Every Breath You Take

by Robert Winter

  “I love chocolate,” he exclaimed instead. “When I was swimming in college, it was always a struggle with my coach. I’d say I was burning enough calories to eat a box at a time, and he’d call me lard ass. We were very close.” He pulled off the bow, opened the box, and helped himself to one of the chocolates inside before he offered the box to Sam. “Oh, that’s so good,” he moaned as the treat melted in his mouth.

  “I’m glad you like it,” Sam said, but he declined any chocolate. “Do you feel like some coffee? I can put on a pot while I do the dishes.”

  “I should clean up since you cooked for me,” Zachary protested, but Sam shushed him.

  “I can tell you’re exhausted and you’ve had a bad day. Let me take care of you tonight. It really won’t take long to load the washer.”

  “My grandmother would spank me for my bad manners, but I’ll just say thank you,” Zachary murmured.

  “You go sit on the sofa. I’ll put some John Williams on for you, and then I’ll come join you when the coffee is ready.” He kissed Zachary on the top of his head and collected their plates and silverware.

  Zachary did as instructed and leaned back into the luxurious sofa to watch traffic move along the Mall. He bit his lip as he considered Thomas’s warning again. It was ridiculous to think he could be a target. He was nobody.

  Except that he had had sex with Thomas, and so had one of the two victims. Well, by that measure, probably hundreds of men were targets, and he wished that didn’t still bother him. Thomas was clear from the beginning about his own promiscuity, at least. What he wasn’t clear about was how he was damaged and why. And the mixed messages he sent about his feelings for Zachary—like he wanted him to know something important but couldn’t lower his guard enough to share.

  Dammit.

  Zachary’s thoughts drifted back to his conversation with Randy and his odd reaction when Zachary had used the word “stalker.” Could Thomas have been the victim of a stalker? That fit the current situation, maybe. Was it recent? No, that didn’t make sense, since Thomas’s one-and-done rule seemed to have been in place for a long time.

  He could hear Sam bustling around the kitchen as he loaded the dishwasher. He shouldn’t be thinking about Thomas. He should focus on Sam. Sam just got him, and he liked the same music, the same books, and the same movies.

  Zachary frowned. It really was remarkable how much Sam and he had in common. He couldn’t have asked for a man with so many of the same interests and who was always ready to do exactly what Zachary wanted.

  Except show up at the shelter. He canceled at the last minute before their Star Trek marathon, then had an excuse why he couldn’t come any other time Zachary asked. Then he thought about the one missing photo from his phone—the selfie he took with Sam when they stood in line for a movie. It was almost like someone deleted that single picture from his phone. Who?

  No. Why?

  Maybe because that person didn’t want to risk it being seen by someone. But who would know Sam, that he’d even worry about that? He was just a nice, quiet consultant who brought Zachary chocolate. He was Sam, who’d just come back from Geneva.

  Thomas had been in Geneva.

  Chapter 22

  THOMAS’S FOREHEAD glistened with a sheen of sweat when Randy finished explaining what he and Detective Torres had learned. He tossed back the scotch that Randy had pressed into his hand right before he dragged Thomas into his office.

  The terror of those weeks in Seattle, when Charles was absolutely everywhere, poured through him. The helplessness he felt when no one would listen or, even worse, blamed him for somehow leading Charles on. The panic when he found Charles naked in his bedroom. In his own bedroom, goddammit.

  Thomas turned and hurled his glass against the wall of Randy’s office. “Jesus Christ, Randy. How can this be happening to me again?”

  Randy held up his hands as he tried to calm Thomas down. “Look. I’m telling you what we’re investigating. I’m not telling you it’s Rumson for sure or even that you’re somehow connected to the murders. I just think you need to know. That glass is coming out of your profits, by the way.”

  Thomas glared at him. “Don’t make jokes, Randy. You’re trying to handle me, and that isn’t what I need.”

  “What do you need?” Randy asked gently.

  “I—I don’t know.” Thomas ran his hands through his hair and then tugged until his scalp hurt. “No, that’s not true. I need to know Charles Rumson is burning in hell now, not going after people just because I fucked them.”

  “Is there any chance that his mother would tell you the truth or that you’d believe her if she said Charles was dead?” Randy asked.

  Thomas looked at him, wide-eyed. “I… doubt it. I never had any contact with her or Charles’s father after he killed himself. Not much before either. They were acquaintances of my parents—business or country club associates at best.”

  “Well, what about your father? Could he press the issue?”

  Thomas grimaced and clenched his jaw. Mason Scarborough had done everything he could to drive the embarrassment that was his son out of Seattle and away from lucrative development deals with Rumson Global. “No. He won’t so much as make a call about this if I ask him.”

  “Okay. We’ll have to leave that to Torres and see what she can do through official channels.” Randy called up the two images of the shaggy-haired man on his computer and positioned them side by side. “I dunno, Thomas. This was my idea, but if this is Rumson, why has it been so long since he did anything violent?”

  “Oh God. Zach was right,” Thomas moaned.

  “About what?”

  “I called him yesterday to let him know, just about the possibility that this had to do with someone targeting people around me. He said it was like I’d given him an STD and made him a victim because he slept with me.” Thomas turned green and swallowed hard. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  Randy pushed him into his small private bathroom just in time. Thomas heaved up the scotch and everything he’d eaten that day. Randy rubbed his shoulder awkwardly until the retching stopped. When Thomas dropped to the bathroom floor and leaned against the wall, Randy handed him some paper towels and a cup of water and flushed the mess away.

  When Thomas had calmed a bit, Randy said, “Thomas, I don’t know what’s going on with you and Zachary, but I know it’s different than anything you’ve had since I met you. I already know that you slept together more than once, but it’s not even just that. The look in your eyes when his name comes up, the fact that you haven’t pulled any playmates since you met him…. You’ve got it bad for him.”

  Thomas didn’t try to deny it, but he hung his head. “It doesn’t matter. I waited too long, and Zachary moved on. And he’s right. I may have put him in danger as surely as if I’d given him a disease.”

  “I’ve seen the way he looks at you, Thomas. Yeah, he’s seeing someone—this guy named Sam I guess, but he’s got it as bad as you do. Talk to him, Thomas. Help him be safe, at least. We’ll talk to Torres if we get confirmation of any of this shit, and we’ll arrange a protective watch for him. Just in case Rumson knows who he is and is following him.”

  ZACHARY’S HEART was pounding, and he tried to calm down and tell himself he was being an idiot. “Hey, Sam,” he called out.

  “Yeah?” he heard from the kitchen.

  “Can I grab some aspirin or something? This headache still won’t go away.”

  “Sure. You know where the bathroom is. There should be a bottle of Advil in the medicine cabinet.” Zachary heard Sam close up the dishwasher. He made his way down the hall, arguing with himself.

  This is ridiculous. Sam had nothing to do with two murders or what’s going on with Thomas. It’s just a stupid coincidence, both of them being in Geneva at the same time.

  It occurred to him that, although he’d been to Sam’s apartment four or five times, they’d never really moved beyond the living room. He’d never been shown around, except for a
quick trip to point him to the hall bath. So he didn’t know which door led to Sam’s bedroom, how many rooms the place had—nothing.

  He ignored the hall bathroom and tried the next door he came to. It was locked.

  Why would you lock a door inside your apartment?

  He listened and could still hear Sam in the kitchen as he ground coffee beans. His heart was in his throat, but he moved down the hallway to the next door, which seemed to be on the same side of the hallway as the living room. He carefully turned the knob.

  That one opened into a large bedroom. It had to be Sam’s, he figured, because of the king-size bed and the row of windows facing the National Gallery. A low lamp burned on the bedside table. He could see a bathroom, and he headed that way. If Sam came in, he could always say he was searching for aspirin and thought this was the bathroom Sam meant.

  He slipped across the room quickly, but he had no idea what he was looking for. What would show him he was wrong? The chest of drawers along one wall called to him.

  He listened again. A cabinet door closed, and he heard the clink of china. Sam was still preparing the coffee. He began pulling drawers open quickly and shutting them again as quietly as he could. Underwear, socks, T-shirts, polos…. He paused and listened. He heard no sound from the kitchen.

  Shit.

  He hurriedly slid open a final drawer on the bottom right of the dresser, and he gasped. A blond wig lay nestled on top of a pair of glasses with silver frames. And was that a prosthetic nose?

  The man from the bar had hair and glasses exactly like those in his pictures. But even more than that….

  He remembered sitting outside the National Gallery of Art weeks earlier, when a man passed by and looked at him too long—a man with the same hair and glasses.

  It was Sam. It had always been Sam.

  Zachary was on his knees, stunned, and he sat back on his heels. Behind him he heard, “Well, shit. Time for Plan B.”

  Before he could turn, something smashed into his head, and everything went black.

  Chapter 23

  THOMAS PACED around Randy’s office. He’d been there for an hour while Randy returned to the front to take care of his bar. He couldn’t make sense of the mess, and that wasn’t like him. He shook his head and made himself focus.

  If Charles was alive, if he was truly back to burn down Thomas’s new life, then Thomas had to make a plan. He had to figure out how to handle it differently this time. Thomas had an important staff position with the United States Senate. Surely there were resources that could help him. Or he could leave. He could use his money and position and try to draw Charles after him and away from the people he knew.

  He didn’t want to go, but he had to consider it.

  All of his life, he had been sure and confident—the lucky one, gifted. Even when he was a child called Jason, he knew he was good-looking. People went out of their way to do things for him, just to be around him. He grew up in the luxury provided by his grandfather’s success in business and his father’s acumen, and he accepted the luxury as though it were an accomplishment—his birthright.

  He was smart too, and his intelligence was honed at the best schools his parents’ money could provide. When he was fourteen, he had sex for the first time, with one of his younger teachers. Jason had set his sights on Mr. Creed, sure that was the right man to educate him—not in trigonometry, but in how to exchange pleasure. Creed was shocked at his approach, but he caved within a week. Jason learned what he needed to know and moved on to his classmates.

  It was delightful. It was a game. He was careful in his selections, and he tried to be kind. The captain of the football team had never even considered sex with another boy until Jason seduced him over a weekend study session. When it was over and the football player was overcome with the beginnings of guilt, Jason soothed it away and assured him it was just an exploration, nothing to worry about or regret. And it worked. Jason was the coolest kid in school, so if he said it was all right, the football player could accept that.

  Dozens of others followed, all eager to be with Jason. When he decided to find out whether he was bisexual, girls were just as easy to get into bed. In college and then law school, it was the same—anyone he wanted came to him. A few bed partners got close, and he permitted it for a time, just to try out the shape of a relationship, to see if that was a coat he might like to wear. It never was, though. Within a few days or a week at most, he would disentangle himself as gently as he could and try to convey regret as he showed the man to the door.

  He was rich, handsome, and smart, and the world opened itself up to his explorations.

  And then Charles Rumson happened—a whim, like so many others Jason had indulged, but with terrible unforeseen consequences. He could still remember when he spotted Charles in that bar in downtown Seattle, standing by himself against the wall. He was thin, dark, and yearning.

  Seeing Charles in a gay bar didn’t exactly surprise Jason. They had met in passing over the years at the country club or various events that warranted the presence not only of their respective parents, but of the offspring as well. He had seen Charles’s hungry looks at him, but those were so common that Jason accepted them as tribute, and he always had other shiny things to distract him and never considered a tumble with the shy, awkward Charles.

  But that one time, when he hadn’t settled on a partner for the night and looked over the crowd, seeing Charles alone and lonely stirred a bit of feeling in Jason. An urge to be kind, to help out a childhood acquaintance, to perhaps ease him into the world of gay life caused him to catch Charles’s eye and beckon him over. He still remembered the flash of relief and pleasure that crossed Charles’s face when he realized Jason Scarborough wanted him to come closer.

  After two drinks the look changed to adoration.

  Even if that made Jason a bit wary, he pushed his concerns aside. It was too late that evening to go after anyone better suited for some fun, and Charles was nice-looking even if he was a bit thin for Jason’s taste. He remembered leaning down to whisper in Charles’s ear, “Do you want to get out of here? Maybe go play around at my apartment?” The look in Charles’s eyes—burning excitement, so close to fervor—should have warned him. He was thinking with his dick by that time, but he specifically recalled saying to Charles, “It’s just this one time. You get that, right?”

  Charles nodded, but the fire in his eyes was undiminished.

  He followed in his own car to Jason’s building, and as soon as they were in the bedroom, he threw himself at Jason like a drowning man. He practically choked Jason with tight arms around his neck as he kissed him with a tightly closed mouth. Right away Jason knew the sex would be a disaster, but he still tried. Charles was aggressive but unsure—limp like a fish one moment, then trying to force Jason’s cock up his ass the next. Jason finally calmed him down a bit, got him to stretch out on the bed, and held him as they jerked off together. Charles rolled his head into Jason’s shoulder and cried as soon as he came, while Jason awkwardly patted his back.

  Charles whispered through his tears, “I wanted to do more for you, Jason. I’m so pathetic.”

  Jason did his best to soothe him. He whispered in return, “It’s just nerves, Charles. Everyone’s first time is a bit awkward. You’ll see. The next guy you’re with will be so much easier and better.”

  Charles craned his head back, his eyes wide as he met Jason’s gaze. “You’re so kind, Jason. So beautiful. Even my mother wants you. I heard her talking to one of her friends at that museum gala. I can’t believe I get to have you.”

  That was the first real sense of alarm Jason felt. “Charles, this was fun, but remember, I told you it was just a one-time thing. Okay? And you really can’t talk to your mother about it. You know that, right?”

  Charles just put his head back on Jason’s shoulder and wrapped one arm tightly around Jason’s waist. Jason lay on his back and tried to think of the easiest way to clean Charles up and get him out the door. When he nudged Cha
rles, though, he had fallen asleep. Against his better judgment, Jason let him stay the night.

  That was the beginning of the end of his life as Jason Scarborough. All of his accomplishments, his education, his good fortune deserted him. No matter what he did, he couldn’t get rid of Charles. The harder he pushed, the more he strove to be an asshole and drive him away, the tighter Charles clung.

  After the scene at his law firm, he received a summons from his father. They met in Mason Scarborough’s office with its floor-to-ceiling views of Puget Sound. He could still hear the disgust in his father’s voice.

  “I could give two shits who you sleep with, Jason, but this is unseemly, and it reflects poorly on our family. I’ve had a call from Augie. He’s worried about your future with the firm.”

  “Why is August Drake calling you?”

  “Don’t be naïve. You were hired because of your name, and when you soil that name, you do harm not only to your own prospects, but the rest of us as well.”

  “I thought I was hired because I’m a good lawyer,” Jason muttered, but his father waved it away.

  “Your legal skills are irrelevant to this discussion. When you lie with dogs, you wake with fleas.” Mason’s voice rose steadily, and there was an angry glint in his eye. “You have made a mess of this in every way possible. Rumson Global is an important part of my plans, and you will not be permitted to ruin that because you let your dick make your decisions.” Mason slapped his palm on his desk hard enough to make a family photo fall over.

  “What do you want me to do, Father?” Jason demanded. “I’ve tried the police, and they tell me there’s nothing they can do.”

  “The police? Good God. What are you thinking?” Mason raged at him, and Jason felt his own temper rise.