At the pool, there was a stamped concrete patio surrounded by natural rock retaining walls and more wildflowers and foliage. It was an oasis. The place was meant to be a retreat, and Nick Madison was allowing the people in his life to treat it, and by association, him, like a dumpster. I passed annoyed at that moment, as I walked around the pool to the giant cabana, and by the time I threw open the gauzy curtains and stepped into the space, I was fuming.
There were people on every available surface, drinking, smoking, snorting, fucking, and in each corner of the room was a bodyguard. The guy closest to me came forward, and I pulled my ID.
“I’m Locryn Barnes from Torus,” I told him, and because every single time I’d gone into a situation like this I’d gotten pushback, attitude, argument, and even physical aggression, I was floored when he gave me a nod, glanced at the others, and all of them, at once, took a collective breath and waited for orders. Clearly, I wasn’t the only one Nick’s guests were annoying.
“I need these people out,” I said, and the guard in the back killed the music, so there was blessed silence, except for the grunting and whining and mewling that went along with sex.
“Who the fuck are you?” one naked guy yelled, lurching toward me.
The bodyguard to my right put him facedown on the ground, which I appreciated, as I didn’t want any fluids on me.
Walking over to the oversized ottoman, I noted that there was a guy on his back with a woman sitting on his face, another woman bent over him, sucking his dick, and behind her, fucking her, was a guy who I thought was Nick Madison but, on closer inspection, was not.
Turning, I looked to the bodyguard closest to me. “Is Mr. Madison out here?”
“Around the side,” he told me. “It’s why we’re keeping everyone in here. That’s what he asked us to do.”
Of course he had. Why should the party stop just because, it sounded like at least, the host didn’t want to be part of it?
Walking back out and around the cabana to the left, I found a chaise in the shade where Nick Madison himself was sprawled out, naked and unconscious.
Christ.
I understood my mistake from moments ago. The guy who I had thought resembled the rock star would have, if Nick Madison were at all healthy. Unfortunately, it was glaringly obvious that he was not. He looked like a shadow of his former self.
Immediately, I took off my jacket and covered his groin.
He looked so very young and vulnerable. Pale, with a sunken chest, concave stomach, more skeletal than anything else; he had lost weight as well as muscle. His brown hair hung limp and greasy in his face, and the dark circles under his eyes could be taken for bruises at first glance. The man was not at all what I expected, and my heart gave a lurch that I didn’t like.
Bending down beside him, I shook him gently.
“Please, just leave me alone.” He whispered the pitiful plea. “I don’t want anything; I just want to sleep. It’s so hard to sleep in the hospital.”
I knew it was, with nurses checking on you all the time. And rehab was hard. I’d visited enough friends there, and had gone to check on many kids I’d seen end up in a myriad of different programs when I was a cop. My partners and, eventually, my captain had all complained that I was more concerned with helping than making collars.
“Why’re you even having a party if all you wanna do is sleep?” I asked, pushing his hair back, petting him gently.
“That’s nice,” he murmured, his voice cracking. “Don’t stop.”
I feathered my fingers through his hair, watching as he relaxed, the crease between his eyebrows smoothing out as he accepted my ministrations.
“Nicky,” I soothed him, “why’re all these people in your house?”
“They all just showed up,” he said, yawning. “I didn’t want to…disappoint…any…”
And…he was out.
Poor kid, he just wanted to curl up in his bed, but his space, his house, wasn’t safe. No one had created that for him—yet. It made sense, because all the people he’d hired, everyone there, in his home, took their orders from him, so if he was allowing the circus to be in his home, what could they do?
I got it then, what Mr. Sawyer meant about what he needed for Nick Madison. I wasn’t there to get Nick Madison clean; I wasn’t qualified to do that. The people in rehab had done their job. Technically, Nick was all detoxed. What he needed now was someone to keep him clean and sober, on the straight and narrow, and build him up until he could fly on his own. That I was qualified to do, because I was, in this instance, in my capacity as a fixer, a goddamn glorified babysitter.