Page 7 of King of Hollywood

I’d always disliked alcohol. It had a tendency to alter a person’s behavior to the point they were often barely recognizable. It could turn even the kindest man into a monster. (I should know, I was one.)

It could cause mistakes that never should have been made—like that time my mother had started covertly drinking the wine she’d bought for the Christmas roast and nearly burnt our house down.

Regrets were not something I nurtured, unlike some of my sisters, and half the people I’d gone to college with—which was why I not only didn’t participate in alcohol consumption, but abhorred it entirely.

I hated it almost as much as I hated bullies.

And that was saying something.

“How are you today?” Felix asked politely, his eyes a luminous red in the light.

Did he wear colored contacts? Why?

He had such impeccable manners. My mother would’ve been proud.

“Fine.”

Quick, say something clever.

“Your house is a mess.” Shit.

Felix laughed, his eyes crinkling. “It is,” he shrugged, then glanced around. “I’m…working on it.” His lips tipped upward and I—once again—tried not to find his smile pretty.

He was a lot more interesting than I’d thought he’d be.

“I have bleach,” I offered, and Felix snorted.

“Duly noted.”

This was odd. Uncomfortable. Standing here in his hallway. Talking. I’d never been inside his house, despite being his neighbor for nearly ten years. We didn’t speak often, or really at all. Only in passing, when he was sitting on his porch in the dark with a reading lamp on his head and I was returning from a late shift working overtime.

Oh, and that one memorable time he’d been out walking his cats.

On leashes.

In the middle of the night.

Felix had excitedly waved at me, despite the fact it was nearly two in the morning, and the only reason I was out late was because there’d been a damn Christmas party at work and I’d felt obligated to go. My boss, Harold, was a decent enough man. I didn’t hate him. And he’d asked me to stay after everyone else had left, so I had. Even though he was dressed like Santa and smelled like rum. He’d just gone through a messy divorce and I supposed he’d been lonely.

I hadn’t waved back at Felix.

Now I wished I had.

Seeing him out at night like that hadn’t struck me as odd then, mostly because I very rarely spared thoughts for Felix Finley—but now…

Now I wondered why he’d been out on the road that late.

It was Christmas Eve.

Why was he…alone?

Now that I thought about it…aside from his paramours, I hadn’t ever seen anyone visit Felix. On occasion, Barry would go over there to bother him, sure. But he did that to everyone, me included. I couldn’t recall ever seeing the same guest return. Nor had I ever seen family or friends arrive to visit him. Not even on Christmas Day, when I left to visit my sisters.

How long had he sat quiet in this mausoleum of a home? Surrounded by things and not people, alone in the dark.

Even at Barry’s party—the party that we do not speak of—Felix and I had barely shared a sentence or two.

Felix’s awkward, “Hi, Marshall, nice shirt” had seemed sufficient.