On The Hunt: Gay M/M Mystery Romance

by Marina Lander

  But then, Hunter has a habit of never sleeping in when he’s working a case. He never has to set an alarm.

  Before he can adequately form a response, Stephen adds, “They traced the call to a motel near the airport. Barton’s phone was found in a room registered to a Mr. Walt Disney. The manager, to say the least, was less than helpful when trying to describe him.”

  “Let me guess—the room was clean?”

  “Pristine. Not a single print. The only number dialed on Barton’s phone since the murder was yours.”

  Hunter dumps a mountain of sugar into his coffee with a sigh. “Told you,” he mumbles.

  “All was not lost, though. The unhelpful motel manager did manage to describe the car Mr. Disney drove—dark green Ford Explorer.”

  “Of which there are forty million in the Chicago area alone.”

  When he turns back around, Stephen is sitting back in his chair, toying absently at his lower lip as he squints at his laptop.

  “Did you know both Gellens and Barton were studying criminal profiling?”

  Hunter shrugs. “So?”

  “So, Barton was a psychology major working toward his PhD. Gellens was a new faculty member, and he was doing research for his new book.”

  “And this is relevant how?”

  “Because, their research involved interviewing violent criminals and their victims’ families.” Stephen turns his laptop around to face Hunter. “This a list of all the people Barton interviewed in the last six months. There are two dozen names on here, everyone from convicted felons to their parents.” He clicked open another tab. “And this is all the people Gellens worked with in the same six months. There are fewer names, but both lists share someone in common—Sean Reese.”

  Hunter sets his coffee down slowly. “Do we know who he is?”

  “Once the name clicked, I stayed up all night trying to figure that out.” Stephen huffs, mouth twisted in frustration. “The only thing I can glean right now is that his sister was shot and killed by an armed robber. There was a trial, and the man was released on a technicality. Both Gellens and Barton interviewed him about the case.”

  There isn’t any reason to even begin to suspect this Sean Reese of being The Scholar, but Hunter wants to cling to the possibility for dear life. “What if that’s all it is?” he says quietly.

  Stephen glances up warily. “What do you mean?”

  “On the phone last night, he told me it wasn’t all about me. Maybe he’s killing these people as revenge for the way the justice system failed him. Maybe he’s taunting me because he’s mocking us.”

  “Lapsing into serial murder is rather extreme form of revenge.”

  “The Haskley case, the note he left me just before we found Gellens dead—the case was about a murderer finally confessing and then being shot by the victim’s husband. He’s practically spelling it out for us.”

  “But what about all the case notes before? They were at random, Hunter, we never made any connection between them. And as far as I can tell, none of the victims from three years ago did any research with criminal profiling. It’s a stretch, flimsy at best.”

  “But we have a name,” Hunter says forcefully.

  Stephen shakes his head. “You don’t know that.”

  “I feel it in my gut, same as you. That’s why you brought it up, because you do know.”

  “My gut is not proof, isn’t not even—” Stephen’ cell rings, rattling against the kitchen table.

  A second later, Hunter’s phone rings as well, Alyssa’s number in the caller ID.

  “They just found another body,” she says before Hunter can say a word. “And there’s another note for you. Are you still with Agent Stephen?”

  He pinches the bridge of his nose as his stomach goes cold. “We’re still at my apartment.”

  “Get down to Greektown. I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes.”

  Hunter hangs up in time to hear Stephen say, “Yeah, Sean Reese. Give me everything you can get on him. See you in ten.”

  ~

  That first night, they barely made it through the front door of Hunter’s apartment. Stephen kept mumbling, “Shit, sorry, sorry,” over and over into the side of Hunter’s neck as he’d pushed him up against the wall in the foyer and proceeded to grind their hips together fast and urgent, like they were a couple of horny teenagers getting off in between classes. To be honest, the comparison wasn’t too far off—Hunter wanted to be embarrassed at how quickly he came, but Stephen was right behind him, and then, gasping, they broke in fits of laughter over the fact that they’d both come in their pants in less than ten minutes.

  “Christ, I should’ve brought along a spare,” Stephen panted, their foreheads pressed together as he slid his hand back and forth over the back of Hunter’s neck. “I, um, did not quite expect that.”

  “I ask you to come home with me and you didn’t think there’d be orgasms involved?” Hunter said. He felt languid, loose and content, more at ease than he had in months, maybe even years. Granted, he was pretty sure the last time he’d gotten laid was just after he’d graduated from the academy, but he wasn’t going to think about that right now, not when he had Stephen’ solid weight over him.

  “Well, yes, but I didn’t expect to ruin a perfectly good pair of trousers in the process.” The smirk Stephen gave him made Hunter’s spent cock twitch in renewed interest. “I pictured us being much more naked than this before all was said and done.”

  “Who said we’re finished?”

  “Certainly not me.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Hunter sunk his teeth into the obscene, lush curve of Stephen’ lower lip and tugged gently. “I happen to have a perfectly serviceable bed, by the way.”

  “Who says we need a bed,” Stephen groaned softly before backing Hunter blindly into the living room. Through pure memory Hunter managed to get them to the couch, and as he fell back against the cushions with Stephen straddled across his lap, he skimmed his hands over Stephen’ chest, suddenly feeling overwhelmingly breathless and dizzy in a way that had nothing to do with post-coital bliss.

  Stephen must have caught the flicker of hesitation in his eyes, because he leaned down and nuzzled his lips over Hunter’s ear, fingers pulling at the buttons of Hunter’s shirt as he whispered, “We can do this, you know. This doesn’t have to change anything.”

  “Like hell it doesn’t,” Hunter said, but he didn’t stop Stephen, didn’t stop himself from pushing his hands under Stephen’ shirt and splaying his palms over all that hot skin. “We’re partners, this—this isn’t—”

  “It’s just us, here, you and me. And quite frankly, I’m sick of all the goddamn sexual tension day in and day out.”

  Hunter couldn’t help laughing. He hadn’t felt this happy in ages. He’d felt pleased and satisfied and proud, but not truly happy.

  His laughter made Stephen pause in the middle of sliding Hunter’s shirt down his arms, blinking as if momentarily stunned. He kissed Hunter then, slow and wet, murmuring against Hunter’s lips, “God, you’re so fucking gorgeous and you don’t even know it.”

  Hunter wanted to make a snarky comment about flattery getting Stephen everywhere, but he was soon lost in the heat of Stephen’ mouth, in the sudden punch to the gut upon seeing Stephen bare from the waist up for the first time, in the way Stephen’ eyes flared when Hunter breathed, “C’mere,” and yanked him back down into another hard, desperate kiss.

  They didn’t have any condoms on them, or lube, but it didn’t really matter. Hunter was already hard again, as was Stephen, and they brought each other off with their hands, Stephen making the most filthy, fantastic noises whenever Hunter pushed two spit-slicked fingers inside him. It was messy, slightly awkward, and over way, way too quickly.

  It was perfect.

  Hunter tried not to notice the way he clung tightly to Stephen afterward as he said, “Shower? I might have a pair of academy sweats that fit you, or—”

  Stephen chuckled softly, nosing
over Hunter’s cheek before unfolding himself stiffly from Hunter’s lap. “First, the least you can do for me as your partner is let me stay over, and second, I’d rather not think too hard about the fellow who left a pair of sweats in your apartment.” His voice was rough and sated, with the barest hint of jealousy.

  Hunter rolled his eyes. “I stole them from a guy in my class when I lost mine, thank you very much.”

  Stephen held up both hands, eyes wide and innocent. “Hey, it’s none of my business what your young, naïve self did with a bunch of filthy first year cadets—”

  “I was hardly naïve,” Hunter smirked, stretching his arms over his head and enjoying the way Stephen’ eyes trailed over his body.

  “Oh, now you’re just being cruel,” Stephen murmured, licking over his lips.

  Hunter swallowed hard, trying to remember the last time he’d had more than two orgasms in one night. “Maybe. I could recount all my academy exploits to you in the shower, since you’re so intent on staying.” He started backing Stephen toward the bathroom, pressing slow, sucking kisses to Stephen’ jaw and shivering each time Stephen’ breath hitched.

  “You’re such a bastard, I should never have given you my virtue,” Stephen said, his laughter being cut short by a gasp as his hands tangled in Hunter’s hair to hold him close, and Hunter thought just before they both stumbled into the shower, God, I fucking love you.

  ~

  The body in Greektown is yet another student, a girl named Carley Vossamer, but this time it’s different.

  “The Art Institute?” Hunter asks. “Why the hell is he going after art students?”

  Alyssa chews the end of her pen, says, “Apparently she was doing some media project on the prison system.” They’re standing in the tiny vestibule of Nine Muses, where the staff had found the body first thing that morning. Like all the others, Carley was strangled to death.

  Stephen crouches down beside her and frowns. “Something’s not right here.”

  “Well, for one thing, she’s not a criminal justice student,” Hunter says. “She doesn’t fit the profile at all, and yet—”

  “And yet the murder was performed in the exact same way as all the others.” Stephen shakes his head. “But look at where we are, Hunter. Every other murder took place at a university, or in the victim’s home. This place is just...random.”

  “But The Scholar doesn’t do random,” Alyssa says, and a chill goes up Hunter’s spine.

  Stephen suddenly goes very still. “Hunter, look.” He points to the girl’s hand, turned slightly upright in her lap. Pulling on a latex glove, Stephen folds her fingers back to reveal two neatly-written words printed across her palm in black ink.

  Pay attention.

  Hunter pretends he doesn’t hear Stephen swear under his breath.

  ~

  It happened slowly, bit by bit, until one morning Hunter woke up tucked face-first into a wide, solid chest and realized his entire bed smelled like Stephen’ aftershave.

  They never explicitly agreed to live together, that much Hunter was sure of. Just because Stephen had taken over half his closet and DVD collection and bought his share of groceries didn’t mean they were being domestic. Even after he’d agreed to take Sonny home, Hunter still thought of Stephen as his partner first, the guy he was hopelessly in love with second, and his roommate/boyfriend third.

  But there was something about waking up to the scent of warm, clean skin and Stephen’ soft, familiar snores skimming over the top of Hunter’s hair that felt like more. Their legs were tangled together under the feather down comforter (Stephen’ comforter, the one he’d bought after grumbling that Hunter didn’t have “winter appropriate blankets”), Sonny sprawled over their feet and taking up the entire end of the bed. Hunter breathed in deep, mouthed lazily over the dip at Stephen’ throat just to get a reaction. Stephen hummed sleepily, and the arm he had slung over Hunter’s hip tightened a fraction.

  “What time ‘sit?” he mumbled.

  Hunter closed his eyes, feeling drowsy and content. “Probably seven-ish. It’s Sunday.”

  Stephen hummed again, rough and low. “‘s your turn to get bagels.”

  “Fuck you, I got them last week.”

  “Uh-uh, you almost shot me yesterday.”

  “Keep telling yourself that. I knew my aim.”

  “Too close to call. Need bagels to make up my mind.” Hunter felt a soft kiss against his hair.

  “Can’t move anyway, your dog’s on my legs.”

  Stephen chuckled. “Sonny, love, you want breakfast?”

  Immediately, Hunter heard the clinking of dog tags as Sonny scrambled off the bed and made a bee line for the kitchen. A minute later, Hunter heard a loud, pointed bark.

  “I hate you and everything you stand for,” he mumbled, burrowing his face into Stephen’ chest, and Stephen just laughed and laughed as he slid both arms around Hunter’s bare back, hands splayed between his shoulder blades.

  ~

  “I want you off this case.” There’s no bite to the words at all; Stephen’ voice is low, quiet, shielded with a fake calm Hunter learned to read years ago. If he’s being completely honest with himself, he’s been waiting for Stephen to say this for days.

  It still doesn’t stop the rush of anger and irrational hurt.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Hunter says in his meanest, fiercest tone, the kind that means in no uncertain terms that he’s not fucking around and he will cut someone. It scares the shit out of Alyssa sometimes (not that he’s ever had a reason to use it on her), but unfortunately, Stephen knows how to read him, too.

  “It would be a great shame to involve Frederic in on this, Morris.” The simple sound of Hunter’s last name being said in that fucking condescending, falsely polite Englishness wrecks all of Hunter’s restraint. He forgets that Alyssa is standing a few feet away, forgets that they’re still outside beside the squad car, surrounded by locals and tourists alike trying to get a look at the crime scene. Hunter forgets all of this and shoves Stephen against the driver’s side door.

  “You waltz into town and think you can just, just take over my case and my house and my work just because you think you have the right?” Hunter hisses, feeling crazed and breathless all of a sudden. “You think because you carry that badge you can tell me what to do?”

  There’s a twitch in Stephen’ jaw, and Hunter—fuck, he knows that twitch. Whatever’s going to come out of Stephen’ mouth next, it’s not going to be good.

  “Actually, darling, that badge says I can do exactly that.” The corner of his mouth curves into a nasty smile. “And if I say you’re too close to this case, then that’s that. End of story.”

  Hunter hates that he can never hide his anger from this man. “I’m no closer to this than you are, Stephen. You said so yourself, I’m important.”

  “No, you’re a liability. How many more late-night phone calls will you receive from this lunatic that are followed by dead bodies? You’re the reason he’s killing, Hunter, but God knows you’re too bull-headed and arrogant to realize it.”

  Later, Hunter will acknowledge that it was one of his more stupid decisions, but right now, he sees nothing wrong with punching Stephen straight across the cheekbone.

  The force of it sends Stephen slamming back against the car door, and distantly Hunter hears Alyssa yell, “Jesus, Hunter!”

  His hand is screaming in pain, but his body feels like its been instantly purged of a giant, hulking weight. He flexes his fingers, gasping for breath. “Go to hell, Agent.”

  Stephen presses the back of his hand over his quickly-swelling cheek and doesn’t say a word, his expression completely shuttered.

  Hunter immediately turns around and walks back to the station, all twenty-five blocks, his injured fist cradled to his chest. Alyssa doesn’t run after him, and his phone doesn’t ring.

  He’s not surprised at all.

  ~

  “What were you like as a child?”

  Hunter paused for
a moment to raise an eyebrow at Stephen, his mouth hovering over Stephen’ stomach. “Is that really an appropriate question right now?”

  “Humor me, you’ve already worn me out tonight as it is. Not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment.”

  He hummed quietly and rested his chin in between Stephen’ ribs. “Boring,” he says, “with an over-active imagination. I wanted to be a paleontologist up until I was eleven.”

  Stephen snorted as he lifted himself up onto his elbows. The new angle did delicious things to the muscles in his abdomen. “I’m not sure if I can see you pouring over fossilized dinosaur droppings day in and day out,” he said, fingers lightly flicking the hair off Hunter’s forehead.

  “I was pretty serious about it. Stegosaurus was my all-time favorite, and I cried until I made myself sick over the beginning of Land Before Time.”

  “And then Steven Spielberg scared the living shit out of you.”

  “I was over it by then, but yeah. Sort of. I may or may not have convinced myself that raptors lived in my basement.” He kissed absent patterns over Stephen’ hip bone. “Right, so it’s your turn now.”

  “My turn?”

  “What kind of kid were you? Or were you the stereotypical British kid at the stuffy boarding school, wearing khakis and ties and sneaking out to smoke your secret stash of weed?”

  “Oh, Hunter, really, must you be so narrow-minded? I never did weed.”

  “My mistake.” He slid up Stephen’ body, nipped gently at his chin.

  “I was more partial to stealing cars.”

  Hunter pulled back slightly and smirked. “And what did your ambassador parents say to that?”

  “Nothing much, really, except to give my regards to Scotland Yard. Honestly, I think my father thought it rather amusing.”

  “How many times were you in jail?”

  “Three, four. Once we moved back to the States, I lost my touch. Bloody fucking American cars.”

  He kissed Stephen softly. “So your life of crime was thwarted. Such a shame. No wonder you worked vice.”