by Hank Edwards
Michael chuckled. “Don’t poke the bear,” he warned as the scooter headed back downtown.
Jazz parked in front of the Dairy Clipper, killed the engine, and they both climbed off.
Though Michael missed the closeness, he took a step back and looked the scooter over.
“You like her?” Jazz asked.
“I do. And she suits you.”
“Thanks.”
“You don’t drive her in the winter, do you?”
Jazz laughed. “I’m not that crazy. No, I get her all winterized and park her in Misty’s garage. I drive my car in the winter, though it’s a rear-wheel-drive compact Mazda, so it’s pretty much the same as riding Beulah. And I live upstairs from the salon, so don’t really drive all that much.” He patted his belly. “Or walk, obviously.”
They laughed together, and then Michael dropped his chin and looked up through his lashes. “I like you just the way you are.”
“Aren’t you sweet?” Jazz sighed and then scanned the street. “Pretty empty out here.”
“Late Sunday afternoon in a small town. And the festival is over, so everyone cleared out.” Invite him back to your place!
“How about we go check on Mr. Pickles?” Jazz suggested. “And maybe I’ll let you give me that good-night kiss you’ve been fantasizing about since we met?”
His eyes widened. “How did you…?”
Jazz grinned. “I didn’t. But you just told me I’m right. Come on. It’s a nice evening for a leisurely walk back to your place.”
“What about your scooter?”
“This is Lacetown. What could happen to it?”
Michael raised his brows.
“Point taken. Our sleepy little lakeside village isn’t so innocent anymore.” He pulled the keys from the ignition and pocketed them.
On the walk back to Michael’s, they talked about who the mystery man might be.
“He turned into the marina, which means he could have a boat,” Michael said.
“A boat one could conveniently dump a body overboard after chopping off its hands.”
“Indeed. But that bit still doesn’t make sense. Why would someone cut off Dylan’s hands?”
“Maybe it was a warning,” Jazz suggested.
“But a warning about what and to whom?” Michael asked.
“Maybe Dylan stole the drugs from someone?”
“Possibly, but then who was the warning designed for? Not Dylan. He’s dead. And the killer didn’t take the drugs.”
“That’s the mystery.”
“Right,” Michael agreed, musing out loud. “In Sea of Discontent, Brock Hammer busted a cross-lake drug ring. If Eyebrow Man is connected to a drug ring on the lake, he could be a prime suspect. But that’s all speculation. I have no idea what it all means or who might have done it.”
“Well, isn’t that for the sheriff and his band of merry men to solve?” Jazz asked.
The laugh that came out of Michael surprised even himself. “Sorry. I like Sheriff Musgrave—”
Jazz raised his eyebrows. “Like?”
“Fine. I appreciate what Sheriff Musgrave has to offer to the community. Is that better?”
“Sure. But I’m telling all the girls at work on Tuesday that you like Sheriff Musgrave and dream about his X-rated dash-cam videos. Just so you know.”
Michael grinned in spite of the grim topic. “Thanks for the warning.”
“My warnings are a lot nicer. I don’t cut off your hands.” Jazz looked stricken, and he stopped in Michael’s driveway. “I’m sorry. That sounded callous, and I didn’t mean it that way. I have a twisted sense of humor, but I am sad about what happened to Dylan. I didn’t know him well, but he seemed like a good kid. I hope you don’t think I’m some cold-hearted bitch still pining for my soon-to-be ex-husband.”
“No, I don’t think that. Come on.” Michael noticed the hearse parked in the same spot, and the light on downstairs in the parlor meant Ezra was still working. Not wanting any more interruptions, he led the way to the back patio so they could remain unnoticed. “But it does bring to mind a question I have.”
“Oh?” Jazz sounded nervous.
“Yeah. You’ve repeatedly referred to Russell as your soon-to-be ex-husband, but you’ve been separated for a while now. Why have you waited so long to finalize the divorce?”
“Well, I want my money back from the down payment on the house.”
“Yes, money.” He’d forgotten that detail.
Jazz held up a finger. “That’s just the easy answer, Michael. Honestly there’s a lot more to it. Russell is dragging his feet, like not making my car payments. For me, it’s not about needing the money, but the whole principle of not letting him off the hook like everyone else does because he’s famous. Russell’s got the money to cut a check, but he doesn’t really want the divorce.”
“He doesn’t?” Suddenly Michael wondered who Jazz would choose if he had to, the weird mortician or the famous author.
“Nope. And he knows I won’t pay a lawyer to end it until I get back what he owes me. So he’s using that to stall.”
“He still loves you.”
Jazz laughed. “Hardly. Russell loves himself and his reputation. It’s kind of a battle of wills between us, I guess.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, quiet with thought as Michael unlocked the sliding door. “There’s been a lot of involvement from the publisher about our separation too.”
“There has?
“Yup,” Jazz said as he followed Michael into the house. “Mostly Norbert.”
Michael picked up Mr. Pickles and held him like a baby, front paws hanging over his shoulder. He thought about the way Norbert had acted, and jealousy definitely fit the bill. “If he’s infatuated with Russell, why wouldn’t he want you two to divorce?”
“I think he’s getting his marching orders from the mother ship.”
Michael furrowed his brow and set Mr. Pickles on the floor by his dishes. “Mother ship?”
“The publisher, Printed Screams. They think it’ll be bad for Russell’s image and bring up a whole wave of conservative backlash.”
“But isn’t Russell out?”
“Yeah, but the conservatives would run with the news. Gay author divorcing. Gays can’t handle marriage. That kind of thing.”
Michael scraped wet food into a small glass dish and set it on the floor. Mr. Pickles attacked the food with gusto, and Michael turned to where Jazz sat perched on the edge of a stool at the kitchen island. “It sounds very complicated.”
“You have no idea.” Jazz stood and took Michael’s hand. “I’m changing the subject.”
“You are?”
“Mmm-hmm.” Smiling, Jazz led him to the couch in the living room and pulled him down beside him. “Now, about that good-night kiss?”
Michael licked his lips and leaned in. Jazz met him halfway, and his lips were warm and soft. The firm press of his mouth beneath Michael’s sent a shiver through him.
“Mmmm,” Jazz purred, the sound sending a spike of lust through Michael. Keeping himself in check, Michael scooted closer, and his hand rose as if it had a mind of its own and caressed the side of Jazz’s face. He wanted to dive in, devour his mouth, but he’d let Jazz set their pace. A warm hand rested on Michael’s chest. As the kiss went on, Michael felt Jazz’s lips part, and he answered in kind. The tips of their tongues met, and on some unspoken cue, the kiss deepened even more, soft sounds reflecting their hunger.
A fish-scented meow washed over them.
Michael pulled back with a frown.
Jazz turned away from the smell of the cat food, laughing and waving a hand in front of his face to clear the air. “Ugh, herring.”
Mr. Pickles had perched himself unnoticed on the back of the couch directly between them. He looked at Michael with half-closed eyes, and then proceeded to lick his front paw and wipe it across his face.
“I just fed you,” Michael grumbled, and plucked the cat off the back of the couch to set him on the floor.
“Go lie in your bed and digest.”
Jazz chuckled. “Go lie in your bed and digest? Is that what I have to look forward to?”
A flicker of frustration threatened Michael’s temperament, but he forced it down. “No, of course not. I’m not sure why he’s all over us right now. He usually wanders off after he eats.” He slid close to Jazz again and leaned in. “So, I think we were right about….” He gave him a soft, sweet kiss. “Here?”
“Maybe a little further along,” Jazz said, and pulled Michael even closer. “Like here?”
He kissed Michael hard, tongue pushing into Michael’s mouth. They groaned together, and then Michael groaned again when Jazz dropped a hand into his lap and squeezed him. He shuddered and pressed into Jazz’s hand, moving his hips to encourage Jazz to do more than squeeze his aching hard-on.
Mr. Pickles chose that moment to jump into Michael’s lap, directly on top of Jazz’s hand on Michael’s dick.
“Ow!” Michael cried, jerking back. Jazz let out a startled shout, and they pulled apart.
“Okay, come on. Outside.” Though his movements were hampered by his erection, Michael picked up Mr. Pickles and stomped to the sliding door.
“He’s an outdoor cat?” Jazz asked, keeping his seat on the couch.
A flush of embarrassment rushed through Michael. “Not really. I have a chain I put him on to let him explore the backyard.” He stepped onto the patio as Mr. Pickles wiggled in his grip. “Hold on, hold on. I know you’re excited.”
The thin chain was secured to a small tulip tree in the middle of the yard. Michael had measured out just enough length to allow Mr. Pickles room to move around the grass and flower beds without access to the funeral parlor parking lot. A clip on the free end of the lead attached to Mr. Pickles’s collar, and Michael set the cat down on the lawn.
Mr. Pickles immediately hunched over and started to eat grass.
“You’re weird, cat,” Michael muttered. Returning to the sliding door, he found Jazz leaning against the frame with his arms crossed and a smile on his soft, wonderful lips. Michael’s gaze swept over Jazz, lingering for a quick heartbeat on the bulge in his jeans.
“You chain your cat in the yard like a dog.”
“I know, I know.” Michael shooed Jazz back inside and closed the sliding door behind them.
“How long do you leave him out there?”
“Oh, he loves to be outside. He’ll stay out there for a few hours.” Michael took his glasses off and placed them on the kitchen counter, then sidled up to Jazz. “When he wants in again, he’ll meow at the door.”
“Your cat is a dog.”
Wrapping his arms around Jazz’s waist and stepping closer, Michael gave him a soft kiss. “I don’t want to talk about my cat right now.” He kissed him again. “But you’re right.” Another kiss. “Mr. Pickles is very much like a dog.” A longer, deeper kiss followed. Michael’s throbbing bulge fit neatly above Jazz’s, and he gave him a little thrust of encouragement.
Jazz pulled away and looked at Michael, but he kept their groins together. The pupils of Jazz’s eyes were so wide, Michael could barely see the hazel brown of the irises. They stared at each other a moment, bodies pressed tight and warm breaths mingling.
“Is it okay to take this further?” Jazz whispered.
Michael smiled and stole another kiss. “As far as you want to go, I’m there. Just lead the way.”
Chapter Seventeen
“BEDROOM?” JAZZ whispered around Michael’s ardent kisses.
Michael had Jazz pressed against the kitchen counter, and while the thought of Michael fucking him on the granite counter was very appealing, Jazz didn’t want either of them to throw their backs out.
Gaze drunk with desire, Michael nodded. He put on his glasses and then took Jazz by the hand. “This way.”
Lips never wandering far, Michael walked backward as he led them to the stairs. When he reached the bottom step, he plunged his tongue deep into Jazz’s mouth, then withdrew, breathing heavy.
“I want you,” Jazz whispered, hands stroking up and down Michael’s surprisingly firm chest.
Nodding quickly, Michael took hold of his hand once more, and all but dragged him up the stairs. Jazz had a moment to take in his surroundings. Everything was neat and tidy, the walls a sensible soft gray, the trim white and floors polished hardwood. The only decorations were a small table with a vase of silk roses at the end of the hall, an oil painting of the Lacetown Light hanging above.
Simple and uncluttered, almost as if staged by a realtor.
Though they’d joked about getting spicy, Jazz wondered if Michael might take some warming up before things reached any Scoville heat units. But he was a great kisser, and Jazz liked him a lot, so he was sure the sex would be good—even if it wasn’t spicy.
Once in the bedroom, Michael drew down the airy white duvet. The walls were a muted blue, the dark wood furniture pieces impeccably positioned. Gauzy curtains shielded large french doors on one wall, but Jazz’s attention was soon captured by Michael unbuttoning his shirt.
Jazz whipped off his T-shirt and grinned when Michael’s gaze grew heavy with lust.
“You’re gorgeous,” Michael breathed.
He spent a lot of time on his appearance, but working out wasn’t exactly his top priority. Run for fun? Who dropped those people on their heads as babies? But Michael’s enraptured gaze didn’t seem to mind Jazz’s soft middle and lack of definition.
And Michael’s definition more than made up for it. He was pale, lean, and dark hair covered his shapely chest and arms. Jazz’s fingers itched to run all over that glorious hair.
As Michael slipped his glasses off and set them on the nightstand, Jazz reached for Michael’s pants. Michael dipped his head and they kissed again, their hands effortlessly removing each other’s pants the whole time.
Jazz pushed down Michael’s white briefs just as Michael gasped when he found nothing but flesh beneath Jazz’s jeans.
Pulling back with a delighted grin, Michael squeezed both of Jazz’s bare cheeks. “Commando?”
“I don’t like to waste time,” he said, pushing Michael’s briefs below his ass until he had the prize in hand. He looked down between their bodies at the fat, long cock he clasped. He gave it a firm stroke and Michael shuddered. “So many surprises, Mr. Fleishman. Your dick’s fucking thick.”
Mouth gaping as Jazz played, Michael chuckled breathlessly, face reddening. “You think?”
“Mm-hmm.” Jazz nodded, then stroked him to the tip, rubbing his thumb in the precum. “And long.”
Then Michael was pushing Jazz’s jeans down all the way, and they both were kicking legs to detangle the last of their bothersome clothing. Michael drew their bodies onto the bed, Jazz on top. He was glad Michael didn’t draw the covers over them. Instead, Michael spread his legs so Jazz could slip between his strong thighs. Jazz took his time exploring his long, toned body. Kissing his white skin and delighting in the few freckles and moles he discovered hidden beneath Michael’s dark chest hair. He laved Michael’s nipples, sucking and nibbling until Michael squirmed.
Michael’s hands gripped the back of Jazz’s head, and then he pulled on his ponytail holder.
“Let your hair down,” Michael said rather than asked.
Smiling, Jazz sat back on his knees, his aching cock jutting out above Michael’s. He pulled his hair loose and gave it a shake, delighting in the way Michael smiled up at him, his face a mix of awe and hunger.
Michael drew him down again, and they met in another soft kiss. Michael’s fingers tangled in his hair, and he whispered, “Your hair is so… lovely.”
Jazz kissed Michael’s cheek, below his ear, then down his neck. He felt the cool inhale as Michael breathed him in.
“And it smells so good.”
Jazz pushed Michael’s arm above his head and buried his face in his armpit, inhaling and then licking through the hair. “No, you smell good.”
Michael let out an adorable giggle and
squirmed. “I’m ticklish.”
Smiling, Jazz worked his way down his body once more, licking and nipping until he got to his prize. He bit down gently on the soft skin between Michael’s hip bone and cock.
“Oh!” Michael cried, hips thrusting up.
Michael writhed as Jazz teased him, slowly trailing his tongue up the bottom of Michael’s impressive dick. He pressed his face into his balls, inhaling deep and kissing. But still he didn’t suck him.
Michael put one hand on Jazz’s shoulder, then took hold of his own cock with the other, stroking.
“Ah, ah,” Jazz scolded, pushing his hand away.
Their eyes met and Michael smiled, cheeks flushed and brow damp with sweat.
Jazz teased and tortured Michael, slowly licking his cock and sucking the tip then the sides, never taking him down as deep as he could. Each time Michael started to move, Jazz would pull off and lick his balls.
And each time Michael would whimper with protest.
Those protesting whimpers turned into begging when Jazz turned his attention to his asshole. He pushed Michael’s thighs up and devoured him, slurping up to his balls. He took his time, learning Michael’s body and cataloging all of his reactions. A lick made him shudder. A jab of tongue made him tense and gasp. A kiss brought out a sigh. And a nibble made him arch up and cry out.
Jazz grinned.
That’s the one.
Determined to withhold the nibbles and tongue jabs until Michael begged for it, Jazz teased him with licks and kisses. He did so with abandon, loving the way Michael flinched when he spit on his hole. Jazz’s own cock was hard as a rock, seeping precum and desperate to be inside Michael.
“Stop!” Michael cried after a while.
A bit dizzy, Jazz sat up, surprised.
Michael scrambled out from beneath Jazz, then pushed him onto his back.
“I need you in me!” Michael cried frantically, eyes wild and face flushed with sweat.
He straddled Jazz’s hips, scrambling for the nightstand drawer, where he withdrew a condom and lube. Panting, he tore open the condom with his teeth and spit out the wrapper. Like a man possessed, he rolled the condom down Jazz’s dick.