stained glass of the front door window and those on both sides, a figure moved restlessly. Barely awake, Jimmy yanked the unlocked door open, finally putting an end to the pounding. "What the **** are you doin' here, Coulson?"
Coulson, a balding man in his mid-forties with a bland expression, took off his dark glasses and hung them on the pocket of his jacket, annoyance in his blue eyes as he invited himself inside. "As your manager, Clint, it's my job to make sure you get where you need to be when you need to be there. You have a photo shoot for Barron Magazine in one hour at the San Ramone."
"That's not 'till three." Clint stubbed out his cigarette in the first ashtray he came to on his way back to his room. "Goin' back to bed. Wake me at two. Make that two-fifteen."
With the patience of a saint, Coulson followed Clint, grabbing his arm when he tried to get back into the bed. "It's already two. You need to get showered and dressed so we can be there on time."
Tugging his arm from Coulson's grip, Clint again tried to lie down. "Reschedule."
"If you don't show, they'll give the cover to Logan Carter thereby fuelling your ongoing and very public feud." This time Coulson was able to steer Clint into the bathroom. "And don't forget to shave, but leave the goatee or your fans will revolt."
"Yeah, yeah."
~~O~~
Raising his voice, Coulson stated unnecessarily, "You had another party."
"It was someone's birthday. Carlos', I think." Clint's voice echoed in the tiled bathroom.
"You really should consider going into rehab." Waiting for a response, Coulson was sadly disappointed when there was none, telling him what Clint thought of the idea. After a marathon pissing session, the shower came on blocking anything his friend might have said. More than likely, he hadn't heard. In the beginning of his musical career, Clint had refused to wear ear protection and had sustained minor damage as a result.
From the bedroom, Coulson listened to his client and friend muttering under his breath. Going to the walk-in closet, Coulson took out clean clothes and laid them on the bed, a pair of faded jeans, a plain black tee, motorcycle boots, socks, boxers and a leather jacket. Clothing for the shoot would be provided by the magazine.
Eventually, the water turned off and Clint, more awake now, came back into the bedroom with a towel around his waist. He reached for his boxers as Coulson turned his back but didn't leave. He knew it annoyed Clint, making the rock star think his manager didn't trust him to dress himself.
"Coffee." The single word was muffled by the shirt Clint was pulling on over his head.
"We'll stop on the way. Did you brush your teeth?"
"Yes, I brushed by ****ing teeth. ****, Coulson. What are you, my mother?" He sat down on the foot of the bed to put on his socks and boots.
His manager made an eye-roll that was ignored, as always. "Edith wouldn't put up with your **** the way I do. It's your parents' anniversary this weekend. Did you get a gift or a card?"
"They don't want anything from me."
"Of course they do. You're their son."
Snorting disdainfully, Clint grabbed his smokes and lighter shoving both into the pocket of his jacket then scooped his phone from the bedside table and turned it on. While the phone powered up, he grabbed his IWC Pilot's Chronograph and strapped it on his left wrist. That done, he scrolled through the missed calls finding at least six from his girlfriend, Alcina, another ten from members of his band, and one from Coulson. One by one, he deleted them. Accessing the voice mail, he entered his password and again deleted each message without listening to it. On the way to the door, he put on the wristbands and pendants he wore nearly every day whether he went out or not. Each had a special meaning for him, but Coulson didn't know or care.
Shaking his head, Coulson made a mental note to speak to him again about rehab. It hadn't worked before and he didn't expect it to this time, but he'd keep trying for both their sakes. Coulson and Clint, whose stage name was Jimmy Blue, had been friends since before Clint had changed his stage name to Jimmy Blue and switched from blues to a combination of Blues, R&B and hard rock. He hated to see what his friend had become and considered resigning his position, but then Clint would be forced to hire someone who didn't have his best interests at heart. That's why Coulson stayed despite the verbal abuse and constantly being taken for granted.
~~O~~
As soon as he stepped outside, Clint put on dark sunglasses to cut the sun's glare. He trailed after Coulson through the cars parked without regard for organization to a red 1962 Chevy Corvette convertible Coulson called Lola. Coulson never allowed anyone to drive Lola aside from her mechanic, Jorge. As long as we've known each other, you'd think Coulson would let me take her for a spin just once.
Hat pulled low over his eyes, Clint slumped down in the seat as far as he could with the seatbelt on and pretended to go to sleep, stirring when they slowed down to pull into a Java Hut drive-thru. Just the smell of coffee gave him more energy. He accepted the cardboard cup and carefully took a sip.
A few minutes later, they arrived at the hotel where Barron Magazine was doing the photo shoot and by that time, Clint felt almost human. Or as human as possible considering that his life was just so much crap and had been for over a decade.
Coulson waved to the valet as he drove into the covered parking area and eased the car into a space as far from the others as possible. They entered through the VIP entrance and were immediately shown to the Majestic Suite on the top floor. The door was guarded by a Neanderthal in a suit that barely contained his bulging biceps and pecs. He nodded and let them in, closing the door with a click.
The room was chaos in motion. Anorexic women in fashion-forward clothing that looked like something out of a drug-induced hallucination abused the make-up, hair, and costume artists while drinking cup after cup of coffee through a straw to prevent teeth stains. As in the past, food was provided, but not one of them had taken advantage of the hospitality. Though he felt very out of place here, Clint would produce the emotions requested by the photographer without actually feeling them. He preferred women closer to his own age who were comfortable with themselves, no matter their shape, but to keep up appearances, he publicly dated women like the ones in this room. He included his current girlfriend in the first category. Their relationship was one of convenience for both as she was one of his back-up singers and twelve years his junior.
Using the now empty cup from the Java Hut, Clint refilled from the urn on the table, took a long sip and set it aside to remove his jacket and hat when a tall lanky blonde man bustled to his side.
"Thank God you're here. I was about to call 9-1-1."
"I'm only five minutes late, Jared. Not enough to stress over."
Jared, flamboyant, gay, and very proud of both, rolled his eyes dramatically. "If anything happened to you, boobala, I'd take to my bed in mourning for at least two weeks with my Desperate Housewives DVDs and an endless supply of Godiva." Clint allowed Jared to drag him into one of the suite's bedrooms and close the door. Racks of clothing in a variety of styles sat around the room. Going to the first one, Jared examined and discarded everything. On the second rack he finally found something that fit his exacting specifications. Jared held a silver gray silk suit up to the light, sighing. He added a matching shirt, tie and pocket square. "I suppose it will have to do. Go put these on."
Leaving the bathroom door ajar, Clint continued their conversation while he changed. "So you'd miss me if I were gone?"
"Naturally. The salary I get from you pays the mortgage on my luxurious abode. Not to mention the kickbacks I receive various interested parties."
Checking his look in the mirror, Clint brushed the sides of his hair to smooth it down knowing full well it would do no good. Jared had his own ideas and they seldom coincided with what Clint wanted to do. And as Jared was a friend and fashion genius, Clint let him have his way. It was easier than watching him pout. Stepping out into the room, Clint turned in a circle. "How do I look?"
"Fabulous, of course." Brushing away invisible lint and wrinkles, Jared adjusted the tie and pocket square, and attached an expensively elegant tie tack. "Hands." Obediently, Clint held out both arms. Jared removed Clint's watch and multi-strand leather wristband, replacing them with the latest model Rolex, a paracord wristband supporting the Wounded Soldiers Mission and a stainless steel two-toned bracelet made of thick links. When Clint tried to go, Jared held him in place to insert cufflinks. In a conversational tone, he asked, "So how's that little tartlet of yours?"
Jared squatted to check the length of the pants, Clint rolling his eyes at the top of his stylishly coiffed blonde hair. "Same as always. Why are you so interested in my heterosexual relationships?"
His six foot plus towering over Clint's shorter frame, Jared grabbed Clint's right hand shaking his head at the silver rings on the second and third fingers. "That girl is not good for you."
Going to the mirror, he examined his look again while Jared fussed over his hair. "We've had this conversation before, Jared."
"We keep having the same conversation because you don't or won't listen. You need to find your soulmate." The designer pointed the comb at Clint's reflection then went back to work.
"Don't believe in it. And what Alcina and I have works for both of us. At least for now."
This time, Jared didn't bother to roll his eyes. It had all been said and done before. "And what will you do when your music stops selling? Mall openings? Be the entertainment at sporting events? Or God forbid, become an actor?"
Tugging on his cuffs, Clint turned from the mirror. "Funny you should say that. I've been approached to do a sequel to the High School Musicals playing Zac Efron's character all grown up."
"Oh, puh-lease!" Jared's fists jammed into his slim hips. "You would have to grow up first, boobala."
With an insolent grin, Clint patted Jared's cheek. "You're adorable when you think you're being funny."
Before Jared could formulate a suitably scathing retort, there was a knock on the door followed by a woman's voice. "Five minutes, Mr. Blue."
Clint took one step, stopped by Jared's hand on his shoulder. "And quit smoking. It gives you wrinkles."
"I'll think about it. And don't touch my cigarettes while I'm gone."
"You're my best friend, boobala, and you know how I worry."
Silently groaning, Clint needed all his will power, which granted, wasn't much, to withstand Jared's sad puppy look. The worst of it was Jared knew the effect it had on Clint. He had to give him props though. Jared used it sparingly.
Just as Clint closed the door, he heard the toilet flush, knowing that his friend had just sent his smokes to a watery grave. Jared only wanted what was best for him and he could hardly fault him for being concerned.
Clint presented himself to the photographer, momentarily startled to see a face he recognized among the gaggle of models clustered around the room. At the time they met, he'd been going by a different name so hopefully, she wouldn't make a scene, futile though that hope was. That night, she'd left scene all over his motel room and the manager had called the cops. She might've mellowed in the intervening years, but Clint doubted it. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the fray, and the moment their eyes met, he knew that she knew, and that there would be hell to pay.
TBC
