Page 2 of King of Hollywood

God, that party had been an absolute nightmare. It was every year. But last year had been particularly grievous. There were fairy lights, of all things. Fruit punch. And they’d been playing music from dated musicals on loud, tinny speakers. The warped voices made me feel like an ice pick was being driven through my ear canals.

I hated having to fit in here almost as much as I hated the chaos of amusement parks, or the general disgustingness of public bathrooms. There wasn’t enough booze in the world for me to tolerate Barry, and that was a simple fact. I had never been more tempted in all my life to blow my cover entirely than I had been at that damn party.

It hadn’t taken more than a glance to realize that I was off-theme. Like dominos falling into place. I’d found Barry, on instinct, two seconds from twisting his vapid little head right around just so I could enjoy the pop sound it made.

It had been a while since something had upset me enough to be tempted to throw caution to the wind. If there was one thing I hated more than shitty speakers it was being off-theme.

“Everyone else was dressed in their Sunday best, on account of the new theme being ‘Night on the Town.’”

Not everyone.

I’d been tempted to head home to lick my wounds in private, but I hadn’t wanted the sharks to taste blood in the water. Before I’d had a chance to contemplate options aside from murder and escape—I saw him.

There was one person who hadn’t followed the herd. One person who’d stood by me in solidarity. One person who’d shown up to the party—despite rarely leaving his house in all the years we’d lived across the street from each other—dressed in orange with patterned board shorts, and an awful crocheted lei around his neck.

“Everyone except you,” I hated that my tone softened, but it did.

“Except me,” Felix echoed.

We were getting close to the break in the trees that would lead to the back of the crematory. Allen would be waiting for us at the door like he always was, and our conversation would finally, blissfully be over. I wouldn’t have to think about Guys and Dolls, flamingos, and crochet hopefully ever again.

“So…” Felix started up again, and I lamented my life. “We’re neighbors.”

I prayed to God for strength. “Yes.”

“We’ve been neighbors for a while.”

“Ten years.”

“We’ve never really talked.” Felix sounded…nervous? At least, I thought he sounded nervous. I’d never been all that good at reading people.

“I don’t talk to most people if I can help it.”

“That’s fair,” he laughed, and to my surprise, didn’t look offended. Not at all. Not even a little. Huh.

I thought the conversation would end there, but it did not.

“I like your vest,” Felix said, sounding oddly demure. I glanced down at my favorite sweater vest—the tan argyle one that matched every one of my button-downs. I dressed in pastels, despite hating them. Because people were less likely to be afraid of a man dressed in baby blue. The double layer of fabric—both shirt and vest—also served to help cover up some of my muscle mass. Which I much preferred as I knew my rather in-your-face body size could come across as intimidating. It wasn’t like I was trying to attract attention. The opposite really.

“Thank you.”

“Do you work out?” Felix stared at my arms and I flushed a little, embarrassed that he’d noticed.

“Yes.”

“That’s…handy.” He stared at them some more, his eyes glazing over as he watched my biceps flex where I carried the corpse. He licked his lips. “Very handy.”

“It can be, yes.” I frowned down at him.

“You’re quite big,” Felix blurted, then immediately looked like he regretted the words. “Apologies, that was rude. I shouldn’t comment on your size.”

“You wouldn’t be the first.” I was six foot five. Most people couldn’t help but point it out.

“Then I am even more sorry for bringing it up,” Felix said, proving once again why he was far more palatable than most of our other neighbors. “I’m not…used to talking to people. It’s been a while since I had a real conversation.”

I highly doubted that, seeing as I was currently carrying the evidence of one of his nighttime visitors. Of which he had a decent amount. Like clockwork, every few weeks if he wasn’t assaulting my eyes with an ugly package on his front porch, he’d disturb my peace with the arrival of a visitor. It was like he couldn’t help himself. A sex maniac.

Not that I was judging—because I wasn’t.