Sounding the Depths

by Maria-Claire Payne

  * * * *

  Josh reached up to capture Ethan’s hand in his, to hold him still while Josh recounted his surgery. He kept his gaze downcast, unsure if he was afraid this gesture was too much…or more afraid it would mean nothing at all…

  “How long,” Ethan reached out to touch the surgical bandages swathing Josh’s straightened nose, “before this heals?”

  Josh looked up. The love reflected in the liquid depths of Ethan’s eyes broke his heart and put those pieces back together at the same time. “Depends on how well you help me take care of it,” Josh replied as his voice shook a bit in the cresting wake of long-suppressed emotions that threatened to overwhelm him, a heartbreak soothed by the touch of Ethan’s free palm sliding across Josh’s chest to rest on the smooth muscles atop that pounding organ, each impassioned beat screaming the words Josh struggled to voice.

  Both knew the truth of the matter—neither of them spoke of Josh’s nose.

  Tilting Josh’s chin up to meet his lips with his Ethan smiled that familiar easy grin. “Then you’ll heal fast, mate.”

  Also available from Total-E-Bound Publishing:

  Selling It

  Sara York

  Excerpt

  Chapter One

  Blaine couldn’t have imagined a worse ending. Blood covered the floor of the shit motel room and sprayed up the walls, almost to the ceiling. He glanced down at the broken body and cringed. The neck wound had probably caused most of this mess. His heart squeezed and his eyes burned. Blaine pinched the bridge of his nose to stop any tears from falling. Hell, he was a seasoned detective and shouldn’t show weakness, plus if the others found out it would come back to haunt him. There’d be jokes around the station about him crying like a baby. He shivered. No emotion and no weakness.

  He’d seen this kind of injury before. He knew the boy had felt the pain, suffering in death just as he’d suffered in life. Unconsciously, Blaine’s right hand sought out his own scars. First the fingers of his right hand grazed his left collarbone, then his left ribs, finally coming to rest on his right hip. Then, realising what he was doing, he covered his movements by cocking his hip to the side and resting his hand there, as if he were casually observing the scene. Casual was far from how he felt. His blood boiled and his head spun.

  The boy must have been scared shitless. He’d seen the knife coming at him—had to have.

  “Hey, Wilson, how come you always stand like that at murder scenes? Never mind, I’m sure ice water runs through your veins.” His partner, Lucy Abbot, sauntered into the room. She was short, sassy and quick to laugh. Eventually, after he’d worked with her for long enough, she would expect answers that he wouldn’t want to give. Why didn’t he date, what was his hang-up about girls? Ugh, maybe he should…but no, not yet.

  “This is a mess,” Blaine said.

  “People round here don’t know how to murder clean. Always is a mess.” Lucy pulled on a pair of gloves and flexed her fingers.

  “He’s probably around fifteen, maybe sixteen.” Blaine knew the kid had to have been desperate. It was the only reason anyone would pick this life filled with skanky hook-ups, all for a little cash.

  “Think he had family?” Lucy bent down to examine the body.

  “Abbot, everyone has family. The question is why they didn’t give a rip shit about him.”

  Her gaze connected with his. She looked hurt. “They might have cared and just didn’t know what to do.”

  “No mother or father would ever want their little boy out here selling himself like this.”

  “We don’t know he was a prostitute.”

  Blaine looked away from the body, no longer able to stomach the scene. “The kid was a pro. Look at how skinny he was. His fingernails are black, his knees worn. Just look at the red marks. He spent his free time on his knees, either blowing or being screwed.”

  “Poor kid.” Lucy’s voice was full of pity.

  Blaine didn’t want to think about the life the kid had lived. Didn’t want to think about the desperation of not knowing where your next meal would come from. The self-loathing and hate that accompanied turning tricks, or the false bravado the kid would’ve had to have to keep up the life.

  Flashes of desperate nights and lonely days played through his head. He blocked them out, focusing on the meticulous tasks of gathering evidence. The crime scene techs were doing their job, but he couldn’t sit still. He slid on gloves and began sorting through the boy’s clothes.

  The kid’s shoes were dirty and eaten through at the sole. Somehow the shoes had escaped the bloody mess. They must have been taken off before he was attacked.

  Blaine carefully bagged each shoe. Next, he folded the shirt where it lay and slid the material into an evidence bag. He bunched the underwear and pants together so he didn’t drop any stray hairs or fibres, then placed them in a separate bag.

  After labelling each bag he called the photographer over and had them take shots of the bagged clothes and the flooring underneath where the clothing had been flung.

  Lucy finished her conversation with one of the crime scene techs and made her way towards him. For a moment he wondered what she would say if she knew the truth about him. No one in DC had any idea. Hell, no one in his life knew of his past.

  “Did it look like the clothes had been removed before death?” Lucy asked.

  “Probably so. The techies will need to have the final say on that. What about you? Any thoughts?”

  “Whoever did this is a bastard.”

  “Yeah, that was assumed.” Blaine felt bile rise in the back of his throat.

  “The guy was clean. No gum wrappers. No cigarettes. The maid cleaned the place this morning but didn’t put on new sheets. The girl said the room was spotless when she left—in other words, we had no body in this room before noon.” Lucy tapped her pen against her pad of paper.

  “Really, they cleaned the room?”

  “Yeah, it’s that type of place. Queen’s Corner isn’t a family type of establishment. Rooms by the hour and no one gives a shit about what goes on. Hell, with a name like Queen’s Corner, probably no one wants to admit they were here.”

  Blaine scratched his chin and shook his head. “Sad thing is, this boy probably thought he was pulling a good trick. Most men would have wanted him to drop on the ground and do a quick one. This john brought him here for an easy kill, but the boy didn’t know he hadn’t scored himself an Edward Lewis.”

  Lucy raised an eyebrow. “Edward Lewis?”

  “Pretty Woman. They guy who rescues Vivian.”

  “Dang, Wilson, what is it with you and movies?”

  “What? So I watch movies.” Blaine didn’t want to get into it with Lucy. He liked his uncomplicated life. So what if he got lonely and used movies to compensate for his lack of a significant relationship?

  Lucy double-tapped him on the arm with her fist. “I know a girl. She’s real cute. You two would get along great.”

  He shook his head, trying to not show any annoyance at being set up. “No, thanks.”

  “Come on, you need a social life.”

  Blaine stripped off his gloves and threw them in a baggie, labelling it with his name, and handed them off to James, a techie whom he only vaguely knew. “James, this area needs to be vacuumed.”

  “I’ll get on it.”

  The techies would handle the scene. They always did a great job of getting every last piece of evidence. “Let’s get out of here. I want to talk to the manager again. See if he comes up with anything different.”

  Lucy grabbed his arm once they’d cleared the room. “Blaine, seriously, why don’t you want to go out on a date with one of my friends? I promise you I’m not setting you up with ugly girls. They are all smoking hot.”

  For a moment, Blaine contemplated telling Lucy the real reason he didn’t want to date her friends. Sure, he’d seen Lucy’s friends and they were hot. He couldn’t deny her that, but he thought Lucy’s brother was way hotter than any of her girlfriends and he
wasn’t ready to spill the beans here in DC. At least not yet.

  “I’m just not into dating right now.”

  She huffed out a breath and pushed past him. “Don’t wait too long. They aren’t going to stay single forever.”

  Blaine couldn’t hold back the smile as he followed Lucy. Maybe she would understand his preference for men—then again, maybe not. He’d run into enough people who’d constantly questioned his lifestyle. He was tired of defending whom he loved, and sometimes it was easier to pretend he liked being alone than to explain his preference.

  It was funny to watch her attempts to set him up. If only she knew what type of guy he was. Eventually he would tire of the anonymous rendezvous at Clinks, but for now those scandalous hours he spent banging unknown men were enough to satisfy his animal side.

  * * * *

  Nate knew something bad had happened the moment he stepped around the corner. Cop cars covered the parking lot of the motel where he showered every few days. Damn, he hoped the owner hadn’t got wise to his scheme. Changing his routine would suck monkey nuts.

  For two hours, he sat across the street from Queen’s Corner and watched the spectacle. Cops walked in, and cops walked out of room sixteen. Not that there were sixteen rooms at the old, run-down place, but for some reason the owner had skipped all the numbers lower than eleven and had actually used the number thirteen. What a dipwad. No one who knew anything about hotels used thirteen for a room number.

  He’d read about a murder that had happened back in the fifties, in room thirteen on floor thirteen of some swanky spot in LA—or was it New York? He wasn’t sure. The article could have been faked, but he didn’t think the author had lied on purpose. Thirteen was bad luck, and even he knew that.

  This stupid little motel was his home away from home. Not that he’d ever slept in one of the beds, but room fifteen’s window lock over the toilet didn’t work, and luckily he was skinny enough to slink through the opening. As far as he knew, no one ever had ever seen him in the alley, sliding open the window. No one ever came into the room while he was showering. The maid probably didn’t know he was using the place. You would think she’d eventually have figured it out since the toilet paper kept getting used, but he was real careful and never used too much.

  He’d stashed his shampoo and soap two blocks away, and his money down the block and around the corner in another alley. The clothes he wore were usually pilfered from one of the various laundromats. Today he’d found an old purple T-shirt with a picture of Miley Cyrus on the front and Hanna Montana on the back. Wasn’t great, but the dang thing fit just right, and a perfect fit was hard to find when you stole your clothes instead of buying them.

  He really wanted to take a shower and clean up today. People paid more when he was clean, and that new pair of jeans down at the mall had been calling his name. For some reason, none of the pants he found at the laundromat fit properly. He guessed tall, skinny guys were in short supply. Plus, the store clerks treated him nicer when he was clean. No one wanted to face the reality of homeless teens in the nation’s capital.

  Another police car pulled up as two detectives left room sixteen. He knew they were detectives because they dressed like detectives on TV shows. All black suits and white shirts. The man looked hot, the woman like she was trying too hard. Nate knew, without a doubt, that the man would never pay for his services.

  The detectives left in a dark blue Crown Victoria. They were way too easy to spot. But, then again, he guessed they weren’t trying to hide. Not at all like the vice jerks who came around every few months when the prostitutes got a little too uppity.

  Nate abandoned his quest for clean hair and body. He’d sneak back over tomorrow—during the night it would be too risky since the room might be occupied. Damn, now he would have to settle for a ten-dollar blow instead of a twenty or fifty.

  The Italian place around the corner smelt delicious. Scamming a meal would be great, but if the manager caught him he might call the cops, and since the cops were around the corner it would be harder to get away. No, he’d stick with his tried and true Dumpster four blocks down and three blocks to the right. The food was okay, and plentiful.

  The detectives from the motel pulled up in front of the Italian joint. The man got out of the car, and his eyes levelled with Nate’s. Ice-cold fear shot through Nate’s body. For a second he wondered if the detective was going to call him over. The female detective spoke to him. After an agonising moment the male detective’s gaze shifted.

  Nate ran. The wind felt good on his face as he raced down one alley to the next, only stopping when he was four blocks away. A water spigot stuck out from the side of a building. He glanced down the alley, checking he was alone.

  The spigot turned on easily. Water rushed out between his feet. He bent at the waist, slurping in the cool liquid just like he’d done a hundred times at home in the summer. For a moment he missed his home and his mom. Tears burned his eyes. He swiped them away and spun the water off. A door banged open behind him.

  “Hey, you little piss-ant! What the fuck do you think you are doing?”

  Nate looked over his shoulder and spied a large woman with a wooden spoon in her hand. He sprang away from the water spigot and raced down the street. This time he stopped only a block away. The fat lady wouldn’t chase after him. He could almost guarantee it.

  Maybe he would take the day off and just go scamming down on the Mall in front of the Capitol Building. The nice weather would bring out the tourists. Time to play the lost boy, though that could get him in trouble if he ran into a particularly overzealous mother who thought the cops should get involved.

  It was amazing how many people would leave their food alone down near the Capitol. Nate never stole any expensive items from the tourists. If he stole anything of worth it was totally anonymous, like at the laundromat. People who washed at the ‘mat didn’t care or didn’t notice. Tourists were always keeping their eyes open for a thief.

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  About the Author

  Maria-Claire Payne is the alter-ego of another Claire who holds multiple professional credentials related to the field of radiation oncology and a graduate degree in psychology. Both personalities share a love of taking classes in English literature and reading in many genres as well as getting inked and admiring biker dudes from afar.

  When no new reading material is readily at hand for whatever reason, her children have caught her reading cereal box-tops to fill the void. Maria-Claire lives in Southern Florida with her two rather conservative (how did that happen?) teenagers, the ghost of her soul-mate (her muse), and a crew of Himalayan and Persian cats affectionately referred to as the “Pussy Posse.” She loves to hear from her readers!

  Email: mariaclairepayne@yahoo.com

  Maria-Claire loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.total-e-bound.com.

  Also by Maria-Claire Payne

  Bending Tyme

  Total-E-Bound Publishing

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