by T. Strange
He could do this.
Watching Harlan carefully, Charles undid his jeans and let them slide to the floor, exposing his white briefs, which were already straining to contain him. Seeing that he had Harlan’s complete attention, he kicked off his black boots and slipped out of his jeans before putting his boots back on.
“Underwear too,” Harlan said, surprised as always to hear his own voice sounding so commanding.
“What was that?”
“I said, take off your underwear, too.”
Charles’ smile was like the evening sun breaking through heavy clouds as he hurried to obey. Bare from the waist down—except for his boots and socks—he climbed onto the spanking bench. He rested his shins on the lower platform, his chest on the upper, arms outstretched and hands hanging off the front edge. When Harlan didn’t approach, he wiggled his rump enticingly.
Harlan laughed, stepping closer and reverently running his hands over Charles’ ass cheeks. “Eager?” he teased, softly.
“Mm-hmm,” Charles purred, pressing back against Harlan’s touch. “Nice as this is…”
“Oh, you want more?” Harlan allowed himself to fall into character, drifting away from himself and becoming the kind of person who spanked other people.
“Please,” Charles said, almost—but not quite—begging.
Harlan raised one hand, felt Charles tense in eager anticipation beneath him. He lowered it again, softly, before repeating the motion with his other hand.
Charles let out a sound that was half-laugh, half pleading moan.
With a grin of his own and pleased with how easily he could ‘play’ Charles and make different noises emerge, Harlan took pity and gave Charles a firm swat on his left buttock.
Charles moaned, long and full-throated. He visibly relaxed his body and splayed his legs wider on the padded bench, offering himself to Harlan.
In response, Harlan delivered a series of sharp, backhanded blows across both cheeks.
He continued in this vein for a while, until the gentle ringing noise he’d been hearing, just below his conscious perception, clicked into place. He smiled. “I don’t think we’re using this to its full potential.”
“Oh?” His voice already a little muddled, Charles looked back over his shoulder at Harlan.
“Mm-hmm.” He stepped around to the side of the bench, keeping one hand on Charles at all times, the way Charles had taught him. He lifted the leather cuff, attached by a short length of chain to the wood frame of the bench, and stroked it down Charles’ forearm.
Charles shivered, his eyes visibly fluttering at the touch.
“Should I…?” Harlan offered, barely restraining himself from just wrapping it around Charles’ wrist before he had a chance to respond.
“Yes.” Charles’ answer was almost a sigh of relief.
Harlan grinned, pleased with himself.
“I didn’t want to bring it up. I knew this was already a lot for you,” Charles admitted, “but if you’re game, I’d love to.”
Harlan buckled his wrist, moving his hands in quick, sure movements that seemed alien to him—but pleasantly so. He gave first the chain, then the strap a tug. “Not too tight?”
Charles shook his head.
“Not too loose? I don’t want you slipping free on me.”
“No, they’re good. I don’t want that, either.”
Harlan rewarded him with a kiss on the shoulder, enjoying Charles’ happy shiver. He moved to the other side of the bench and buckled in Charles’ other wrist as well. He could see Charles relaxing as he was strapped in, the sensation Harlan had been looking for when he’d asked Charles to spank him. He could feel that same sense of relaxation filling him, only on the other side of what he’d expected.
He repeated the same tugging check with Charles’ right wrist.
Once Charles’ hands were secure, Harlan returned to the back of the spanking bench. The few red marks he’d left on Charles’ ass were already fading, but if anything, Charles was visibly more aroused than he’d been when they’d started. Harlan considered taking up where they’d left off, but he saw a set of ankle cuffs dangling from the bench and he couldn’t resist.
“Is this all right?” he asked softly, stroking Charles’ calf with the soft, supple leather.
“Mm-hmm,” Charles agreed. It sounded like he was biting his lip.
Harlan liked that image. He quickly secured both of Charles’ ankles, checked to make sure he was comfortable, then stepped back to admire his handiwork. “Beautiful,” he murmured.
Charles laughed. “I don’t know about ‘beautiful’…”
“Handsome, then.” Harlan leaned close and pressed a kiss to Charles’ tailbone, just above the curve of his ass.
Charles moaned, squirming a little against his bonds and clearly eager for more.
Harlan happily obliged. He started off slowly again, a few strikes on one of Charles’ cheeks before switching to its mate, but he quickly built up both speed and intensity.
“My hands are actually getting sore!” he laughed, resting one on Charles’ hip possessively while he gave them both a chance to breathe. He mostly used his right but switched to his left occasionally to give the other a break. Striking with his left hand was a little uncomfortable because of the tingles and twinges of numb or partially numb areas—luckily, dealing with Violet’s ghost hadn’t added another.
“That’s always a problem, yeah. There are toys over there if you want to give your palms a rest.” Charles angled his head, hands bound too tightly to the bench to point.
Harlan considered the row of implements hanging on the wall—paddles, leather straps, canes, crops and floggers, a veritable kinky candy store—but shook his head. “I think that might be a bit much. Maybe at home, another time, but—”
“It’s all right. You don’t need to explain. Not being comfortable is enough.”
Harlan sighed, letting out tension he hadn’t realized he’d reacquired. “Thanks.” He was used to needing to explain, to come up with excuses why he didn’t want to, couldn’t do something. It was a relief to be told otherwise.
“Are you done?” Charles asked.
“I think so. It was enough, for you?” Harlan answered with a question.
“Definitely.”
Harlan bent to kiss the red, hand-shaped marks he’d left, enjoying the way Charles shivered and moaned beneath him. He unbuckled Charles’ ankles, then his wrists, rubbing the small indentations the metal hardware had left. He noticed that there was a leather collar hanging from the front of the bench, which he hadn’t noticed. Another time, maybe.
“Well, there is one more thing I want.”
“Oh?”
Accepting a helping hand from Harlan, Charles slid down from the bench—and immediately dropped to his knees.
“Are you all right?” Harlan knelt, too, grabbing one of Charles’ hands. He didn’t look faint. His colour was normal, and he wasn’t swaying or anything.
Charles laughed. “I’m fine. I just wanted to…” He shifted closer, running a finger up Harlan’s inner thigh.
“Oh!” Harlan grinned sheepishly. “So…I should stand up again?”
“That would make this easier.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“This blows a big fucking hole in your serial killer theory, huh?” Hamilton didn’t sound mocking. Almost…disappointed.
Harlan had just found a seventh out-of-place ghost, in Corso Italia—almost directly in the middle of the area on the map, the place Harlan had considered to be the killer’s base of operations, where he shouldn’t find any unusual ghosts. As usual, the ghost had vanished as soon as it realized Harlan had seen it—and it hadn’t reappeared.
He bit his tongue to hold back a frustrated curse—all that effort, all those days of walking and worry, and there was no pattern. Just…randomness. No serial killer—and of course that was a good thing, personal disappointment and confusion aside.
“Or…” Hamilton cocked his head,
thoughtfully. “Or he’s spiralling. I say ‘he’ because, well…statistics.”
“What does that mean?”
Hamilton frowned, then shrugged. “I dunno, take your pick—toxic masculinity, the decay of modern society. Fuck, video games and rock music, if you want.”
Harlan shook his head, frowning back. “No, what you said about spiralling. What does that mean?” The term sounded familiar from his research, but he wanted to hear Hamilton define it.
“Means he, if there is a he, which is still a big ‘if’ in my book”—Hamilton’s expression didn’t match his words. He looked convinced—“he’s coming undone. He’s started to shit where he eats, killing too close to home. Or we might not have enough data points to see the full pattern—again, if there even is one. Sorry, kid. If it were easy, we wouldn’t need cops, right?”
Harlan had started carrying the map with him to pore over whenever he had a spare moment—something both Hamilton and Charles had commented on with some concern. He unfolded it on the hood of Hamilton’s squad car, ignoring the other man’s groan.
“I think you’re on to something…” He opened the cruiser’s passenger door and rummaged in the glove compartment until he found a pencil as well as the pen he already had. He didn’t want a pen for anything more than marking the most recent ghost, not yet. He wanted to be able to erase this if his idea didn’t pan out.
“Brand, I didn’t say that shit to get you all fired up. I—”
It was the first time Hamilton had directly referred to him by name since they’d met, even if it was just his surname—but that wasn’t important now.
Harlan held up a silencing hand, surprised by his own boldness. His mind was racing, wouldn’t be able to rest until he’d puzzled through this completely.
“What if the search area isn’t all this?” Harlan tapped the previously blank area he’d been investigating, quickly drawing the seventh and most recent dot in pen in the middle of it. “What if there are four search areas, with this as the central point?” He drew two diagonal lines between the four outermost ghosts he’d found, crossing through the central one.
Hamilton squinted then shook his head. “Doesn’t change anything, one way or the other.”
“No, it does! Sort of.” He drew four new dots—in pencil—in the centre of each quadrant he’d just created. “Instead of needing to look in this whole area”—he traced the initial circle with his forefinger—“we just have to search these four.”
Hamilton raised an eyebrow, prompting Harlan to take another look at what he’d drawn on the map.
“It’s exactly the same, isn’t it?”
Hamilton clapped a hand on Harlan’s shoulder. “Nice try, kid, but don’t quit your day job.” He chuckled. “Speaking of which…” He inclined his head in the direction of the ghost they’d come for, extending a hand in a showy invitation.
This spirit was an elderly white man, peering myopically at Harlan through glasses that hadn’t made the transition with him. Harlan wasn’t sure why ghosts always wore clothes—at least, he’d never seen a naked ghost—but were usually missing objects.
Harlan approached tentatively, even though he was fairly certain this ghost wouldn’t run—perhaps couldn’t run or even move faster than a shuffle, because of the memory of his living body.
“I’m Harlan,” he introduced himself softly, in the tone he’d been taught to use at the Centre. “What’s your name?”
“Charlotte? Funny name for a boy… Or are you a girl? Sorry… I don’t see as well as I used to. Don’t hear as well as I used to, neither.” He laughed.
Harlan suspected, again, that the ghost’s hearing issue was more because of what he expected rather than a problem with his ghostly ears.
There had been a deaf girl, a few years younger than Harlan, at the Centre. Harlan had liked her because she was quiet and had a wicked sense of humour. She’d missed nothing that happened around her but had continued to play innocent and allow people to assume she didn’t know what was going on.
She had liked him because he didn’t treat her like she was somehow damaged because she couldn’t hear. She’d taught him enough sign for them to communicate without her having to constantly lip-read. It had been fun, having their own secret conversations that no one else could bother to understand.
Harlan wasn’t fluent in ASL by any means, but he could usually get his point across, even if he sometimes had to resort to finger spelling.
He’d barely thought about her since leaving the Centre. He’d have to email her and see how she was doing.
“Do you sign?” he asked the ghost, using sign language.
The old man shook his head. “I’m not deaf!” he protested, his voice so loud that it was nearly a shout. “You just have to speak up ’s all.”
“My name is Har-lan,” he repeated, carefully enunciating both syllables. “What is your name?”
“Peter Malloy. Pete to m’ friends.” He peered at Harlan owlishly. “Haven’t decided about you yet.”
“Do you know you’re dead?” Harlan asked, blunt to the point of rudeness. Hamilton’s—entirely accurate—destruction of his map theory had thrown him off balance and taken away his filter.
The old man seemed to inflate, puffing up with incredulity. “Well!” he began.
Harlan groaned internally. Dealing with—never mind sending on—an upset ghost was exponentially more difficult, and he had no one but himself to blame.
“What kinda idiot you take me for? ’Course I know I’m dead!”
Harlan hoped the ghost’s difficulty hearing would apply to his sigh of relief, too. At least he wouldn’t have to convince the man he was dead. That was usually half the battle by itself.
“Then you know you can’t stay here,” Harlan said gently, trying to make up for his earlier tactlessness.
“Don’t plan to!” the ghost huffed. “I’m headed home. I just seem to keep getting…turned ’round. Is that why you’re here—to help me get home?”
Harlan started nodding, then realized Peter probably meant his literal home—the place he’d lived, if not where he’d died.
“You can’t go home,” Harlan said, hoping he’d guessed right and hadn’t just implied Peter couldn’t go to Heaven or something.
Peter snorted, an unpleasantly wet sound, despite the fact that he had no mucus. “Who’s gonna stop me—you? I was in ’Nam! I’ve taken shits tougher than you.”
Ignoring the ghost’s words, Harlan pressed on. “You don’t belong here, not anymore. You have to move on.”
That seemed to deflate the old man. He shifted from foot to slippered foot, looking down at the alley’s gravel that was dimly visible even through his feet. “Weren’t exactly the most church-goin’ man,” he mumbled, almost apologetically.
Harlan reached out and touched Peter’s forearm with the middle three fingers of his left hand, doing the special blink that allowed him to physically interact with ghosts. “I don’t think that matters so much.” He tried to make himself look as wise and all-knowing as possible. “Were you a good man?”
Peter shot Harlan a brief, wide-eyed look, then laughed. “’Spose I was,” he allowed, slowly shaking his head. “You’re pretty new to bein’ an angel, huh?”
“I’m not a—yes. I’m…still in training.”
Harlan saw movement out of the corner of his eye—not Peter. Hamilton was looking at him with an expression of something between concern and bewilderment. He could only imagine how odd these conversations must sound from Hamilton’s perspective, hearing only Harlan’s side.
Peter nodded again, then offered Harlan his hand.
Surprised, Harlan took it, trying not to wince at the bone-biting cold, pins-and-needles feeling of touching bare ghost ‘skin’. It didn’t make sense, but their clothing was always a little warmer.
“Takes a big man to admit he’s not very good at his job…yet. You’ll get there. I’m sure. You can call me Pete, and…I’ll go with you.”
H
arlan pushed aside the urge to inform Pete that he was just fine at his job—good, even, at least some days. Pete was cooperating. That was the important thing.
Releasing Harlan’s hand, Pete asked, “What do I have to do?” His voice was quavering and uncertain now.
“Just turn around.”
There was a kind of door or portal behind Pete, waiting patiently for him to enter.
Shooting Harlan a deeply suspicious look, as though he expected someone to squirt water in his face when he turned, Pete slowly shuffled around. He gasped, clutching his chest. Harlan almost jumped, ready to administer CPR—not that he knew it—or…something…when he heard Pete whisper, “It’s beautiful.”
Harlan closed his eyes in relief. He wouldn’t have to reach through this time and risk adding even more nerve damage to his left hand. Pete would step through on his own.
“Will I…?” Pete cleared his throat, swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Will my…?”
Harlan had known real, future-telling, mind-reading psychics at the Centre. He wasn’t one, and he rarely, if ever, felt confident in what he said. Sometimes, though, in moments like this, he found utter conviction and clarity.
“Yes,” he said, in a voice so certain he hardly recognized it as his own. “Yes, she’ll be there. They all will.”
Pete shot Harlan a brief, red-eyed look, squared his shoulders, clenched his liver-spotted fists and stepped through, disappearing into his afterlife.
“Ow,” Hamilton grumbled, shaking his head like a swimmer trying to get water out of his ears. “Did you hear that? What the fuck just happened?”
“What did it sound like?” Harlan asked, suspecting he already knew.
“What are you talking about? How could you miss it? It was a huge…pop! or bang! Didn’t you hear it? Was it something you did?”
Harlan nodded, then pointed out, “No one else heard it.”
“Are you nuts? Everybody…” Hamilton glanced around. The few bystanders who’d wandered past and stayed to watch the ‘exorcism’ were just milling about—talking to one another, trying to see past Hamilton. One was industriously picking his nose. “You mean none of them…?”