Bruised

Slash. The Adrien English Mysteries, written by Josh Lanyon.

This is a series about Adrien English, a gay mystery writer and bookstore owner who gets entangled in murderous situations.

Spoiler alert: In The Hell you Say, (the third book in the series) Adrien broke up with Jake Riordan, a closeted cop who was engaged to be married. Since then, Adrien's probably been seeing professor Guy Snowden, but that will be made clear in the next novel. Oh, and Adrien's mother Lisa remarried.

Rewritten on July 2008. Not the last time, I imagine -especially since I'm reading Mr. Lanyon's book on writing ;)

"Shouldn't you go upstairs and rest?"

I looked up from my computer screen. Natalie was leaning on the doorway, looking concerned.

"I'm fine," I said.

"Are you sure?"

We'd had this conversation twice before, and the fact that she was back was a sign that I had done a poor job placating her.

Anyone else I would have rebuffed in a more energetic manner, but not her; Natalie's not just my assistant at the bookstore, she's also my sister-by-marriage.

When Lisa got married, I didn't just gain a stepfather, I also got three sisters; three feminine, nurturing girls who seemed to believe I needed constant watching. Even before our parents got married, they'd already adopted me as their older brother –or as their older sister?- and while their affection seemed genuine enough, the loner in me found their attention overwhelming at times.

With Natalie constantly around, I sometimes felt that I had no privacy left.

A part of me knew I shouldn't be complaining. Natalie was a better assistant than Angus and Robert ever were; she was dependable and likeable and, unlike those two, she'd never been involved in any serious criminal acts –except for the occasional speeding ticket, and a penchant for wearing loud floral prints.

I guess having someone backing me up unconditionally was something I just wasn't used to.

"You don't look well," Natalie said.

Well, that was a nice way of putting it, considering the right side of my face was a purple and swollen mess, the result of a fistfight I'd been involved in earlier that day.

Yes, a fistfight. Yes, me.

My boyfriend couldn't believe it either.

"You, what?" Guy yelled when I told him over the phone.

I repeated my story, wishing there was something heroic to add to it. If I'd been trying to fend off some thug intent on robbing the bookstore, then at least I'd have had a sense of accomplishment. But I wasn't at the bookstore when I got beaten up.

I was at Paolo's salon, getting a haircut.

At the time we'd been having this huge argument over what to do with my hair -he was all for dying it and I wasn't- when a couple of thugs suddenly invaded the place and started breaking everything in sight. From the insults they hurled at Paolo, I got that his latest ex-lover wasn't taking their break-up kindly.

At this point of my narrative, Guy yelled at me again.

"So, it was Paolo's problem, not yours!"

Yeah, but I couldn't just sit there either. I instinctively jumped from my chair, only to be shoved back into it by a fist that seemed to materialize out of nowhere. I swear I felt my brain rattle inside my skull -

Natalie's voice interrupted my musings.

"Why don't you go upstairs and take a nap?" she offered kindly, "I'll stay here and look after things. It's almost closing time, anyway."

I tilted my head so I could met her gaze with my one good eye.

"I've got to finish this," I said, then added gravely, "I've got a deadline coming up."

"Oh," she said, suitably impressed.

I rarely use the 'deadline card,' but it's very effective; it immediately gets people off my back.

It was the truth, too; I had a deadline coming up, and I was serious about it.

Over the last couple of years I'd written two novels that got published to moderate success. I was happy, and my editor was happy. In fact, he was already hinting at a six-book deal he'd negotiate for me, when catastrophe struck: I failed to come up with a new book.

Gone were the hints about a six-book deal; instead, my editor started talking about dropping me altogether. And he would have, except that the powers that be ordered him to put together a short-story anthology in record time, forcing him to look around for resources. In what was probably my last chance to prove that I was a viable risk, he'd asked me to come up with a new story in three weeks.

I said I'd do it.

Unfortunately, now I had to do it with only one good eye and eight fingers in working condition.

"I have an idea," Natalie said, "Why don't you just use a recorder? Then I could transcribe the text."

"Oh, well. Hum," I stalled, "I don't know -"

Actually, I did know. I was writing about a gay character entangled in an erotically-charged relationship; no way was I going to dictate steamy sex scenes for my sister to type.

I was wondering what to say, when somebody entered the bookstore; Natalie's attention was immediately diverted.

"Think about it," she said, turning away. She believes in giving one-on-one attention to our customers.

There was nothing to think about; I needed to finish my story. But just as I was looking back at the text on the screen, I noticed our visitor's even, heavy stride as he approached the counter.

I looked up sharply. There was something hauntingly familiar about those steps, and for a moment, it took me back to a time when the mere sound of steps like those had set my heart racing.

Detective Jake Riordan's steps.

Those days were long gone, however -along with Detective Riordan. Not that getting over him had been easy; like the phantom pain from a missing limb, torturing me with the notion that nothing had changed, there were times when I thought he was still hanging around. Say I was walking down the street or shopping for cereal -minding my own business, in short- when I'd suddenly hear those steps. I'd instinctively turn around every time, but it was never him.

It was hard, but eventually, the pain faded.

Now it was more like an irritating itch.

"Oh, hello -" Natalie said cheerfully, and a male voice mumbled a response.

My heart did a tumble.

The voice was familiar too. But it couldn't be. No way –

Then Natalie supplied the name.

"Detective Riordan, isn't it?"

TBC