by Hank Edwards
“Heavy Petting Point,” Veronica answered. “A place I got to know very well the summers when Daddy and I vacationed here. If they live here, they’ll know it.”
Chapter Twenty-One
MICHAEL SET food and water on the patio as Jazz suggested. Although it was mid-May and the nights were cool with the breeze off Lake Michigan, he kept the bedroom window above the back deck open a few inches to listen for Mr. Pickles.
Jazz asked to borrow a T-shirt and boxers to sleep in, and Michael had a spare toothbrush for him to use. When he went in the bathroom after Jazz had finished and saw the toothbrush standing up in the glass next to his own, an unusual fluttery feeling went through him. It made him stop and stare a moment before a memory came to him out of the depths of his mind.
He must have just felt what he’d once heard called “anticipatory domesticity” at a gay bar he frequented in Detroit when he’d been attending Wayne State. He had been standing in line at the bar for a drink, and a very loud and very drunk man behind him said to his entourage, Anticipatory domesticity, or the feeling a man gets upon meeting his future husband and not paying attention to what he’s saying because he’s too busy mentally picking out china patterns.
And so, here was Michael’s anticipatory domesticity moment at last.
He brushed his teeth, gargled, peed, and returned to the bedroom in his own V-neck T-shirt and boxer shorts.
Tonight wasn’t for sex. Tonight was for comfort.
When they got into bed, Michael didn’t sleep.
All he could do was lie on his back and stare at the ceiling. It seemed as if a hole deep inside him kept opening wider and wider, sucking parts of him inside and leaving just cold, empty space behind.
Well, maybe not just empty space.
It might also be spewing out guilt as well.
He’d left his cat chained up outside and unattended while he’d been having sex.
Granted, it had been great sex, but still… Mr. Pickles had been unattended.
This is all my fault.
There. Maybe that honest truth would put his subconscious to rest for a while.
It didn’t.
Michael still couldn’t sleep.
Jazz snored softly beside him, leaving a respectful space between them, but with a hand on his forearm to establish a connection.
Michael liked how Jazz had not tried to take his mind off Mr. Pickles with some kind of seduction. He’d known to ask for something to sleep in, signaling that he knew how much Mr. Pickles meant, and his actions showed Michael support. That kindness on Jazz’s part helped to ease the widening hole of grief and guilt within him.
Finally giving up on sleep, Michael turned on the bedside lamp, checking to make sure the light didn’t disturb Jazz. He picked up the new Russell Withingham book he’d bought at the signing, completely aware of the irony in his selection. But he needed something to take his mind off Mr. Pickles, and Russell was a good writer. One of the best, in Michael’s opinion.
Jazz snuffled quietly in his sleep and shifted closer, sliding an arm over Michael’s belly. The position made it slightly more difficult to read, but Michael didn’t care. He’d rather give himself muscle cramps reading in an awkward position than lose Jazz’s touch. He found a better way to hold up the book and opened it to the title page. The Bitter Winds of Death. Such a gritty and dramatic title. Michael always loved learning the title of a new book, especially one he had been looking forward to reading.
He read the first few lines and blinked in surprise. Russell had decided to really change things up with this new book. Not only was it not a Brock Hammer novel, which he knew already, but the main character appeared to be a woman. Even though the guilt and concern over Mr. Pickles beat steadily in the back of his mind, Michael managed to lose himself in the first few chapters of the story.
And it was quite different from Russell’s other books. Not only in the choice of a female lead character, but also in style and pacing. It was very well-written, and Michael wondered if perhaps Russell had been just going through the paces with a long-running series like Brock Hammer. Or if maybe he had hired a ghost writer. Some of the bigger selling authors worked with other writers these days, like James Patterson, Clive Cussler, even Janet Evanovich.
At one point in the darkest hours of the morning, just as he had started to doze off with the book open across his chest, Michael heard a soft sound float up to the window from the patio.
Pulse quickened with hope, he set the book aside and slipped out of bed to make his way downstairs, moving easily through the dark house. He opened the sliding door and squinted into the darkness. “Mr. Pickles?”
The door and his voice startled the raccoon dining on the food Michael had left out, and it chirped at him before waddling off across the yard.
Michael closed the door and pressed his forehead against the cool glass, searching the moonlit backyard for any sign of a flick of a tail or flash of white fur. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, staring out into the night without the aid of his glasses, but he finally went back to bed and slid in next to Jazz.
Jazz stirred. “Did he come back?”
“No, a raccoon was eating the food,” Michael whispered, fearing his voice might crack and he’d cry.
“C’mere,” Jazz murmured, drawing Michael into his arms.
Michael snuggled in and let out a trembling sigh, so very grateful not to be alone. But even the reassuring touch of his new lover didn’t quiet Michael’s mind enough to do more than doze off and on.
MICHAEL WAS up and out of bed before the sun, and more than a little surprised when Jazz got up with him since he worked late hours. Downstairs, Michael retrieved the bowl the raccoon had emptied, and placed it in the sink.
Coming up from behind him, Jazz hugged him tight and whispered in his ear, “We’ll find Mr. Pickles.”
“He’s never been out all night before,” Michael said, dropping his chin. “He’s never been outside and off his chain before. How did he get loose? Where did he go?”
Jazz kissed the base of his neck, the touch comforting. “I don’t know, sweetie, but we’ll find him. Come on, you’re running on no sleep and nothing to eat. Let me make you breakfast.”
The endearment echoed in Michael’s brain as he allowed Jazz to lead him across the kitchen and sit him at the island. Had anyone but his aunt Vera called him sweetie before? He couldn’t remember it if they did, but he really liked that Jazz had decided to say it.
“Thank you for getting up early with me, and for staying with me last night,” Michael whispered.
Jazz brushed a hand down his cheek. “Of course.”
Michael smiled, missing Jazz’s touch when he stepped away. He hadn’t realized how badly he’d missed such tender, casual touches living alone. He could definitely get used to it.
“First, the all-important coffee,” Jazz said as he filled the carafe with water. “Then, just point me to things I ask for. And don’t worry your handsome head about cleaning up, I’ll do that as well. Then I’ll go walk around your block and look for Mr. Pickles.”
“Don’t you have to go to work?”
Jazz smiled over his shoulder. “Hairstylists don’t work on Mondays, silly.”
“It’s Monday? Oh.” Michael nodded and stared at the granite countertop under his folded hands. “Why is that?”
Jazz looked up from whisking eggs in a mixing bowl. “Why is it Monday? Because yesterday was Sunday.”
“No, why is it hairstylists don’t work on Mondays?”
“Oh. Because we’re always working on Saturdays. It gives us a two-day weekend.”
Jazz tried to keep Michael talking as he shredded cheese and chopped green onions, mushrooms, and half of a leftover baked potato he found in the refrigerator. He poured the eggs into the skillet, lifted the edges and stirred them until he was satisfied. The fillings went in next, and he folded it over, lowered the heat, and covered it with a lid. Slices of bread went into the toaster and a short
time later, Jazz set a plate with half an omelet, fresh tomato slices, a sprig of parsley, and a piece of toast in front of Michael.
“Breakfast is served, your highness.”
Michael lifted an eyebrow. “Highness, huh?”
Jazz grinned. “You bet. And I really like your royal scepter.”
He managed a weak smile and looked at the plate. It was like something from a restaurant. He took a bite of toast. So Jazz hadn’t been joking when he’d called himself a gourmet last night.
Last night when you locked Mr. Pickles outside so you could have sex.
A bit of toast stuck in Michael’s throat, and he coughed so he sipped some coffee to wash it down. It seemed the more he ate, the hungrier he became, and by the time he finished everything on his plate and was on his second cup of coffee, he felt better. Not great by any stretch, but functional.
“You’ve got some color now. That’s good,” Jazz said as he took Michael’s empty plate.
“Thanks for breakfast.”
“You are most definitely welcome. You get dressed for work, and I’ll clean up before I go out to look for Mr. Pickles.”
Michael let out a relieved sigh, grateful for Jazz’s compassion and concern. “Thank you. I have an appointment with the sheriff this morning about my examination of Dylan’s hands, but after that, once Kitty gets in, I should be able to leave her to hold the fort down for the morning and join you.” He glanced at the clock on the wall—6:30 a.m. “She usually comes in at seven-thirty.”
“Maybe Mr. Pickles will have decided he’s had enough exploring and will be back before that.”
“Maybe.”
Michael watched Jazz rinse the plates and stack them in the dishwasher. As Jazz worked, he quietly hummed a song, and the whole scene felt so domestic, it brought up another flash of anticipatory domesticity, and this time it made Michael a bit nervous. He didn’t know if things with Jazz were happening fast or if things around him and Jazz were moving at light speed. It seemed that since they had met, some awful things had happened, with some really wonderful things mixed in among them.
One thing he knew for sure—he liked having Jazz here. Though scary in some ways, it also felt comfortable. Like Jazz belonged with Michael in this old house.
“I’m going to get a shower,” Michael said, not wanting to get ahead of himself. They’d just started seeing each other.
Jazz nodded. “Okay.”
A long hot shower helped wake Michael up, and afterward he dressed in his standard shirt and tie, hoping to inject some normalcy into his morning. Mr. Pickles was usually sprawled out on Michael’s bed as he got dressed, and his absence felt like a cold fist around his heart. To keep himself from crying, Michael concentrated on dressing. When he descended the steps, he found Jazz had cleaned the kitchen.
Jazz whistled in appreciation when he caught sight of Michael. “Hell-O, Mr. Mortician.”
Michael tried for a smile, but it didn’t come fully into play.
“Want me to go to work with you?” Jazz asked.
Did he? He didn’t know what he wanted Jazz to do. Right now, Michael thought he would like Jazz to drop to his knees and blow him as he stood there fully dressed. But he didn’t want to say that aloud.
At least not yet.
“You don’t need to do that. I’ll be okay. The meeting with the sheriff won’t take long. Kitty should be arriving soon.” What would Jazz do while he opened the funeral home anyway?
“Okay, if you’re sure.”
“I am, thanks.”
“Then I’ll grab a quick shower and get dressed before I head out to look. Just text me when you’re done over there, and I’ll let you know where I’m at.”
Michael hesitated. “I know it’s your day off, and I’m sure you had a lot of things planned.”
“Sweetie, you’d be surprised.”
That endearment again. It warmed his heart and seemed to wrap around his cock like Jazz’s lips had the day before.
Had that all been just yesterday?
“Well, if we don’t find him, I have to work this afternoon.” I can’t believe you’re planning to ask him this! But somehow, call it hope, Michael thought Jazz wouldn’t feel imposed upon. “Um, if you don’t mind, after we look around, I’d like for someone to be here in case…. You know, in case he comes back.”
Jazz’s expression softened, and he pulled Michael into a hug. When he stepped back, Jazz gave a single nod. “I’ll sit right here in the kitchen all afternoon with the patio door open and a bowl of food inside, waiting for Mr. Pickles. I’ll even take the treat bag out now and then and shake it all about like I’m doing the Hokey Pokey.”
The laugh surprised Michael, and he gave Jazz a quick kiss. “Thank you.”
This whole thing was so much more bearable with Jazz here, a friend, someone he could rely on and did not ask for anything in return.
Well, maybe he’d expect sex in return, but Michael wouldn’t mind the trade-off.
“You’re very welcome.” Jazz walked with him to the sliding door. “I’ll go up and get a shower. I’d better not find a bottle of that combination shampoo, conditioner, and body wash in there.”
Michael smiled. “Not a chance. I’ll be back shortly.” Pleased that Jazz wanted to help him, Michael paused on the patio to survey the yard.
Still no sign of Mr. Pickles.
He sighed, squared his shoulders, and walked across the grass to the parking lot of the funeral parlor and then to the back entrance. Knowing Jazz was using his day off to help look for his kitty eased some of his worry.
The parlor was serene and silent as he entered and turned on the lights. Steve and Ezra wouldn’t be in this morning, having picked up Mrs. Atwood yesterday, but Kitty should be there shortly and the sheriff would be arriving soon. He’d told Ezra they could start on Mrs. Atwood after lunch so he wouldn’t arrive until much later this morning. Ordinarily, Michael enjoyed the solitude before his staff came in, but without the padding of little feet across the carpet, the quiet left him unsettled.
That hole in his heart seemed to widen.
Brushing away a tear, he flipped on lights until he was in his office. He refused to look at the kitty condo in the corner as he sat at his desk and flipped his computer on.
His desk phone blinked, signifying that he had messages. Hopefully it wasn’t another emergency that would force him to be here, rather than out looking for Mr. Pickles.
Lacetown’s had enough emergencies this week, he thought with a sigh.
He hit Play. Listening with half an ear, he waited for his computer to boot up.
“Mortician.”
The gruff voice startled Michael and his stomach dropped.
“We’ve got Mr. Pickles. You have until midnight Monday to get the drugs you found on Dylan. Meet us at the HPP. No cops and no funny business or the cat gets it.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
BLOOD POUNDED in Michael’s ears. Gooseflesh ran up and down his arms. Somewhere far away, he heard a police siren start up and thought it might be the sheriff coming to help him out of this predicament.
But it wasn’t a siren. It was some kind of stress reaction inside his own head, his ears ringing and pulse pounding.
“What?” he managed to whisper and then hit Play again.
The message repeated, just as gruff-sounding. But this time, Michael didn’t get goose bumps. This time, he got angry.
Really angry.
Mr. Pickles hadn’t gotten off his chain. Someone had taken him. Someone who was holding him for ransom. Probably the same someone who tried to break into the parlor and shot at them.
His thoughts were a confusing swirl of anger and fear. Someone else needed to hear the message. But the kidnappers had plainly said no cops.
Jazz. Of course.
Michael fumbled his mobile phone out of his pocket. He didn’t trust himself not to start crying, so he sent a text rather than call.
Can you come to funeral parlor please? The back door
is open, I’m in the office. Hurry!
Jazz’s response came back in seconds: On my way!
Michael paced in front of his desk as he waited. If someone wanted the drugs back so much they had kidnapped—catnapped?—Mr. Pickles, then wouldn’t it stand to reason that same person murdered Dylan? Did they want Michael to be their patsy? Steal the drugs and take the fall for it?
Why were these predicaments so much easier for Brock Hammer to figure out?
Because that’s carefully crafted fiction, not real life, idiot!
But why in blazes would a murderer kidnap a pet? And why harass Michael? The drugs were in police evidence!
Police. Dammit, Michael had to involve the sheriff despite the caller’s warning. He glanced at his watch. Thank goodness Musgrave would be there soon.
Michael let out a relieved cry when footsteps approached his office. His heart thumped hard and he found himself breathing in short pants. “I’m back here!”
Wet hair pulled back, Jazz stepped through the door, gesturing over his shoulder. “The sheriff pulled up just as I opened the door—” His eyes widened when he looked at Michael. “Oh my God, what’s wrong?”
“It’s Mr. Pickles,” he choked out.
Rushing forward, his face creased in concern, Jazz whispered, “You found him? Tell me he’s okay.”
Shaking his head, Michael hesitated when the heavy footfalls and gruff voice of Sheriff Musgrave announced the man’s arrival. “Fleishman,” he called out. “You here?”
“Back here,” Jazz answered, eyes never leaving Michael’s face. He gripped Michael on the arm. “You okay?”
Unable to answer, Michael tried to keep his expression neutral when Musgrave entered the office. He succeeded, somewhat. Jazz’s expression was still deeply concerned, but at least Michael wasn’t crying.
Not yet.
Musgrave narrowed his eyes and looked at Jazz’s hand on Michael’s arm. “What’s going on? Why’s Dilworth here?”
“I, um, I….” Michael looked between Jazz and the sheriff. There was nothing for him to do now but play the message. Gathering his composure, he sighed. “I had a message waiting when I got to work.”