For the Bite of It

by Viki Lyn

  Vince cast his mind around recent encounters with the landlord. Yes, Sala sometimes carried a travel mug filled with coffee, especially in the morning. Hadn’t he even mentioned he liked the brand he kept at home rather than the brew Vince served in the bakery?

  But Vince hadn’t noticed a steel-coated travel mug in the car. So Sala had to have been coming from somewhere other than his house. Sala had been at Hank’s the night before, making a pass at a young man in a Guess shirt and Daisy Duke shorts. Vincent hadn’t cared to watch the outcome, figuring Sala would get a not-so-gentle let down from the boy-toy.

  What if that hadn’t happened? What if the boy-toy, for some godforsaken reason, had hooked up with Sala that night? They sure as hell wouldn’t go back to Sala’s mansion where his wife ruled the roost. No, they would have gone to a hotel or the boy-toy’s place. More likely they’d gone to Sala’s office, where he had a comfortable back-room complete with a couch and pillows. Vince had seen it once when he’d dropped off some papers.

  Contrary to Sala’s flashy home, the office was located in a quiet side street in Mesa. Plenty of privacy to bring boys back at night.

  Vince jerked his chair down to the floor with a bang and grabbed his car keys. He would drive out there. Instincts roaring as they did when he was onto something, he told Greg he was going out. He cursed at the mesquite pods scattered over his car, but this was the only parking spot that offered some shade. As he backed out of the spot, he wished he could call John and tell him about his suspicions. Or better still, he could ask the detective to come along.

  The curse of his family—when they fell, they fell hard. In his circle, Vince was known as a fast operator. His impulsiveness had gotten him into trouble more than once. The proof positive lay in his exile.

  Shoving aside the wishful thought of discussing this with John, he drove to Sala’s office. He checked the door, not surprised to find it locked. A painted Count Dracula with an asinine expression smiled at him from the window. He shook his head at why humans had to glamorize everything; if only they knew about the real ghouls they might encounter, they wouldn’t celebrate Halloween with such spirit. All the other suites appeared closed and the parking lot empty.

  He got back in his car and swiped away the sweat trickling down his neck. The Arizona summer was lasting longer this year. It should have been ten degrees cooler by now.

  He cruised around the building keeping a watchful eye out for restaurants. Seeing none, he pulled out on the opposite side where he had entered the lot. Maybe he’d been wrong about the coffee?

  The drive past Kiwanis Park back to the bakery was much more pleasant than the interstate. A manmade lake glinted to his left, the sun’s rays causing swaths of shimmer on the water’s surface. On auto-pilot, he let his mind wander over the strange death of Sala and its consequences. The taillights flashed on the white van in front of him and Vince stamped on the brakes. The van slowed to turn right into a narrow parking lot. Vince rolled to a stop at the red light and waited, tapping an impatient finger on the steering wheel. A huge sign on the southwest corner advertised water and ice for sale in bulk.

  He glanced idly at the white vehicle that had turned. The driver had opened the back doors and was loading large trays onto a metal dolly. The trays were similar to the ones he used in the bakery to move cupcakes from the kitchen to the shelves.

  Wait a minute! Trays to move pastries.

  The driver behind him honked and he realized he was sitting through a green light. Making a split-second decision, he swerved into the parking lot, pulling up behind the van. Trays of Danishes and donuts wrapped in plastic were piled three and four high. Vince smiled at the twenty-four-hour neon sign in the convenience store window. He strode into the store and glanced around.

  The shelves displayed all the standard junk food one might expect—candy bars, potato chips, nuts. Behind those was a glassed-in refrigerated section that contained cold drinks. Vince took a bottle of water up to the counter.

  “Dollar fifty-nine,” said the gum-chewing, tattooed cashier.

  “Good looking donuts,” he mentioned as he gave the kid a five-dollar bill. “Bet they go fast.”

  The cashier shrugged, counting out the change.

  Vince persisted. “Been selling them long?”

  “I guess. You want one?”

  He collected his change. “Thanks. Not today. Do you work here in the early mornings?”

  “Nah, the owner does. If you want to talk to him he’ll be in later this afternoon.”

  “Thanks.”

  Inside the car, he let the engine idle as he fished out John Reeder’s card from his pocket. He stared at it for a long moment. Let the games begin. He dialed the main precinct number.

  “I’d like to speak to Detective John Reeder,” he told the operator.

  “Name, please?”

  “Vincent Esposito.”

  “Hold one moment, please.”

  A couple of clicks and John’s voice-mail came on. Dio, John’s voice sent tingles of pleasure down his back.

  “Detective Reeder, this is Vince Esposito. I have some information for you about Sala.”

  He left his number and slid his phone shut, pulse racing with anticipation as he drove to the bakery. He was back on the computer balancing budget numbers on his spreadsheet when his cell phone rang.

  The caller id came up as unknown number. Could it be him?

  “Vince.”

  “Mr. Esposito, this is Detective Reeder. You called?”

  Oh yes! Some days there was a God.

  “I did.”

  John’s sigh gusted over the connection. “And you have some information for me?”

  “I do.”

  “Mr. Esposito, I don’t have all day. What is it you want to tell me?”

  I want to take you home, strip you naked…

  Vince cleared his throat. “I have information about Sala.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Damn, he didn’t want to do this over the phone. He searched for an excuse to meet John. “I’m sorry. I can’t really talk right now. I could meet you later. Say this evening?”

  “And this is information you have to give me in person?” Vince imagined John’s frown, his eyes puckering at the corners.

  “It’s complicated.”

  A long silence followed during which Vince held his breath.

  “Fine. I’ll stop by the bakery.”

  He had to come up with a plan fast. “Er, I’m not there. I’m in Scottsdale actually. I doubt I’ll be back in Tempe till later on this evening.”

  Another moment of silence. “Where exactly did you want to meet?”

  Vince went for broke. “Look, I won’t be finished until late. How about dinner around seven?”

  “I don’t think—.”

  “Sorry got to run. Café Venetia in Paradise Valley, seven o’clock.”

  “I can’t—.”

  “Thanks John, I appreciate you working with my schedule. The info’s worth it, I promise.”

  He disconnected and grinned. Now all he had to do was get through the rest of the afternoon without dying of impatience. He hoped John wouldn’t check out the restaurant too closely. Despite the innocuous Café in the name, it was an exclusive Italian restaurant with a named chef. He’d better make a reservation.

  Unable to curb the grin stretching across his face, he punched in the restaurant’s phone number.

  He had just slid the cover shut on his phone when the air inside the car became tight and thick, like the pressure in the atmosphere before a storm. Expecting to see Angelo shimmer into sight in the passenger seat, Vince turned his head.

  His heart turned a somersault as his sister appeared.

  * * * *

  What the hell? John stared at the receiver before dropping it back into the cradle.

  Okay, Vincent had information. That’s all that was. The bastard hadn’t let him get in a word. Why the hell couldn’t he give him the information over the phone
?

  His heart beat double time at the thought of seeing Vincent without the barrier of cop vs. suspect. They’d be in a casual setting, almost like a date. Shit. What an idiot he was for agreeing to meet at a restaurant.

  Okay fine, he could handle Vincent without jumping the guy’s bones. They’d meet, he’d find out what the joker had to say, have a quick bite, and he’d leave. End of story with no beginning in the first place.

  He didn’t trust the guy. He was hiding something, but was it murder?

  Last night’s erotic dream bounced into his mind, and he almost gagged on his sandwich. He dropped his pastrami onto the wrapping, licking smears of mustard off his fingers.

  Heat spread across his chest. He closed his eyes and relieved the memory of Vincent’s sweet touches, the spicy sharp fragrance, and the taste of salty skin. He loved his rich brown skin, and worse, loved the thought of caressing it. The memory of those lips left their imprint. He hated himself for wanting more of that mouth.

  What the fuck was happening to him? That dream had been too real, too vivid and too damn hot. He should have insisted that Vincent come to the station instead of meeting him at some goddamn restaurant. Grabbing a couple of chocolate Kisses he had lined up on his desk, he placed them in his pants pocket. He’d need them for the road.

  He didn’t hear Free enter their office until she spoke.

  “Hey, the M.E. found something funny.”

  He sat up in his chair. “Yeah?”

  “So when he couldn’t find any trace of poison in the vic’s blood, he ran further tests. He ruled out a heart attack. Not the right enzyme.” She glanced down at the paper in her hand. “So that led him to…” She grimaced. “Can’t pronounce it—choli something or other. Seems Sala had abnormally low levels of this stuff which can lead to muscle paralysis and slowed down breathing.”

  Excitement at getting a new lead slammed shut all thoughts about Vincent in his mind. “Mimicking a heart attack.”

  “Right-o.”

  They were close now. John sensed it. “So what causes low levels of the co-whatever that was?”

  “That’s the problem. Apparently several things can, including exposure to certain poisons.” She gave a long-suffering sigh, a fair imitation of the M.E. “None of which were found in the victim’s system. Next time he wants to give a chemistry lecture, you’re it. My head is spinning.”

  John grinned at her. “So we’re still looking for something he ingested. But it’s a rare poison that doesn’t stay in the system?”

  She shrugged her puzzlement. “Yeah. I think we should start checking out all the places within a three-mile radius where he could have purchased the coffee and donut. Come on, lazy bones, get your chocolate, and let’s go.”

  John rubbed a hand over his warm neck. “Ah, Esposito called. Said he has information for me—us. I’m to meet him later, so you’re on your own.”

  Free’s smile stretched a mile across her face. “Sounds like a date. You know what you’re doing there, Johnny boy?”

  “Don’t start with me, Freesia May,” he emphasized her name, getting a perverse pleasure when she flinched. “I’m just following up on a lead. Okay?” He glared at his partner, daring her to say more.

  “Shit, down boy. I’ll let you know what I find out.” Free scooped up her sack purse, shoved the strap over her shoulder. At the door, she turned and winked at John. “Told you he liked you.” She beat a hasty retreat before John could fling a string of cuss words at her.

  Was Free onto him?

  He tried hard to act straight, whatever the hell that meant. He avoided gay bars, stuck to his cop friends and family for his social life. What little of one he had these days. Giving up relationships with men had seemed a small price to pay in order to keep peace with his parents, and his rank in the department. He’d seen how cops treated gays among their peers. Even in this enlightened age of politically correct responses, prejudice still ran rampant.

  John went back to his condo to shower off the grime of the office. He dressed in a pair of black pants and a blue polo that brought out the color of his eyes. His sister, Julie once told him that, and he didn’t question why he cared. He fussed with his hair, then tossed the brush on the bathroom counter. This wasn’t a date.

  That erotic dream had rattled him, and brought up hidden feelings he preferred to keep well out of the way of his present life. He didn’t need any complications. If he needed a quick fuck, he’d go out of town. Vegas or San Diego, somewhere safe. He would never pick up a local man.

  The few relationships he had with women never went beyond a few months, and that had been in college, when he’d tried to go straight. He’d never been that sexually comfortable around women. Sure, he could perform well enough and women were attracted to him. Still, the phase of dating women had died a quick death.

  At thirty-four, his mom fretted over his single status. His dad called him a late-bloomer. He sighed as he fished his car keys from the tray on his kitchen counter. Just the other day, the new ADA had given him her phone number and asked him out to lunch. Pretty in a petite package, smart and with a good job, he could picture his mom salivating at such a prospect for a wife. His cock hadn’t even twitched at the prospect.

  His nerves were firing on all cylinders because he was meeting Vincent. John suspected he’d be a hell of a good time in bed. But he was also a suspect, okay, a weak suspect, but Vincent wasn’t telling him the whole truth.

  He touched his lips as he envisioned kissing Vincent. Jesus. The vision of that full, sensuous mouth lingered like the after taste of a good Scotch. It seemed so real that he swore when he awakened, he tasted Vincent.

  Salty. Sweaty. Sexy.

  He adjusted his crotch, his cock suddenly too stiff in his briefs. His heart ached worse than his balls at how difficult it’d be to ignore the attraction between them.

  John strode out the door and headed for his car, turning off his guilt, looping like an old movie spool in his head.

  He refused to acknowledge his nerves and excitement. He’d walk into the restaurant, order a drink, let Vincent tell him what he had, and then excuse himself. What did he care if he left the man to dine alone?

  Feeling better now that he made a decision, he got into the driver’s seat and adjusted the rear view mirror, but not before he caught a glimpse of his face.

  So why did he feel like a fish swimming upstream?

  * * * *

  Vince hesitated, unsure if she was here as his sister or Lord Council.

  “You are looking well, Vin.”

  Ah, that was his sister talking. “And you, Sera, look tired as hell.” Her eyes lacked their usual shine, dark circles told the story of sleepless nights.

  His expulsion had been very hard on Serafina. They had been so close, with barely two years separating them in age. His mother had been quite prolific for a vampire. Births were far and few between which is why young ones were so revered.

  “Thank you. A woman always likes to be told that.”

  He shrugged. “It’s the truth. Now that you’re here, I assume you want to talk. Shall I drive us to the bakery?”

  It would be fine to be seen with her. She was dressed in jeans, designer ones of course, and a thin sweater-like top. Thankfully, not in her Council Lord robes.

  “If I may, I would like to see your home.”

  He hesitated. The adobe house was his domain. What he had made for himself after they kicked him out.

  “You hesitate. Perhaps we may go somewhere private.”

  She stared ahead at the street view in front of them. The vulnerable curve of her cheek, her exhausted gaze, all tapped into the affection he had buried but never lost.

  “We’ll go to my house.”

  They rode in silence, Vince going through at least twenty possible reasons why she was here before they reached his home. He led her in through the garage, watched her look around at his tools, his Schwinn racing bike, his diving gear. All trappings of a life of adventure. Did
she see beyond it to the desperate need for something, anything to fill his life?

  Leading her into the main living area with its state-of-the-art kitchen at one end and the family room at the other, he tried to see it through her eyes. Glancing at her, he saw nothing but bright interest. No condemnation. No judgment.

  He started to pour himself a glass of wine more for something to do than because he needed it. “Will you have a drink?”

  “Please. May I?” She gestured with one of her flowing, graceful movements as she headed to the sofa.

  “Of course. Take a seat. The usual?”

  As he mixed her gin and pink, he wondered what it meant that he had a bottle of bitters in his liquor cabinet to mix his sister’s favorite drink. She was the only one he knew who could tolerate the taste.

  Handing her the glass, he sat on the loveseat opposite her, a year’s worth of history, accusations, and regrets lying thick between them.

  “Why are you here?”

  She fiddled with her glass. “I understand from Angelo that you will not consider the Jurisdictio’s offer.”

  He snorted. “Some offer. Take on this task for us. In return we’ll give you nothing.”

  “Have you asked for anything?”

  He shrugged. “I know how they operate.”

  “In your human world, in this world that you have adapted to so well,” she gestured to the room. “A man is innocent until proven guilty. Perhaps you should give your elders the same chance.”

  “Sera, those same elders were capable of exiling me without proof.”

  “For a crime you claimed.”

  “Yes, but—.” He broke off and considered her choice of words. “You said claimed.” His tone flat, he refused to let hope unfurl, though it fluttered madly in his heart. “I was exiled for a crime I committed, no?”

  She sighed and sipped her gin. “Vinny, I never thought you were guilty.”

  He grimaced at the childhood name and set his wineglass down with a thud. “All this time, you never let me know.”

  “I am a Council Lord. My actions are governed by much more than familial loyalty.”