Prodigal (Lost and Found Book 1)

by TA Moore

  From the other side of the room, Morgan said, “Morgan, if you wanted to know.”

  The low rasp of his voice made the back of Boyd’s neck tingle despite his best efforts to not be an asshole. He took a deep breath. “Look, just… I can explain.”

  “You don’t need to,” Shay said. The expression of disapproval on his face softened with bitter sympathy. “Sometimes you just want to forget, right?”

  Boyd cringed.

  “It’s not that simple.” He grabbed Shay’s arm and dragged him across to the kitchen. It was open plan, so it didn’t give them that much privacy, but it felt like something. Boyd lowered his voice. “Morgan…. Morgan was a, mmm… bad idea.”

  He’d started to say mistake, but his tongue tripped over it. Bad idea felt like it fit better. Shay crossed his arms and frowned.

  “You want me to throw him out?” he asked without bothering to lower his voice.

  “No,” Boyd said.

  “You can try,” Morgan said with contempt. The metal-on-metal sound of a zipper rasped. “Or if the nerd wants me to leave, he can just ask. If I’m not welcome—”

  Boyd twisted around and held up his hand. “Stay,” he said. Morgan glared back at him sullenly. “Please.”

  After a smug glance in Shay’s direction, Morgan settled back into the couch. He cocked his leg up and slung his arms over the plastic-covered back of the new couch.

  “Why do you have two couches?” Shay asked as he registered that. “Did you go to the furniture store alone again?”

  Boyd rubbed his hand over his eyes. “The DNA the cops in Huntington matched wasn’t to remains,” he said quietly. “It was to someone, a living someone, who was in their system.”

  Shay looked… blank, mostly. His face went slack, and he stepped back to lean against the counter. He swallowed hard and scratched at his eyebrow as he tried to absorb that. “That’s impossible.”

  “I know,” Boyd said. His chest felt tight, and his throat was pinched until it was hard to breathe. “Mac thinks it was some sort of mistake—”

  “Of course it was,” Shay said sharply as he visibly latched on to that explanation. He snorted as he shook his head. “Or another con artist. Fuck, Boyd, did you think it was real? Is that why you wanted me to come over?”

  “I don’t know what it is.”

  “Don’t,” Shay said. “You’ll break your heart like Mom, kid. I know it’s hard not to, but you can’t have hope after this long.”

  “The DNA matched. They double-checked it,” Boyd said. “There were some problems with the DNA sample, but they said it was a match. So whatever it is, it’s something. That’s why Mac brought him back here, so we could find out.”

  “Who?” Shay asked.

  Boyd licked his lips and glanced toward Morgan. Whom, he wondered, had he thought he was going to take to bed—Morgan or Sammy? Neither reflected well on him. He looked back round, an apology on his lips, and saw the grim anger on Shay’s face.

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Him?” Shay grimaced as though he tasted something sour. He pushed himself off the counter. “Get the fuck out of my way, Boyd.”

  Boyd blocked him, arms spread. “You can be mad at me if you want. I don’t blame you,” he said. “But what if—”

  Shay’s laugh was a nasal, angry noise that caught in his nose. He shook his head.

  “What if?” he blurted angrily. “What if you fucked my baby brother? Is that it? You stupid fucking—”

  “Hey,” Morgan protested. “How about you mind your fucking mouth—”

  Boyd glanced away for a second and then back into Shay’s fist. The punch caught him on the side of the jaw with a sharp pop of pain in the inside of his skull, and he staggered into the counter. He caught himself on the slick waxed wood and watched as blood splattered in wet, fat drops over his fingers. The taste in his mouth had gone sharp and metallic. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand, and the sour adrenaline curled his hand into a fist.

  “Fuck,” Shay said. His voice faltered. “Boyd, I didn’t mean to—”

  “Get out,” Boyd said as he forced his fingers to relax. He’d fucked up. Fine. But there was still a line, and that was it. “Before I forget we’re friends.”

  Chapter Six

  THE LANKY blond didn’t take the hint and fuck off.

  “Hey, asshole,” Morgan put himself between Boyd and the other man… Calloway. People sometimes assumed Morgan was stupid, but he’d have to be dumb as dirt to miss that connection. Shaun or something. The brother. Morgan looked down at him and was oddly satisfied to realize he was the taller of the two by an inch or so. It was hardly a surprise. He was taller than most, but it still felt good to have the edge as he glowered. “You heard him. Fuck off.”

  The brief flash of regret on Calloway’s face faded as he fronted up to Morgan, replaced by a sourly self-righteous-looking scowl. He held himself as though he knew how to fight, body loose and his weight on his back foot.

  “Mind your own business.”

  Morgan grinned slowly, lewdly. Under the flash of anger was a sour layer of satisfaction. This Calloway guy had rubbed him the wrong way since he walked into the place as though he owned it. Morgan didn’t like his smugly handsome face, his easy familiarity with Boyd, or the fact that he assumed he was the one who was welcome and Morgan was some stray to put out on the streets.

  He really didn’t like that, except for the whole DNA match thing, he probably would have been. It was obvious that Boyd and Calloway had… history. More than obvious.

  The punch was an excuse to hate him that Morgan could admit out loud. He was almost grateful.

  “I like his mouth the way it is,” he said as he hooked his thumb into the waistband of his jeans. Zipped but still unbuttoned, they slid down toward his lean hips. He figured Calloway was smart enough to get his point. “That makes it my business.”

  A flash of bleak anger soured that pretty face, and Calloway stepped into his space.

  “Stay away from him,” he said in a grim, low voice. “In fact, why don’t you just fuck off back to where you came from? There’s no money here for you. So—”

  “Enough,” Boyd snapped as he dragged them apart. He braced one hand against Morgan’s chest and pushed him back. “Back off. Both of you.”

  Morgan let himself be shoved a reluctant step back, not because he wanted a fight with Calloway—or maybe—but his resistance kept Boyd’s hand braced against his pec. He smirked at Calloway over Boyd’s head, because who was familiar now?

  “He’s a con artist,” Calloway said angrily. “Goddammit, Boyd. You know what this will do to my mother if it gets back to her? She already lives in cloud cuckoo land. Now you’re populating it for her? This is fucking insane.”

  “Get out,” Boyd repeated.

  Calloway snorted and stepped back, arms folded as he shook his head. “I’m not leaving you with him. He’s already… taken advantage of you, of this situation.”

  Morgan took a step forward, a growl of anger rough in his throat. He’d never claimed to be this Sammy kid. He’d told Boyd from the start that he wasn’t. All he’d done was want to see what those pretty eyes looked like when Boyd came—which he still hadn’t done, thanks to this asshole.

  He didn’t get far. Boyd’s arm gave slightly and then straightened as he put his shoulder into it. He had more muscle than Morgan expected.

  “I am not—” Boyd clenched his jaw on whatever he’d been about to say. The unsaid words hung in the air with the sharp, burnt-match tension of something that couldn’t be taken back. “I don’t need anyone to take care of me.”

  “You need two couches, though?” Calloway asked sharply. “You need a con artist in your bed?”

  “I know I didn’t need a split lip.”

  Shame sliced across Calloway’s face. He looked away, and a muscle twisted under his jaw as he ground his teeth.

  “You can’t expect me to be okay with this. My brother’s dead. You think I don’t
want that lifted, I don’t want to pretend for a couple of days that it isn’t true? I get why Mom gave those people money. A couple of grand is a small price to pay to be able to pretend for just one day. But that’s all it is, all he is—pretend. And I won’t do that to Sammy.”

  Morgan snorted. Guilt trips always put his back up.

  If you tell anyone….

  “You said it yourself, the boy’s dead,” Morgan said as he stepped back. “You can’t do anything to him now.”

  Blood flushed all the way up into Calloway’s temples, and he lunged for Morgan. It was more of a scuffle than a fight, a hard shove and rough hands as they grappled against the spare couch. Before it could go any further, Boyd dragged Calloway off him and shoved him toward the door.

  “For fuck’s sake, Shay.”

  That was it. Shay. Morgan leaned against the back of the couch, hands braced on the cushions, and smirked.

  Boyd yanked open the door. “Go cool down. Talk to Mac.”

  Shay wrenched his arm out of Boyd’s hand. “I’d rather chew glass. You want to be taken in by this guy, I can’t stop you. But don’t think I’m going to join you.” He jabbed a finger over Boyd’s shoulder at Morgan. “If you hurt my family… him… I’ll fucking kill you.”

  This time it was Boyd who tried to pull him back, but Shay shook him off and stalked away. Boyd stood on the threshold, weight braced against the door, and watched him go.

  “Fuck him,” Morgan said.

  It sounded petty even to him. Boyd pushed himself up off the door and let it swing shut.

  “Don’t,” he said as he turned around, one hand up to wipe his mouth. “He’s got a point.”

  Morgan’s faint twinge of regret passed. He crossed his arms over his chest. “None of this was exactly my idea.”

  “I know,” Boyd said as he walked over. “But he doesn’t, and… it’s not easy on him. None of this.”

  Morgan reached out and cupped Boyd’s chin in his hand to check out his lip. It had split in front of his incisor and was raw and swollen. It looked tender and discolored faintly blue. Morgan brushed his thumb over it, and Boyd leaned back with a wince.

  “It looks like it’s not that easy on you.”

  Boyd licked the bloody welt and grimaced. “I’ll survive,” he said. “It’s not the first time I’ve been punched in the face.”

  “By him?”

  “No,” Boyd said. “And I don’t need your protection either.”

  “Wasn’t offering. Just curious how much of a prick he was.”

  “He’s not… sometimes.” Boyd pushed Morgan’s hand away. “Probably best you take the couch, huh?”

  That was not unexpected. Morgan could have spun the punch as foreplay—some of his best nights had started with a brawl—but emotions were rarely good for his hard-on. He still felt a pinch of disappointment that he added to the list of reasons he didn’t like Shay Calloway.

  “Probably. Here.” Morgan pulled Boyd’s glasses from his pocket, unfolded the legs, and slid them onto his face. Boyd shied back slightly, his expression suspicious. Morgan flashed him a grin as he stepped back to undo his jeans. “So you can see what you’re missing.”

  He didn’t quite get a laugh, but the unbruised corner of Boyd’s mouth turned up briefly before he shook his head and went to get some blankets and a pillow.

  THE DRY swab scraped and poked at the inside of Morgan’s cheek. It seemed to take an unreasonably long time. By the time the soft-cheeked cop had finished, the hinges of Morgan’s jaw felt stiff, and they ached. They clicked as he closed his mouth. He worked his jaw from side to side and leaned back. Mac had sent a patrol car to pick him up that morning at Boyd’s. Ever since then he’d been fingerprinted, photographed, given a statement to sign, and muttered about behind his back. Now this.

  “All done,” Officer Pitt said as she deposited the swab neatly into a test tube and sealed and dated it in an evidence envelope. “Thank you for your cooperation. If you just wait here, Captain Mac… Macintosh… will be with you in a moment.”

  She hesitated, her eyes fascinated as she studied his face. That was nothing new. People liked to look at Morgan. It could be useful. He even mostly appreciated it, these days, even if he didn’t always return the interest. This wasn’t that look, though. It was the other one, from when he was a kid and the new social worker would read his file.

  Pitying. Prurient. Sticky.

  “I remember the Calloway case,” Pitt said. “I was in Shay Calloway’s class at school. I had such a crush on him. Before. It was… terrible. My mom wouldn’t let me out by myself for months. It was like something out of a horror movie or something. He just disappeared, and there was nothing. No clues. No evidence. Just suspects and theories. Do you—”

  “That’s enough, Officer Pitt,” Mac interrupted as he stepped into the room. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The edge of rebuke on his words was enough to make Pitt snap her back straight and her chin up. She grabbed the evidence bag from the table and turned sharply on the ball of her foot.

  “Sir,” Pitt said with a dip of her chin. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to overstep. It’s just… the Calloway case. If we can—”

  “Get those samples to the lab,” Mac said. He was in uniform for the first time, black cotton and short sleeves, with the glitter of a badge on his chest and at his collar. It didn’t actually make him look like any more of a cop, but he’d done away with the thin pretense that he was something else. “Go. And if I hear any gossip about this….”

  Pitt firmly shook her head. “I wouldn’t say anything outside the station, sir,” she promised. “I’ll get on to the lab right away.”

  She ducked around Mac, evidence clutched in one hand, and took a hard right down the corridor.

  Morgan braced his feet on the floor and rocked onto the back legs of the chair. He scratched behind his ear where Pitt had pulled out a tuft of hair. “Someone will,” he said. “They always do.”

  Mac closed the door behind him, and Morgan clenched his teeth against the itch of claustrophobia. He could deal with it, but he didn’t like it. Closed doors were only good news if you had the key.

  “Is that why you decided to talk to Shay Calloway?” Mac asked. “Because I have enough to deal with without you making things worse. I’ve already had the great and good on the phone today, trying to use the weight of their office to make me spill the goods. Apparently anything to do with the Calloway case is a matter of public safety and private rumormongering. So if I tell you to do something, like avoid the family, try and cooperate.”

  Morgan snorted his opinion. “Tell?” He brought the front legs of the chair down with a thud. “I’m not Officer Pitt. I don’t have to obey your ‘instructions.’ And I didn’t go looking for Calloway. He found me.”

  Mac took off his jacket, laid it over the table, and pulled out a chair. He leaned back in it, one arm slung over the back.

  “I take it that didn’t go well?”

  Morgan raised his eyebrows. “He didn’t give you chapter and verse?”

  For a second, Mac looked rueful. He glanced down at his hand and flexed his fingers so scarred skin stretched over his knuckles. “Shay and I can’t be civil long enough for that. He left a voicemail. Between the cursing, I got the gist. What happened?”

  “He was an asshole,” Morgan said. He had no objections to dropping Shay in it, but he was pretty sure Boyd would. Since it was Boyd’s face involved, better to leave it to him. “He wasn’t wrong that this is screwed up. Look, I know I’m an asshole, but I don’t take any pleasure in stirring this shit for them. Okay?”

  He pushed himself up and out of the chair. In the corner of his eye, he saw Mac tense, but ignored it and paced across the room. Movement helped distract him from the closed door and the question of what Mac would do if he tried to walk out of here.

  “Talk to me, then,” Mac said. He spread his hand out when Morgan looked at him. “Tell me how this happened.”

  Morgan reac
hed the far end of the room, turned, and leaned back against the pale-gray plaster. He roughly shoved his hands in his pockets and hitched one shoulder in a dismissive, tense shrug.

  “You did it.”

  Mac raised heavy eyebrows and sat back in his chair. He looked interested. Morgan had expected more pissed off. “Why?”

  “You killed the kid,” Morgan said. “Ditched him somewhere and messed with the DNA sample. So if the body was ever found, it wouldn’t be dropped back on your doorstep.”

  Mac scratched his jaw. “How’d I get your DNA?”

  “It was in the system,” Morgan said. “Back then. Around then. You didn’t know it was me, and you just swapped it out.”

  Five seconds ago Morgan had just conjured the idea up to shit-talk the good captain. But now that he’d said it out loud, it sounded… possible, if not exactly plausible. He shifted uncomfortably.

  “Except I was giving people tickets on the other side of town,” Mac said. “No way I could be writing up Luke Jeffers for speeding and be involved in what happened to Sammy. Besides, I know I didn’t do it. Any other ideas?”

  Morgan wasn’t sure whether he felt more frustrated or relieved. He kicked his heel against the skirting in a steady tattoo.

  “Someone else who had access, then,” he said. “I just know I had nothing to do with it.”

  Mac nodded. He unfolded his jacket and hunted through the pockets for his phone. A swipe of his thumb unlocked the phone and lit up the screen.

  “You were twelve when you were taken into foster care,” he said as he read something in small print.

  That was a bloodless way to put it. Morgan chewed the inside of his cheek until it hurt. There was a picture of him in a social services file somewhere—a skinny, angry kid with a broken jaw swollen up like Popeye and a dislocated shoulder. He’d been okay until then, but the new boyfriend had a drinking problem, and Morgan had never learned when to back down.

  “Morgan?” Mac prodded.

  “Didn’t think it was a question,” Morgan said flatly. “But yeah.”