by Morgan Brice
He heard the knock at the door, and couldn’t help smoothing a hand down his t-shirt and stealing a quick glance in the mirror. Simon waited in the doorway, looking completely edible in a dark green t-shirt and a pair of worn jeans that left little to the imagination. He held out a bottle of wine and a potted orchid.
“I didn’t know if you had a vase,” Simon said when he handed the plant to Vic. “So I got something that didn’t need one.” Then he took the initiative to stretch up and kiss Vic on the mouth as he stepped inside.
“Thanks,” Vic said, taking the wine and orchid and setting them aside. He locked the door behind Simon, then drew him close for a proper kiss, long and lingering, letting his tongue explore Simon’s mouth, attuning himself to the other man’s quiet moans when their bodies brushed together just so.
Vic slid his hands down Simon’s back, liking the firm muscles beneath the soft shirt. He cupped Simon’s ass with both hands and smiled into the kiss as Simon slid his hands into Vic’s back pockets.
Vic’s stomach growled, and they pulled apart, flushed and breathless, then they both laughed. “I guess we ought to have dinner,” he said with a grin.
“I’m holding you to dessert,” Simon said with a wicked smile. “Been thinking about that all day.”
Vic gave his ass a squeeze. “Oh, really?”
Simon pinched him lightly through the denim. “I’ve got all kinds of ideas,” he said, and the look in his eyes made it clear how those options ended. Vic found himself hard and his mouth dry.
“Let’s eat,” he managed, and Simon looked triumphant at flustering him.
Vic took his lover’s hand and led him into the living room. “Well, what do you think? This is it. Kitchen’s over there,” he said, pointing to the small galley area with a raised bar that was not fully separated from the loft-style living area. “Bathroom and two bedrooms are that way,” he added, gesturing in the opposite direction, toward a partition wall that separated the public and private space.
“Modern, clean, very nice,” Simon said, glancing around. “Streamlined.”
Vic cleared his throat. “I have a bunch of personal stuff I just never got around to unpacking,” he added, feeling as if he needed to explain. “I hit the ground running at work when I moved here, and the only company I have is when the guys come over to watch the game, or play poker and they don’t care—”
“No explanation needed,” Simon said, kissing him on the cheek. “Now, you said something about food?”
Vic removed two bowls of spicy noodles with chicken from the oven where he’d left them warming, then opened the bottle of wine Simon brought, and poured them each a glass. He felt strangely awkward, being on a date in his own home as if he were trying to be on his best behavior.
Simon, on the other hand, looked completely at ease. If he thought the place lacked any of the personality and charm of his bungalow, he didn’t show it, and after an initial glance around, he kept his attention focused on Vic.
Supper conversation stayed light, remarking on the weather, complaining about traffic, and commenting on the status of the area’s never-ending construction projects. Through it all, Simon joked and flirted, and Vic flirted back, finding excuses to brush their fingers together or touch the other man’s hand, bumping knees or feet under the table, making eye contact. It felt strange and wonderful at the same time, and Vic never wanted it to end.
“So tell me about your family,” Simon said as he helped Vic clear their plates from the table after they had demolished their servings. “Is that their picture in the living room?”
Vic nodded. One of the few items he had unpacked was a photo of the whole D’Amato clan, taken right before he left Pittsburgh. “We’re a loud, rowdy bunch, three generations of cops, with a few other black sheep thrown in. Those black sheep are the teacher, the pastry chef, and a lawyer since they strayed from the family profession.”
“Utterly shameful,” Simon teased. “So you’ve got a big family?”
Vic shrugged. “Pittsburgh Italian Catholic. Five kids. That seems big nowadays, but both of my parents were one of ten, so they thought they settled for a small family. We could fill a park shelter just with the cousins!”
“Sounds like fun,” Simon said, a wistful note in his voice. “It was just my brother and me. He’s five years older. We weren’t close. I think I met my cousins on either side of the family once or twice in my life. My parents weren’t big on get-togethers.”
“It was a good thing we had so many cops in the family because our Fourth of July picnic got kinda loud,” Vic remembered with a smile.
“You must miss them. Do you go back often?” Simon asked.
Vic looked away. “I do miss them. But it’s a long way from here, and the weather sucks for half of the year. I go back now and then, and I call my mom or she gets worried. Everyone else, I hear from on email.”
“I hear from mine on birthdays and Christmas,” Simon confessed. “We aren’t close. And what happened at the university just seemed to make things worse.”
“That wasn’t your fault.” Vic reached out to take his hand. But he remembered the tone of Brad’s email from earlier in the day. How many others had said the same thing, or worse, as the scandal unfolded, and how much had that betrayal scarred Simon?
“It was the wrong place to try to be open about a lot of things,” Simon said. “So far, Myrtle Beach has been a lot more welcoming.”
They went into the living room and settled on the black leather couch. Vic had always loved the couch because it was long enough for him to lie down, and the soft leather conformed to his body. Simon sat next to him, and Vic slipped an arm around his shoulders, letting Simon rest his head against him.
“Dinner was good,” Simon said, in a warm, relaxed voice that made Vic half hard just listening to him. “Thanks.”
“It’s my favorite Thai place,” Vic replied, absently toying with Simon’s hair. He noticed that after his comment about liking Simon’s hair down, the ghost guide had shown up tonight with it cascading around his shoulders. The realities of Vic’s job demanded that he keep his own hair short, but he found himself utterly intrigued with Simon’s thick, chestnut waves.
“I’ve got an Indian place I need to take you,” Simon murmured from against his chest. “Kind of a nice change from all the burgers and seafood.” Myrtle Beach catered to tourists on vacation, and while the shore was a great place for fresh crab, fish, and other delicacies, those who lived there year-round soon craved variety.
“Sounds like a plan,” Vic replied, enjoying the feel of Simon, warm and solid against him. In just the short time he and Simon had been seeing each other, Vic already realized how much had been missing from his relationship with Nate. Nate hadn’t liked being openly affectionate or looking like a couple in public, and he tended to touch Vic only when he wanted to have sex. Vic liked the casual contact that seemed to come naturally to Simon, the easy, unapologetic way they moved together, even though they were still so new in whatever this thing was between them.
Relationship, Vic told himself. It’s called a “relationship” and it’s what happens when you start falling for someone. He wasn’t ready to use the “L” word yet, and he didn’t think Simon was either, but it no longer seemed impossible to imagine that the attraction—hell, the magnetism—between them could grow into something deeper. Something more permanent.
“I seem to remember that you promised me dessert,” Simon said, and let his hand slide down to cup Vic’s crotch. “You know that false advertising is illegal.”
“We wouldn’t want to break the law,” Vic replied with a sexy chuckle, drawing Simon toward him. Christ, he was perfect, with his hazel eyes already wide and dark with desire, his lips pink and swollen from kissing, and his fingers teasing up Vic’s inseam and dipping down between his legs to stroke his balls. Vic was already painfully hard, and he knew from the bulge rubbing against his thigh that Simon was very ready for the next step as well.
�
�Come here,” Vic growled, pulling Simon onto his lap. Simon was a couple of inches shorter and not as heavily built, but he was all lean muscle, and the memory of how good he had looked naked made Vic’s pulse race. He pushed a thigh between Simon’s legs, letting the other man rub off on him, getting his own satisfying friction against Simon’s leg, rutting against each other as they kissed.
Simon’s hands slid up Vic’s chest, exploring the hard muscles, tweaking his nipples beneath his t-shirt. He bent and traced the swirls on the tattoo sleeve with his tongue. Vic’s breath caught. No one had ever done that before. He’d gotten the tats after he left Pittsburgh, part of creating a new life, and he hadn’t taken a real lover since then. Simon took his time, exploring the dark ink, sometimes with the very tip of his tongue, other times with the flat or even the side, all of it intimate and erotic. Vic wondered if he could come just from watching Simon follow every scroll and detail as if committing the pattern to memory.
Simon glanced at him. The sight of those hazel eyes giving a knowing look from beneath his lashes nearly undid Vic. “Do you like it when I do this?” Simon’s voice was whiskey-rough, with the hint of a smile that said he knew exactly what his attention was doing to his lover.
“Fuck, yes. That’s…real good.”
Simon licked a few more of the geometric designs, tasting the salty skin beneath the pattern, following the outline with his tongue and lips. “I want to do this for all your ink,” he promised. “Memorize you with my tongue.”
Shit, Vic was in trouble, because he already felt closer to creaming his jeans than he had since he was a teenager. He brushed the knuckles of his right hand against Simon’s cheek, fluttered the touch against his throat and collarbone, and then let his fingers glide down Simon’s back, toying with the tender skin right above his waistband.
“I’d like that,” Vic managed to stammer, too aroused to care if his voice wasn’t entirely steady. Damn, he loved what Simon did to him, brought out in him, things he never thought he’d find comfortable and now discovered he did not want to live without.
Simon paused long enough to strip off his shirt, exposing that toned chest and a dusting of dark hairs. Vic pulled his shirt over his head, and Simon stared at his tats like they were their very own erogenous zone. Shit, Vic hadn’t thought he might have a lover with a tattoo kink; the designs had been strictly for himself. But he wouldn’t turn down that added bonus, not when Simon looked ready to devour him.
Vic’s phone rang, in the shrill tone reserved for work.
“Sorry, I’ve got to take this,” Vic said, as Simon shimmied off him, back to the couch where he watched, curled up with his knees in front of him, as Vic reached for his phone.
Ross’s voice sounded harsh and fast. “Gotta go. Grab your coat. Parking attendant just called in a body. Sounds like the Slitter again.”
Vic looked up, meeting Simon’s eyes. He saw the same disappointment there that he felt, and a frustration he bet matched his own. “I’m sorry,” he said when the call ended. “It goes with the job.”
Simon leaned forward and kissed him. “I understand. Just be careful.” He stood, all graceful, lean muscle, and reached for his shirt, pulling it on and then shaking his head to free his hair. “Call me, okay? I’ll worry.”
Vic had already gotten his shirt on, and he pulled Simon to him by his belt loops, kissing him again, a promise. “I’ll call. You drove here?”
Simon nodded. “Yeah. Didn’t think you’d want me walking back late.”
“Next time, figure on staying,” Vic said, as he collected his wallet from the side table, then went into the bedroom to retrieve his gun and holster, shouldering into the rig like a second skin.
“That’s hot as hell,” Simon said, eyeing Vic and then heading for the door. “Happy hunting.” He shut the door behind him, and Vic closed his eyes, taking a minute to shift gears from being a few minutes away from a night of hot sex into the headspace to go look at a corpse.
Vic angled his motorcycle into the parking garage where Ross had said to meet him. The lower level was already swarming with police, and Vic flashed his badge, then parked his bike and followed a patrol officer’s directions to the rear of the fourth floor.
The smell of blood had already drawn flies, a given with the South Carolina heat. Vic pushed through the crowd of police and the forensics crew to find Ross, who stood off to one side, letting the others do their jobs. Vic paused as he passed the dead woman.
Cindy, the stripper from Fox and Hound, lay in a pool of blood. He didn’t need the lab team to tell him that the pattern of knife wounds matched the Slitter’s signature.
“Want to tell me why dispatch says you ran her through the system, before anyone filed a missing persons report?” Ross asked, giving Vic a hard look.
“I got a tip from someone that she hadn’t shown up for work, and they were afraid she was in danger.”
Ross gave him the stare he usually reserved for perps in interrogation. “Try again. Because a homicide detective doesn’t usually go out of his way to run down details on a stripper who isn’t even dead yet, just because she didn’t turn up for her shift. Especially when I know you aren’t sleeping with her.”
Vic pulled Ross over to one side, where they were less likely to be overheard. “Simon has a loose network…of acquaintances…who he says all have minor abilities—”
“Psychic abilities?” Ross pressed.
“Yeah,” Vic replied. “Not enough to do much with, but enough to screw up their lives. Since he hasn’t been able to come up with any solid leads with his own gifts, he figured he’d ask around, see if one of these acquaintances had seen something that might be important.”
“You brought your ghost whisperer boyfriend in on a case?” Ross growled, face coloring with anger. That rankled with Vic, who felt his temper flare.
“Lots of cops have used psychics to get a break when they hit a dead end,” Vic countered. “There are psychics who work with police departments all over the country. It’s not like we’ve got this sewn up on our own.”
“They get clearance, D’Amato. They don’t just go to some fortune teller on the boardwalk and divulge confidential police information!”
“Back that right the hell up,” Vic argued. “First of all, I didn’t divulge anything confidential. The city PR people might be trying to keep a lid on the news, but everyone knows about the Slitter, and they’ve figured out we haven’t caught him yet. And second, Simon isn’t a fortune teller.”
“He’s a fraud, and he’s going to take you down with him if you’re not careful, Vic. Do you know what the Captain would say if he found out you consulted with a guy who gives ghost tours—let alone started sleeping with him?”
“Who I sleep with is no one’s business.”
“It is when it could compromise an ongoing investigation,” Ross snapped.
“So I’m the first detective to go to questionable sources? Really? How many junkies and dealers and thugs are we paying as informants? And you’re mad because I went to a business owner who might have connections we could use?”
“Connections with ghosts!” Ross retorted. “He talks to invisible people.”
“He was right about Cindy.” Vic knew he was walking a dangerous line. If he told Ross about Simon’s visions, his foreknowledge of Iryena’s death and his link, however circumstantial, to Katya, he could end up making Simon a suspect. But if he protected his source, and the information came out later, both Simon and Vic could be in for a rough time.
“It’s like you want to blow up your career all over again!” Ross threw up his hands.
“We canvas people who might have seen something or know something all the time,” Vic said, barely keeping his anger in check. “Sometimes, we give a little info to get a little new info. That’s how it works. I saw a chance to get a break, and I took it. It’s no different than what we do every day.”
“I can only cover for you so far, Vic,” Ross warned. “I want to give you the be
nefit of the doubt. And I will…for now. But I won’t sacrifice my badge just because you’re not thinking with your upstairs brain. You hear me?”
“Loud and clear.” Vic turned away. He was furious with Ross for not trusting him, and underneath that, angry with himself for creating a situation that could get ugly fast. Part of him was pissed at Simon because his involvement complicated everything. I didn’t have to get involved. I’m the one who went looking for him. He’s only tried to help—and nearly got killed for it.
Vic walked a few steps down the outer side of the garage, trying to get his emotions under control while the photographers and forensics team finished. He looked out at the view of the taillights on King’s Highway, the wall of lit-up high rise hotels along the beach, and the neon mayhem of signage that lined the road.
This particular garage sat next to an older hotel which could boast about low rates even if it couldn’t offer a beachfront location, and a high rise closed for renovations. As Vic walked along the outer wall of the garage, he looked down, getting a unique aerial perspective of the hotel pool below.
The pool was in the shape of a huge blue fish, surrounded by palm trees spangled with white sparkling lights. Across the street, a garish sign enticed shoppers to Big Al’s Beachwear, with a caricature of a man with a huge nose.
“Gos-teen-eetsa.” “Bolshoy-noss.” The Russian words Simon had reported from Iryena’s ghost rang in his ears as he looked down on a match too perfect to be coincidence. Vic intended to run with it, see if that meant the Slitter had his bolt hole somewhere close. But he knew what Ross would say. Ross would turn his attention to Simon, not as an informant, but a suspect. The cop in Vic knew Ross had a point, much as his heart fought that conclusion. Maybe he did need to keep a little distance, for Simon’s sake—and his own.
13
Simon