by T. M. Smith
As a cop, Frank knew his job was to handle each case and then walk away. He was never able to do that with Taylor though. Knowing the kid would be placed in foster care until family could be found and notified, Frank reached out to Valerie and Charles Stone, a couple he knew from church that were registered as foster parents. The homicide detective assigned to the case owed Frank a favor, so he called it in. After waiting the obligatory seventy-two hours, Frank met the social worker at the hospital to pick Taylor up when he was released, and the three of them drove straight to the Stones’ house in Highland Park.
Taylor had latched on to Frank for some reason, and Frank couldn’t bring himself to mind. Remembering when his own mother had passed, the pain of that loss resonated with Frank and he was determined to be there for Taylor because there had been no one there for Frank aside from his dad. Frank calling to check on Taylor, see how he was holding up, turned into a dinner invitation, and then another, and then Frank was invited to go with the Stones and Taylor for an extended weekend trip to Galveston island. Returning the favor, Frank invited them all to Martha’s Vineyard at the end of the summer along with Caleb and Justine, and the seven of them became a mix matched family from there on out.
A hand on his shoulder startled Frank and he jumped, shouting an expletive that Valerie certainly would have glared at him for voicing. “Easy, old man.” Taylor grinned down at him.
Shoving the car door open, which also pushed Taylor back a few feet, Frank glared up at him. “Kiss it, Kid,” The comment was laughable as Taylor now stood at six foot three and was all lean muscles and curves. What the fuck? Frank tried to move the thoughts in his brain around and figure out why in the hell he was even looking at Taylor close enough to notice his build. Shoving past him, Frank averted his gaze and laughed, hoping it didn’t sound as hysterical to Taylor as it did to his own ears.
He’d just popped the trunk when screeching tires, the roar of an engine, and an ear-splitting honk rent the air. “Caleb, oh thank God,” Frank muttered.
“Huh?” Taylor asked.
“I said, let’s unload the car.”
Taylor nodded, holding his arms out so Frank could stack two cases of beer in them to be carried into the house. He turned in time to see Caleb hop down from the cab of the tank disguised as a truck, arms weighed down with the bags of booze from the liquor store run. He followed them into the house, setting the bags on the kitchen island to be emptied, sorted, and the contents put away. One by one, Taylor’s friends arrived and there was a steady stream of people in and out of the kitchen, trekking down to the beach to play volleyball and ride the Jet Skis. Hubert and Charles set up the gazebo tents, Taylor and his friends carried down the chairs and tables, and Frank fired up the grill.
Frank managed to push the earlier incident out of his head and concentrate on the enjoying the day. That was, until Billy showed up. Billy Scranton was the grandson of the couple that owned the cottage next door. He was also Taylor’s first crush. Frank knew this because he’d been the one Taylor had come to when he was trying to wade through his emotions, his feelings for the boy next door. But it was still overwhelming for a then-fourteen-year-old kid to be attracted to someone. Frank felt certain that regardless of whether it had been another guy or a girl, Taylor would have been confused by the changes his body was going through. Puberty alone was bad enough. Toss in young love and sexual attraction and it was more like weaving through a minefield. At the time, Frank was still in his twenties and quite possibly, still surviving puberty himself. He could relate to everything Taylor was feeling back then.
Young Billy jogged through his grandparents’ backyard down to the beach and made a beeline for Taylor. The two of them hugged briefly and Frank felt a prickle of anger at the sight of Taylor’s arms around Billy. His emotions were both confusing and disturbing. There was no denying they looked good together. Where Taylor was tall and toned with caramel skin and dark, wavy hair; Billy was short, tanned, and blond with this California surfer dude persona that he wore well. The two of them headed into the water and Frank turned his attention back to the meat he was grilling, flipping the steaks before ducking into the house for a cold beer.
He couldn’t say why he chose to stay in the house for a minute. Popping the cap on the beer he’d pulled from the fridge, he took a long pull from the bottle before turning and looking out the window. But in hindsight, he was so happy he did. Because when Taylor and Billy came out of the water, embraced and then shared a quick kiss, his insides burned with jealousy that rivaled the anger he’d felt just moments before.
“I am losing my fucking mind,” he muttered. Yep, it’d been a perfect day until then.
Chapter Six
Taylor
Summer 2012
“Oh…God, fuck yeah…right there, baby!” The blond twink Taylor met on Grindr writhed underneath him. He’d been quiet and shyly flirtatious over dinner and drinks at Sao Paulo’s. He and Shane, no wait, Scott? Or was it Steve? Whatever his name was, they’d been messaging each other back and forth throughout the week, and Taylor was more than excited when Blondie asked if he would like to meet for dinner. Mexican food and margaritas provided just enough lubrication to loosen them both up and the next thing Taylor knew, they were falling into the hotel room he’d secured for the night.
Literally, the second the keycard slid into the lock and the door was pushed open, Blondie turned into some kind of sex demon, ravishing Taylor’s mouth with scorching hot kisses that threatened to liquefy his brain, among other things. He didn’t think he’d ever seen another person get undressed so fast, and in quick succession, he too was naked and on his back on the bed with Blondie’s lips moving from his mouth to his dick. It’d been hard to pull Blondie’s mouth off his rock-hard cock—the guy had better suction than a hoover—but Taylor prevailed, rolling their bodies so that he was on top.
Leaning over the bed, Taylor found his jeans in the pile of clothes on the floor, jerking his wallet out of the back pocket so he could get to the items he so badly needed right then. Condoms and lube in hand, he sat up on his knees and watched Blondie stroking himself assuredly, tweaking a nipple between two fingers. Gloved and lubed up, he grabbed the much smaller man by the hips and flipped him onto his stomach, jerking his body up to where he was on his hands and knees. Licking a path up the guy’s taint, circling his puckering hole then slowly trailing his tongue up Blondie’s spine, Taylor reveled in the fantastic little moans and whimpers that fell from Blondie’s lips. Not to mention the way his lithe little body shook with need.
“This is gonna be fast and hard,” Taylor whispered into his ear before biting down on the lobe. And boy was it. Sex kitten, aka Blondie, was tight, wet, and welcoming. His slim hips undulating and milking Taylor’s cock for every last drop of his release when he came in a flurry of growls and curses. Falling onto his back beside Blondie, Taylor closed his eyes and attempted to catch his breath.
“Who’s Frank?” Sex Kitten asked.
Turning just his head, Taylor met Blondie’s still blissed-out dark brown eyes. “Huh?”
Sex Kitten laughed softly. “Who’s Frank? You shouted his name as you were coming and…is he your boyfriend, or an ex?” Blondie had morphed back into the shy, quiet guy Taylor had met earlier in the evening.
Fucking goddamn son of a bitch! Taylor turned away from Blondie’s gaze, staring up at the ceiling and trying to remember exactly what he’d said not five minutes before when he was pounding Blondie through the wall. Closing his eyes, the first image that sprang to mind was a vision of Frank’s heart-shaped face, three-day-old stubble, blazing blue eyes and that goddamn scar over his left eyebrow. “Sorry, I…” He what? How could he answer that question when even he didn’t know anymore?
Since his eighteenth birthday, he’d been trying to figure that out. Who was Frank? When Taylor was thirteen, Frank was his savior, a guardian angel of sorts. At fourteen, Frank was a confidant, a sounding board for Taylor’s feelings as he tried to figure out his se
xuality knowing that Frank was gay. At sixteen, Frank’s appearance began to change. Well, Taylor started to see him differently, at least.
At seventeen, Taylor had gotten hard while playing flag football on the beach at Martha’s Vineyard when Frank tackled him. Feeling the man’s arms wrap around his waist and drag him down to the sand to wrestle the ball away from him had been an eye-opening experience. That night ended with Taylor jacking off in the shower to the memories of Frank wrapped around him like a goddamn glove. The man in the blue uniform with kind eyes and a soft smile that had coaxed Taylor from the crawl space in the attic had become so much more in his mind’s eye. As the years passed, Taylor found himself looking closer, admiration growing into something that felt a lot like love to him.
At eighteen, Taylor had rekindled his summer romance with Billy Scranton just to see if Frank would have a reaction to it. There were times Taylor felt certain he could feel Frank’s gaze boring into him, eyes lingering far too long before Frank would quickly look away so as not to get caught staring. That summer ended with fireworks in the sky, Taylor screwing Billy up against the wall in the boathouse, and his suspicion that Frank might be looking at him differently affirmed.
“You okay?” Blondie leaned on his elbow, reaching for Taylor’s hand and twining their fingers together. “It’s okay, you know, if you want to talk about it.”
Taylor harrumphed. “Or not,” Blondie responded with a chuckle. They fell into an uncomfortable silence for several minutes, Taylor about ready to get dressed and call it a night, when Sex Kitten made a triumphant return. Blondie sat up and straddled him, a condom in one hand, a packet of lube in the other. Either the supplies fell out of Taylor’s jeans earlier in his rush to dig through the pockets, or the little minx had rifled through the pants. Taylor wasn’t sure if he should be irritated or impressed. The latter won out, of course. He gave Taylor a look that was positively filthy before reaching between them and taking Taylor’s cock in his hand.
“In fact, we don’t have to talk at all, pretty boy.” Blondie teased, Taylor’s dick hardening once again. Oh yes, he could definitely get on board with this. Or in board, as it were.
Reaching for him, Taylor grabbed Blondie by the hips and held him in place while he thrust up into the tight fist wrapped around his dick. “What was your name again?”
Blondie tossed his head back and laughed and Taylor had to admit, the man was pretty fucking sexy. When Blondie looked down at him, one corner of his mouth lifted and there was a playful gleam in his eyes. “Shannon.”
“Yes!” Taylor snapped his fingers. “I knew it started with an S.” They both laughed.
Round two was slower, less frenzied than their first time, but no less satisfying. Too exhausted to move, Taylor tied the spent condom in a knot and dropped it on the floor. He’d flush it later. The next time Taylor opened his eyes, he was alone in the bed. Rolling onto his back, he listened to see if Shannon was in the bathroom, but the hotel room was quiet. “Damn, you could have at least woke me to say goodbye.” He grumbled, climbing out of bed and going to shower. Ten minutes later, he was dressed and walking out the door when, for whatever reason, he remembered the used condom he’d tossed to the floor the night before. Walking around to the far side of the bed, he lifted the comforter and tossed it up onto the bed, bending to pick up the spent condom. There on the floor, under the corner of the bed, he saw a piece of paper and smiled. It was a note from Shannon.
Pretty boy,
Sorry to bolt without at least saying goodbye, but you looked so peaceful, I couldn’t bring myself to wake you and I have an early class. Last night was wonderful Taylor and I hope we can work something out and see each other again. If you want to hang out, talk or just fuck me into the mattress, call me.
Shannon
“Oh, my God.” Taylor laughed, picking the latex up off the floor between two fingers and walking it into the bathroom to flush. Walking back out into the room, he noted that the bed was in shambles, sheets and blankets tangled and hanging off the side. There were several empty foil wrappers and lube packets glaring at him from the bedside table and the floor. “Oh well, that’s what maid service is for.”
Chapter Seven
Frank
Summer 2015
“Hey, Frankie, grab me and Justine another beer, would ya?” Caleb called out from their table on the patio. Frank nodded and gave the man a dismissive wave as he headed inside. Sunday nights were Karaoke at his favorite local haunt, Woody’s Dallas. It was fun to hang out, drink beer, and listen to people that thought they could sing—from afar—which is why they chose a table outside when they arrived.
The bartender had the three Coronas ready by the time Frank made it over, lime wedges sitting on the lip of each bottle. “Thanks, Gary, put it on my tab, would ya?”
The handsome, young Latino preened when Frank winked at him. “You know it, doll.” Gary winked back, pursing his lips seductively.
“Not happening,” he muttered under his breath. One-night stands were difficult to consider when you were a cop, what with the upholding of a proper image required as an officer of the law. He’d learned the hard way when he was still a rookie that quick fucks in bathroom stalls, blowjobs in dark hallways, or hand jobs in allies were no longer an option for him when he’d had to arrest one of his tricks for a DUI. Sober after several days in lock-up, the offender recognized Frank from their tryst in a local bar the second he walked into the courtroom and spilled every sordid, dirty detail to the judge. Charges were dropped and Frank was put on administrative leave for almost a month while Internal Affairs investigated. Of course, he’d been cleared in the end but there was a shadow over him that had taken a while to dissipate.
“Oh, thank God.” Caleb took the offered beer from Frank and pushed the lime into the bottle before turning it up and taking a long pull. “Ahhh, magically delicious.”
“I think that’s Lucky Charms, asshat,” Frank quipped, handing one of the remaining two beers to Justine.
Caleb made the bitter beer face and waved his hand in the air. “Please, stop. No talking about asses with you. Gross!”
“If you two start, I promise you, the next time we come to Karaoke, I’ll get us a table inside the bar.” Justine pointed her finger at Frank then her husband to make her point. The gleam in her eyes was part pissed and part playful, as it usually was when she had to deal with Frank, her husband, and copious amounts of alcohol. Justine might be petite and pretty, but she was no pushover. More like a firecracker.
Caleb gasped dramatically, one hand over his chest, eyes wide in mock horror. “You wouldn’t!”
“Oh, but I would,” she stated flatly.
“But babe,” Caleb whined, “he started it.”
Justine rolled her eyes at her husband before draining the last of her beer. “I’m gonna hit the ladies’ room. When I get back I expect smiles and fresh beer.” She narrowed her eyes, gaze moving from Caleb to Frank before pushing her chair back, standing, and walking inside the bar.
“Ow! Jackass!” Frank barked out when Caleb kicked his shin under the table.
“You deserve that for getting me in trouble with the missus.”
Rolling his eyes, Frank jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Next round’s on you, asssssssssshole,” Frank elongated the word, adding extra emphasis to the s. Caleb stood and headed toward the bar for more beers, bitching and moaning every step of the way.
Frank nursed the last little bit of beer in his bottle, watching as the horizon grew darker and the sun started to set. Try as hard as he might, Frank couldn’t keep his mind from wandering, thoughts of what Taylor might be doing right then invading his senses. Was he sitting at the small bistro-style table in his apartment studying, his dark, wavy hair falling into hazel eyes that held as much wisdom as they did pain? Perhaps he was working out at the college gym with his friends. His toned, tanned arms flexing with each curl, a thin layer of sweat dotting his brow from the exertion.
His attraction
to Taylor had come as somewhat of a shock to Frank. He was disgusted with himself the first time he realized he was looking at Taylor as anything other than friend or family. But still, the attraction was there, and no matter how many guys Frank hooked up with over the years or how many different ways he tried to convince himself he could not, would not go there with Taylor…his body and soul ignored his brain. Frank struggled with the realization that he was drawn to Taylor, kept reminding himself that there were several years between them. Hitting a growth spurt somewhere around sixteen, Taylor now stood at six foot three and likely weighed close to two hundred pounds, not one ounce of it fat. Between baseball, running, and working out, Taylor stayed fit and his body showed it. Muscles and abs that Frank caught himself staring at when they were at the beach, gorgeous hazel eyes that penetrated Frank’s defenses. And that fucking smile, lord, it could stop traffic and Frank’s heart.
Frank jerked back when a hand landed on his shoulder. “You okay Frank? You look like you’re angry at the world.” Justine asked, sliding into the chair beside him. “You’re thinking about Taylor and the case, aren’t you?” Frank nodded, sucking in a deep breath then slowly exhaling, praying Justine didn’t see the truth that was likely evident in his features. Eyes darting in her direction briefly, he saw only sadness and concern.
Thank goodness, he thought. He hadn’t even begun to try and make sense of his emotions, the draw to Taylor that crossed the lines between loyalty and lust. How the hell would he explain his state of mind to Justine?
“He’ll be home for good soon. This time next month he will probably be sitting here with us, listening to terrible singing, eating mediocre food, and knocking back a beer or two.” Frank stared down at the empty bottle in his hand, speaking softly. From one minute to the next, his thoughts went back to that night as if a rewind button had been pressed in his brain. “It pisses me off, Justine, what Taylor has had to endure over the years—his parents taken away from him without anyone’s consent. They were all cheated: Emily, Sean, and most of all, Taylor. And the fact that it’s an unsolved, cold case infuriates me.” Gone were the visions of a sweaty Taylor pumping iron, replaced with visuals of a scared, shaken thirteen-year-old that occasionally still haunted Frank’s dreams.