Page 48 of A Handsome Devil
Mind-reading must’ve been a skill of Hunt’s, for he shouldered his way past a few men and leaned over—well, he didn’t have to lean to address Alessio. Just me. “Hey. Have you had a chance to pitch our proposal?”
“We have,” we both said, almost in unison.
Alessio took the mic, since he was the one who’d first heard the proposal from Hunt. “Yeah. We’re both all in. We’ve discussed going underground before, you know, changing our hair—”
“Your facial hair?” Hunt gaped.
Alessio beamed crookedly. “Yup. And names of course. I’ve thought about just selling my compositions or opening a music store—do you have one there already?”
I butted in. “It’d be such a giant loss for humanity if he didn’t perform.”
Hunt said, “Nope. But it’s a great idea, since we have so many musicians.”
“Including you,” I mentioned. “But we have yet to talk to the other three. Is it all right if they come along?”
Hunt shrugged. “The more the merrier. And I’m sure they need protection too. They can work at Thymus’s new assisted living. Oh, and dogs. You gotta love dogs.”
I adored Alessio’s magnetic grin. “I used to have a Saint Bernard.”
Hunt’s round eyes lit up. “We all have big dogs! The Prez and his husband have a Bernese Mountain Dog.”
I’d never seen such adoration in Alessio’s eyes. “What’s his name?”
“Korg.”
I now knew another thing about our future. The image in my mind’s eye was all coming together.
Even above the hubbub, slamming footsteps on the front porch boomed out. Everyone shut the fuck up as Jack Hoffman’s silken head breathlessly popped into the doorway, clutching the doorjamb dramatically.
“Mayday, Mayday!” he blared, theatrical even for him. But he was panting. “Bridgewater’s stooges must’ve followed one of you guys here. People told me he’s gathering a clutch of dirtbags to confront you!”
Grabbing Jack’s bicep, Alessio whipped him into the room and slammed the slider shut. “Listen, you know we don’t need no trouble. But if that jagov is going to persist and confront, we have no other option. We’re all armed.”
“Heavily,” added Thymus.
Jack pointed his fingertips to the ceiling. “I know, I know! I don’t need to be accused of encouraging any mayhem. But you’re right. If he insists on pressing the issue—”
The sharp knock at the glass slider made everyone gasp. We really needed a sentry, a lookout. But it was only Ozzie Whitworth, naked as a peeled apple except for his visor and tool apron. His David Crosby white curls whipped in the afternoon desert wind.
“Hey!” he bawled. “Who are all these seekers marching upon our park? Is this some kind of alien uprising?”
The rush of folks to the slider nearly bowled the trailer over. “Where, where?” hissed Jack.
“Well, they’re being held back at the gate, but I guarantee it won’t be for long. They’ve got rifles and handguns, and one guy has a golf club.”
Everyone gasped. Apparently, the golf club was the clincher.
Ozzie proclaimed, “We want to bomb them back to the stone age!”
Jack Hoffman looked to Alessio and me for guidance. Did we have any fucking choice, really? I instantly knew the thoughts behind Alessio’s magnetic eyes. Bomb them back to the stone age.
“I’ll get my seekers,” said Ozzie, as we all strapped on various weapons.
No one spoke now. Alessio was the only one who mumbled, “Shootout at a nudist trailer park.”
By the time we marched toward the arched entrance to the Heavenly Bus Trailer Park, Bridgewater’s army of about twenty thugs had breached the gate. The various assclowns and shitdongles of the squad seemed to be united on one front—they were all heavily inked and muscled. They seemed to have been hired from a casting agent for a Duane Johnson action film, determined to display their bare chests and pounds of chain link necklaces.
Their drop-crotch pants slowed their progress, and they stopped about thirty feet in front of our trailer. Bridgewater had to shove the mindless cretins aside in order to make his grand appearance. The bald mad scientist made a bold stand, arms crossed angrily, steam practically coming out of his ears.
