Page 131 of Devil and the Deep Blue Fish

“Awooooooo!” Jackson said, his head getting heavier on Ellery’s shoulder. Ellery realized that the unthinkable was going to happen.

God. Odds were pretty good there would never be cops at their door for this incident, but even if there were, Ellery would consider the whole debacle fair if only, just this once in what was sure to be a shitty four years, Jackson could get some sleep.

Jackson’s soft breathing made Ellery wonder if maybe Mike could showhimhow to use the power tools with the air compressor. He was going to need a way to sleep as well.

Mrs. Bobby’s Mom

By Amy Lane

In an embarrassment of riches, I had Randy’s book, Jackson’s book, and Eric Christian’s book floating around my head at the same time. Jackson and Randy’s books were going to coincide, and they might even have moved down south, except I wrote this little ficlet, and the next book changed shape overnight.

Yes, for those of you wondering, I think there will definitely be a short at some point, showing Isabelle and Cowboy making a home together, because they both have so much more love to give.

“G’NIGHT, MRS.Bobby’s Mom!”

Isabelle Roberts turned toward theveryattractive young men who had just escorted her to her car and smiled gently. “Thanks, guys. You know, you don’t have to walk me to my car—”

“Oh no,” the first one—a young blond Viking who went by the stage name of Ricky—said soberly. “It’s a rule.”

She held back a smile. They were all so sober and responsible—and so young. Even the twenty-five-year-olds were young. “A rule?” she asked, although she sort of knew.

“It’s one of the first things they tell us,” said the Viking’s friend. “Rudy” was his stage name at present, and he was smaller—nearly her height—and was probably not quite nineteen. He’d tried hard to work out enough to mask his slender grace, but unless he did steroids—and Johnnies prohibited it—that wasn’t going to happen.

“They?” she prodded, remembering when her Vern was this age. He’d had a lot of the same secrets as these young men, and getting things thatweren’tsecret out of him had been like pulling teeth. He was a little older now—twenty-three as opposed to nineteen—and as always, preternaturally mature for his age, but she still had her arsenal of tricks to get him to come clean.

“The older guys,” Rudy said, nodding like it was a secret society. Well, in a way, it was, right? “And the bosses. Dex and John. They always come by and say ‘Remember to make sure Mrs. Bobby’s Mom gets out okay. We need to keep her.’”

Isabelle laughed, the sound coming much easier than it had four years ago. Yeah, it had been hard to get the hell out of Dogpatch, California, and she was stillnotokay with the sacrifices her son had made for her to come down here and live a better,freerlife, but shewasfree now, and she could laugh or smile or even flirt at these sweet,highlyunavailable young men who made her feel like she was a queen and would never, ever let her go out to her car alone, even in broad daylight.

“Well, you’re all very kind,” she said, allowing her smile to reach her eyes. “But you both need to get home safely too.” The shoot had been in the hands of a new photographer today, and while the feedback had been pretty good—his videos did well, with a quick-cut style that apparently appealed to today’s younger viewers, and the models all said he was professional and even funny at times—the guy was also “Not Dex or John.” Dex and John had over two decades combined with shooting porn, and they wereverygood at getting in and out (punalwaysintended) as quickly as possible. The new guy—Vic—tended to close down the office around eight, and the escort from the models as the sky grew dark in early May was welcome.

“No worries.” Rudy grinned at her. “We’re staying at the flophouse now. It’s pretty awesome!”

She didn’t even want to know what awesome meant. Bobby had stayed there for a couple of months, and when she’d asked him about it—since so many of John’s models spent time there—his response had been a sort of grunt about, “Too much testosterone, too many penises, not enough clothes.”

She didn’t need to know any more. Shedidknow that Dex’s younger brother and one of the former models had taken on a sort of unofficial supervision of the place, to make sure the kids—eighteen didnotmake them adults—stayed healthy and hopefully on some sort of track that would help them realize a lifebeyondporn. It had taken her a while to get it, that some of these young men weren’t here for the money. Whether it was for the acceptance, the challenge, or being the star of their own lives, there were other reasons to be in the business. Some of them, she’d figured, were justreally hornyand had the judgment of lemmings, so there were worse places to end up than a porn studio that tried to keep kids from losing their nut in a totally tragic and nonsexual way.

It was weird how some parents freaked out about their kids having sex, or who they were having sexwith,as though doing a thing with their bodies before their smarts kicked in somehow made them older or dirtier or more sinful. It simply made themkids,oftentimes going, “Hey, what doesthisbutton do! Oh wow! That was fun—let’s do thatagain!” The rest of their emotional needs were not automatically met because they found that humans sometimes had magic buttons. In fact sometimes the magic buttons got in the way, and it was theadults’job to look out for their kids when they were off chasing magic buttons and threatening to get plowed over by trains.

So she was glad that Rudy and Ricky had both found the flophouse—and that there were other people watching out for them who might understand the needs of people with theirspecific buttons. But she reallydidn’twant to know what went on there.

“That’s wonderful,” she said kindly. “You enjoy your stay. Tell Henry and Lance hello for me.” Henry was Dex’s little brother, and Lance was his boyfriend—the flophouse supervisors.

“Oh wow!” Ricky said, his eyes as big as a little kid’s. “We’re totally late for our scene dinner.”

“Oh my God!” Rudy, too, a little freaked out. “I’mstarving.We gotta go, Mrs. Bobby’s Mom—bye!”

And with that they took off into the night, leaving her to start her vehicle to head home to her cross-stitching and her murder mysteries and her cats. Vern and his boyfriend, Reg, had gotten her two kittens for Christmas—Cornish rexes, who had the shortest, most tightly crimped fur. She adored them and had tried to ask where they’d gotten such expensive animals, but Vern and Reg had been sort of vague about the whole thing.

She loved the creatures—they were affectionate and playful and made her little two-bedroom apartment so much less lonely. She’d originally thought that Vern might stay with her when she’d chosen the place, but it had very quickly become evident that once he and Reg had gotten back together, they were partners for life. It was okay, though. John Carey, her employer, paid her more than enough money to keep the place, and she had benefits too.

And of course the special assignments that John sometimes asked of her that they didn’t tell anybody about.

It was funny that she would have thought of thatnow,because as soon as she pulled out of the Johnnies parking lot, her phone rang. She hit the button on her dashboard and John Carey’s voice came through, quiet and tense, and she was instantly on alert.

“Isabelle?”

“Mr. Carey, are you okay?”

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