by Whitley Gray
The man’s gaze swept the crowd and locked on Beetle.
It was like having ice water dumped down his spine. Those eyes seemed to drill into Beetle’s skull and probe for secrets. He ducked his head.
Who the hell was this guy? That had never happened before. The man was leaning toward Littman and speaking. Did he suspect something? Leaving now would make Beetle too conspicuous.
The chief stepped up to the podium and cleared his throat. The audience quieted.
“I’m going to make a statement and then take questions.” The man gripped the lectern, sweat glistening on his forehead. “Recently, the community was rocked by the brutal slaying of a young woman. Since then, the police have worked tirelessly to find the killer and bring him to justice.” The chief took a deep breath. “There is evidence to suggest the same individual may be responsible for two additional homicides in Omaha, Nebraska.”
There was a collective gasp, followed by the excited buzz of conversation. Beetle fought a giggle.
“There have been no further deaths, but the killer is still at large.”
Beetle risked a glance around. All eyes were on the chief.
“A task force is in place to coordinate the investigation. Anyone with information related to these crimes can call the DPD Tip Line.”
“So we have a serial killer?” a man shouted.
The chief winced. A murmur went up from the crowd, and the chief patted the air for quiet. “Let me finish. We have a pattern—”
“Are the victims all female?” another reporter asked.
A third asked, “Have you identified any suspects?”
“What about evidence—”
“What about profiling?”
The chief broke in. “I’ll let Special Agent Littman take that.”
Littman stepped to the podium.
Gone was the easygoing persona; in its place was an icy hunter. Beetle shivered.
“I’m Special Agent Zach Littman from the FBI’s profiling unit. I’m here to help the DPD distinguish characteristics that may assist in identifying potential suspects. The individual we’re seeking is a man, late twenties to midthirties. His victims are most likely strangers to him, but he somehow gets the victims’ trust. He may have a nonthreatening appearance or a gimmick that disarms his targets. He has access to a car and likely lives alone or has access to some sort of private space.” Littman paused. “He’s skilled with a knife, and chances are he won’t stop until we find him.”
The room erupted. Chairs scraped on tile, reporters shouted questions, shutters clicked in a mad cacophony like angry crabs. Lovely chaos. His chaos. And he’d only begun.
I am the one.
Beetle slipped out the door.
Chapter Eighteen
After dinner at a restaurant, Beck beat Zach home. He hadn’t been inside more than five minutes when there was a knock at the door.
Christ. If it was a solicitor, he might lose it. He headed for the door and paused. The Follower was bold enough to try something like knocking.
He left the shoulder holster on and took a peek between the blinds. No one visible. There was a pie-plate-sized window inset into the front door at shoulder height.
Here goes nothing. He took a look.
“For God’s sake.” What the hell was going on? He flipped the locks and swung the door wide. “Artie?”
The kid stood there cradling a backpack, misery written on his face. “Can…can I come in?”
“Yeah. Of course.” Beck pushed open the screen door, and Art stepped inside. Beck relocked the door. “How’d you get here?”
“Taxi. Used my allowance.”
“Does your mom know you’re here?”
Art shook his head and jostled the backpack. “No.”
Marybeth was going to flip. “You want to call her?”
“No.” Art flushed and got that mutinous expression.
“We have to let her know—”
“No. I can’t live there anymore.”
Artie had run away from home, and Beck should say…what? What would a parent say? A good parent. More information would help, no doubt.
“Let’s sit down.” Beck headed to the kitchen; Art trudged next to him. The boy sat at the table, arms curled around his backpack.
“Have you had dinner?” Seemed like a safe way to go.
“Yeah, but can I have a glass of milk?”
“Sure.” Beck retrieved a tumbler and poured. “It’s one percent. Probably a little leaner than you’re used to.”
Art unzipped the top of the backpack. A tousled yellow head popped out. Art’s chin came up, and his steady blue gaze met Beck’s.
“You brought your friend, huh?” Beck ran a finger over the kitten’s head. She was all big ears and wide eyes, straining toward the glass. “Let me get a dish. It’ll be easier for her.”
Beck found a saucer, poured in the milk, and put it on the floor. Art set the kitten down, and she lapped with gusto. The kid finally cracked a smile.
“Do you want anything, Art?”
“Not food. I want to talk.”
“Okay…” Beck’s gut tightened. Fatherly adviser had never been his strong suite. Zach, where are you?
“I need you to save Butterscotch.”
“Um…what?” Beck must have looked as dumbfounded as he felt.
Artie smirked and pointed at the feline. “That’s her name. Miss Butterscotch Jewel Halliday.”
“Oh. Wow.” Sounds like a drag queen. He went to get a bottle of water from the fridge. Think. How was he supposed to save the cat? Did Artie want him to talk to Marybeth?
Look how the discussion about the football went. Plus that asshole Aubrey Nance hates cats.
“Did you ask your mom?”
“No. Because she always listens to Aubrey.” Chin up and frowning.
“It might be worth trying.”
“It never works.” Artie bent and stroked the kitten’s back, and she arched under his hand. “That’s why I had to come here.”
I am so lost. “Why?”
“Aubrey told me he was going to shove Butterscotch in a pillowcase and drown her.”
Beck’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”
Art shook his head. “He’s going to kill her. I need you to let her live here, or she’ll die.”
“That fu—er, freaking idiot. Does your mom know he said that?” Someone needed to give Aubrey a talking-to—possibly after being handcuffed and Mirandized.
“No. Because she always lets Aubrey in on the decisions now. Always. He gets ‘the last word,’ as Mom says.”
The kid had already had enough stress, dealing with the football and his friend moving. Each incident topped the last. Dan would have been horrified. Aubrey Nance wasn’t fit to raise field mice, let alone Dan’s children. “Okay. Here’s the deal. First, Butterscotch can stay for now.”
Relief relaxed Artie’s features back into the carefree boy Beck used to know. “Thanks.”
“Second, we have to tell your mom where you are.”
“But—”
“No buts. It’s nonnegotiable. She’s your mom, and she’s probably worried sick right now.”
Art fisted his hands on his thighs. “She never notices me.”
“You’re wrong.” Beck leaned forward. “What do you think your dad would want you to do?”
“Call,” Art mumbled, staring down.
“Right.”
“She’ll be pissed.”
“Language, Art. I’ll talk to her first. Then you’ll talk. How’s that?”
“Good.”
“I have to make another call first. Be right back.” Beck headed for the living room to call. When Zach’s phone rolled to voice mail, Beck said, “I need you to stop at the store and grab kitten chow, litter, and a cat box. Oh, and some kid snacks. I’ll explain when you get here.”
* * * *
“Is it unkind to say I thought they’d never leave?” Zach slid the dead bolt home with a satisfying thunk and then
smiled at Beck, who returned the favor. What a day. Finally they could unwind.
Beck had related that when he’d called Marybeth, she’d ping-ponged from worried to mad to shocked. By the time she arrived, the drive had settled her into determined-mama-bear mode, and she’d informed them Aubrey was out on his ear.
Artie had begged to stay. Luckily, it was a school night, and Marybeth vetoed any consideration of a sleepover. A good thing; otherwise they would’ve had to say no because of the case. Between the Follower and the stress of the day, Zach wanted—hell, needed—time alone with Beck.
“We still have one guest.” Beck nodded at the kitten curled up on the couch. “I’ll get her settled in the guest bathroom.”
“Sounds good.” Zach headed for the bedroom, shed his clothes, and jumped in the shower. He’d agreed the kitten could stay until Marybeth broke it off with Aubrey. Hopefully she’d follow through. Nance was a horse’s ass.
When Art left with his mother, he’d worn that guarded look, solemn and silent—like a prisoner going back to his cell. Way too serious for a kid. That family had been through the wringer over the past year.
For a moment Zach had wondered if there was something else going on. But the kitten was safe and Aubrey was out—a win-win, right? Then why did the kid look like he was on the way to the gallows?
The shower door opened behind him. Beck kissed his shoulder and gripped Zach’s hips.
“Kitten’s tucked in,” Beck murmured between kisses.
“No bedtime story?”
“Nope. Wanted to get to bed myself.”
Zach laughed. “You and me both.”
With just the right touch, Beck slid his hands lower, a light, tickling caress, teasingly close to Zach’s dick. In spite of the steaming water coursing over him, Zach shivered, and his cock rose; he dropped his head back on Beck’s shoulder in invitation.
Humming, Beck ran his lips along Zach’s neck, pulling at the skin, and God, it felt terrific. Every nibble and kiss sent signals to Zach’s erection, impossibly hard and leaking. When Beck nestled his own steely shaft in Zach’s crease, a whole-body shudder went through him. He turned and wrapped his arms around Beck, their dicks battling in the tight space. “Let’s go to bed.”
“Clean up first, Special Agent.” The scent of herbal soap filled the air as Beck worked up a fragrant froth. Grinning, he let suds drip onto Zach’s shaft, a subtle touch that made him jerk. Beck loved to tease, and he seemed to have endless ways to get Zach hot and bothered. Very creative was John Beckworth Stryker.
“I’m ready now.” Zach ran a finger up Beck’s slippery cock.
With a wicked smile, Beck reached out with lathered hands and coasted them across Zach’s shoulders. “Soon.”
“Soon…” Why did Beck always have better willpower? It wasn’t fair.
Beck soaped Zach’s arms, slid a sudsy palm over his chest and belly and around to squeeze Zach’s ass. “Turn.”
Back and legs, no sweat. Cheeks and cock—that was another story. Soapy fingers teased Zach’s crease, tickled his balls, tantalized his dick. Beck was thorough in his ministrations. By the rinse, all Zach’s erotic nerve endings were on high alert.
Zach leaned against the tile and watched with half-lidded eyes while Beck scrubbed himself and then let the water sluice the bubbles away. A lean body, strong, with broad shoulders tapering to a trim waist and long legs. The scars traversing Beck’s left shoulder were a pink-and-white landscape of healed tissue. Zach found them sexy, as personal as any tattoo.
Beck bracketed Zach’s shoulders and covered Zach’s mouth with his, firm and minty fresh. A classic kiss, arousing as always. Zach’s heart began that excited gallop; his cock strained toward Beck. Zach automatically grasped Beck’s hips, smooth and slippery, and bent to gently bite Beck’s throat. He tasted like clean skin and herbal soap.
“What would you like?” Beck’s voice was husky. Water beaded on his skin, spiked his hair and lashes.
“You.” Always you. No matter what else was haywire between them, the sex was always mind-blowing.
Beck’s smile was half-wry, half-charming. “More details would be helpful.”
“On the bed. You drive.”
“Excellent.”
* * * *
Zach opted for bedside lamps on, casting a warm glow. The sheets were crisp and cool beneath his back. Above him, Beck gave a sexy grin and slid their cocks together, silky and hot.
It was enough for the moment. Beck worked in a little swivel action, and his shaft drove against Zach’s. Cockheads catching, pleasure verging on pain, and it was delicious. Zach groaned his approval.
With Beck, there never was anything not to approve. The man had a box of tricks that got Zach going like no one else.
Beck slid down and teased Zach’s nipples with his teeth. Rivulets of electricity flowed to Zach’s dick, making it ache. His hips jerked. Holy hell. “Beck. Stop. I’m going to come.”
Beck’s eyes were bright as he licked his lips.
“Come here.”
Beck crawled up Zach’s body, settled on top, and moved his hips in leisurely thrusts. The friction was enough to keep Zach hard and wanting. He dug his fingers into the muscles of Beck’s butt, pulling him down. Hearts banging together, Beck kissed him hard. Their cocks smeared musky precum as they warred for position. Heated skin and soft kisses stoked desire with urgency.
Zach wanted—needed—more. “Can’t wait.”
Eyebrows raised, Beck ran a hand over Zach’s hair. “Main event?”
Yeah. Because now Zach knew what he wanted. As much as Zach enjoyed face-to-face, it was time to freshen the routine. Zach threw his arms around Beck and flipped them over.
A faint line showed between Beck’s eyebrows. “Change your mind?”
“Nope.” Zach sat up, straddled him, and gave Beck’s erection a couple of languid strokes.
“Oh…” Beck’s eyes sparkled. “Gotcha.” He reached for the small bottle sitting on the nightstand. “Lie down.”
Zach rolled onto his back and bent his knees. The vanilla scent of the lube drifted over as Beck squirted some on his fingers. Beck smiled—with his eyes as well as his mouth—and Zach’s heart melted.
A cool swipe of gel in Zach’s crease raised goose bumps; Beck’s tender fingertip rubbed and breached his hole. A bit uncomfortable, then a smooth slide. Zach relaxed into the in-out motion. Pressure, and a second finger joined the first. The initial sting settled into a burn.
Beck had big hands—gentle but still big. Zach shifted, trying to accommodate the intrusion. A searching finger landed unerringly on Zach’s prostate. A shower of sparks hit his balls and shot up his spine. He arched off the bed.
“God, you’re beautiful.” Beck’s husky words made Zach shiver with pleasure. “I love the way you look when I touch you like this.”
A few more passes over his prostate, and Zach was ready to levitate off the bed. The touches were like jolts of pure erotic energy, rippling through nerves to his cock and balls and spine. “Stop. You’ll make me come.”
A drizzle of lube on Beck’s erection and they were ready. Beck stretched out on his back, and Zach straddled him. He positioned Beck’s dick and pushed down.
Tight. Relax. Relax. With a deep breath, he bore down, and the head popped in, an intimate invasion. It felt like having a cudgel up his ass—a huge, fiery cudgel. The burn wasn’t unexpected, but not comfortable. Not yet. Wait for it.
“Okay?” Beck gasped. He had the sheets fisted in each hand.
“Yeah. Just need to go slow.”
Beck nodded and settled his hands on Zach’s hips.
The burn morphed into a pleasurable pressure, and Zach lowered himself until he had taken the shaft to the hilt. He somehow felt fuller like this than any other way they did it. The ultimate closeness. Thinking about Beck inside him made Zach’s heart pound, his cock throb. Zach slid up, slid down. No discomfort. Okay. Now things can proceed.
Beck gave him a smile. Zach a
nswered in kind. He leaned forward; Beck cradled Zach’s face in his palms and kissed him, calescent and hungry. Their tongues danced. Ever since the first time, kissing Beck was heaven.
Eyes on Beck, Zach lifted upright and set a rhythm—long, slow slides that brushed his gland and hardened his dick. Beck grasped Zach’s hips, urging a faster, harder pace. Almost painful, but Zach wanted it too.
As they panted, the mattress bounced, springs singing like a coxswain: stroke, stroke…
Sparks gathered at the small of Zach’s spine, nerves transmitting an urgent message. Breathing hard, he said, “Don’t…stop.”
“Won’t.” Beck’s voice was rough. “Just…” The words degenerated into grunts as he thrust to meet Zach’s downstrokes.
The tension built. Almost there. “I need—”
And thank God Beck knew what he needed. He gripped Zach’s dick and gave it one brisk stroke, two, and…liftoff. Fire engulfed his balls and launched from Zach’s cock. With a groan he came, splashing Beck’s chest with sticky release.
Head thrown back, Beck yelled and slammed Zach down, spilling hot and deep inside him.
* * * *
Afterward, they lay in each other’s arms, cradled in the center of the king-size bed, fit together like they’d always been that way. Beck liked the intimacy, the postcoital closeness. He loved holding Zach.
It wasn’t fair they were so compatible yet so far apart. The FBI had parked Zach in Denver for now, but what about when the case was over? Would Zach quit the bureau or be lured in by the promise of high-octane behavioral cases?
The truth was Beck didn’t believe a routine psychiatric practice was enough to hold Zach in Denver. The worst part was that Beck might not be enough to hold him in Denver; God knew he’d tried. Soon they’d have to decide where the future lay. Go back to the long-distance-never-see-each-other thing, or admit the relationship wasn’t working? Or I could give up something. It made Beck’s heart ache to think about losing the man he loved. Beck planted a kiss on Zach’s forehead.
“I can hear you thinking,” Zach said.
“Nah. Not me.”
Zach lifted on one elbow. “What’s bugging you?”
No way was Beck going to say what was on his mind. “Worried about Artie.”