Simple Man

- FOUR -

   It was six in the morning on the West Coast and Edmond Halston was anxiety wrapped in an white and gold Versace robe. Rowan's phone went to voicemail. Again. He had seen Rowan send many people straight to voicemail but never him. Never Edmond. Had he done something? Was Rowan mad at him for some reason? It was too early to think that hard, he needed a mimosa first.

It had been four days. Nearly five. Today this was the third call he made in the span of ten minutes. Every time it went to voicemail but he tried a fourth time for the hell of it. Edmond heard Rowan's deep, slightly southern baritone come through but just as before, it was a prerecorded message. Edmond looked out into the early morning, it was still pretty dark. His infinity pool smooth as glass as it reflected the sparkling skyline of Los Angeles. His fingers dialed again, but this time, another number.

As the phone rang, and rang Edmond grew impatient, "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon."

"Babe?" Edmond heard his partner's sleepy voice inquire from inside.

"Not now Raul! Can't you see I'm on the—Ah! Ana! Darling! How are the kids? Listen—never mind—we can talk kids later. Please, tell me, is Rowan standing right in front of you? Say yes and I promise I will love you forever."

"Don't fall for it Ana, it's a trap. Trust me, I know." Raul called from the kitchen.

Edmond made swatting motions at his partner as he listened to Ana talk frantically on the other end of the phone, "So he wasn't in bed? Wait, wait—slow down—some clothes are missing? Fuck!—I'm mean fudge—sorry, Ana. His motorcycle's missing? I can't see how that thing still runs! He barely rides it. It's just a sentimental hunk of metal."

Raul gently touched Edmond shoulder, Edmond whipped around ready to snap someone's head off but saw his beloved husband with a mimosa in hand; Edmond's face softened as he took it, kissed Raul on the cheek and mouthed thank you all the while still listening to Ana freak out. Some words in english, some words in Spanish but all said very fast. Edmond was freaking out too, but internally, he didn't want to add to the old woman's panic. Edmond asked with a calmness he certainly wasn't feeling, "Was there a note left? Any clue as to why he ran?"

Edmond listened as Ana explained there was no note but there was something, "Some woman left a voicemail saying they needed to talk?—That's it?—Did she say who she was?— Lorraine? Did her voice seem familiar?—Ana, Ana, calm down! Did he say anything to you Ana?—No?—No, Rowan hasn't said anything to me."

As he said it he realized he didn't know who this woman could be either, he had never heard Rowan mention any new lady friend recently. He didn't know anyone by that name. Lorraine? Lorraine who? That set alarm bells off in Edmond's head.

Something wasn't right.

"How did this woman get get his number? He must know her because his number is unlisted but that's unlikely because I know everyone Rowan knows... don't I?"

Edmond knew Ana didn't possess the answer anymore than he did. This was so unlike Rowan. Rowan was somewhat of an enigma in Hollywood. He had the dangerous charm of a southern gentleman, he was tattooed enough to look like a bad boy, and women chased him enough to be appear somewhat of a playboy. Anyone who knew him really well knew he was as sober and as chaste as a nun. His parties were legendary but he usually be hiding in some remote corner of his mansion sipping on a ginger ale. Rowan was intensely private man when it came to the media but if he had been seeing this mystery woman at least Edmond would have known about it. He knew everything about his friend.

Well, almost everything.

Rowan never really talked about his past, even in the two decades he knew his client and friend he didn't know much about his background but to say he was from Louisiana and he had hated it there. The details of why were off limits and Edmond had always respected that. Edmond's upbringing was also less than ideal. He was the youngest son of severely strict and equally homophobic man. The same man who was the Headmaster of the private school he attended in his most formative years.