Highway Butcher – Chapter Four – WhispersConfusions Books

NOT EDITED

Chapter Four

7:00 PM; LOS ANGELES, THE ATLANTIS HOTEL, PARKING LOT

A young man sat in the driver’s seat of a car parked in the hotel’s front parking lot, one hand toying with his lanyard, spinning it around his hand, unwinding it, spinning it the opposite direction. It was more or less the only ‘entertainment’ he was allowed most nights. In January, Jamal Pitman had hired a bodyguard of sorts to watch over Bo, to make sure he didn’t do anything dangerous with that self-hatred and death wish of his. Of course, he had been hired without Bo’s knowledge, which made him more of a spy and less of a guard, but the man had adjusted quite well to that. Jamal had explained it wasn’t really spying if he wasn’t listening in on all of Bo’s conversations or taking pictures of him through car windows. It was simply guarding from afar in case of danger. He had grown to accept that line of thought the best that he could.

For the first time that day, his phone rang, Jamal’s name flashing at the top of the screen. He glanced up at Bo’s hotel blanket-covered window again before accepting the call. “Good evening, sir.”

“Jensen. How’s my boy?”

“Detective Quinn turned up at the hotel about half an hour ago. Mister Austen’s window is still covered, but I can only assume that’s where Quinn has gone. I haven’t seen Mister Austen today.”

“Did you see the prostitute again?”

“Yes, she had a forensic magazine with her today. There’s no way she’s there for anyone other than Mister Austen.”

“I want you to get pictures of her the next time she shows up. I want her name.”

“I feel like I’m probably cute enough to get that from her without running her picture through the system.”

Jamal snorted. “She likely doesn’t give her Johns her real name, Jensen. I need her real name.”

After a moment, Jensen nodded. He glanced out the driver’s side window. Briefly, it had almost sounded like someone had knocked on it, but no one was there. “Okay. Pictures the next time I see her. You got it.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“When he switched to this hotel.”

“Mm. So he’s not smoking anymore?” Jamal asked.

“I don’t know. I guess not. Sometimes I sit in the front, sometimes I sit in the back. He hasn’t come out since he arrived.” His green eyes snapped back to his window again. Another knock. Another absolute lack of the knocker. He cleared his throat. “Pardon my forwardness, sir, but… I still think it would be easier to bodyguard him and know how he’s doing if I were, umm, allowed to make contact?”

“Someday. As is, Bo would very much not be a fan of knowing I assigned you to him.”

Jensen closed his eyes as he scratched at his temple. “Do you think… that’s maybe a sign we shouldn’t be, y’know… stalking him?”

“I can hire a different man for the job if you’re incapable of doing it.”

“I’m capable,” Jensen said after a moment. “I’m just worried it isn’t the best approach.”

“Jensen, I’m choosing to be civil because you’re family, whether Katherine likes it or not, but I have been doing this far longer than you have been alive, and this is the best approach. When it is time to make contact, I will let you know. Until then, you sit, you watch, you protect, and you report. Are we clear?”

“Crystal, sir.” Jensen’s eyes drifted over to his window again. This time, he saw a rock hit his window before falling to the ground. “I’m sorry, sir, uh, someone is throwing rocks at my car. Is this a ‘drive to a different parking space’ situation or a ‘get out and see what’s going on’ situation?”

“Get out, find them, see what they’re doing there. Don’t let your guard down.”

“Okay. I’ll call you back in a few, sir.”

“Mmhmm.”

Jensen pulled his phone back and ended the call, tossing the device onto his dash. He climbed out of the car and locked the doors, just in case, before tucking his lanyard into the pocket of his dress pants. He pulled his flashlight from his jacket and flipped it on. He checked around the car and under it. At least he could rule out any lurkers there.

He spun around as a small rock hit him in the back. He locked eyes with a man across the parking lot. Quinn? “I can see you,” Jensen said.

David Quinn, or his imposter, bolted. Jensen groaned before chasing after him. David skidded into the alleyway beside the hotel. Jensen followed. He probably wasn’t allowed to tackle one of Jamal’s detectives, but he could still grab him and find out what the hell he was doing.

The air exploded from Jensen’s lungs before his back felt the impact of the alleyway’s gravel beneath him. He scrambled for his gun, which his attacker quickly disarmed him of, dropping the magazine to the ground and holding the empty gun well out of Jensen’s reach. Jensen grunted as a foot came down on his chest. When his attacker leaned down, Jensen’s heart skipped a beat.

Something about Bo fucking Austen tackling him, disarming him, and keeping him pinned down was far hotter than it was scary.

Jensen was pretty sure a few of the connections in his brain were a little haywire for that conclusion to be the one he’d drawn, but Bo’s hair was all disheveled, and his flannel was only half-buttoned, and God, why did he look so good in a pair of Levi’s?

“Who the hell are you and why the hell are you following me?” Bo asked.

“Umm… Jensen?” he offered.

“Jensen who?”

“Jensen… a reporter.”

“A reporter,” Bo echoed. He leaned down a little further, applying just a bit more pressure to Jensen’s chest with his foot. “What the hell is a reporter doing following me around?”

“Writing… a story?”

“Mm. What kind of story?”

“Uh…” Jensen cleared his throat. “The mental health effects of being neurodivergent in a neurotypical work environment?”

“Is that a question or an answer, Jensen?”

This was a horrible time for Jensen’s authority figure thing to rear its head, but rear it did. He’d already thought Bo was cute on a normal day. But using that ‘bossman’ tone? Jesus Christ. “Umm… mm. What was the question?”

Bo sighed, rolling his eyes. “It doesn’t matter. If your story subject is true, you’ve chosen the wrong neurodivergent to stalk. I’m not in a workplace anymore.”

“I actually think that makes you the best neurodivergent to tastefully follow in hopes of getting the opportunity to ask a few questions. You left the workplace because of the way you were treated for being different than the others, didn’t you?”

“I left the workplace because I wanted to kill myself.” Bo raised a brow. “You’re terrible at your job.”

“Okay, but why did you want to?”

Bo’s expression changed to something almost thoughtful before softening entirely. He lifted his foot from Jensen’s chest and held his gun out to him. Jensen grabbed it, quickly sitting up to grab the magazine Bo had tossed to the ground earlier. “Reporters don’t carry guns.”

“They do if they’re digging around in the wrong places.”

“Well, at least we can confirm that I am, indeed, the wrong place to look for your little story.”

“Not you. Thugs and such. I’m a deep-dive kinda guy.”

“Mmhmm.”

Jensen cleared his throat. “So, uh… any chance I could take you out for a drink and ask a few questions?”

Bo watched him for a long moment before nodding. “Yes.” He pulled a key card from the breast pocket of his flannel and held it out to Jensen. “I have drinks. I no longer go out for them. Come up when you have your reporter tools assembled.”

“Deal.”

Bo stuck out a hand, which Jensen gladly accepted and allowed the short blonde to pull him up. Standing on his own two feet again, and closer to Bo than he’d ever been, the ‘short’ description didn’t quite seem to be enough. He had a good four to six inches on Bo.

Height discrepancy or not, Bo had gotten a hell of a drop on him and knocked his ass to the ground like it was as easy for him as breathing. Hot and impressive.

“I will see you upstairs.”

“Thank you, Mister Austen. I just need to grab my things from my car.”

“Mmhmm.” Bo dusted his hands down the front of his shirt, clearing his throat. “I’ll see you up there, then.”

Jensen nodded and headed back for the car, practically sprinting once he’d made it out of the alley and back into the parking lot. He slid into the car and grabbed his phone, selecting Jamal’s number from his speed dial the second the screen was unlocked. He set it to speaker as he rifled through his glove box in search of anything reporter-like. A tape recorder would be nice, but he’d even accept a pen and paper.

“Jensen.”

“Sir, I have made contact.”

Jamal sighed. “He was throwing the rocks?”

“Well, I think Detective Quinn was. He got me into the alley, and Mister Austen side-swiped me, knocked me down.”

The old bastard laughed. “I’m glad he’s still got it. You, on the other hand, might need a bit of brushing up on your skills. I’m not sure getting taken down by a short lab geek bodes well for your bodyguarding abilities.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t accounting for a second guy.”

“You should from now on. There’s always room for a dozen subjects you’ve never seen before to leap out from the darkness.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

“Good. What did you tell him?”

“I didn’t mention the bodyguarding. Or you. I told him I was a reporter writing a story about being neurodivergent in the workplace. He’s agreed to answer a few questions, so I’m going to come up with whatever I can and head on up.”

“Get a good look at the room, see what’s going on up there. It’s the best look inside his head you’re going to get.”

“I will, sir.”

“Good. Let me know how it goes.”

“Of course, sir. I’ll be in touch.”

After successfully finding a pen and a little pad of paper, Jensen grabbed his phone, tucked his gun back into its holster, and headed up to the hotel. On the second floor, Jensen found his way to Bo’s room and used the keycard to open the door to the… very empty room.

Jensen groaned, closing the door behind him. “Shifty little shit,” he whispered. Cute little shit. Fucking adorable little shit, in that damn purple flannel shirt. But shifty, nonetheless.

A search of the room had revealed very little about Bo or his state of mind. The odd partially drank beer bottle here and there, the partially empty bottle of over-the-counter supplements meant to help with sleep, the relatively fresh pot of coffee on the counter.

The little note Bo had left for him, however, told him a little more. ‘To: Liar’ was written in on the outside of a folded piece of paper on the back of the couch. Jensen snorted, reaching out to flip it open.

You are so horrifically terrible at lying that it’s almost humorous. And your inability to determine a lie stated directly to your face might actually be a security concern in whatever gun-toting line of work you’re in. If you’re working for Kathy, just shoot me next time. If you can find me.