why don't you do right {part one, nc-17, jared/jensen}

[strippedpink]

Act I.
Jeffrey Dean.
Hollywood Town, 1947.

Jeffrey Dean Morgan was plenty of things in this life; a drunk, a failure, a no-account wastrel of good-will among the many and glamorous. During the times he let it bother him, it was a bitter pill to swallow. Other times…

He twisted the cap on a flask hidden securely in his overcoat and downed a mouthful of single-malt. Immediate warmth spread throughout his body, gentled the quake in his limbs, and he wiped a hand across his mouth and pulled a face at the scene before him.

Two young men were locked in a wrestling match of comedic proportions on a brightly-lit soundstage. The taller of the pair, a shaggy-haired wonder J.D. recognized as Jared Padalecki--the latest in a string of superstars bred through the illustrious Singer Corp. production company--missed an obvious cue when the director called for a cut and he stepped right into a dangerous looking punch. He fell with a loud curse, dragging his co-star down with him.

“Are you trying to goddamn murder me?” The shorter, blonder, meaner-looking man howled, ignoring the pain radiating from Jared’s own features as he came to his feet, cradling his cheek. J.D. winced upon seeing the bruise already swelling around Jared’s left eye.

“Sorry, Chad,” Jared mumbled, looking much more miserable than J.D. felt the situation warranted. Hell, he’d have popped that snotty fuck one just for the hell of it, but Jared’s shoulders were stooped, his handsome, youthful face drawn in resignation that threatened to tug at some long-forgotten sympathy buried down in J.D.’s cynicism.

“For cryin’ out loud, Jared, how many times do we have to do this damn scene? You’re killin’ me!” Chad shoved Jared back a full step, turned and waved away the swarming production assistants. “Get the hell away from me, damn it, I’ll be in my trailer.”

Jared’s jaw worked, big fists clenched tightly at his sides. Just when J.D. was sure he’d finally stand up for himself and show the squirrelly asshole a little what-for, he spun around instead and slammed through a group of loitering PA’s, apologizing all the way.

J.D. shook his head and took another swig of whiskey. “Actors. Bunch of fucking drama queens.”

“Detective Morgan?”

J.D. started, glancing away from Jared’s retreating figure toward a pretty little production assistant’s heart-shaped face. Flirtatious words sprang to his lips on instinct, despite the fatigue deep down in his bones toward the whole rigmarole. “Yeah, darlin’?”

She pressed her lips into a prim, unamused line. Boy, Singer sure seemed to know how to pick ‘em. “Mr Singer will see you now. Follow me.” Turning on one chunky heel, she took off down the winding corridor and left J.D. no recourse but to travel behind if he wanted any answers behind Singer’s enigmatic telegram.

He was quickly ushered inside Bob Singer’s private office, the door closing behind with a sharp snick, and J.D. took the opportunity to glance around his posh surroundings. Took in gilded statues, movie frames, all portraying Bob’s many and various theatrical endeavors in black, white, and gold. Familiar faces, pouting starlets and smoldering heroes, they read like a How-To manual for instant wealth and success.

J.D. bit back a flash of resentment and slid his hands into the deep pockets of his slacks. He’d be damned if he gave into any wayward urge to touch what he could never have again.

Seconds later, the door opened and brought with it the scent of fresh tobacco and rich cologne. J.D. turned and came face-to-face with the man behind Hollywood’s biggest accomplishments during this competitive day and age.

Bob Singer looked every one of the thirty years he’d spent in the business; even slick-backed and dressed head to toe in threads more expensive than what J.D. made in a year, he couldn’t quite rid himself of the sallow tint to his skin. Weary eyes and a wrinkled grin beamed at J.D. as he closed the door, held out a hand. “How much do you know about show business, Detective?”

J.D. blinked at the unconventional greeting, met Bob’s palm with his own. “No business like it, I hear. No business I know.” He pulled back and let the sarcasm speak for him while Singer lifted a brow.

They stood in silence for all of a moment, and then Bob turned. Stepped behind a massive mahogany desk overlooking floor-to-ceiling windows and began shuffling through papers stacked tall on the heavily polished surface.

“There’s also no business more expensive,” he said with what J.D. could only interpret as friendly frustration. “I’m thirty grand over budget on our latest production…you saw Padalecki blowing his lines? He can’t keep his mind on his work, and you wanna know why?” Bob’s fingers closed around a newspaper clipping J.D. identified from that morning’s edition. He tossed it at J.D.’s head with a peculiar sort of satisfaction.

“Seen cooing over prime rib with not-so-new sugar daddy was lounge sensation Jenny Ackles, spouse of Singer Corp. star, Jared Padalecki.” J.D. snorted, folded up the paper and tucked it under his arm. Impatience sharpened his voice. “Yeah, so. What’s this gotta do with me?”

“You’re the private detective, you figure it out.”

A nervous tic worked in J.D.’s jaw; he met Bob’s probing stare with a cool one of his own. “I don’t have time for this,” he started, but was immediately cut off when Bob slammed a drawer closed.

“Look, Morgan…this…Jenny’s poison, but Jared won’t believe a word of it!” Bob’s weak attempt at an easygoing manner had long since faded, overshadowed by a hint of deep-rooted malevolence that was gone as quick as a blink. Then, saccharine concern reeked again from his eyes. “I care about my boys, Morgan. I don’t like seeing them upset, unable to perform. I just want you to investigate…get me a couple of nice, juicy pictures I can wise the boy up with.”

J.D. buried his disgust beneath blank disinterest. “Forget it. I don’t work in Hollywood anymore.”

“Well, what the hell’s wrong with Hollywood…every Joe loves Hollywood!” Bob laughed, but J.D. caught an edge of anger underneath before Bob’s fingers closed like a vise around his shoulders.

J.D. finally let the sneer work across his lips.

“Then get Joe to do the job, because I sure as hell ain’t doing it.” With that, he reached up and forcibly removed the aging movie producer’s wrists. Tipped his hat and turned to leave the office, already berating himself for thinking he could get any kind of honest, decent work in a corrupt hellhole like this.

“Whoa, fella!” Bob skidded along after him, talking too loudly, too fast. Too desperate. “You don’t wanna go to Hollywood, you don’t gotta go to Hollywood. Nobody said you had to go to Hollywood, anyway! Come on, now, have a seat, Morgan.”

For whatever reason, J.D. hesitated…let the older man steer him back toward a plush armchair. He watched as Bob disappeared behind an extravagant humidor, pulling out two long, cherry Cubans. Offering one with a grin just this side of persuasive, he waved a silver-studded cigar cutter J.D.’s way. As J.D. leaned in, he said, “Padalecki’s little firecracker sings at a joint called the Ink & Paint Club. Strictly a, ah, men’s only review. So, what do you think, Morgan?”

J.D. took a long drag, eyes closed as he savored the full-bodied, spicy smoke. When he looked again, his gaze fell directly behind Bob. A row of gleaming crystal decanters, filled to the brim with age-old whiskey and scotch. Already, his mouth was tingling, his stomach warm at the thought. “Job’s gonna cost you a hundred bucks. Plus expenses--”

“--a hundred bucks?” Bob spat, leaning forward in his chair. “That’s ridiculous!”

J.D. flashed his teeth. “So’s the job.”

Bob hemmed and hawed, eyes working frantically in his head until he finally gave up and pounded a fist against the desktop. “Alright, alright! You got your goddamned hundred bucks, ya greedy bastard.” As J.D. chuckled and leaned farther back in his seat, something swept across Bob’s features. With a smile J.D. didn’t trust for a minute, he waved a hand toward the booze. “Have a drink, Jeff.”

Unable to resist despite himself, J.D. stood and made his way toward the window with trembling fingers. “It’s J.D. And I don’t mind if I do.”

xxx

Fifty bucks richer and with a smile on his face, J.D. pushed through The Terminal Bar’s doors and caught a whiff of smoke full in the face. He enjoyed the pub’s small-town atmosphere despite its big-city location, or maybe because of it. Every time he found himself ready to pack up and leave south Los Angeles, get a much-needed fresh start, he somehow wound up here among the rest of LA’s erstwhile vagabonds. It was some kind of shitty karma to find yourself loyal to a bunch of street crooks and no-names.

A frown lit his features as he passed by a table where a scraggly-looking man lay hunched over the well-weathered counter. J.D.’s brows climbed up his forehead and he took a seat at the bar, nodding his head toward the sorry sight as he turned toward his closest conscious company. “What’s with Jim?”

He got a drunken grunt in response, and correctly interpreted it as a flash of ire worked through his veins. “Laid off? The hell you say!”

“A new outfit bought the WB,” a dirty-faced man to J.D.’s right added, speaking of the television company that was Little Hollywood’s bread and butter, and which always produced jobs for even the most down-trodden of ne’er do well’s. Hell, J.D.’d sprung a job there himself a time or two, though he’d have to swallow a few pints before he ever admitted to it. “Some big company called the CW…tied it in with some other network, too.”

Sounded shifty enough to J.D. “No kiddin’…they bought the WB?” He twisted in his chair to take another look at Jim Beaver, who last he’d heard had scored a lighting job on some fall feature the network was cooking up.

“Yeah, and put the poor guy on two week’s notice. Cutbacks, they said.” His drinking companion sent another sympathetic look toward the unlucky Jim, picked up his hat and saluted J.D. before disappearing through the doors into the late-afternoon air.

“Well, hell.” J.D. reached over and picked up the man’s unfinished drink, lifted it to his mouth. “Here’s to the pencil pushers…may they all get lead poisoning, eh?”

Before the alcohol could touch his lips, a manicured hand covered the rim. J.D. glanced up into scowling brown eyes. He lowered the glass, tried for a smile. “Samantha.”

Her no-nonsense, husky voice wrapped around him like silk sheets. “It’s Friday, J.D. Know what happens here on Friday?”

He pretended to ponder the significance, settled for, “Fish special?”

He didn’t expect a laugh, and didn’t get one. Leaning close enough for J.D. to get a good look down the ruffled neck of her apron, Sam hissed through her teeth, “My boss comes in to check the books tonight, and so help me God, Morgan…if I don’t have that money I let you borrow back in the till--”

“Cool your heels, sweetheart, I got a gig set up that pays a sweet hundred bucks.” J.D. whipped out Bob’s check from its safe spot in the depths of his pocket and slapped it against the grimy countertop. “Now how about one of them fish specials?”

Samantha stared at the check, eyes big and wide and hungry. “Fifty bucks,” she whispered, then snapped to attention and glared at J.D. “Where’s the rest of it?”

“I get the other half on delivery.” At her uncertain expression, he growled in exasperation, “I’ll deliver!”

“You better.” She nibbled on her bottom lip, apparently apologetic for her outburst. Sure enough, a minute later she was sliding him a hot plate of fish and fries, topped off with a foaming glass of Guinness. “On the house,” she said, watching as he dug into the food with relish. “Don’t make me regret it, J.D.”

“Never, doll,” he managed through a mouthful, purposefully ignoring the disgusted face she pulled. Then, “By the way, you still got that fancy camera from New York Sit-ay? Mine’s in the shop.”

“Wouldn’t be the pawn shop, would it?” But she was already turning toward the back to look.

“Hey, you need the other fifty, I need a camera. Sugarlips.” J.D. saw the way her back stiffened up, but hell, he’d never been able to help himself.

The room began to shake as a railroad car moved past; J.D. steadied a stack of clean plates just over the bar and caught Sam’s grateful expression as she came back with the camera in hand.

“Just…be careful, all right?” It was more than he’d ever gotten from her, and J.D. blinked in surprise. Stared at the shadows that fell across her face as the train rumbled past.

“Aw, it’s nothin’ to worry about, Sam,” he finally said, wondering if he dared to reach across and take her hand. “Just some grunt work for Bob Singer I can have wrapped up by bedtime.”

She started to speak, but another voice rose above the din as a hand clapped J.D.’s back hard enough to send him face-first into his dinner. “Bob Singer, Morgan? What you got this time, oh, P.I. to the stars…wait, lemme guess. Dorothy lost a ruby slipper and can’t get home again?”

It got a laugh from the rest of the bar’s patrons, and J.D. ground his teeth as Chad Lindberg grabbed a chair and swiveled around to face him, smarmy grin in place and cheap booze on his breath. “It’s in your best interest to shut the hell up,” he told the kid, wondering why he even bothered with the warning when Chad had made it clear that annoying J.D. was to be his ambition in life.

“J.D.,” Samantha clipped off, and J.D. sent her a dark glare before reaching for his hat.

“I’m outta here,” he announced to the room at large, not bothering to tip Samantha a red cent for the meal. He made sure to knock into Chad on the way out, though, and savored the look on the kid’s face as he toppled over and howled obscenities at the ceiling.

“So what’s his problem?” Chad demanded, and J.D. closed his eyes, not wanting to hear the answer Sam would give. Knowing it in his head, nonetheless.

“He lost his job, you stupid son of a bitch. To some slick, fresh-faced tart outta D.C. that couldn’t act her way out of a paper bag, but sure looked pretty enough on camera.”

Yeah, J.D. thought as he pulled his coat in tighter against the brisk night air. Them’s the breaks, kid.

xxx

The Ink & Paint Club wasn’t much more than a hole-in-the-wall, least from the outside. J.D. rolled his eyes at the faded brick and mortar, thought of the President Grant waiting for him, and tapped twice on the heavy wooden door concealed in the shadows.

A few seconds passed before a slot in one of the panels slid open, revealing a pair of beady blue eyes and a nasty voice demanding a password.

“Bob Singer sent me,” J.D. said, flashing his I.D. and wondering if there was something the movie mogul might have left out before sending him to embark on this wild goose chase. Come to think of it, what the hell kind of nightclub used a back entrance nowadays, anyway? He was two seconds from tucking tail and running when the door opened, a rough-hewn hand waving him inside.

“The Ink & Paint Club welcomes you tonight, Mr Morgan,” a great ape of a man intoned as Jeff stepped inside and glanced around. “Straight on through, first door on your left.”

“Uh, thanks,” J.D. said, but when he turned to look back, the hulking figure was gone. He suppressed a shiver. “Jesus.”

It was first the sound of a boisterous piano number that greeted him as he walked down the hallway, and then light and laughter when he rounded a corner. Pushing through a pair of stylized doors, he found himself face-to-face with all the pomp and circumstance of the L.A. evening scene, complete with smoke and jazz and men falling over themselves to get a glimpse of the buxom barmaids working the room.

Once he got a good glance around, it seemed that the barmaids were less maidenly and much more male…something not altogether unheard of, but still certainly not of the norm. J.D. lifted a brow and allowed one of the monkey-suits to lead him down the stairs toward the main floor, where a table for one was set up and awaiting…him, apparently.

Onstage, a young quartet was playing a vivacious rendition of some bluesy tune J.D. wasn’t familiar with, while groups of men joked together and others listened attentively. Every so often, he’d catch a glimpse of some broad swishing her hips up and down the aisle to deliver a drink order or two, but for the most part, this definitely appeared to be a boy’s club.

“Men’s only review,” Singer’s words came back to him, and J.D. snorted while taking his seat. “Yeah, no kiddin’.”

A waiter immediately appeared, holding out a menu for drinks and appetizers. J.D. gave the placard a cursory look before tossing it on the silver platter. “Scotch on the rocks,” he said, and the waiter bowed and turned away, letting him catch a glimpse of a disturbingly familiar face seated at the table across from himself.

As if feeling eyes on him, the man glanced J.D.’s way before smiling wide and leaning in close. “First time, huh sonny? You’ve got that look about you…well, welcome, welcome! I’m Eric Kripke, of Kripke Enter--”

“I know who you are.” J.D. couldn’t help the gruff accusation in his voice, nor the memories the name surged inside of him. “Hollywood’s most reknowned film writer, and a goddamn recluse if you listen to the papers.”

Kripke’s happy expression never dimmed for a second. “If you listen to the papers,” he echoed, laughing as if J.D.’d told a wonderful joke. He gestured J.D. closer, ready to impart his vast knowledge upon the less fortunate. “Truth is, I’ve got a new script due to hit production this summer, and it’s a doozy! All about these two orphaned brothers who--”

“Yeah, can’t wait to miss it,” J.D. interrupted, pointedly turning away as the waiter reappeared with his drink. He downed it in one shot, hearing Kripke already hassling some other poor soul.

“Jeffrey Morgan!”

J.D. nearly choked on a cube of ice, recognizing the warm, feminine tone. When he glanced over, sure enough, Sandra McCoy was sashaying her gorgeous self his way with a grin on her face that could outshine the sun. He couldn’t help but return the gesture, leaning back when she rested hip-shot at his elbow. “Sandy?”

“Long time, no see,” she purred, one long-tipped nail traveling up the length of his arm. Although her eyes and voice spoke of smoky invitation, there was nothing but friendly curiosity in those hazel depths. She slanted him a wink, and J.D. chuckled.

“What’re you doin’ here?” he wondered out loud, taking in the short-hemmed black skirt clinging tight to her thighs. “Lord have mercy, doll, just look at you.”

“Work’s been kind of slow since the WB merged,” she answered, causing J.D.’s smile to falter. He well remembered Sandy’s vivid dreams of starring in her own show someday, of making it big and bright, only to sink as far low as most every other hopeful in the bunch.

Himself, included.

He called for another drink, fingers snapping, and turned back to Sandy.

“But don’t you worry none, I’ve still got it, Jeff.” She did a slow swivel of her hips, somehow managing not to drop the platter of drinks in her hand, and Jeff laughed admiringly.

“Yeah. You still got it,” he said, something warm and nostalgic swelling in his chest. Before he could continue, the lights dimmed down low and nearly everyone jumped to their feet in applause. J.D. caught sight of Eric Kripke in the corner of his eye; the man was flushed and even more excited, spraying himself with some expensive cologne that made J.D.’s eyes water.

“What’s with him?” He looked back at Sandy, who appeared resigned…perhaps even a little envious. Of Kripke? But as soon as the emotion came, it was replaced with a small, secretive smile.

“Mr Kripke never misses a night when Jensen performs.”

Christ, this broad must be somethin’ else. J.D. sat back and took in the pulse of expectation throbbing through the room as a spotlight took center stage. He heard Sandy sigh, leaned her way, but whatever words he might have responded with were lost the moment the first mellow notes sounded.

A smoldering saxophone was the only accompaniment to a low, sexy baritone that sent hot shivers down J.D.’s spine. Words about fever, and then the curtains pulled back to reveal a lone figure straddling a barstool. Fingers worked an ancient guitar, pluck by pluck, light catching the brim of a black fedora.

“What the hell…” J.D. trailed off as the head lifted and a pair of startling, green, masculine eyes traveled across the crowd. It was a little like being sucker-punched to the gut; J.D. liked women, hell, he loved women. This man sitting onstage and singing his heart out to a bunch of rich, horny perverts was more beautiful than any centerfold model he’d ever lusted after.

Swallowing hard and reaching for his drink with clumsy fingers, J.D. gulped the rest of his whiskey until his eyes burned, finally clearing his throat and turning toward Sandy, who seemed just as transfixed by the lounge singer as every other person in the club.

“H-He’s…married to Jared Padalecki?” The words sounded ridiculous to his own ears, but sitting there, watching Jenny--Jensen, Christ almighty--it seemed all too believable that this young heartthrob could seduce his way into some naïve up-and-comer’s life. And his billfold, the more cynical part of himself added.

“Yeah. What a lucky bastard,” Sandy sighed, still watching Jensen with that vaguely jealous look in her eye, before sniffling and turning toward the back of the room. She took three steps, then moved back and pressed a finger beneath J.D.’s chin, forcing his gaping jaw shut. “See ya around, J.D.”

J.D. barely heard her leave, completely focused on Jensen Ackles’ performance, as well as the revelation that one of Hollywood’s “best and brightest” was homosexual, and married to a purported gold-digging scoundrel.

It was that reminder that made J.D. sit up straighter, the despair lingering across Jared Padalecki’s features as the young actor left the studio. All at once, the bloom was off the rose, and he stared at the man cradling a microphone like a lover, crooning to the crowd about love and goddamn devotion.

Jensen’s eyes were closed, almost as if he were imagining himself anywhere else, and when they opened again, his gaze fell directly on J.D. Several emotions scattered across that cool green-gold gaze in an instant, not the least of which what J.D. figured to be panic. Not that Jensen had any reason to suspect him, but J.D. knew better than most that people who had something to hide rarely gave any thought to reasons why.

He kept that in mind as Jensen finished the set without looking his way again, gave the crowd a bow and spoke a few words of gratitude that simmered through his rich, honeyed voice, before taking his leave and disappearing back behind the curtain.

J.D. didn’t waste any time, grabbing up his coat and lighting a cigarette the minute he reached the dank hallway. Thanks to the crowd sensation after Jensen’s show, he was able to easily slip past the bouncer, find his way down toward the host of dressing rooms assigned to the club’s various performers. It wasn’t difficult at all to ascertain which room belonged to Jensen, and he barely blinked an eyelid when the shadows revealed none other than Eric Kripke tapping at the door. A box of cigars rested in the crook of his arm, his tie loosened and eyes gleaming.

“Who is it?” he heard Jensen call, sounding tired and hesitant. But the door opened when Eric revealed himself, and J.D. shook his head, sickened at the depths people would go to for money.

He crept closer, trying not to think of the fifty dollars that awaited him for ratting out this cheating bastard and his film-writing sugar daddy.

After several moments, it became obvious that he’d glean nothing more to report from here, and he quickly made his way outside and around the building to where several tiny windows perched a few feet off the ground. Most were dark, however, one was gleaming bright behind a pair of sheer curtains, and J.D. checked his lens as he recognized the voices coming from inside.

“Jensen, come here…sit down with me.”

There was a heavy pause, and then, “Not tonight, Eric. I’m not feeling well, and I should really get back before he--”

“Jensen,” Eric’s wheedling voice echoed through the air, and J.D. grimaced. “You promised.”

“Fine. But…but just the mouth.” Jensen’s words came in a low rush that J.D. had to struggle to make out. “I won’t have a chance to shower after, and I can’t risk smelling like you.”

Christ. J.D. angled the camera up until he got a clear view of the goings-on, and hundred bucks or not, he immediately wished Singer had found someone else to do this job. The sight of Eric Kripke, pants around his ankles, fondling Jensen Ackles’ brown hair as Jensen kneeled at his feet was enough to scar him for the rest of his natural born life.

“Job’s gettin’ more expensive by the minute,” he groused, trying to block out the crescendo of Kripke’s moans as the camera lens clicked.

xxx

“Do you understand now, Jared?” Bob’s voice was soft, soothing, as he stood behind his protégé’s seated figure in the main office of Singer Corp.

Jared hadn’t spoken a word in nearly an hour, ever since J.D. had shown up with the folder of proofs developed from the night before. It felt a little like kicking a defenseless puppy, seeing the way Padalecki’s eyes dimmed to dead, the look on his face blank and withdrawn.

When it finally came, his voice was a husky rasp that belied the anger burning bright in those hazel eyes. “I…don’t know what you want me to say, Bob. It’s obvious you went to a lot of trouble to get these.” His gaze flicked toward J.D. for all of a second, but it was enough to have J.D. stand straight against the wall, guilt eating away at him like a cancer. “I guess I just don’t know why you did it.”

Bob seemed struck mute by Padalecki’s calm façade; a streak of irritation furrowed his brow before smoothing out on itself. He dropped both hands on Jared’s shoulders, breathed words of support. “You wouldn’t believe me, Jared. Not without visual proof. Now you’ve surely got to see that Jensen is…” Jared finally looked up, something shining in his eyes that made Bob lose his train of thought before he cleared his throat and continued. “Hell, take comfort, son. You’re not the first guy whose, ah, husband played patty cake on him.”

I’d like you to find me another in twenty miles, J.D. thought, pressing his lips together to keep from saying a damn word. This freakshow would soon be over, he’d have another fifty dollars in his pocket, and he could finally pay Sam back and get on to his next job.

The sound of Jared’s fist coming down startled him out of his reverie, and he glanced warily at the young actor as Jared pushed back his chair and stood up. “There’s gotta be some kind of explanation,” Jared started, voice cracking even as his words came out sharp and determined. He turned pleading eyes on J.D. that ripped near into the depths of his soul. “I know Jensen, Detective, and he wouldn’t…he wouldn’t do that to me. You must’ve missed something, or-or gotten it wrong somehow--“

“The camera doesn’t get things wrong.” J.D. hated himself for saying it, but hell, enough was beyond enough. He tossed the glossy photos down in front of Jared again, pointing at one incriminating shot after another. “Believe it, kid. I took the pictures…he played patty cake.”

Jared stared at the images, barely skimming the edge of one photograph with a fingertip. His bottom lip quivered, and J.D. looked away. “Damn it, Jensen! Damn it…” He trailed off, visibly stricken.

“This is hard to believe. Eric Kripke’s been my friend and neighbor for thirty years.” Bob wrung his hands together, the picture of confusion and upset. “God, Jared, if I’d known it was him all along…”

“Just…stop.” Jared clenched the glossy stills so tight they crinkled, then swept them onto the carpet with an angry hiss. “You got what you wanted. I never want to see that son of a bitch’s face again! I-I just might kill him first.”

Jared pushed past Bob’s stunned features, grabbed a bottle of malt liquor, and stormed out of the office with the resounding thunder of doors slamming. J.D. winced, then heaved a sigh and held out his palm.

Bob slipped him a fifty, face-down, and J.D. left the building without another word.

The walk back to his office and apartment building seemed to last longer than normal, and it gave him plenty of time to remember every flash of pain that streaked across young Padalecki’s face as he’d learned the truth.

J.D. flipped his collar up against the wind, settled his hands down deeper inside his pockets. His boots scuffed along the pavement, a steady staccato to the mewling cries and howls of the alley cats and their prey.

He reached Morgan Investigations just as the first drops of rain began to fall from the sky, and shook out his coat while pushing through the grimy glass doors. Cursing at the idea of Padalecki wandering around somewhere in the cold, J.D. climbed the stairs and struggled, unsuccessfully, to put the young man out of his mind.

Hell, he’d never been this emotionally involved in a case. He didn’t get attached…it was the one good thing going for him. There were other private eyes, some plenty better at the job, but at the end of the day Jeffrey Dean Morgan was the one you could count on not to give a fucking damn. Get the job done, get the cash, and get gone.

Instead of heading for the small apartment he kept above his offices, he slipped inside the makeshift dark room to the side. Saw the rows of negatives clipped along the wall, showing Jensen and Kripke in all their lascivious detail. J.D.’s throat worked; he stared at the pictures for all of a minute before reaching up. Grabbing first one, then the next, and ripping them down the middle. The torn edges were tossed in the trash can, one after another, until J.D.’s hand shook so badly he had to rummage through the cabinet for the flask he always kept hidden there.

A few heavy sips and warmth soothed his belly. He fell back in his chair and scrubbed a hand down his face, swimming with guilt and regret as he recalled the tears Jared had been doing his best to hide.

xxx

“Morgan!”

J.D. sat straight up, sunlight shining against the backs of his lids as he squinted at the blurry figure standing in front of him. After several seconds, he recognized the frowning features of Lieutenant Cassidy, and lifted a hand to shield his sore eyes from the sun still beaming through threadbare curtains.

“Where’d you come from?” He smacked his lips, swallowed around a tongue gone thick and dry.

Katie watched him for a long moment, then sighed. Leaned a hip against J.D.’s desk. “Christ, Jeff…why didn’t you just come to me if you were so desperate for a quick buck?”

J.D. folded his arms across his chest, the cloudy remnants of sleep quickly disappearing beneath his friend’s heavy disapproval. “So I took a couple of dirty pictures, kill me.”

Katie ground her teeth together, eyes flashing as she leaned in closer. “Real funny. Too bad I already got a stiff on my hands!”

J.D.’s smug smirk fell away. Something cold and vile twisted in his belly, and he wished desperately for a drink. “The hell are you talking about, Cassidy?”

“Eric Kripke.” Katie’s gaze was searching, expectant. “The Padalecki kid cacked him last night.”

J.D. fell off the side of his chair, landing on the ground with a curse. Coming to his feet with a wince, he rubbed the seat of his pants and met the grim determination colored across the lieutenant’s pretty face. “Show me,” he said curtly, not even bothering to ask for the department’s permission.

Katie merely inclined her head and then gestured for J.D. to follow her outside. They made the quick drive across town, Eric Kripke’s king-sized mansion towering above the hills. As Cassidy killed the engine, J.D. stared out the window and clenched his fingers tight to stop the quake.

Katie slammed the car door. “Come on, J.D. let’s get this over with.”

Police tape marked the immediate area, and J.D. took it all in as if in slow-motion; the way everyone’s eyes lifted to watch him. The muddy footprints leading down the hall, sealed off by more tape. He ducked under and into the master bedroom with a vague sense of nausea, smelling the blood before he saw it.

Police were everywhere, cameras clicking to record the splatters, gloved hands removing evidence that might somehow prove useful when the whole fiasco inevitably went to trial. In the middle of the chaos lay the deceased, throat slit and blood blackened across his neck and down the front of his nightshirt. Those laughing eyes were bugged and bloated, no longer capable of any kind of humor.

J.D. lifted his sleeve to his nose to keep from vomiting as the stench of death filled his nostrils, threatened to take up residence deep down in his bones. It wasn’t the first dead body he’d ever come across, but the smell never wanted to leave.

A familiar voice caught his attention, and J.D. spun around to find Jensen Ackles in deep conversation with a young officer who seemed as starstruck by the singer as any of the men at the club J.D.’d attended the night before. He flinched at the memory, at the events afterward, and when he glanced up again he found those fascinating eyes focused on him.

“Hey, didn’t you used to be J.D. Morgan?” A thick-accented drawl startled him out of the gaze, and he turned to find a pug-nosed grunt eyeing him with a smile that curled at the edges. “Or did you just change your name to Jack Daniels?”

Several of the cops laughed, and J.D. felt that well-known irritation brewing that’d led to his initial remission from the force. Before he could speak and put the snot-nosed brats in their place, however, someone tapped his shoulder.

He turned with venom on his tongue; barely got a glimpse of Jensen’s ravaged expression, those green-gold eyes rimmed red, before catching a fist to the jaw. J.D. had to admit…the guy might be pretty, but there was nothing soft about him.

Ears ringing, he let Jensen grab him by the collar, pull him in close enough to smell the mint on the other man’s breath. “I hope you’re fucking proud of yourself, asshole,” Jensen hissed, heavy-lidded and dangerous. “And those pictures you took.”

He didn’t wait for an answer, just spit at J.D.’s feet and shoved him away. Raked him head-to-toe with another scathing glare before turning and pushing past the gawking spectators.

“Shit,” J.D. managed, rubbing his cheek. His goddamn left eye was already swelling shut.

A loud zipping drew his attention; he watched three coroner’s assistants attempt to respectfully tuck what remained of the bled and gutted film writer into a body bag. As they hefted Kripke up and out the door, something caught the light and winked up at him.

Still reeling from his encounter with Padalecki’s husband, J.D. reached down to pick up the glittering token and received the sharp end of a cane to the center of his hand for his effort.

“Pardon me, gentlemen, but is this man attempting to remove evidence from the scene of a crime?”

There was nothing remotely remorseful in that cold voice, and J.D. looked up from his kneeling position to find a pair of ice-blue eyes staring down at him. Framed by a head of red-gold hair and pale cheekbones, the woman commanded fear and intimidation. Even J.D., who’d faced his own death head-on more times than he could count, felt the distinct urge to cower.

“Of course not, Judge Ostroff.” Cassidy appeared out of nowhere, laughing and slapping J.D. on the back. “Morgan here was just picking it up for you. Weren’t ya, J.D.?”

J.D. grimaced at the force of the blow, sent Katie a look over his shoulder before coming to his feet and gazing back at the city spokeswoman. “Well, kinda hought I’d see what I could get for it first. You wanna make a bid, Judge?”

Instead of getting angry, Judge Ostroff simply smiled. “I see that working for an actor’s rubbed off on you.”

“I wasn’t working for no fucking actor, I was working for Bob Singer,” J.D. said through his teeth, fingers clutching the small trinket tight.

The judge’s eyes gleamed. “Yes, we had the chance to speak with Mr Singer…he said young Padalecki became quite agitated when you showed him the pictures. Said if he ever saw his husband or Mr Kripke again, he’d…kill them? Is that true?”

J.D. matched her mean grin. “Darlin’, do I look like a rewind button?”

This time Cassidy didn’t bother with the niceties, simply slapped him upside the head. “Play along, J.D. Damn it, she’s in charge of this investigation.”

“That’s quite all right, Lieutenant.” The judge snapped her fingers at someone behind her. “From the smell of him, I’d simply say it was the booze talking. No matter, Padalecki won’t get far….my men will find him.”

J.D.’s eyes narrowed as a threesome clothed all in black appeared in the doorway; the two men were as different as night and day, one tall and somber, the other short and wild-eyed. The woman was petite and blonde, gorgeous, and twirling a deadly looking razor. The covetous, almost loving way she watched the blade flash between her fingers sent chills down J.D.’s spine.

“You find the kid, Rosenbaum?” Judge Ostroff snapped, and the shorter male stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back.

“Don’t worry, Judge, we got informants all over the city. We’ll find him.”

Ostroff turned toward him again; the malice shining in her eyes was unmistakable. “You wouldn’t have any idea where Jared Padalecki might be, Detective Morgan?”

Eyes still trained on Blondie’s switchblade, J.D. offered, “Have you tried Aruba? Jamaica? I hear Coco Beach is very nice this time of year.”

The tall one snickered under his breath, but Blondie looked ready to slit his throat the way Padalecki’d done Eric Kripke.

“Kristen, no.” The words were soft, almost gentle, and the young woman fell back with obvious agitation, glaring at J.D. “Tom, I’d like you to respectfully relieve the detective here of his…souvenir.”

Several minutes later, J.D. was suffering a few bruised fingers and a black eye. He got out of Cassidy’s vehicle as it pulled up outside of his building, ready to go in and fall face-down on the bed and put this entire spectacle behind him.

Instead, he found himself plagued with yet another visitor. Chad Michael Murray, asshole extraordinaire, and co-star to one Jared Padalecki, waited just outside of his office. Cigarette clamped between his lips, brows drawn together as he glanced at the thin gold band around his wrist for what probably wasn’t the first time.

As J.D.’s footsteps slowed down the hallway, Chad’s head snapped up and he rested both hands on his hips. “You Morgan?”

“Yeah…” J.D. eyed him warily, keys in his hand as he weighed the possibility of just throwing pretty boy here out on his ass and getting that nap.

Chad pursed his lips, brought the cherry to his mouth again. “I want to talk to you about the Kripke murder.”

“I’m listening. For now.”

“Look, Morgan…Padalecki didn’t knock off Kripke.” Worry gleamed in Murray’s eyes; it softened his features, teamed with a certainty in his voice that J.D. couldn’t miss. “He’s not a murderer, goddamn it! And I should know, he’s my best friend. I told those idiot cops, if he hasn’t killed me yet, especially after all the shit I’ve given him lately, then he just doesn’t have it in him. This whole thing stinks like yesterday’s garbage.”

He thrust out a hand, offered the day’s headlines in black and white. “Look at this…the paper says Kripke left no script behind? That’s a load of horseshit,” he scoffed. “Anybody who knows a goddamn thing knows that Kripke was working on something big before he bit the big one.” Another nervous drag on his cigarette, and Chad continued. “Hell, he promised the prime roles to Jared and that sorry, cheating, no good son of a bitch he married! So I’m telling you, Morgan, that script is the reason he got bumped off.”

J.D. waited until it seemed the man had gotten everything out of his system, then reached out to take the paper. “Has anybody ever seen this script?”

Chad’s determination faltered for all of a second, before he straightened his shoulders and met J.D.’s gaze with a hot glare. “No…but look. Kripke had a real soft spot for Jensen, wanted to see him break out in the bigtime. And he treated Jared like a second son.”

“By sleeping with his husband, sure, makes a lot of sense.” But J.D. could hear the words, clear as day in his mind: “ I’ve got a new script due to hit production this summer, and it’s a doozy!””

Chad’s patience was obviously beginning to run thin. “Look, Morgan, I don’t claim to understand what the hell happened there. But the fact that someone’s out there trying to cover that script up, well, it’s obvious that--”

J.D. shoved the paper under Chad’s nose and turned to work his key in the lock. “What’s obvious is that you don’t got a clue, pal.”

“I was just thinking since you were the one that got my pal in trouble, you might wanna help get him out,” Chad snapped from behind him, and J.D.’s back went stiff. Apparently sensing an opportunity, Chad lowered his voice and moved in close. “I can pay you.”

J.D. pushed the door open, turned and slammed it in Chad’s face, ignoring the heated oaths from the other side of the door. He poured himself a drink and tried not to think about the photos of Jensen Ackles plastered across the front page, complete with details of Jared Padalecki’s supposed murderous rage.

“Ain’t my fault the kid went and got himself into trouble,” he mumbled, swigging bourbon until the guilt relaxed into righteous indignation. “All I did was go and take a couple of lousy pictures.”

It took another two drinks to convince himself of the fact.

xxx

Steam billowed out through the bathroom door, and J.D. wrapped a towel around his shoulders, ran all ten fingers through the curling mass on his head. It was high past time he saw his barber, but it’d have to wait until after he got to Samantha. After he set everything straight.

Unfamiliar spice and cologne tickled his senses the moment he stepped into the bedroom, and he was reaching for the holster hidden behind his dresser even as he heard Jensen speak.

“You’ve got the wrong idea about me, Detective Morgan.” Ackles studied his reflection in the full-length mirror hanging against one faded, striped wall. He was dressed to the nines, brown-gold hair slicked back to draw further attention to those sharp green eyes. With a flick of both wrists, he checked his cuffs, smoothed down his lapel. “I’m a pawn in this, just like Jared.”

J.D. rested his fingers around the barrel of his P.38 and grabbed for a pair of clean underwear. He was sliding one foot in, maintaining an awkward yet effective hold on the handgun when Jensen finally turned around. Desperation lit his handsome features, giving J.D. genuine pause as he pulled his shorts up his hips.

“Will you help me find him? Just name your price, and I’ll pay it.”

A flicker of something behind liquid green, and J.D. went stiff. He leaned against the dresser and scratched at an unseen itch below his navel. He felt every stroke of those pretty eyes as Jensen catalogued the movement, but there was nothing sexual about it.

“I just bet you would.” He sent Jensen a slow grin, watched the other man’s gaze drop to the gun in his hand. “Yeah, you’ve gotta have Padalecki to make the scam work, right?”

Just like that, Jensen’s cool demeanor slipped. With a rage that bordered on fear, he crossed the distance separating the two men and drew up close enough that J.D. could see a splash of freckles across the bridge of Ackles’ nose. The dark circles settled beneath his eyes. “You’ve got it all wrong, goddamn it!” His voice broke with believable upset, but J.D. didn’t buy the performance.

Not yet, anyway.

“I love my husband,” Jensen continued thickly, holding J.D.’s guarded gaze until J.D. had to look away just to keep from caving. The sheer presence Ackles commanded was astounding; onstage, kept at a distance by the lights and the crowd, it was powerful, but not overwhelming.

Up close like this…

As if he could read the worrisome thoughts traveling through J.D.’s mind, Ackles pressed his lips together and laughed somewhat bitterly. “You don’t know how hard it is being a man and looking the way I do.”

Christ.

“Yeah, well,” J.D. moved back, clearing his throat and looking anywhere but at that ridiculously rosy pout. “You, uh, don’t know how hard it is being a man…looking at a man looking the way. You do.”

They stared at each other, until a calculating gleam rose up within the depths of Jensen’s eyes, and J.D. quickly turned away. He rummaged through the dresser drawers for a shirt, and his poise. “Anyway, save the sob story for some other schmuck, kid. Weren’t you the one I caught playing patty cake with old man Kripke?”

“You didn’t catch me, Detective. You were set up to take those pictures.”

At those resentful words, J.D. froze. He could all but hear Ackles’ pleasure at setting the record straight, and wondered why in the hell he hadn’t realized it before. Of course… “What’re you goin’ on about?”

Sincerity heightened Jensen’s voice, elegant fingers plucking nervously at a nonexistent thread on his suit jacket. “Singer wanted to blackmail Kripke…I didn’t want to have anything to do with it, but he said if I didn’t pose for those damn pictures they’d do things to Jared that’d make what happened to Eric seem like an extended vacation in paradise.” He took a step closer, licked those full lips. Lowered his voice. “I couldn’t let that happen. Think what you want of me, Morgan, God knows I deserve it. But I’d do anything for Jared.”

“Wow,” J.D. drawled, “what a husband.”

Jensen cut him a glance that was all too easy to read, and it sent chills down J.D.’s arms that weren’t entirely unpleasant. It wasn’t until he felt his back hit the wall that he even realized he’d been steadily backing away, away from the growing determination coloring Ackles’ features.

“I’m pretty desperate, Morgan.”

“And you’re barking up the wrong tree,” J.D. started, and caught a hint of musk before the satin-edged sleeve of Jensen’s suit brushed his arm.

“I see the way you look at me.” Jensen licked his lips again, a nervous twitch that contradicted his predatory words. A wave of sympathy, pity, rushed over J.D when Jensen spoke again. “If-if it’ll get you to help Jared, I’ll--”

“Just stop.” It came out rougher, angrier than he’d intended. Jensen flinched away, and J.D. growled under his breath and crossed his arms to keep from reaching out and shaking the younger man. “Jesus, how do you think Jared would feel, knowing you’d do that? You think he’d appreciate it?” He waited a beat, then added with vehement truth as Jensen looked away, “He’d rather rot in hell than see you forced to something like this.”

“He doesn’t know what’s good for him!” Jensen shouted, and when he looked up again it was impossible to miss the sheen of anger moistening his eyes. “Hell, he married me, didn’t he? Fucked up his life real good. But at least I can fix it, Detective. Set him free before I free him of me.”

J.D. didn’t respond, just watched the man spin away, visibly gather himself before adding over his shoulder, “And I’ll do it with or without your help.”

Sparing J.D. one last look, Jensen moved toward the door and slipped through, leaving J.D. behind. Wondering just how deep into this mess he’d fallen, and how far he’d have to climb to get back out again.

xxx

Padalecki’s name was plastered on every street corner J.D. passed on his route to The Terminal Bar, only this time it wasn’t studded with glitter or touting the young man’s onscreen accomplishments. News of Eric Kripke’s death had traveled the circles overnight, and everywhere he went J.D. overheard people discussing the surprising turn of events.

Many found it hard to believe that someone as reportedly kind-hearted and generous as Jared Padalecki could be capable of such a crime, while others pointed out that emotion nearly always blinded common sense. J.D. ignored it all, sweaty fingers clutched around the fifty dollar bill he’d earned. Blood money, his mind improvised wildly, and J.D. reached for his flask to shut up the obnoxious sound of his own conscience.

The bar’s crowd had grown seemingly overnight, and J.D. took a moment to stare at the gathering of hopeless cases before making his way toward the main counter where Sam stood, wiping down the bar. “More lay-offs?” He signaled for a capper, held out his flask.

Samantha ignored the request. “For God’s sake, J.D….where’ve you been the past two days? I’ve been hearing and seeing things that make my skin crawl. Just yesterday that Padalecki kid was--”

J.D.’s elbow slipped. “He was here?”

Sam blinked at the force of his reply, then her eyes narrowed. “You are involved…oh, God, J.D.! What were you thinking!”

“I’ve got nothing to do with it, Sam,” J.D. lied. At her disbelieving look, he shrugged both shoulders. “All right, all right! I took some pictures, but whatever happened after that happened without my knowledge. Now goddamn it, was the kid here or not?”

“No.” The word was clipped off, short, and she slammed down a glass of ice water and lemon. Fingers shaking. “But people are talking, J.D., and the whole thing’s taken on a life of its own. I just can’t believe it; he seemed like such a sweet young man. Now Ostroff’s ready to hang him from the village square!”

“Ostroff’s got a coupla screws loose, doll.” J.D. eyed the water with jaundiced eyes before lifting the glass to his lips. “You shoulda seen the goons she’s got working for her. Look like they all should be straight-jacketed and locked up tight.”

“I don’t like a bit of this.” Samantha leaned in closer, lowering her voice so the others couldn’t overhear. Not that they seemed interested in much more than losing themselves in their alcohol. Hell, J.D. could relate. “Just yesterday, some cops were in here…asking questions about you.”

J.D. was affronted to say the least. “The hell for?”

“Just.” Sam’s throat worked, her eyes flicking over J.D.’s shoulder. “You should be careful, Morgan. Watch your back, okay?”

J.D. glanced behind him, caught the shadowy movement in the back of the bar. The hair on the back of his neck rose up, and he set his glass down, slid it across the bar on the pretense of passing his fingers over Sam’s. “I’ll check in soon,” he murmured, then turned to leave the bar.

The late afternoon sun still burned bright outside, so he wasn’t worried about the person following him. Not until he reached his office, and the sound of the footsteps his stalker was poorly attempting to hide trailed off. J.D. looked over his shoulder, once, twice, before slipping inside and locking the door behind himself.

He wasn’t three steps past the staircase before drawing his gun and falling back. The figure hunched low in the shadows gave a small cry of alarm, heightened when J.D. twisted his arm and drew him up hard against him.

His voice went low, mean. “Gimme one reason why I shouldn’t turn you in, kid.”

That was when he got his first good look at Jared Padalecki since that terrible night in Bob Singer’s office. J.D.’s eyes widened; he let go of Jared’s wrist and stumbled backward. “Jesus Christ, what the…”

“Eric’s dead.” A sob left Jared’s throat as he dropped to his knees, staring at the blood dried, smeared, across both hands. He lifted anguished eyes to J.D. “I-I think I killed him.”

Go on to ACT II (JARED)
Go back to MASTER POST