Elliott Miller is your average 23 year-old, only with a lost father and a resentful mother. When he goes back to his hometown to make amends, he inadvertently gets dragged into the activities of an illicit criminal group.
Enter Marcel Nixon, 25, wh...
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It was my last day in Los Angeles and, coincidentally, Marcel's too.
Actually, it turns out that our little rendezvous was not so much of a coincidence, as it was, a scheduled meet-up. Honestly, I'm not even sure why I didn't see it sooner; the signs were right in front of me. The impeccable timing of our schedules was something only Dawson Grey could've orchestrated.
Not that I was complaining; someone had to reach out first and neither of our inflated egos would allow it. It had always been that way- whether we got into fights or we were forced to admit something to each other.
After the convention, we'd spoken quite a bit over the phone, mostly reminiscing about childhood and talking about our present lives. I tried to control my over-excited rambling as much as I could, fully aware of my tendency to go a little overboard when I was passionate about something. Sadly, I couldn't say the same for Marcel, who gushed on for literal hours about his "sweetheart" boyfriend. Don't get me wrong, I was happy for him, however, it seemed a tad bit extra to love someone to the point of making marshmallows gag. Maybe my single self was a little jealous of my brother's flourishing relationship, while here I was, married to my work. Or maybe, I was genuinely cringing at his overly lovey-dovey descriptions. I'll never know for sure.
Suffice to say, we were fully up-to-date on each other's lives.
My flight back to Seattle that day was at six in the evening, and my Marcel's, as I was told, was later at midnight; so we opted to spend the day doing touristy things together before leaving. God knows how long it would be before we saw each other again so we might as well spend some well-deserved time together.
At about nine in the morning, he pulled up in front of my hotel, much to enthusiastically might I add. The previous night, he insisted that we began our day earlier but I threatened to cut him off for another five years if he so much as thought of disrupting my beauty sleep. Despite his protests, I put my foot down and he begrudgingly agreed to pick me up later.
I dragged my suitcase up to his run-down-looking sedan, eying him suspiciously, as he hopped out, whistling. He was wearing a suit... yes, you heard me right, a suit. At nine in the morning. To drive around LA. I'll admit, he did look much more polished than when I saw him last but I had no idea that his wardrobe still consisted of all-black outfits and suits. Old habits die hard, I guess, especially when it came to my stickler for a brother.
"Rise and shine, sleepyhead! Adventure awaits!" he chirped, as if we were about to embark on a quest for buried pirate treasure, not a slightly depressing outing around Hollywood.
"Morning," I grumbled in return, slightly annoyed by his overflowing jauntiness. It was far too early to be skipping like a schoolgirl but clearly, he thought otherwise. Based on our latest conversations, I ventured to guess that he'd been up for the last four hours or so, doing who knows what.
Marcel scurried over to the trunk of the car, opening it for my luggage. He did a once-over of my bags, and his face assumed a sheepish expression, which made me walk over to see what the confusion was.
