Blood and Roses Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  For the most amazing

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  Blood and Roses

  Douglas Pratt

  Blood and Roses is a work of fiction. Any names, places, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Douglas Pratt

  All rights reserved.

  For the most amazing and supportive wife

  Ashlee

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  1

  Tomorrow was the last day of July, and the summer sun was baking Memphis the same way it did every year. The first of August was the tipping point, most of the time. This was the point that people who have lived their entire lives in the South suddenly “discover” how hot it gets. They announce it with surprise on Facebook. They complain about it at work. As if somehow, the climate made a drastic change from the previous year. Without debating the actual effects of climate change, I will readily admit it was pretty damned hot today.

  Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want anyone to think that I’m complaining. I’ll take blistering heat to frigid cold any day of the year. I grew up in this summer sun, and while the Ozark Mountains where I was raised might have saved us a couple of degrees, the heat, as Glenn Fry said, is on. The summer was always my favorite season. Saturdays spent at the river, barbecues and picnics, blackberry cobbler and watermelon. Things that only summer provide.

  Don’t argue with me about how many clothes you can put on in the winter to get comfortable, because I’m sitting on the edge of a pool watching a bikini-clad figure emerge from the water. A bikini-clad woman is another thing that only summer seems to provide. Try finding one of those in the cold of winter.

  “You’re staring,” she said as she walked toward me.

  “I’m so sorry. I was just admiring that shade of teal on your suit.”

  Her mouth widened in a grin. “I’m sure that we can get you a matching suit. Maybe something that will show off the curves of your butt.”

  “If there is one thing I know, it’s that no one wants to see the curves of my butt,” I assured her.

  She lowered herself onto the lounge chair beside me and stretched her legs. Slipping her sunglasses over her eyes she said, “I don’t know Max, I think you got a pretty cute ass.”

  I feigned embarrassment. “Gosh, Miss Angela, you have me blushing.”

  “Why do I have a feeling that you don’t even know how to blush?” she questioned. She picked up her phone and added, “It’s almost noon. We could go downstairs to my place and pop the cork on one of those bottles of champagne I save for special occasions.”

  “What’s the occasion?” I asked. Angela worked in wine sales, and she seemed to keep an excess of wine and liquor for her “special occasions.”

  “It’s a Saturday. You have a cute ass, and I have a shade of teal that you want to get your hands on.”

  I smiled lasciviously. “Oh, it’s not the teal I want to get my hands on.”

  “I certainly hope not,” Angela said as she rolled her feet to the concrete patio, twirling gracefully off the lounger. “Otherwise I’m in the wrong company.”

  Her hand reached down. The manicured fingers decorated with red tips wrapped around my fingers. The soft touch was electrifying. When I squeezed her hand, she pulled me to my feet. Her skin glistened from the droplets of water beading on her skin, and her long brown hair, braided and put up in a bun, smelled of the chlorinated pool water.

  The pool was on the roof of the Preservation building, a new condominium built on Cooper Avenue, giving the pool-goers a view of midtown Memphis and unobstructed sunshine. I was able to purchase one of the first condominiums, even before the ground was broken. The developer, an acquaintance I met at a party, had been seeking silent investors, and while my investment makes up a small portion, I was able to negotiate a corner condo, in addition to a very small return quarterly that doesn't even cover the cost of my monthly bourbon bill.

  However, as I followed Angela down the steps to the elevator, I was reminded how happy I was to have moved from my east Memphis home. That neighborhood was nice, but the interaction with the neighbors was not nearly as satisfying. Plus, I didn’t have to take care of the pool.

  The truth was that my house in East Memphis was too big for me. Suburbs weren’t really my cup of tea. The white picket fence and manicured lawn was just a fantasy for me.

  Angela unlocked her door with a swipe of a magnetic chip embedded in a simple bracelet. Each condo had electronic locks, similar to ones seen in most hotels. They included a keypad in case you left home without the magnetic key. My chip was attached to the keys to my truck, while Angela had her card in a woven leather bracelet.

  I had been in Angela's place a few times, and while one might refer to those as social occasions, most would colloquially be called “booty calls.” Her home was decorated neatly but with a hodge-podge theme, as if she discovered a piece of art or a knickknack that seemed to match the rest of the room. I guessed it was a slow process of amassing the perfect decor. She had a good eye for it. While it might not grace the cover of Southern Living, the living room and kitchen were pleasantly comfortable. It far outweighed my collection of original movie posters and blues albums gracing the walls of my condo.

  “Sit,” she ordered. “I'll grab a bottle.”

  The seat I chose on the couch allowed her to sit next to me and the bottle of champagne could rest on a small buffet within an arm’s length. Angela and I had only met about three months ago when she moved into the Preservation. It didn’t take us long to become acquainted, and almost as quickly determined that we only had a physical attraction. She is smart and funny, and recently divorced from a 12-year marriage. She wants anything and everything, except to be tied to any one person. For now, at least.

  I, on the other hand, have been chronically single most of my life, with one exception. Unfortunately, that part of my life has passed. I am perfectly happy with friends like Angela.

  The pop of the champagne cork in the kitchen was followed by a quiet giggle.

  “As many times as I open a bottle, I still get this fear that the cork will fly off and kill someone,” she said as she carried the bottle of Perrier Jouet and two glasses t
o the couch. She slipped down beside me, folding her legs under her. Every move she made seemed to flow as if she had perfected the art of movement with intention.

  I took the bottle from her and poured the bubbles into the glasses until the champagne almost crested the rim.

  “Perfect pour,” she said, taking the bottle from me and setting it an arm’s length away on the small buffet almost as if someone had the foresight for such a thing.

  “To Saturday's,” I offered, tilting my flute toward hers.

  “And cute asses,” she responded clinking her glass to mine.

  “And teal swimsuits.”

  We swallowed the sweet wine, and Angela pulled closer to me until I could feel her bare skin against mine. Our lips touched softly, but the heat of her breath burned me with anticipation. Somehow, despite the always present question of where to put my hands, I wrapped my champagne-free hand around her back and pressed her tighter against me as our kiss grew fiercer with each passing second.

  Our champagne flutes were soon deposited next to the onlooking bottle of champagne. I lowered her down on the couch and kissed her, now with gentle intention.

  The morning rolled slowly into the afternoon. We found that a couple more bottles of champagne kept our heads in a whirl. When evening arrived, we both found ourselves lying in each other's arms.

  “I'm a bit peckish,” Angela whispered.

  “What can I get you?”

  “I don't want to put clothes on, so something delivered would be nice.”

  “The delivery boy will love you.”

  Angela released a guttural growl at that thought.

  With the advent of the internet, food delivery was being perfected. When the best we could do was pizza in thirty minutes or less, we had only one choice. Now my phone has the menus of every restaurant in the city.

  My phone showed a missed call from Cincinnati. A number I didn't know. I cleared the number from my notifications, thinking, those damned telemarketers will literally do anything to mess up a nice day of champagne and passion.

  I opened the delivery app, selected a seafood place about half a mile from the Preservation, and ordered a few entrees.

  “Delivery in 45 minutes,” I told her.

  She ran her fingers up my leg. “I don't want to get dressed.”

  I let her persuade me, a not so difficult process, to occupy her time until the food arrived.

  2

  Crawling to my feet, I stumbled around in the dark. Angela was curled in a ball on the pallet of pillows that had made their way to the floor. My hands felt until I found my swimsuit, balled up next to the sofa. Leaning over her, I kissed Angela gently on the cheek and told her I was leaving.

  She responded with a slew of mumbles.

  The lights of the hallway were a shock to my system. My phone, which was barely alive with only eight percent left on the battery, said it was a quarter past four. My current situation was precariously teetering on a hangover, or maybe just dehydration. The only thing I was craving was some water and another eight hours of sleep.

  The elevator took me to the top floor with more than the required amount of obnoxious dinging. When I stepped out onto my floor, I came face to face with two uniformed police officers knocking on the door of my apartment.

  Stopping in the corridor, I stared for a second as my brain, somewhat addled from the massive amount of champagne and sex, tried to determine if I had done anything worthy of being arrested in the last few days. No answer came up immediately. Still, police officers at anyone’s door at four in the morning were rarely a good thing.

  One of the officers turned toward me. He slapped his partner on the chest with the back of his hand and pointed. His partner glanced at his phone and then at me.

  “Mr. Sawyer?”

  “Yeah, what do you want?”

  The first officer, a younger guy with insanely blond hair and wind burned cheeks, said, “The guy inside said you weren't here.”

  “‘Guy inside?’” I questioned.

  The older officer, a broad-shouldered African-American hulk that was only an inch or two taller than I was, said, “We rang the bell. He wouldn't give his name unless we had a warrant.”

  “Ah,” I said. “Do you?”

  “Do I what?” he asked.

  “Have a warrant?”

  The short hulk shook his head.

  “Then, what do you want?”

  Blondie said, “He said you weren't home. He's obstructing us.”

  “Whoa, rookie,” I muttered. “Given that I just stepped off the elevator and not out of my house, then I wasn't at home. Now, it's almost 4:30, I'm still a bit drunk, and I want to go to bed, so please tell me what you are doing here.”

  Blondie’s complexion reddened with anger. He muttered something.

  The Hulk smiled and interjected, “Don't get worked up Rogers.”

  Blondie, or Rogers, relaxed a bit.

  “Mr. Sawyer, I'm Officer Wilson. This is Officer Rogers. We've been sent to ask you to come talk with one of our detectives.”

  “About what?” I asked.

  “I can't say, sir.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “Not at this time. The detective was hoping for some cooperation.”

  “Can it wait a few hours?”

  “I'm told that he wanted to talk to you now.”

  “Who died?” I asked. This kind of treatment reeked of a bad news squad. Having dealt with those before, I could smell them. They were the officers who are tasked with the unenviable job of delivering bad news to unsuspecting loved ones. Of course, my list of loved ones wasn't very long. In fact, I doubted I was on anyone's next of kin list.

  “I can't say,” he responded.

  “Can I have a few minutes to change?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Also, I have consumed copious amounts of champagne last night, so you provide me a ride to and from wherever we are going.”

  Wilson furrowed his forehead.

  “I was in this building the entire time,” I assured him.

  He nodded.

  I keyed the six-digit code to open my front door and left the two men in blue waiting in the hallway.

  “You stink of sex,” a voice said from the couch.

  I looked down at Leo who was lying on his side in nothing but a pair of boxers that resembled the bottom half of Donald Duck.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  Leo was former Marine Recon. He spent most of his time doing mercenary work, but only for morally upright clients. At least what he considers morally upright. Leo doesn’t really live anywhere, although his pension checks are mailed to his mother’s house in St. Louis.

  “I was passing through. Needed a place to crash.”

  I shrugged. “Crash away. I’m going to change and see what Memphis’ finest is needing from me. If I’m not back by noon, could you come bail me out?”

  “I’ll still be asleep at noon. Let’s say two-ish.” He rolled back into the couch jutting his and Donald’s rear in the air.

  Shaking my head, I went to the bedroom and changed. I decided to skip a shower despite the fact that Leo thought I smelled like sex. I slipped into a pair of shorts and grabbed a short-sleeved shirt. I was buttoning the shirt as I slid into a pair of loafers. I wasn't sure what was wanted of me, but it wasn't going to be a fancy dress party.

  Leo was snoring lightly as I passed through the living room. I grabbed a glass of water to try to hydrate myself. My phone was now flashing a warning that it was about to die without a charge. I powered it off and dropped it into my pocket.

  Officers Wilson and Rogers were still loitering around the corridor when I came out.

  “Let's go,” I said.

  The two police officers escorted me to the elevator where we stood awkwardly for several seconds waiting on the doors to open. Rogers still seemed miffed by my “rookie” comment. When we reached the patrol car, he opened the back for me with a little too much glee.


  “I hope you cleaned up all the vomit,” I said, displaying both my sardonic wit and lack of judgment.

  Wilson chuckled quietly, but Rogers barked, “Just get in.”

  This wasn't my first ride in the back of a police car, but maybe the first time I wasn't handcuffed as well. Everyone has the same reaction to that back seat as if it were the rear row of a 24-hour porno theater. The unseen is what is the most disturbing.

  Overall, that's a misconception. They do clean the back seats, but then they probably clean the back row at the theater, too.

  Rogers drove, and while I know little of actual police hierarchy, this did confirm, at least from everything I had seen on the television, that he was the rookie in this partnership. I watched out the window as we drove through the empty streets. This was an hour when more people were waking up rather than still up. The city was a ghost town.