On the Run (Whispering Key #2) - May Archer Page 0,1
throat gone dry, “when his entire face is hidden.”
She’d pointed at the picture again. “It’s only a matter of time until someone figures out his identity. How many men have a tattoo of Where’s Waldo wearing a string bikini? Honestly, why would anyone do that?”
“It’s more of a Speedo,” I’d whispered. “And it was probably at a low point in college. Drinks were probably consumed. Decisions were made.”
“What?”
“Just speculating. I can’t see why you want to find this guy.” I chuckled uncomfortably. “He’s a nobody.”
“We want to find him to get a statement about Jayd, clearly,” she said slowly, like she was talking to a very young child. “Everyone has a price… or a breaking point. And if HiWire doesn’t find him, the cretins at BlazeNewz will.”
I’d cleared my throat. “But Tattoo Guy is a victim of circumstance. An innocent. Who clearly spends lots of time in the gym. And has an amazing head of hair.”
She’d tipped her head to one side. “Honestly, Tobias, listen to yourself. Should you be having another martini? I’m afraid you’re losing your killer instinct.”
I was losing something, for damn sure. Possibly my mind. As evidenced by…
Fact Number Two: I was right then in freakin’ Florida, at Sarasota-Bradenton International Airport, having a low-key panic attack and trying to avoid my fifteen minutes of fame at all costs.
I’d canceled my once-in-a-lifetime trip to the place where every reporter and celebrity gossip hunter in the solar system would be hanging out this weekend, grabbed my already packed suitcase, and fled the city, imagining I was mere seconds ahead of a SWAT team of camera-toting paparazzi closing in on my location. I’d headed for the most remote place I could conceive of and the one man I could trust to hide me, no matter the cost to his own health and safety, my best friend, Mason Bloom… who apparently had his phone on silent, with zero regard for my crisis.
Furthermore, I was being auditorily assaulted by a maintenance dude riding a Zamboni-esque floor cleaner around the linoleum of the baggage claim area with wanton disregard for my eardrums, which was unacceptable.
I also may have been hungover at 8:00 p.m., but that was neither here nor there.
Why, yes, I was given to slight overdramatization. I liked to imagine that, along with my complete inability to think logically under pressure, were delightfully amusing quirks of my personality.
My phone rang in my pocket, and I answered immediately.
“Mason, finally! Thank fu—dge!” I amended when Blue Hair gave me a death glare over her shoulder. I widened my eyes in the universal gesture for “Back off, sis,” and when she harrumphed and faced forward again, I continued. “I need you to come get me. As in, posthaste.”
“Uh. Tommy? Mi angel, it’s Aron. From the bar. And, uh, from Dive the other night, too. Remember?”
I huffed. Did I remember? Did George Washington remember Benedict Arnold? Did Jesus remember Judas Iscariot? Did Britney remember whoever the heck had provided her with those hair clippers?
It wasn’t likely I’d forget the instrument of my downfall, especially when it came packaged as a hot bodybuilder I’d flirted with at a bar last weekend who’d invited me to the exclusive backroom VIP party Wednesday night at Dive.
“Come on, Tommy,” Aron had said, flexing all his muscly muscles and smiling with every one of his professionally whitened teeth, which had been such a welcome change from his blathering about his chances in the upcoming Muscle Man of Manhattan competition that I’d agreed without thinking and hadn’t even bothered correcting him when he’d used the wrong name.
I hadn’t understood that he’d meant we’d attempt to party with an actual rock star, and had therefore not comprehended the possibility that I could be caught on camera with said rock star in what appeared to be a very compromising position.
This would be the last time I was a fool for a muscle-bound guy with a perfectly sculpted ass, I vowed to myself. The very, very last time. I’d officially hit rock bottom.
“I am not your angel, and of course I remember you, you dick—ens,” I corrected, in deference to the children. I added in a furious, accusatory whisper, “You staged that whole scene and sold me out for forty pieces of silver.”
“No way, man, it was twenty-five thousand dollars.” Aron’s voice was both sincere and sincerely awestruck, and the confirmation infuriated me. “And I didn’t sell you out… exactly.”
“No? What do you call pushing me to the ground at the exact moment a