Liam Davis & The Raven Page 4

  I skimmed over one of the letters from last year’s opinions page. One student wrote a short note to the vigilante, demanding that he “hang up his hood . . . [as] committing one crime to solve another, does not a hero make.”

  Not everyone was a fan of The Raven.

  I filed the photocopies—along with the meager bits of information I’d found Googling him—into the flap of my notebook, and put the stack of magazines the chief had given me—and the new stack I’d collected—into their proper place.

  Click. Click. Click.

  My finger worked the pen in my pocket.

  Yes, that was an idea.

  I could use my time at these parties not only to write my reports, but also to ask questions. Maybe others had stories about The Raven? Maybe I could discover his identity and get answers to my questions.

  Then I could write a report about him, unveiling the man behind the hood at long last. What would Jill say to that? Likely it’d render him speechless, and I was all for it. I glanced toward my University of Party, Lectures in Life column.

  Students would eat up news of a campus vigilante. There’d sure be no laughing.

  I dodged a whack from a piñata baton and darted behind the trunk of a neighboring pine.

  I should have been looking forward, not over my shoulder and jumping at any little shadow that moved. Freddy wasn’t there anymore. He wasn’t.

  Straightening my shoulders, I jog-walked across the front lawn toward the crisp sounds of live salsa music.

  Inside, I asked for the host, Alyson, and was steered into the kitchen to a Hispanic girl. The girl was applying ruby-red lipstick that matched her slippers and the tiny flowers threaded on one side of her dress.

  I extended my hand. “Liam Davis, from the Scribe. I write the party page—”

  She cracked a large smile, and capped her lipstick. “Stephy! Our party’s been chosen for the party page!”

  An animated shriek sounded in response, and from around the corner walked Alyson’s sister, who looked exactly like her, from her eyes and mouth to the dress she wore. “Party page. So freaking awesome.”

  Before I knew it, I was showered with questions, and Stephy handed me a cocktail, which I gripped like a lifeline. “Have fun, and if you need anything, we’d be totally happy to help out!”

  I shifted the cocktail to my other hand. “Actually, I do have a question. Have either of you heard any rumors about The Raven? The campus vigilante?”

  The girls exchanged a look, and their faces sobered as they faced me again. “We’ve never seen the guy, but,”—Stephy inched closer, her voice softening—“we were at a party a few weeks back, and Dylan, this guy we know, said he saw The Raven throwing some guy up against the wall.”

  I pushed up my glasses. “Where was this? Is Dylan here tonight?”

  She shook her head. “It happened down Walnut Street. He’s away on some field trip.”

  Alyson looped an arm around her sister. “He got a photo with his phone. He printed it and stuck it in his dorm room. He’s all proud of it, but it’s really blurry.”

  “What’s his last name and what dorm is he in?”

  “MacDonald. Beckman Hall.”

  “Thank you, ladies. You’ve been a big help.” It looked like I’d soon be visiting Beckman Hall. Who knew, I might even have the mystery wrapped up in under a week.

  And now to find an angle for next week’s party page.

  I slipped out of the kitchen and roamed the large downstairs dining room that opened into a sitting room via a large archway. This party was all about style. No beer here, only cocktails with—I lifted the little umbrella sitting on top of the drink—speared pineapple.

  I ate the pineapple.

  But what to do with the drink? It probably wasn’t professional to drink on the job, after all.

  He doesn’t know what it means to cut loose, to party. . . .

  I stared at the liquid for a moment, and hesitated. Then, shrugging internally, I raised the drink and took a small sip.

  Fruity. Not bad.

  I took another sip, and scoped out the room. Dancers filled most of it, jumping up and down and spinning about. Wow, actually . . . some of them were good. Such an interesting mix of people too. Very . . . multicultural. Maybe that could be my angle—

  Distant voices drifted over the dancing crowd—familiar voices, snarky edged with sweet. Two steps forward and a splash of cocktail on my white shirt, and there they were. Shannon and Quinn.

  They danced in the center of the group, looking close and comfortable as they laughed and grooved.

  Shannon’s blue-streaked hair was pinned up. With dark pants and T-shirt, she dressed simply, but her confidence made her stand out amongst the sea of cocktail dresses.

  “Ouch, Shan, you did it again.”

  Shannon stepped off Quinn’s foot. “Well if you’d let me lead,” she said, “it wouldn’t happen.”

  Quinn looked down his thick lashes at her, shaking his head. “That’s where I draw the line, darlin’. I need to lead. It’s built into my core. Can’t change it.”

  She slapped his shoulder. “Liar. Admit it, you just can’t figure out how to do the steps in reverse.”

  Quinn scowled at her. “I’m not admitting anything. Now turn.” He spun her under his arm, his muscles rippling all the way up and under the sleeve of his brown T-shirt. Shannon’s hearty laugh whirled with her.

  When she came to a stop, she leaned into him. “Now it’s your turn.” She startled the guy by whipping him around.

  “Jesus, Shan,” he said as he came full circle, grinning. “You’re strong.”

  I sucked a piece of ice down my throat and coughed. The empty glass was light in my hand. I finished it already? Let’s hope it’s not very alcoholic.

  I put the glass on the doily-covered table at the side of the room, and found a spot at the wall to rest against as I shook off any bad effects.

  Pushing up my glasses, I sought Shannon and Quinn, locking my eyes onto them as they started another dance. They moved together with little grace, but plenty of humor, and the force of their laughter travelled to me from halfway across the room.

  A strange longing to walk up to them and say hello tickled at me. But a “hello” out of the blue? That was hardly appropriate, was it? They were barely acquaintances. Sure they’d helped me to the hospital, and Quinn had stayed over one night, but they were just being good Samaritans, that was all. I was a tiny blip on their past radar readings, which they’d likely already forgotten.

  Quinn hadn’t even bothered to say no to the offer of a room, nor had he said goodbye. I’d woken up to a scrawled note that said I was snoring like a healthy bastard, and that he had a self-defense class to get to. See ya later, and have a good life.

  And I hadn’t minded, had I? It’d saved me from having to usher him out, since I’d left early for the library to study. And his loss about the apartment, not mine.

  So why did I want to go over there now?

  I pulled out the notebook I’d wedged into my pocket and tried to ignore the urge. I wrote down Dylan MacDonald and Beckman Hall, then detailed the multicultural aspects of the party. Pages of notes later, I sought them out again. Shannon finished dancing with a spiky strawberry-blond that let her lead, and fell back into Quinn’s arms.

  “Just can’t get enough of this, can ya?” Quinn said, and flinched as if expecting her to—

  She whacked his arm.

  —yes, just that.

  Suddenly, and likely a side effect of the cocktail, I was moving toward them. Maybe it wasn’t so inappropriate to go over. Fact was, Shannon and Quinn had gone out of their way for me, and I’d never thanked them for it. Yes, I should tell them I appreciated what they’d done for me.

  I forced my hand off the pen in my pocket and breathed in a lungful of Axe and sweaty air.

  I sidled around a dancing pair and, miscalculating my step, bumped into Shannon’s back. I gave her a small smile when she turned. “Sorry—” />
  “Liam!” She threw her arms around me like we were long-lost friends. She squeezed me warmly, a loose strand of her hair tickling my neck. Over her shoulder, Quinn looked puzzled. Like he was trying to figure out who I was—or maybe just what I was doing there.

  “Just wanted to say thanks,” I said to him, still locked in Shannon’s mighty grip.

  “No thanks needed,” Shannon murmured and pulled back. A new song started and she swayed with the beat. “You must be quite the party goer. Didn’t think I’d see you again.”

  I shook my head and pushed up my glasses. “Not exactly. This is more of an occupation.”

  “Occupation?” she asked.

  Quinn rested his arm on Shannon’s shoulder, leaning on her, his head cocked in my direction. “He writes for Scribe.”

  “Yes,” I confirmed. “The party page.”

  Something behind me caught Shannon’s attention and a shadow passed over her face as she stopped dancing and frowned.

  “Righty,” Quinn said, pushing off Shannon, his hand dragging down her arm to tug her hand. “I have it in me for one more dance before I call it quits.” He raised his chin at me in a See ya, mate way. Or maybe just a See ya. “Later, Liam.” The green in his eyes flattened. “All the best for finding an angle.”

  I should’ve just walked away and left it at that. Except . . . I didn’t want things to end there. There was such energy around Shannon, and I was attracted to it. Curious. I shifted my gaze from her to Quinn to her again, my fingers clicking the pen in my pocket. “May I cut in for a dance?”

  Shannon snapped her attention back to us, and her lips quirked at the edges. “Sorry, thought I saw my brother but I must have imagined it . . . cut in? Yeah, sure, I don’t mind.”

  She untangled herself from Quinn and clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Just a word of warning though, the guy likes to lead.”

  And with that, she stepped to the side and pushed her way out of the dancing crowd. Quinn’s eyes darkened, and he rested his hands on his hips.

  “Uh, what?” I jerked my gaze to follow Shannon’s exit route. Had . . . had Shannon misunderstood me? I wanted to cut in for a dance, yes. But with her.

  I blinked and met Quinn’s gaze. “Well this is awkward.”

  His shrug was almost imperceptible, as if it were for him, not me. “I’m guessing that’s a no to dancing?”

  “It’s not a yes. I’ve never danced with a guy before.” Never much danced with a girl, either. Though there was that one time at my cousin’s wedding. . . .

  “It could be something else to write about.” Quinn searched my face for a reply that I didn’t have, and then he focused on the crowd around me. “Or maybe there’s another more interesting lecture in life here. I’ll leave you to find it.”

  He stepped to maneuver around me, and I sidestepped, cutting him off. His surprised breath brushed over my cheek. Minty, fresh, not reeking with alcohol like I expected. “I just meant to come over here to say thanks. That’s all. Why didn’t you take up the offer of a room?”

  He looked toward his shoes and then up again. “It didn’t seem like you’d care either way.”

  “I don’t. It just doesn’t make sense. You need a room, I have one.”

  “It might not make logical sense, but . . . you and me, I don’t know if we’d get along so well.”

  I frowned. “It’s a room.”

  “Yeah, but no. Thanks.” He pushed past me, his arm knocking lightly against mine. “Hey, Shan, wait up!”

  And that’s the last you’ll see of them.

  I moved back to a quiet spot against the wall and sank against it for a moment. Slowly, I took out my notebook. Maybe Jill had a bigger point than I thought. I shrugged the creeping something off me, and jotted more notes, including one in the very back of the book. For me, for tomorrow.

  Get a cat.

  “Oy, Dreamy.”

  Something pinched my thigh, startling me. My notebook fell from my hand, tumbling into the lap of the guy sitting in a wheelchair. “Gah!”

  “Well, that’s not the usual response I get from people. But I like it better.” He lifted my notebook to me. The hummingbirds on his arms seemed to move as his muscles bunched. He waved the notebook.

  I shook my head and took it. I prided myself on being observant, yet this was the second time this guy surprised me. “You’re a stealthy one, aren’t you?”

  He grinned. “Have to be. Look, do me a favor and stand on my other side, would you?”

  I frowned, and maneuvered to where he pointed. He wheeled in closer to the wall and glanced over his shoulder.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, wrangling my notebook into my pocket.

  “Hiding from my sister.”

  His blue eyes met mine for the briefest moment, and something clicked. “Wait a second. Look at me again.”

  His grin lifted and that blue was looking at me again. “Why sure,” he drawled. “Don’t mind if I do.”

  I sucked in a sharp lungful of air.

  “Take your breath away, do I?”

  I shook my head and pushed my glasses up. “Nope, but I believe I’ve met your sister. Your eyes seem to exhibit the same mischievous twinkle. It’s Shannon, isn’t it?”

  “We’ve got mischievous down to an art form. Now inch a little to the left and don’t look down at me. I don’t want her or Sullivan to spot me.”

  “Sullivan?”

  “Sullivan. Quinn. You know him too?”

  “Well know is going a bit far,” I said. “But we’ve met. Why’re you hiding from them?”

  “They weren’t supposed to be at this party. Damn. I knew I should have gone to Penn State. This is worse than living at home.” He shook his head and laughed. “Hey, keep your head up.”

  I jerked my chin up and stared at a couple pressed up against the wall in front of us.

  “They’re going for it,” he said. “Get a room!”

  The couple acknowledged him with their middle fingers. A deep, hearty laugh left him, rumbling through his chair and through the material of my pants.

  “You sound so much like Shannon, it’s uncanny,” I said, glancing at the crowd around us. So far as I could see, Shannon and Quinn were long gone. “What’s your name, anyway?”

  He rolled forward and pivoted the chair until he faced me. “Hunter’s the name. Travis Hunter. But I prefer to go by the last name now.” For a lingering moment he gazed toward his lap. Then he reached out a hand. His shake was firm—a little too firm, as if he were well-practiced at proving his strength to strangers.

  “Quite the grip, Hunter. I’m Liam.”

  “I know.”

  He did? “How?”

  He pointed his index finger toward my pocket; poking out of it was my notebook, my name inscribed into the cover. I pushed the notebook further in. “I write for the Scribe.”

  “So that’s where I’ve seen Liam Davis before. You wrote the politics column last year.”

  I straightened, my lips stretching into a wide smile. I pushed up my glasses and nodded. “That was me.”

  “Serious shit. I loved your Christmas piece.”

  My smile faltered. “Thanks. What do you study?”

  “Economics, but I don’t want to bore you with any details. I’m also an amateur photographer.” He reached around and unhooked a camera bag from his chair. He took out the camera, opened the lens cap and looked through the lens. “Say cheesy balls.”

  Ugh.

  Hunter lowered the camera and checked the picture. His lips quirked. “That usually works for a grin. Try again. How about cheesecake this time?”

  Snap! Snap!

  “Much better. I have to say, Liam, when you aren’t trying to run over the disabled, you’re quite a charming guy. Not my type, but cute for sure. Now, if the way is clear, how about we brave moving to the kitchen and getting us some cocktails?”

  Two hours and three cocktails later, we were outside bashing the remnants of the hanging piñata, me with a baton,
and Hunter with a long branch. Candy and condoms flew out of the donkey’s face and rained on us. Hunter stuffed half the condoms into a case at the side of his chair.

  “Here ya go, Liam.” He rolled over to me and tugged my pen-pocket until I almost toppled onto him. “Whoa, there.”

  I braced myself on his chair as a bunch of condoms were slipped inside my pocket.

  “For whoever the lucky one is.”

  I patted my notebook. Dizziness coursed through me, making me stumble backward. If Jill could see me now! “No lucky one. Too busy for that.”

  “That’s too bad—shit!” Hunter was looking toward the road. Slamming the driver’s door to a beat-up Honda was Shannon, and the scowl on her face said everything. “She found me.”

  “Game’s up, then,” I said.

  “For today.” He rolled over to me. “Liam, meet me at Crazy Mocha Coffee on Ellsworth tomorrow.”

  I frowned. “Why?”

  “Why? Why not? You’re here alone. I’m here alone. I’d say it wouldn’t hurt either of us to hang out tomorrow.”

  “Well . . .”

  “What? You have better plans?”

  “I was going to buy a cat.”

  He raised both eyebrows.

  Shannon called out to him, her hair flying around her face. “Travis. Get your ass here now.”

  He rolled backward, keeping his eyes on me. “Look, show up if you want to, or not. I’ll be there. One o’clock.”

  Just a load of nonsense. I didn’t like it a jot. With gritted teeth, I highlighted the column I’d spent all morning writing, and deleted it.

  I sank onto my couch, closed my laptop and rested it next to me. Without the purr of the fan, it was too quiet in the house. Despite the slight hangover, I didn’t appreciate the silence.

  I moved into the study where I kept my stereo and tuned in to the local NPR channel. Dust drifted off the speakers as the room came alive with voices.

  I sneezed. I should use the room more often. Sitting at a desk was better for my posture than the couch or the bed. Not half as cozy, though.