Gregg Hurwitz: Prodigal Son

The luxury bungalow floated above the Hollywood Hills, the massive bed centered in the great room between two pillar candles, each the width of a tank gun’s barrel. The open kitchen was modern-chic with a Moroccan-tile backsplash, sage-green cabinets, and a rough-sawn farm table. A white plastic trash bag, neatly knotted, leaned against a wood-paneled refrigerator. A substantial picture window looked down at the Sunset Strip, alive with traffic lights and tall-wall billboards displaying It Girls and Boys like larger-than-life jewels. Or perishables.

He was distracted by that missed call. The woman behind it was proving to be persistent. What the hell did she want? Who had sent her?

Jeanette-Marie studied him, her eyes glinting. “Okay. Lemme guess. You’re a … sous-chef.”

Amused, he said, “Sure.”

Evan had an average build, the better to blend in. Just an ordinary guy, not too handsome. He kept his muscles toned but not pronounced. When he was dressed, it was hard to discern just how fit he was.

But he wasn’t dressed now.

Jeanette-Marie had certainly seen him up close, but she scanned him once more with the benefit of greater perspective. “No—wait.” She snapped her fingers. “A trainer! Hang on, no, like a physical therapist?”

He said, “Sure.”

“Okay. A sous-chef–trainer–physical therapist. We’ll leave it at that.” Her smile was radiant, youthful. “What do you think I do?”

“I think you’re a painter, educated at the Royal College of Art. You prefer to work in oils, and you teach part-time at UCLA.”

Her lips pressed together, her brow furrowed with incredulity. “Um. How…?”

He found his boxer briefs beneath a throw pillow that had lived up to its name. “You have calluses on the side of your left middle finger near the joint from holding a thin brush. Your shirt had paint stains on the cuff. Acrylics are water-based, so they would’ve washed out by now. So: oil. At the Polo Lounge—after you wouldn’t let me buy you a drink—you paid with a Bruin faculty credit-union card.”

She pursed her lips, taking a moment to catch up to this. “Okay, fine. But the Royal College?”

“You mentioned a favorite café on Prince Consort Road in London, which is right around the corner.”

She was sitting perfectly upright now on the mattress, her hands in her lap. “Wow. You actually pay attention.”

He unearthed one of his boots from beneath her flung-aside jacket. “Some people are worth paying attention to.”

“God,” Jeanette-Marie said. “You are the opposite of my ex. You’re the un -ex. Given how things ended with him, you’re exactly who I needed for the night.”

“It didn’t end well?”

“Let’s see. I got the house, so that’s good. But he got the bank accounts. Which were numerous. He’s an I-banker, Harvard asshole. You know the type. Quite different from us Royal College assholes.” Her grin lightened her face once more. “Opposites attract. Until they don’t.”

Evan thought of the scattering of freckles across Mia’s nose. That birthmark at her temple. The smell of her neck.

He said, “Right.”

“But when you fall for someone, it’s gonna be different, right? Every time. And then it’s not. It’s always not.” She pulled her curls up in the back, the moonlight striking the side of her neck. Evan paused to admire her.

“I’m the common denominator, though,” she continued. “So I shouldn’t blame Donnie. I mean, on paper? He’s really good. I think I fell in love with my image of him, which is even more powerful than being in love with a real person, because, man, what it takes to knock the shine off an image.” She shook her head. “He’s harmless enough. Just a cheater and a dick. I knew it for longer than I wanted to know it. But being alone? It gets old, right?”

Evan said, “Right.”

“That’s what I miss. Even more than the sex. Someone to … you know, cook dinner once in a while, take out the trash.”

Before he could respond, he heard the metallic purr of a key sliding into the front-door lock.

“Oh, shit ,” she said.

The dead bolt retracted loudly, and the door swung open.

A guy in a rumpled suit sauntered across the threshold. Three men at his back with flashing eyes and bad energy—simmering hostility tempered by a whiff of sheepishness. They looked well lubricated, their movements loosened with alcohol, and they stank of tequila. An inferior spirit.

“Goddamn it, Donnie,” Jeanette-Marie said. “This isn’t your place anymore. Get out now . And give me your key or I’m changing the locks.”

Donnie threw his arms wide. “Well, look what we have here. My fucking wife in my fucking house with a naked fucking guy.” He spoke with the careful articulation of the very drunk.

She said, “Bad night at the strip clubs?”

He glowered at her.

“I said give me the key, Donnie. Now .”

Still he didn’t answer. The front door was open, the wind carrying the thrum of a bass guitar from a club way down on the Strip. The smell of stale cigars came off the men’s clothes, poisoning the scent of night-blooming jasmine.

She looked at Evan, and he watched the concern on her face migrate to fear. “I’m really sorry.”

Evan shrugged.

“Don’t you apologize to him ,” Donnie said. “You look at me. Look at me , you fucking whore.”

Evan grimaced. So much for evenings that didn’t hold the promise of violence.

“Listen,” Jeanette-Marie said to Donnie, more cautiously now. “He’s just leaving. Let him go, and you and I, we’ll talk in the morning.”

Donnie frowned, considering. “Okay. You know what? You’re right.” He held up his hands, retreated to the front door. Paused. His jaw flexed a few times, the shiny, clean-shaven skin of his cheek rippling. “Fuck it,” he said, and flipped the door shut.

He swung back around to face them, his mouth shifting left, right.

Jeanette-Marie appealed to the others. “Eric? Jim? Rich—c’mon. This isn’t you guys. You know that. What are you gonna do? Beat up some guy you don’t even know? What’s that gonna accomplish?”

Evan flipped aside a corner of the duvet with a bare foot and found his jeans. He usually wore cargo pants but had upgraded to dark 501s as a concession to the Polo Lounge.

“Hey, motherfucker,” Donnie said. “Hey, you. You enjoy being in my bed? You enjoy being in my wife?”

Evan picked up his jeans and sat down on the bed. “You really want me to answer that?”

Donnie’s laugh turned into a sputter. He took a step forward, his friends fanning out behind him. “You’re an idiot. There are four of us.”

“I see that,” Evan said. “Need me to wait while you get more?”

They blinked at him.

The biggest of the quartet—Rich—stripped off his suit jacket. “We’ll be enough.”

Evan pulled on his jeans, one leg, then the other. One more irritated glance at the missed call with that 54 country code before he shoved the phone into his pocket. He finished dressing calmly, the men staring at him in disbelief. He buckled his belt and then held out his hands, palms up. “Okay,” he said. “Make an example out of me.”

Rich struck a boxing stance, shifting his weight from side to side. Donnie dropped his right foot back, which along with the watch on his left wrist signaled that he was right-handed. He gave a target glance at Evan’s chin, telegraphing where he intended to strike. The two beta males filled out the semicircle at the edge of Evan’s peripheral vision.

Jeanette-Marie’s bare feet hit the floor with a thump. “Donnie, you call this off right—”