Lie With Me (Stonewall Investigations Miami Book 2)

by Max Walker

  “I was just worried you thought it was annoying.”

  “What? Never. Oh my God, annoying? I could record you reading the terms and conditions for Candy Crush and listen to it just to smile.”

  That got an even bigger laugh out of Beckham. He kicked his foot out under the table. He wasn’t wearing any shoes or socks, his bare foot landing on mine. Neither of us moved. We kept talking, the time ticking away, the connection between us solidifying like a block of cement.

  After a little more fawning over Beckham’s accent, I decided to move the party to the couch, thinking it’d be a little more comfortable (and a lot easier to access things I wanted to access).

  I ran to the bathroom and came back, pouring us new glasses of wine and joining Beckham on the couch, who was already scratching Mason’s chin. I’d never seen Mason so attached to someone after just meeting them. Normally he was standoffish even to friends I had known for years, and yet with Beckham he was cuddling and purring and acting like I’d just brought in the cat whisperer.

  “You can put him on the floor if he’s too much,” I said, giving Beckham an out.

  He didn’t take it. Instead, he leaned down and buried his face in Mason’s fur.

  It was the cutest fucking thing I’d ever seen, and I’d seen some cute stuff in my life.

  “We’re mates already,” Beckham said, thanking me as I handed him his wineglass. I noticed his gaze drift over to the row of picture frames I had near the window. My family was smiling back at us in almost all of them.

  “That your mum and dad?”

  “Yup,” I said, grabbing a gold-rimmed wooden frame before sitting down. “This was us on Jonah’s thirteenth birthday. We went to Disney. Stitch is obviously my favorite character.”

  Everyone in the photo looked normal except for me, who was wearing a big Stitch hat that made my head look like it belonged to a blue alien experiment. But it didn’t end there, oh no. I was a committed Stitch stan. I had the Stitch gloves, big blue furry things, and a blue shirt that matched with my blue shorts.

  “What’s your favorite Disney character?” I asked, now watching Beckham as he looked at the photo, a peculiar expression crossing his face.

  “I, uhm, it’s Mickey. I know, I know. You’re going to call me—”

  “Special, beautiful, funny, smart, handsome?”

  “I was going to say basic, but I’ll take any of those, too.”

  “How about all of them?” I said, leaning in and kissing him on the cheek. His stubble scratched against my lips and made my pulse quicken.

  “You’ve got a beautiful family,” Beckham said, his attention turning back to the photo in his hands. “I can feel the happiness through the glass. And all of the photos are the same. The four of you beaming, having the time of your life, being together.” He paused for a moment. Swallowed. “Being a family. That’s something I feel like I missed out on. Not so much prom, but the chance at having a supportive unit. Folks who always have your back no matter what. I never really had that.”

  He handed the frame back, his eyes looking cloudy. Like thinking about his family had suddenly rocked him. I grabbed the frame and put it back in place, returning to the couch, this time sitting a little closer to Beckham. I was finding that any distance between us was too much distance.

  He was anxious. I could see it in the wrinkle between his brow that wouldn’t leave.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “Huh?”

  Obviously, Beckham was caught off guard. He looked to me, the brow wrinkle getting deeper.

  “It’s just, I feel like you’ve got something on your mind. I don’t know, maybe it’s just me asking dumb questions. Forget it.” I waved off my dumb question. “I overthink things sometimes—just forget it.”

  Beckham scratched the back of his neck and let out an exhale, sounding an awful lot like someone with a lot on their mind.

  Just saying.

  “No, you’re right.”

  “Oh?” I sat up on the couch. Our knees were still touching, small tendrils of warm electricity still shooting out from the contact point. My heart started to beat a little faster. “What’s been on your mind?”

  Oh shoot, oh shoot. Did I just open up a can of “I’m about to break up with you” worms?

  “I’ve been thinking a lot—don’t worry, it’s got nothing to do with us.”

  Oh thank God.

  “Yeah, duh,” I said, trying to play it cool.

  “Just saw you going pale there for a second.”

  “Oh please,” I said, slapping at his chest but also knowing I must have looked like Casper the Gay Ghost. “Anyway, you were saying.”

  With a low laugh, he continued. “I was saying, I’ve been thinking. I’ve been constantly wondering what the hell was in that bloody letter my father left me.” He looked away from me, almost as if he were searching for the letter right now, even though there was zero chance it would be sitting somewhere in my living room.

  My heart cracked, the split running down the middle like an earthquake had just torn it down the fault line. “There’s still a chance you’re going to find it.” I always liked to err on the hopeful side, even with it seemed like all the odds were stacked against me. “Lost things have a way of being found at just the right time.”

  “Tell that to the signed photo of Kylie Minogue I lost fifteen years ago. I think the time’s been right for that to show up by now.”

  “Oh honey, we all know Ms. Minogue works on the goddess clock. Fifteen years to her is like fifteen minutes to us. Give her at least twenty-five years to show up again.”

  Beckham laughed again. His eyes came back to mine. “How do you do that? You turn some of my hardest moments into times I never want to forget.”

  “I’m just returning the favor.”

  The smile grew on both our faces as we leaned in, our lips meeting for a soft moment.

  “You’re going to find that letter,” I said, getting lost in his eyes, feeling his breath tickle the tip of my nose. “You will.”

  “I don’t know why I even care so much. He was never a good father to me, even before he knew I was gay. He was always more interested in going to the pub than being at home with me and mum.”

  “It still doesn’t take away the fact that he had a message and you deserve to read it. Maybe he was apologizing for all the things he did. Maybe this is closure.”

  “I doubt it. He never apologized for a damn thing.” Beckham sighed and sat back on the couch, hands on his legs. “Doesn’t matter anyway—the letter’s gone. I’ll probably never know.”

  “Nope, I don’t believe that. I’m going over to your place this weekend and we’re turning it upside down. And if we still can’t find it, then we’re going to retrace every single step you’ve taken.” Determination filled me. I wasn’t going to let Beckham give up on this. It was clear how badly he was affected by this, and I was going to do everything in my power to make it better.

  “You really don’t have to go out of your way, Oliver. Thank you, though. I appreciate it. A lot.”

  I sat cross-legged on the couch, my knee sitting on Beckham’s thigh. “Okay, I know I don’t have to. But I want to. So I will.” I cocked my head and smiled. As if life were always that easy.

  “Come here, you cheeky bastard,” Beckham said, pulling me in for a kiss. “You’re something else, you know that?”

  I kissed him again before answering. It felt like a chorus of freaking angels entered the room every time our lips touched. This kiss didn’t stop, though. Words were swallowed and moans were offered as my tongue tasted Beckham, glided over his teeth. My hands moved up to his head. I couldn’t sit cross-legged anymore. Instead, I shifted over so that I straddled Beckham as the kiss grew into something uncontrollable. A runaway train that was headed straight for Passionville.

  Too bad I had no idea the train had other plans.

  The night wasn’t going anywhere in the direction I was expecting it to.

&nbs
p; 17 Beckham Noble

  Oliver’s weight on me had me hard in seconds. His kiss made my balls ache. My hands went to his hips before slipping under his shirt, feeling the soft, warm skin, gliding up to his chest, feeling his heartbeat underneath my palm. It was exactly what I needed to get my mind off the letter. Oliver had the antidote to all my problems, and he administered it with a kiss.

  “You’re so sexy,” he said during a break for air. He was looking down at me, his lips gleaming in the soft light of his living room.

  I answered with a growl and another kiss. I thrust up, rubbing myself on Oliver, letting him know how hard he made me. The moan I drank from him let me know he liked that.

  I did it again. He started to grind his hips, pushing down on my cock, his tongue exploring every inch of my mouth.

  That’s it. I had to have him. No more games, no more fucking around out in the dark ocean. I wanted to lay him out on the couch naked and devour him with my eyes before I went in with my mouth, tasting every inch of him.

  I wrapped my arms around him and stood. He squealed in surprise, his eyes opening wide, his lips curving into a smile as he continued to kiss me. I could feel his rigid length against my belly as I lifted him, turning so that I could sit him down on the couch.

  He dropped onto the soft cushions, his hunger obvious in the way he looked at me. It felt like a reflection, the same hunger chewing through me, shouting out for Oliver and his body.

  I started on his shirt, lifting it up over his head and putting it aside. He sat there, his milky soft skin mine for the taking. I was ready to see him flush red as the heat spread through his veins.

  “Now it’s my turn to say you’re so bloody sexy.”

  Oliver sat back, his legs spread, his bulge on full display. It throbbed against his jeans, causing the fabric to move and strain, as though he were about to tear right through it.

  “Come over here and show me how much you mean that.” He started to rub himself through his jeans. Suddenly, I was extremely jealous of his hand, which was exactly where I wanted my mouth to be. I liked how confident Oliver was being, and how he wasn’t scared to let the moment carry us away. There were no reservations. No hesitation. This felt so natural, I wouldn’t have been surprised if I found out we were being filmed for some kind of nature documentary.

  Planet Cock.

  I’d TiVo that in a heartbeat.

  I didn’t waste a second longer. I got down on the floor, my knees popping loudly, and opened Oliver’s legs even wider. There, I took a moment to admire the scene. I wanted to paint this memory into the permanent fixtures of my brain. The sight of Oliver, his hair messy from me running my hand through it, his transfixing sky-blue eyes that seemed to have all the answers to every question I’d ever asked, the way his breaths filled his lungs and made his chest rise and dip, the subtle beat of his pulse in his neck, the trail of light brown hair that led down past the band of his jeans.

  Everything about him was pure perfection. Everything about him made me want to rip my heart out and hand it to him on the spot. His to hold, his to keep. Of course there was a fear that he’d mug me off, that he’d find someone newer and shinier and leave me in the dust, my heart bleeding out into the dirt. It was a very real fear, and one I couldn’t put to rest for some reason.

  That’s when it happened.

  Crash.

  The window shattered. Glass went flying all across the living room. Instinctively, I used my body to shield Oliver, who let out a frightened shriek and started to tremble.

  “You all right?” I asked, looking him over quickly.

  “Yeah, yeah. You?”

  I nodded and turned my attention to the window. Mason and Jar were both inside Oliver’s bedroom, so neither of them was hurt from the glass. Oliver lived on the fourth story of his apartment building. His living room window looked out to the backside of the complex, where there was another development being built. I went to the window, glass crunching under my trainers.

  “I’m calling the police,” Oliver said, more to himself than anyone else. And then he shouted, “I’m calling the police!” probably to scare off whoever was outside.

  At the window, I looked out. The night had fallen and there were no lights outside. The skeleton of the apartments next door stood tall and bare, offering plenty of places for someone to hide behind.

  “Beck, don’t stand there. Please, come back here.”

  “I need to see who it was.”

  “What was it anyway? What broke the windo—Oh my God, Beck, look.”

  I couldn’t spot any movement outside. I turned to whatever Oliver was pointing at. “What the…”

  On the floor, sitting next to the coffee table on top of a bed of broken glass was a brown paper bag, torn up and wet with something. Pink was showing through the tears in the bag.

  With two fingers, I delicately turned the bag so that I could open the top. “Wait, Beck, let’s call the police. Let’s just call the police.”

  I had to see what was in the bag.

  I opened the top, the brown paper crinkling. It didn’t take me long at all to recognize what I was looking at.

  “Jesus,” I said on an exhale.

  “What? What is it?”

  I didn’t want Oliver to see. I didn’t want his nightmares fueled with more gasoline.

  “What is it, Beck?”

  But he had to know. This involved him as much as it did me. I decided to be as vague as possible in my description. “It’s a pig’s head.” With its eyes bulging and red. “It’s facing up and there’s a note snagged on its tooth.” An artificial grin given to the poor pig with some kind of knife. “The note says, ‘Call off the Hunt.’”

  Another benign detail that I felt needed to be shared: “There’s a pink collar here, too”.

  Oliver shot off the couch. “What?” He grabbed the sandals by the couch and hurried to my side, the glass breaking under his steps mixing with the heavy breathing making a macabre soundtrack for the moment.

  “There was a pig that came into the clinic. Kiko. We had to put her down today.” I could see Oliver trying to muster up the courage to look into the bag. I knew I couldn’t shield Oliver from this, especially if he could tell me where this pig’s head had come from.

  I held the bag open. Oliver leaned over, looked inside. He reeled back, whatever color that had been left in his face drained. “That’s her. That’s Kiko.” He gagged before getting back onto his feet. “I’m gonna be—”

  He rushed to the bathroom. When he came back out, I had already called the police.

  “I can’t stay here tonight,” Oliver said, shaking his head. He was close to tears. I felt like the glass shards all around us had been picked up and dumped right into my heart. I pulled him close and held him. I held him until the police showed up, and I held him as they were leaving, finding nothing and promising nothing as well. They said that there were no cameras and no eyewitnesses in the area, although I don’t know how they automatically figured there weren’t any witnesses since I didn’t see either of the two cops knocking on doors and asking neighbors.

  I’d do that first thing tomorrow morning. For right now, Oliver needed me. He was trembling like a leaf. I could practically feel the fear in the air like it added another layer to the humidity filling the room from the open window.

  “Come over to my place,” I offered. “Bring Mason and Jar and stay over for a little.”

  “Thank you, Beck.” He looked up at me, eyes glistening wet. “That sounds good.” This was bringing him back to that moment when he lost Derrick; I could see it reflected in the tears that streaked his cheek.

  Oliver went to the bedroom and worked on getting Mason and Jar ready. While he did that, I rummaged around for the broom and dustpan. By the time Oliver came back into the living room, most of the glass was sitting in the pan.

  “It needs a good vacuuming, but I think I got most of it.”

  “Oh, Beck, you didn’t have to.” He came over with the ho
t-pink cat carriers, holding the big things with both hands while struggling with a heavy backpack. I hurried and grabbed the cats, Oliver thanking me again. I told him the last thing he needed was to thank me for anything. It made me feel like I was doing someone a favor, which I wasn’t.

  “This isn’t a favor,” I said, holding Oliver’s hand. “This is just teamwork.”

  Oliver seemed like he was about to cry but swallowed it down at the last second.

  “Can we stay at a hotel, just for tonight? I’m scared we’ll be followed. And I want to be high up on, like, the fourteenth floor, with security in the lobby and preferably a moat surrounding the property too.”

  “Of course, Olly. I’ve got a place we can stay at. It’s on the beach. We can try to relax for tonight.”

  “Let’s do that.” Oliver’s smile didn’t waver this time as he leaned up to kiss me. “Teammate.”

  In the hotel room, things seemed a little calmer. I had to admit it felt good knowing that there was a lobby with security. Even I was slightly shaken from the sequence of today’s events. The evacuation at Stonewall already had me on edge, and then the incident at Oliver’s only served as icing on this fucked-up shit cake. I didn’t think the two were related, but the timing certainly didn’t help anyone.

  “Jesus, what a day,” Oliver said, opening up the blinds to show off a view of Miami Beach, the ocean dark and infinite. Clouds covered any light from the moon, making it seem almost as though the water were reflecting the pitch-black night back toward us. Mason and Jar were already sitting on the couch, cuddled up together and watching us as we settled in.

  I looked away, my gaze landing on Oliver. He still looked shaken, and I didn’t blame him. But he was a strong one. He was already getting back to his radiant self. I could feel it like the sun cresting over the horizon. I went over and wrapped an arm around his torso, pulling him into me, letting the heat from our bodies serve as a comfort.

  “Olly, why didn’t you bring up that homophobic tit, Mario Reyes? The landscaper? I spoke to Greg and he told me about the time Mario spat at you. That could be significant.”