Blue Dream (Kreuzberg Dragonshifters Book 1) #Wattys2016

Blue Dream Part 13

Later that morning, Paul looked up when the bell above the door of their comic shop jangled, admitting the presence of a hulking man. He didn't look the type of person to enjoy comic books, yet Paul was not one to judge. Not every comic book reader had to be a teenage boy (or girl) or look like the cliched nerdy type; Paul had known doctors, librarians, even judges to be addicted to Marvel, or IDW. The man made the pretence of combing the racks of books, yet it was obvious that he didn't have a clue as to what he was even looking at, or for. The glances were peremptory at best, designed to mollify Paul into a false sense of security. Paul wished then that Flake still was in the store, even though he would be unable to do much of anything against such a large and imposing visitor. Just to have him there would be enough, ready to maybe chip in with secret doctor things to put the man down, if need be.

Paul reached under the counter and laid his hand upon the baseball bat he kept therein case of troublesome customers. He slid it out noiselessly and held it pressed against his leg. The man approached the counter and stopped, hands pressed flat against the wooden surface near where Paul stood, and he couldn't have looked more intimidating if he'd tried.

"Can you speak English?" the man asked, in a distinct American accent.

Paul was no expert, but he thought that the man sounded as though he came from New York; he had that same lazy drawl that Paul had seen countless times in gangster films. Immediately, he thought of Richard, and the horrific time that he'd spent in America.

"Yeah," Paul said, in English, with a curt nod. "I can speak English, very well, as it happens."

He suddenly thought that it was a little condescending to assume that he couldn't speak English, and he felt a frisson of annoyance transfer itself from his belly to his face.

"Awesome. Do you know a man named Richard Kruspe?" the man asked, gaze shifting around behind the counter, and behind Paul himself, as though he expected Richard to leap out of wherever Paul might be hiding him.

Paul felt a stab of fear and alarm spiking through his body at that, but he forced his face to remain neutral and expressionless.

"Never heard of him," Paul lied.

"Are you certain? That curly-haired guy in that guitar making shop a few doors down said that you did," the man said.

Immediately, Paul thought of Schneider and how the man must have thought that he was helping through telling the man that Paul knew Richard. He was glad for the fact that Richard had long since left Lindemann's Luthiers, interview over for the day. Richard, Paul knew, was shopping somewhere in Berlin, buying himself new clothes and toiletries until Paul could join him for lunch.

"He was mistaken," Paul said, sharply. "Must be someone else. Not me. Try the next shop down."

The man grunted, and glared at Paul for a few moments more; Paul lifted his chin defiantly and did not back down. Instead, he continued staring until the man finally looked away, and walked wordlessly out of the store. Paul relaxed only when the door clanged shut behind his unwanted visitor. He couldn't shake the feeling that despite his departure, the man had known that Paul was lying; there was something in the other man's gaze that had indicated to Paul that he hadn't been fooled. It was only when, five minutes later, he thought of the exchange again, that he realised that the man had the same luminescent jewel-like eyes as Richard had.

****

Flake walked in fifteen minutes later, smelling strongly of cigarette smoke, eyes vaguely misty with his continued sleepiness. He'd complained of not being able to get enough sleep the nght before, as he was kept awake part of the night by loud noises coming from the other bedroom; he'd pointedly not glared at Paul whilst he'd complained, yet Paul knew that the glare was implied by its absence and had tried not to laugh.

"You're just jealous," he'd said at the time.

"I have a boyfriend, thanks. What do I have to be jealous of?" Flake had shot back, pointedly enough and Paul hadn't known how to respond to that.

Paul was brought back to the present again, by the sound of Flake speaking again; it was only as his mind sped back through the past few minutes that he realised that Flake had even spoken at all.

"Will you listen, Paulchen? There's a man loitering outside," Flake said to Paul, with an impatient expression upon his face.

"Oh?" Paul asked, mind still a little distracted by the intimidating American man that had visited the store. "Does he tickle your pickle, or what?"

"Tickle my what? As if," Flake snorted. "No, this is a beefy guy, kind of scary looking, actually."

"He wasn't wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt, was he? And ridiculous plus-fours?" Paul asked, with a vague frown.

"Yeah, he was actually. Have you seen him, then?" Flake asked, as he lifted surprised eyebrows in Paul's direction.

Paul nodded, before relating the tale of the American visitor to the store.

"That's bloody creepy," Flake said, with a shudder. "D'you think he'll be back?"

"I hope not," Paul said, in alarm. "It makes you wonder what the hell's going on lately, doesn't it? First cars following us, now creepy guys asking after Richard."

"Maybe your new boyfriend's a criminal or something and he's on the run. He might have killed someone," Flake said, eyes wide and intrigued behind the shelter of his glasses.

"Richard? A murderer? I doubt it," Paul said, immediately.

He couldn't imagine his lover being like that, despite the fact that he still barely knew him, or even that much about him.

"How do you know? You barely know him," Flake pointed out, unconsciously repeating Paul's thoughts.

"Instinct," Paul said, immediately, defiantly, despite the doubts that were beginning to sprout in his own mind that he wasn't wrong.

"Instinct, my arse," Flake said. "I think you should watch yourself with that new guy of yours."

"And yet, there you were just a few days ago all but begging me to fuck the guy," Paul reminded him. "Make up your damned mind, Flake."

Flake didn't seem to have a reasonable response to that, so Paul merely snorted and rolled his eyes at the other man.

"Whatever, Flake. While you're trying to think of a decent come-back, I'm going to have my lunch," Paul said, a little grumpily. "You know, with Berlin's newest murderer in residence, by your reckoning."

"Just be careful, is all I'm saying," Flake said, and there was genuine concern in his gaze at that. "I don't want to see you hurt, that's all."

"I know, Flake, and thanks," Paul said, softly, as he stopped beside the other man and smiled at him gratefully. "I'll be fine, you'll see. And if I'm not? I can always ask Till to fuck Richard up for me."

Flake laughed at that, despite his still ongoing and obvious worry. He nodded, however and allowed Paul to leave the store. Little did either of them know that Paul almost never made it back to Comic World, at all.

****

Flake looked up and blinked in surprise when he saw Richard entering the store in a welter of jangling bells, ten minutes later.

"Hi, Flake; where's Paul?" Richard asked, even before he'd reached the counter that shielded Flake from the general populace and customers alike.

"He's already gone to meet you," Flake said, even as Richard strained to peer past Flake into the scant part of the staff rooom that he could see from his position.

"He's not here," Richard confimed, afer a few gusting inhalations that were all too close to sniffs for Flake's liking.

He was reminded suddenly of a dog scenting its food or some new plaything, and he couldn't shake the idea that that was what Richard had been doing. He frowned, but couldn't think of a suitable quip or question to lighten the sudden dark and desperate mood that hung between them.

"I'm going to find him," Richard said, before he abruptly turned and left the store, leaving Flake a very confused man in his wake.