by Morgan Brice
Vic shrugged uncomfortably. “You know how I feel about the way a lot of places bring in people from hard-luck countries and then work them like indentured servants,” he said. “And I know that some of the hotels and restaurants wouldn’t make it without the cheap labor and that what’s ‘cheap’ here can be a good living back where they’re from. I get that.”
“I hear a but…”
Vic gave a bitter chuckle. “But some creeps don’t treat their workers much better than slaves, and we’ve busted trafficking rings that take advantage of the workers not having anyone here who gives a damn.”
“I seem to remember that, since I was there,” Ross replied in a dry voice. “And your point?”
“I just hate to see a serial killer go after them, too. And the killer, something about him reminds me—” he realized what he had said and shut up, looking away.
“Of what happened back in Pittsburgh,” Ross finished for him.
Vic didn’t look at him. “Yeah.”
Ross ran his hand over his mouth and chin; a clear tell that he was weighing his words. Officially, the only ones who knew the whole story about why Vic transferred down were their Captain and Ross. Vic wasn’t stupid enough to believe that the other cops hadn’t gotten the whole scoop from friends of friends. The “thin blue line” was an information superhighway.
“You’ve got a good thing goin’ here, Vic,” Ross said finally. “The captain likes you. The other guys think you’re mostly okay. I tolerate you…” he added with a grin to lighten his words. “Don’t fuck it up. People are monsters without needing any supernatural help. Just work the case. We’ll figure it out.”
Vic tamped down his anger, knowing that none of it was really aimed at Ross, reminding himself that his partner had his back and had been a champ about agreeing to team up with a damaged cop. “Yeah. I know that.”
“Go on,” Ross urged. “Take a break. If you don’t want to go home, go for a walk. Clear your head. We’ll figure out Plan B when we’re back on duty.”
Vic clapped him on the shoulder and left. A few of the other cops at their desks nodded in acknowledgment as he passed. He walked down the steps and onto the sidewalk, where the warm wind hit his face. From the precinct house, Vic knew he could be on the boardwalk by the beach in under ten minutes, and decided that a good cup of coffee and some time staring at the surf was just what he needed.
Myrtle Beach was a long way from Pittsburgh, but some days, the distance in miles and time wasn’t enough. Back in the Burgh, Vic had his own house, a great work partner, a hot boyfriend and by all accounts was on track for another promotion, even though at thirty-one he was a little young to make Captain. Then it all went wrong.
The wind fluttered his jacket, and out of reflex, Vic shifted his arm to keep the flapping fabric from revealing his holstered gun. As a plainclothes detective, he didn’t wear a uniform, and while he always had his badge, it didn’t pay to freak the tourists. He tried to focus on the smell of the ocean, the distant cry of seagulls, the pounding of the waves that were the silent, throbbing beat beneath the hum of Myrtle Beach’s activity.
Vic had dropped the subject with Ross because he didn’t want to fight, but he couldn’t change how he felt. Back in Pittsburgh, he and his former partner had tracked a serial killer through the city’s neighborhoods, a real sick bastard who got off on pain and blood. Vic had been a cop long enough to have lost most of his illusions about human nature, but this guy, the one the cops called “Pop-eye” because he took eyeballs as souvenirs of his kills, seemed creepy even by serial killer standards.
He and his old partner had finally gotten a break in the case and tracked the killer down to his hiding place, where one of his would-be victims was still alive. But when they moved on the killer, everything fell apart.
The killer was ninja fast, dodging bullets like a superhero, and threw Vic’s former linebacker partner across the room like a wadded up piece of paper. Vic opened fire, four bullets center mass, and the perp went down. What happened next doomed his promotion and almost finished his career. His partner was stunned. The perp had a big hole where his chest used to be. Then Vic saw a green glowing fog leave the dead perp and swirl around the screaming victim. And in the next instant, the victim had grabbed the perp’s gun and moved into an expert firing stance, dead-eyed and ready to kill.
Vic shot first.
The victim, a petite young school teacher with no priors and no weapons experience, went down in a pool of blood, dead at the scene. Vic’s partner woke, with no idea what had happened and unable to corroborate the story. The inquest had been brutal, worse because Vic had told the whole truth. He’d been placed on leave while Internal Affairs investigated, then sent for drug screenings and a psych evaluation. When he turned up clean, and the shrink cleared him, IA grudgingly allowed reinstatement. But at that point, Vic and everyone else knew it was over.
Nate, his boyfriend, had grown distant during the inquest. His tone and comments made it clear that he didn’t believe Vic about the glowing fog and the whole Exorcist thing. When Vic brought up the possibility of moving, because nowhere close-by would hire him, Nate refused to even consider the idea. He didn’t break things off between them in so many words. He didn’t have to.
Vic took the carefully worded sort-of recommendation he got from his boss, packed his bags, and drove south, vaguely remembering spring breaks spent on the Carolina coast. With no one but himself to please, he headed for Myrtle Beach, working his old college network and family connections to put in a good word for him with the precinct there. Short on both prospects and money, Vic wasn’t too proud to accept a favor.
Two years had gone by, but sometimes it felt like no time at all. Captain Hargrove had been fair with him, better than his record deserved. The other cops gradually warmed up to him, and if Vic still wasn’t exactly in the inner circle, they didn’t shun him. Ross might have had something to do with that, going out on a limb to make his support glaringly clear. Vic had a nice apartment, some poker buddies, and a little money in the bank. And if he’d blamed the stress and demands of his job for why there was no significant other in his life, no one called him on the lie.
He stared down the beach at the 14th Avenue pier. Tonight, the huge Ferris wheel with its strobing, multi-colored lights would be the centerpiece, along with the two brightly-lit pylons from which screaming tourists gleefully paid to be dropped in a bungee harness for a thrill. All along the boardwalk were restaurants, bars, hotels, shops, arcades, and attractions eager to part newcomers from their money. Wednesday night fireworks lit up the sky, and weekend bands filled the park.
Vic hadn’t grown up around the ocean. Pittsburgh had its famed three rivers, and friends had taken him boating or camping on lakes, but the ocean had always remained a special memory of his favorite childhood vacations. Just listening to the rush of the waves made Vic feel better, no matter how shitty the day might have been. And while he wasn’t much for lying still in the sun, walking at the edge of the water and feeling the wet sand under his toes went a long way toward cleansing his mood.
The wind had picked up, and Vic glanced at the dark clouds coming in. Too late he remembered the predicted rain and grimaced at the thought of riding home and getting soaking wet. He thought about heading for his motorcycle, but the lure of some fresh air and a good cup of coffee kept him where he was. He could survive getting wet.
He rested his forearms on the boardwalk railing and looked out toward the ocean, in part to ignore the couples laughing and joking as they walked along with their ice cream. Maybe it was time to think about getting out there again, dating, finding a boyfriend and not just a hook-up. Vic snorted. Even his hook-ups had been few and far between because he didn’t like being vulnerable with someone he didn’t know. That nixed dating apps since the cop in him wanted to get a read on a prospective partner in person, not just swipe right. Then again, he hated going clubbing—no telling when one of those places would get busted for something—and
cruising for a date in a bar just felt desperate.
Yep, he thought. That explained why he was still single and spending most nights watching TV, tuning up his cycle, or going for a long ride along the Coastal Highway. Maybe he should get a dog, and resign himself to spending the rest of his life wanking off in the shower. God, he needed to get laid.
Vic pushed off from the railing and ambled down the boardwalk toward Mizzenmast Coffee. He didn’t usually pay much attention to the shops, couldn’t remember the last time he had even noticed the signs. But today, the “Grand Strand Ghost Tours” window caught his eye. But what made him pause was the smaller lettering beneath “Tours, Maps, Books, Candles, and Supplies.” In particular, the line that read “Private Readings and Séances, by Appointment Only.”
What could it hurt, to come back and see if the psychic can contact any of the spirits of the dead workers? He thought. Not like we’ve gotten any other breaks in the case. And if I get a tip that pans out, no one ever needs to know where it came from.
3
Simon
Simon had hoped to grab a quick latte at Mizzenmast Coffee—or as the locals called it, Le Miz—but his heart sank when he saw the line. He almost went back to the shop, but he remembered that the coffee maker was dead, and desperation coaxed him to take his place at the end of the long queue.
Le Miz had taken over the space that once housed a pirate-themed exhibit. As Tracey, the shop owner and Simon’s best friend had once confided, she didn’t have the money to renovate, so she incorporated the pirate decor into the coffee house, which proved to be a hit with both tourists and locals. Tracey was creative with the specialty coffees, and they all boasted names of famous pirates, both real and fictional. Simon had long ago gotten over the embarrassment of asking for a “Dread Pirate Roberts,” which was a triple shot of espresso in steamed milk with a shot of caramel syrup.
Simon glanced at the register, expecting to see Tracey holding court, as usual. Instead, a woman he recognized but didn’t know as well, Lana, was ringing up purchases and calling out orders to the baristas behind the counter. Le Miz had killer muffins and breakfast breads, and Simon felt his stomach rumble as he remembered leaving home with only a protein bar.
“Can you believe the line?” a voice said behind him. “Where did everyone come from, and why the hell are they between me and the coffee?”
Simon turned, thinking of a funny quip in response, and the words died in his throat. The man behind him was gorgeous. Short dark hair, caramel colored skin, and eyes the color of milk chocolate. Powerful arms crossed over a muscular chest hidden beneath a t-shirt, and a quick sweep of Simon’s gaze suggested the thighs beneath those fitted jeans were mouthwatering. He had a bit of swagger and a cocky grin, but something about him came off worn and frayed, piquing Simon’s interest beyond the man’s good looks.
“That’s the price of the Strand’s best coffee,” Simon replied with a smile. Oh God, that’s really lame. Shit, I’ve still got my glasses on. And my hair’s a mess. “Worth the wait though.”
The dark haired man returned the smile, although it didn’t reach his eyes. His gaze seemed to miss nothing, appraising and watchful. Cop? Simon wondered. That would fit. Sweet Jesus, look at that body! Those arms—
“I don’t get over here often, and not usually this early,” the man replied.
“It’s my guilty pleasure,” Simon confessed. “I’m kinda a coffee-holic. And the coffee maker at work died, so…here I am.”
This time, the stranger chuckled. “Yeah, well. Work coffee sucks. Always tastes like it’s been boiling all night, and I swear they never clean the pot.”
Outside, thunder rumbled, and rain began to darken the boardwalk. Instinctively, the line moved closer together, away from the windows. “Hope you don’t have far to go,” Simon commented. “Because it looks like we’re in for a downpour.”
The man met Simon’s gaze and kept eye contact for just a second too long, making Simon’s heart pound. He felt a flush come to his face under that appraising gaze, unsure whether the stranger was really checking him out, or just giving him a cop’s once-over. “I don’t mind getting wet,” the man replied, still not looking away, as if daring Simon to respond.
“Neither do I,” Simon managed to reply, hoping his voice didn’t betray his nervousness. A smile shared made Simon’s pulse spike again. “Did you walk?” he asked, desperate to keep the conversation going as they inched closer to the counter. Simon wished Tracey was working because she remembered all her regulars and she’d be able to fill him in on the mystery man. Only three more people in front of them before he gave his order. Simon knew he’d need to get creative, somehow, if he wanted to share more than a few minutes of idle chatter.
“Nah. Rode my motorcycle.” The cop—Simon felt sure the man was a cop—shifted, and he caught a glimpse of ink beneath the rolled up jacket sleeves. That observation went straight to Simon’s cock. He didn’t have any tattoos of his own, but the thought of an inked lover was a favorite midnight fantasy. Motorcycle cop came in a close second.
Get a grip, Kincaide. Horny is one thing. Desperate is totally not cool. “What kind of bike? Harley?” he asked, saying the first thing that came to mind.
“Nah. Hayabusa. Deep blue.”
“I’ve got a friend who rides a Hayabusa,” Simon replied. “I think it’s black.”
“You don’t know what color it is?” Cop Dude asked with a smirk.
Simon shrugged. “He told me he bought it when he got out of the Army, but I haven’t seen him in a long time.”
Oddly enough, the cop seemed to relax a little, and Simon hid a smile. He is checking me out. And he liked that Seth isn’t around. Okay, let’s see if I can figure out some way to get his phone number before we walk away with our coffees.
“Bikes are a big deal here,” Simon said to fill the pause. “I’m always amazed at how many come through for Bike Week.” Several major motorcycle events each summer turned the Grand Strand into a cavalcade of the hottest cycles on the coast.
Cop Dude shrugged. “I always liked Born to Run. Springsteen fan. What can I say?”
“Sir?” the voice called from the counter, making Simon turn away. “You’re next.” Simon had never been less happy to get to the front of the line.
“I’ll have a Dread Pirate Roberts,” he mumbled, not wanting to look like an idiot to the guy he was trying to impress. He handed over the money, took his change as she rang him up, dropped a one dollar bill in the tip jar, and moved down the counter to wait for his drink.
“I’ll try that, too,” the cop said, flashing him a grin. “What the hell? Live life on the edge.”
Le Miz baristas were fast. Simon knew he needed to come up with a way to extend the conversation without looking like a creeper or lose the connection, maybe forever. Just as the barista handed both of them their drinks, a deafening thunderclap sounded, rattling the windows, and the rain came pouring down.
“Want to grab a table?” Simon asked, nervous enough that his throat felt tight. “We’ll drown if we go out there now.”
“Sure. Why not.”
Simon led the way through the crowded outer room where the tables were all taken to the back room where there was once a display of pirate doubloons and recovered sunken treasures. The room kept its murals of sailing ships and scruffy pirates, along with the odds and ends left behind by the previous owners—a beat-up old chest, a pirate mannequin everyone called “Mo” and a bedraggled stuffed parrot on a perch, dubbed “Percy” by Le Miz regulars.
“You must come here a lot to know there’s a second room.”
“Told you, I take my coffee very seriously,” Simon teased as he sat down. “I’m Simon, by the way.”
“Vic,” the man replied. “So what’s in this mystery drink?”
“Do you like the smell?” Simon asked.
Vic leaned over his cup, took a deep breath, and his eyes fluttered almost closed. Simon's heart did a little samba, instantly imagining
what Vic would look like blissed out and debauched after sweaty sex. Simon’s erection strained at the fly of his jeans, and he was insanely glad they were seated at a table where Vic couldn’t see how aroused he was.
“Good?” Simon asked, hating that he sounded a little breathless.
“Yeah,” Vic replied, with a little moan that made Simon painfully hard.
“Glad I could turn you on to a good thing,” Simon replied, hoping he hadn’t read the signals wrong since he was blatantly flirting.
“Much obliged,” Vic replied, and maybe it was Simon’s imagination that the man’s voice dropped a little lower, a bit huskier, than before.
“You’ve been here before, you said?” Simon asked, finding that his pick-up skills were as woefully rusty as his ability to make polite chit-chat.
“A few times,” Vic replied. “I haven’t gotten to the boardwalk as much as I’d like.”
“I try not to overdo the special coffees,” Simon said with a self-conscious smile. “I know the sugar adds up. But you’ve got to do something to make yourself feel good now and then, right?” Oh lord, that sounded really bad. I can’t believe I said that.
A wicked twinkle came into Vic’s eyes. “I’m all for feeling good,” he replied, and his foot bumped into Simon’s beneath the table.
It’s just his foot. Doesn’t mean anything. Could have been an accident, Simon told himself, but Vic didn’t move away, and Simon hoped his smile looked encouraging instead of merely nervous.
“So are you in town for business or pleasure?” Simon asked, and cringed internally. What’s wrong with me? I’m never smooth, but I didn’t used to be this awful at picking up a date. “I mean, are you a local or just visiting?”
Vic’s full, sensuous lips quirked in a smile. “Neither,” he replied.
Simon tried and failed at not staring at his lips and imagining them around his cock. Get a grip! Shit, that only changed the mental image to a hand job. So not working! Don’t fuck this up. That didn’t help at all.