KEEP (Men of the ESRB Book 2)

by Shiloh, Hollis

  Story copyright 2015 by Hollis Shiloh.

  All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from the author. All characters and events are fictitious, and any similarity to real people or events is coincidental.

  Cover art by Cormar Covers. Image content is being used for illustrative purposes only and any people depicted in the content are models.

  Proofreading by Carol Davis (http://caroldavisauthor.com/a-better-look-editing-services/

  ).

  About the story:

  Pete might always know when people are lying, but that doesn't make him a good judge of character. Will he ever find a man who wants to keep him?

  Pete's the kind of guy who gets on people's nerves. He can't sit still. He talks too much. He doesn't know when to shut up. And he always knows when people are lying.

  While his talent wasn't strong enough to get an empath rating from the ESRB, he now has a second chance with the new testing methods they're using. If he makes it, he'll have some well-paying job offers from people who actually appreciate his gifts.

  Maybe this time things will work out. Maybe his life will finally take a turn for the better. With some hot guys in it, too.

  64,000 words

  gay paranormal fiction

  a Men of the ESRB novel

  The Extra Sensory Regulatory Bureau rates talented individuals like empaths and clairvoyants. They have special gifts — and often some extra burdens that go along with them. The ESRB takes care of its own, but these guys still have a lot to figure out about life — and love. Stay tuned for more tales from the men of the ESRB!

  KEEP

  by Hollis Shiloh

  Chapter one

  I rolled up to the curb, pushed the button for the passenger's side window to whir down, and leaned towards that side of the van.

  "Can you use some work?" I tried to sound casual as I called to Jeff. He was a guy I knew. He was hot as anything, and although his eyes sometimes smoldered at me, we'd never done anything about it. But he was great backup and a fun guy, despite the intense vibe he threw off.

  A private eye needs muscle sometimes, especially if he personally tends towards the scrawny and cheerful-looking. Especially a private eye with a smart mouth and a very "lucky" sense of when someone's lying, misleading them, or hiding something.

  Basically, I've got enough of a talent to get into trouble if I go into a casino, but not enough to be any sort of talk show phenomenon or police consultant. If I tried to predict the future, I'd fall flat on my face, but I'm just a little too good at reading people to be normal, and my luck is off the charts — but only about some things.

  For instance, it turns out reading people and knowing when they're lying isn't always conducive to making relationships work.

  I was still smarting from a recent breakup. But, hey, Jeff was here, I had work today, the sun was shining and the minivan wasn't breaking down. It was enough to smile about.

  I'm a cute guy, if I do say so myself. I'm a bit short, have a pretty good swagger, and a dimpled grin that charms everybody in sight. Well, all the women, anyway. Which is unfortunate in that I don't actually want to charm the women — most guys can take or leave me, and my existence seems to cause an inexplicable desire for some to plant their fists in my face. Like I said, I'm too good at knowing if someone's lying and I'm not good at shutting up about it.

  But those can be good traits for a private dick. And I can take a punch even though I'm not a massive guy.

  Jeff walked over to me, throwing a bit more swagger into his step. He tossed away the end of a cigarette. Jeff's got a wild edge to him. It worries me a little. Especially when he disappears and I don't see him for a long time.

  I try not to ask too many questions.

  He's about twice as strong as I am. He's also my friend, and I'd rather not get on his nerves any more than I have to. I probably already do without trying. That seems to be my M.O.

  Jeff leaned against the car door, one heavily muscled and liberally dark-haired forearm resting in good view. His eyes smoldered at me, so dark you couldn't see the divide between the color of his eyes and the dark center. I love eyes like that. Just saying.

  "Pete," said Jeff, giving me a little nod, a tight incline of his head that means as much as an exuberant greeting would from many other folks.

  "You got the time, I got the money," I said, giving him a little leer and letting my gaze look appreciative.

  He snorted, rolled his eyes, and drew back, then pulled the door open and climbed into the minivan.

  I know, I know: private detectives are supposed to have cool transportation. But hell, when most of your work is divorce cases and you want to fly under the radar in suburbia, it's best to drive a minivan. Besides, I couldn't afford a really cool Magnum P.I. car at the moment.

  If you want the truth, rent was more of a priority than car payments. Some recent medical bills from a broken arm had caught up with me. It made life interesting.

  Kind of hate to have the bill collectors coming after me. It would feel unprofessional, like a pro coming after a pro.

  "What you got?" he asked, filling the front of the car with his tough, masculine presence. The guy was big, and all muscle, with a hard, predatory instinct to him.

  "Seatbelt," I warned him. "I drive batshit. You know that."

  He snorted but didn't argue. Sliding the seatbelt around his massive self, he gave me an inquiring look but refused to repeat himself.

  "It's an interesting one," I said. "Maybe just on the edge of being legal."

  He raised a single brow in an expressive look. "Oh?"

  "A rich guy, new to the area. His daughter's being harassed. He doesn't have any friends on the police force or among the local thugs yet, so he's asking me to step in and talk to the would-be boyfriend. This guy's been following her around, showing up at her job, sitting in his car watching her. He's approached her a couple of times. Her dad doesn't want to make her get a restraining order, would rather the creep was just 'discouraged'."

  "So we're thugs." His voice was flat.

  "I'm the thug." I gave him a sharkish grin. "But you can help, if you want. The pay's good."

  He grunted, looking forward, his head down a little. He drummed a hand on his thigh, hesitating. I was a little surprised, because he'd never turned down work before. I'd gotten in the habit of relying on him for jobs where I needed a little extra help. But then again, I'd never asked him for something so blatantly shady, either.

  I didn't do dirty stuff. No drugs, illegal weapons, or messing around with stuff I couldn't touch while having a license. But somehow, I always ended up getting into trouble anyway. This time, the trouble was clear right from the start.

  If we did it right — assuming there was a 'we' — the guy would leave the girl alone without her having to go through a lengthy and harrowing restraining order process that might end up making things worse in one way or another. Her dad just wanted the problem to go away, wanted her to feel safe again. She seemed to feel the same way.

  Jeff raised his eyes to me again, so dark I could get lost in them and totally drown. "All right, but I have to talk to her first. Make sure it's true."

  "Oh, it's true," I said. "You know me. I'm honest." Sometimes too honest.

  "You mentioned him. Not her," he said gently. "You've talked to her?"

  "Yeah. She works as a receptionist at a fancy hotel near here. It's high-class. She doesn't have a boyfriend, the job is new, and the management doesn't want this jerk lowering the tone of the place. She's all for Daddy taking care of the problem and making it go away. She already carries a tiny gun in her purse everywhere she goes, just in case this guy's dangerous. She's scared. It's noth
ing you can pin down — he hasn't crossed any big lines, aside from being annoying and knowing her schedule too well — but she's got the feeling it's bad, you know? And her dad isn't young enough to be the muscle himself. He just wants us to fix this."

  "But not kill the guy."

  "No. Of course not." I gave an awkward laugh. "What do you think I am?"

  "A mess," said Jeff frankly. But he was lolling in the seat now, stretched out a little, staring out the window, at ease instead of a mass of muscle and tight, coiled alertness and wary tension.

  "Nice! I total one car and suddenly I can't be trusted."

  "You're not supposed to get into car chases," said Jeff bitingly. "What happened to working mostly on the internet?"

  "I do that too," I said, stung by his slighting of my detective skills. I got enough of that from the cops, thanks.

  "Hey," said Jeff, looking at me again, his stare hard and his frown steady. He even pointed one of his massive fingers in my face, shaking it a little for effect. "You talk to him. I'll stand behind you and look like trouble. No passing out beatings. If that's what you have in mind, let me off here."

  We were at a red light in the middle of a busy district. I didn't know exactly where Jeff lived — he'd kept mum about that — but this wasn't his usual stalking grounds, so he'd have a long walk back. Jeff didn't drive. I hadn't asked why, but I figured it was an alcohol violation or medical condition — something embarrassing.

  Hey, I can be tactful as shit, okay?

  I didn't say anything. He was always being less than honest about something — I felt it off him, a wave of not-quite-the-truth about him. It wasn't as much as I get off some people. I still liked the guy — in a lot of ways. Which was why I didn't like him implying I was so sleazy.

  My jaw tightened, and when the light changed, I stomped the gas pedal. The van wheezed forward, not exactly hot off the line. It guzzled gas as it jerked awkwardly forward and slowly built up speed.

  "Hey," said Jeff. "Don't be pissy."

  "Just what do you think I am?" I said, a bit of snap in my voice. Normally, I'm the most cheerful guy you'd ever want to meet. But just now I did feel pissy.

  What the hell, Jeff?

  I felt his steady gaze on me. It made me feel like shit. He didn't say anything, just got out another cigarette and lit it. I felt smaller and more decrepit under his gaze, defeated and little and ridiculous. Hell, I was a grown man playing private detective, and I didn't even have a cool sports car. I had a minivan and a stack of medical bills.

  "Jeff," I protested.

  He looked away. He knew very well I had a good read on him. He knew very well what I was protesting. Not the stare, but the judgment behind it.

  "When did you get so all-fired righteous?" I asked coldly.

  "I have a job now," he replied, just as coolly. "A real job. At a garage."

  "Really?" I perked up. "Could you fix up this piece of crap?" I cast him a quick, happy grin. "Maybe a tune-up, a little nitro?" I waggled my brows.

  He shook his head at me and sucked on the end of his cigarette, making his cheekbones look starkly outlined. But I could see he was trying not to let me see his mouth twitch into a smile. I felt bigger again, less pathetic and ridiculous. I wriggled slightly, getting comfortable in my seat.

  Maybe this would be the start of some major business, I decided. Rich guys hiring me and all that. Maybe I'd get a sports car in the end after all.

  "Just let's talk to her first, and then I'll be your strong and silent muscle."

  "I wish you would," I muttered.

  "Piss off," he said, without heat. "Aren't you still dating that lawyer?"

  I snorted loudly. "The ambulance chaser?" I asked sarcastically.

  He raised his hands, exaggeratedly apologetic. The thing was, he could say little or nothing about what he thought about my boyfriends, but I still knew what he meant. His eyebrow game was strong and impressive, able to indicate a myriad of thoughts, mostly negative and judgmental. And my talents, such as they were, ferreted out the rest.

  We couldn't talk about this without getting annoyed with each other, so he quickly changed the topic.

  He might not have ever called Fergus an ambulance chaser, not exactly, but it was very clear from his look of distaste.

  Instead of being defensive, I went in for an offense. "You display far too much interest in my love life, such as it is. Unless you want to put your mouth where your money is, I'd drop it."

  And yeah, I wasn't even dating the asshole anymore. Fergus had turned out to be a piece of work after all. But no way was I admitting that.

  Jeff gave me a lazy, hot grin and spread his thighs a little, settling back in his seat. He smoked casually. "You want me," he said in a sing-song voice.

  Without taking my gaze off the road — lest it stray to the wonderful shape of his lower body — I lifted my right hand and held it with the middle-finger raised in his direction. I drove one-handed, my face stony.

  Of course I wanted him. Anybody with a libido would want the muscled, strong and silent, hot guy with the dark, smoldering gaze and the lazy grin.

  Jeff laughed and pushed my finger down.

  "Shut up," I said, but I grinned reluctantly.

  He was going to help me; I just knew it. I felt the change in his mood, the lightening of things between us. Teasing made us both a little happier, despite everything. Despite how true his words were.

  I drove on, and he smoked. When I started whistling between my teeth from sheer happiness of being alive and driving and not in pain anymore, he reached over and gave me a push on the arm.

  I swatted him back. "I'll have you know my musical talent is a great, deep stream," I informed him, grinning sharkily.

  "The Ganges . . . oh, no, wait . . . the Nile," he replied wittily.

  I laughed aloud, not even caring if he'd won that one.

  #

  "So, where are we going?" Jeff looked a little nervous as we got further into the backwoods. Winding lanes and narrow roads in need of repair, blacktop that led close to the lazy creek and past small, ratty houses.

  "Oh, I forgot something," I said airily. "Just going home to get it."

  He blinked at me once, twice. Startled.

  I kept my gaze ahead, acutely aware of him watching me. "I moved recently," I said casually.

  "Ah." Jeff drummed fingers on his thigh.

  I wished it didn't make my heart sink to know he was looking down on me. I used to live in a fairly nice apartment, even if most of the other residents were pretty old. But after my accident, and with the medical bills, it became expedient to move somewhere with a lot fewer stairs and a lot cheaper rent. I'd broken only my arm, but the rest of me was pretty banged up for a long time, and it hurt to walk far, much less climb stairs. I'd definitely worked from home for a few weeks, till I was able to move around better.

  I pulled up alongside a tiny, battered-looking house that was precariously close to the creek. The air smelled damp and green, often with something moldy in it. It was heavy air, even though it was fairly clean today.

  With the changes in flood insurance legislation a few years back, housing liable to flooding had changed prices drastically. It was a lot cheaper, because nobody could afford the insurance and a lot of people just wanted out of a bad deal. There was no statewide coverage anymore, and the insurance companies had pushed their prices sky-high. I had this house for a pretty good month-to-month rental price, and the landlord had hinted he'd be glad to sell.

  Not that I could afford to buy a house. Like I said, medical bills. And, you know, flood insurance.

  I parked the van precariously alongside the narrow road and got out. Jeff followed me, a big question mark practically hanging over his head. He loped after me and hesitated just before the doorway, as if he wasn't sure I wanted him inside.

  I did feel a little self-conscious, but I just motioned him after me briskly. "Come on, you're not a vampire."

  "What?"

  "You don'
t have to be invited over the threshold, do you?"

  This drew a harrumph from him, which was about as close as he ever came to a startled laugh.

  Inside, I flicked on a light and regarded my tiny rental house with new eyes and mixed emotions. The wallpaper was faded and retro (to put the best spin on things). The appliances were ugly and ancient, of the barely working variety. The kitchen table, the sink, the chairs — all seventies vintage, but in the worst way: cheap, stained, and ugly.

  The living room, bedroom, and bathroom were just as bad, to be honest. Clearly, there was no basement, and the attic was just a storage space for boxes, not big enough to stand up in.

  I cast him a quick look, daring him to say something. "Coffee?" I asked, wishing I could treat him to something. Be a proper host, for once, instead of just the annoying friend who wanted his muscle for work. Or whatever.

  Jeff's mouth twitched. He gave me a small nod. The crinkle around his eyes seemed like a fond smile. I was pretty good at reading people, and reading Jeff, but I didn't know why he'd be looking at me like this.

  He cleared his throat. "So, no more Fergus?"

  I was focused on getting the coffeemaker started and finding two clean, non-chipped mugs. Well, one non-chipped at least, for him. "Hm? No."

  "Not a keeper?" He drummed fingers on my counter. If I'd been paying attention to him, I'd have wondered what he was tense about.

  I snorted. "Who is, these days? Here. Sugar, if you want some."

  He nodded. "Got anything to eat?"

  "Crackers and cheese do you?"

  "Sure." He settled against the kitchen counter, as immobile and decorative as if he'd always been there, had always belonged. Such a steady presence. He never seemed to look out of place no matter where he was. His eyes tracked me across the kitchen as I darted back and forth, forgetting and finding, remembering and searching.

  I was nervous energy incarnate, but that's not unusual for me. I was the kid who couldn't sit still in class, the guy who would rather end up in trouble for making jokes and being a clown than shut up and sit still. It was less agonizing than quiet stillness no matter how much trouble I ended up in.