Page 39 of The Question of Us (Fisher & Church #2)

More partygoers were gathered under the semi-enclosed marquee, taking advantage of an ample buffet table groaning under the weight of a mountain of food.

And beside the pool, a luxurious summer house decked in rainbow-coloured lights was playing host to an enthusiastic DJ and a small group of dancers.

I spotted a couple of partygoers engaging in a little hanky-panky in the shadowy garden alongside the summer house and could only hope that the rose thorns of the upper garden would act as a suitable deterrent for anyone else looking to get a little frisky.

The cool palette of tropical green was set against colourful beds of flowers, the impact amplified by the surrounding parched countryside.

From the front door to the back, a guest moved from the brown of a late Aussie summer to the rich green and pops of colour more familiar with the tropics.

And twinkling above it all, thousands of fairy lights played against the clear night sky.

It was admittedly kind of magical and attested to an irrigation system that likely cost more to run than most people could afford, me included.

A rough count told me there were around eighty to one hundred people in attendance. And judging by the excited squeals, belly flops, and uproarious accompanying commentary from the sidelines, a fair amount of alcohol had been imbibed by most of those present.

All in all, everyone looked to be enjoying the evening, and yet there was something off about the whole set-up.

It took me a while to work it out, but it finally hit me.

There was an overwhelming majority of male partygoers compared to female and an age divide, as well.

About a third of those in attendance were older men, forties and fifties mostly, not unusual at a fiftieth.

But there was a decided lack of women, and those that were in attendance mostly hit the twenty to thirty-year age group.

And as for the rest of the men? Like the women, they tended to be model-worthy, practically naked, and in their twenties at a push.

They were also gay or sexually fluid at the very least, judging by the level of handsiness going on between the generations, which to be fair, wasn’t being rejected on either side.

The longer I watched, the more uncomfortable I became at exactly what kind of party this was, and Gazza’s relative safety was suddenly less certain.

Dammit. I scanned the crowd for any sign of him, but nothing.

The problem was, although I had a good view over the pool and outdoor arrangement, I had virtually no line of sight through the patio doors into the house itself, which was hidden under a covered outdoor kitchen set-up.

My gaze swept across the backyard once again, then up into the tiered gardens.

There was zero indication that I’d been noticed, or that Marty had employed any security beyond the two men checking arrivals in the front driveway.

Part of me felt reassured by that. Another part wondered what exactly happened at these parties that a security-conscious Marty didn’t want his employees to witness.

Call me paranoid, but my Spidey senses were tingling.

I checked my watch. Gazza had been gone fifteen minutes. I swore under my breath. Anything could be happening inside that house. There was no choice. I had to risk moving down a tier or two to try to see through those patio doors.

I took a deep breath and crept along the brick wall to the end of the rose bed.

Checking that the way was clear and no one was watching, I stayed low and made my way down the gravel path to the garden level below, where I slipped behind a larger-than-life-size sculpture of two naked men entwined.

It was positioned between two maple trees whose dark crimson leaves were already crispy on the edges, irrigation be damned.

I peered around the stone torso of one and breathed a sigh of relief.

The massive concertina patio doors had been pushed all the way open to expose a large kitchen/dining/entertaining area filled with at least another fifty or so people.

And standing off to one side, talking with a man dressed in a colourful kaftan, stood Gazza, or quite possibly our dearly departed Gazza, once I got my hands on him.

The fucker seemed totally relaxed as he talked animatedly to kaftan man, and once again I wondered about his choice of profession. Nerdy book restorer just didn’t seem to cut it, not that I was complaining. On this mission of ours, he’d turned out to be an absolute gift.

Wouldn’t stop me killing the jerk for rattling my nerves.

I slid back behind the statue and texted Mads. Have eyes on G. I pocketed it without waiting for a reply and settled in to observe the master in action.

Gazza continued his conversation with the flamboyantly dressed man for a few more minutes before something or someone outside caught his eye. As he excused himself and made his way out of the house and toward the marquee, I scanned the area to locate what or who had caught his attention.

It didn’t take long.

At some point while I’d been watching Gazza, Marty Klein had slipped into the backyard along with four other men, one of them shirtless.

The bare-chested man wore a pink sash with the words Kiss me, it’s my birthday written in bold lettering across the front.

Jacob, the birthday boy, no doubt. Two of the other men seemed around the same age as Marty, but the fifth man was in his early twenties at the most. Slightly built and unsteady on his feet, the young man had thick blond waves, a flirty smile, and a pretty pixie face.

The group stood separate from the other partygoers, watching the antics in the pool as they talked and drank.

The older men, bar birthday boy, were dressed in what I supposed would be labelled as resort wear—expensive loose linen trousers, casual shirts, and beachy-style jewellery, which no doubt cost a fortune.

The younger man offered a contrast. He sported impossibly tight faded jeans and a slim-fitting white tank that finished just above the waistband and revealed a tempting sliver of youthful, tanned skin.

Too tempting, judging by the reaction of the others who were practically salivating at the sight.

The queasiness in my belly shot up another notch just in time for Gazza to appear at Marty’s shoulder.

The older man spun, and a wide smile burst over his face.

He drew Gazza in for a very PG peck on his cheek that made me want to smack the arsehole into the next century.

When he introduced Gazza to the rest of the group, I could almost hear the collective intake of lust from everyone except the younger man, who regarded Gazza with a petulant look that implied he didn’t appreciate the competition.

I stared at his face, feeling an odd tug of familiarity.

Warning bells sounded in my head.

And there it was.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

The realisation hit me like a sucker punch to the stomach.

This was Lee’s brother, Aaron. It had to be.

The resemblance was obvious—blond, slender build, around eighteen, and then there was all that porcelain skin.

Lee’s cheekbones were a little sharper, his face more memorable, and this younger version lacked the swagger of his brother, but the similarity was undeniable.

Holy moly. I wondered if Gazza had any idea who he was standing across from.

Gazza had only ever seen photos of Lee. He’d never met the man in person.

I looked for any hint in his reaction that he’d made the connection, but there was nothing.

Gazza appeared friendly but not flirtatious as he shook everyone’s hand, and for that I was thankful.

There was something about this group of men that didn’t sit well.

They were like a pack of hyenas circling a kill.

When Marty’s hand slid around Gazza’s waist and Gazza allowed it, I could only hope Gazza’s radar was as good as he’d boasted. If he read things wrong and overplayed his hand with this lot, he might be in serious trouble.

After shaking Gazza’s hand, Jacob made a gesture to his sash, crooked his finger, and the other men began a slow clap until Gazza finally stepped forward.

He aimed a kiss intended for Jacob’s cheek but at the last minute, Jacob clasped Gazza’s jaw and crushed their lips together.

Before Gazza could protest, Jacob grabbed his arse and yanked Gazza close enough to hump the startled man’s thigh.

“Why, you slimy piece of shit,” I fumed, white-knuckling the binoculars.

The performance was accompanied by hoots of laughter from all the other men bar Marty, who simply watched on in silence.

Other partygoers turned to watch, drawn to the hilarity.

But even though it was obvious Gazza was struggling to extricate himself from the man’s clutches, no one said a thing.

Behaviour like this was clearly par for the course at one of Marty’s parties, a fact which didn’t bode well for our plan.

Regardless, I was taking fucking names. Because suddenly these weren’t a group of harmless middle-aged men freely indulging their whims on too much alcohol.

The masks had fallen. There was a lot more going on here than we’d thought.

These were dangerous men who felt entitled to take whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted, even in a space with a ton of people watching on.

None of these men knew a thing about Gazza and yet felt perfectly free and safe to treat him in such a fashion.

It didn’t bode well. They clearly knew no one would call them on it, which meant the other partygoers were either too scared of Marty to speak up or they were complicit, or they were part of the entertainment. None of which was reassuring.

The sooner Gazza got out of there, the better.