Love is Always Write Anthology Bonus Volume

some party or talking with some of the girls the show was about. In nearly every clip, there was a slightly glazed, drugged look in his eyes. His laughter was sharp and often sounded cruel, as it was always at the expense of someone else. And he always looked perfect in a carefully constructed sort of way. His hair was perfect, so was his skin. His teeth gleamed, and his nails were manicured. Every piece of clothing he wore looked as if it was picked out by a team of designers to convey the maximum amount of effortless coolness. And he came across as no better than the girls on the show; vain, shallow and spoiled in a million different ways. The only thing he didn't come across as was stupid. Mean on occasion, completely conniving but never dumb.
    Sebastian watched Daren as he slept. Dark hair that was a little too long fell in his face. The oversized cheap tourist T-shirt was already fading from a dozen washes. His arm, still in its splint, was draped across his body, and his fingernails were ragged and getting too long, like his hair. He looked far from perfect, but even half-broken, Sebastian thought he looked better than the boy who'd made an idiot of himself on national television.
    Sebastian gently brushed Daren's hair from his face, then let himself drift off to sleep as well.
    Morning came with the sound of someone knocking on the front door. Both Daren and Sebastian sat up. Sebastian rushed from the room, quietly shutting the bedroom door behind him. He looked through the peephole. On the other side was a young man and woman, each in tidy plain clothes and smiling. Sebastian could make out one holding pamphlets, the other holding a book.
    It was the first time in weeks Sebastian found himself missing his old roommates. They had this whole act involving a duct-tape cape and a fake rubber roasted chicken, designed to freak out anyone coming door to door.
    Sebastian opened the door a crack, not undoing the chain. "Yes?"
    The young woman smiled. "Good morning, sir. Have you ever taken a moment to think about your future?"
    Sebastian had never wished for a fake chicken so badly in his life. "Give me your pamphlets and go away." The girl handed him a pamphlet through the little gap. "And don't bother the old lady next door. She's already got a religion, and she doesn't have a dime to spare. I'm serious, these walls are thin. I'm a veteran, and if I hear you knock on her door or ring her bell, I will come out there and kick your asses."
    The young couple nodded, and Sebastian closed the door. When he got back to the bedroom, Daren was standing with his cane in one hand and a reasonably heavy paperweight that Sebastian had gotten in London in the other. Sebastian held up the pamphlets. "Do you have Jesus in your life?"
    "My mother used to have a pool boy named Jesus. Does that count?"
    Daren limped back to the bed and sat down while Sebastian collapsed down into the chair.
    Daren picked up the little ring of keys that had been sitting on the bedside table next to his wallet since they night he'd gotten there. "So, since we're awake, I've been thinking, we need funds."
    "I'm supposed to start my new job soon."
    Daren just waved his hand dismissively. "I mean real money. If we need to leave in a hurry, we'll need money. We need money to keep your bill collectors or your landlord from banging on the door. If we decide to risk hooking up with law enforcement again, it's going to have to be clandestine, and if watching those old James Bond movies with Richard taught me anything, it is that to be properly clandestine you need funds."
    "So I'm guessing you know how to get your hands on funds?"
    Daren twirled the wire key ring with the five little keys around his finger. "What do you know about private banks?"
    "Compared to you, I'm going to guess ‘nothing.’"
    "There are certain bank-like businesses that aren't under FDIC regulation, and, as a result, don't have to keep records the same way banks do. You can get safety deposit boxes, and you pay a premium for them to forget your face, to not have security cameras in the normal places, and to misplace your paperwork if the IRS comes knocking. They are a safe place to stash an emergency kilo of your best heroin, or those pesky Krugerrands left over from the 1980s that you are having a hard time shifting."
    "And you've got some money in one of these."
    "I've got things in five of these. And none under the name Gerald Delaware."
    "Five?"
    "I've been skimming off my trust