Accidental Roots The Series Volume 1: an mm romantic suspense box set

by Elle Keaton

  Poachers dove at o’dark-thirty, often using pressure hoses, spraying down the underwater geoduck beds to expose the mammoth clams. Sometimes they would harvest them right away; other times the geoducks would be bagged up and left for later retrieval. Current market value in China was over $150 a pound. A single geoduck averaged around two-and-a-half pounds. One of the FW guys Weir had interviewed said harvesting geoducks was “like picking twenty-dollar bills off the ground.”

  Weir was in the wrong fucking business.

  After spending all those nights together, Weir eventually conceded that Poole, rather than being a possible suspect, was absolutely driven to catch whoever had killed his longtime partner.

  Poole did remove his sunglasses at night. Weir still didn’t really like him but could see where his unusual eyes would be a distraction or perhaps even disturb some people. Poole had one distinctly hazel-green eye while the other was ice-blue. Weir had seen people with little chunks of different color before, but nothing like Poole’s eyes.

  “Ask your question,” Poole had said.

  Weir was puzzled. “What question?”

  “Don’t you want to know how I got this way? Do I know that I have eyes like a dog’s? Or, my favorite, am I a witch?”

  “Uh. I was wondering what the statistical probability of complete heterochromia is. My assumption is, very low?”

  Poole looked at him for a minute before answering. “Less than one percent.”

  Okay then. “A witch?”

  “A witch.” A wolfish grin crossed his face, “In case you were curious, I’d rather be a warlock.”

  And also possibly had a sense of humor hidden somewhere on his person.

  It was a good thing Weir didn’t get seasick. Poole was a maniac, pushing his craft’s small engine to the limit as they crisscrossed Skagit Bay. The water was always extremely choppy, and the impact of the hull slamming against the waves jarred Weir’s knees and back. How Poole managed to stand at the wheel, a solid and unshakeable avenger, was beyond him.

  Each trip out they stopped several boats with no running lights, but all proved to have legitimate business on the water in the middle of the fucking night. All Poole could do was remind them they needed to be using some kind of special white night-fishing lamp.

  Sighing, he changed his search parameters again, hoping to get something, anything. There were so many variables. Krystad had been deeply invested in the hunt for a specific group of poachers; the office had gotten an anonymous tip that someone was harvesting a lot of the giant clams. There were a few blurry snapshots, but they could have been of anyone, anywhere on Skagit Bay.

  The computer screen began to blur, and rubbing his eyes didn’t help. Fuck. The computer clock said it was past seven. Where had the day gone? People who thought investigative work was fun and exciting had never fought the unending boredom of a stakeout or hours of following leads that went nowhere. Leaning back in the uncomfortable chair provided by the quasi-residence hotel that had become his home away from home, Weir stretched his arms out and leaned back. The satisfying pop of his spine was spoiled when the lever holding the chair in position released, bringing the seat crashing down with a hard snap. He needed to get out of this room; it was plotting to kill him.

  Making sure he had his phone and his keycard in his pocket, Weir stepped out into the evening drizzle. He grudgingly admitted a couple months made a difference in Skagit. At least it was light almost twelve hours a day now. The constant cloud cover was depressing, and the rain still kept him inside more often than not, but it was brighter than it had been. Although at this rate the hotel gym was going to need to replace its treadmills by the time he left town.

  Four

  Walking aimlessly, running numbers, angles, and thoughts through his head, Weir wasn’t conscious of wandering down Steele Street until a happy patron stumbling out of the Loft almost ran into him. Weir hadn’t been back since Valentine’s Day. Thrusting the memory of that incident aside, he decided to go in. He was hungry and thirsty. If Sterling was there, well, they were both adults. They’d made no promises.

  Weir had nearly fallen asleep in Sterling’s office that night. It had been close. After finally summoning the energy to pull himself together, or at least to put his dick away and zip his pants, he’d made a quiet exit out the back and hadn’t seen Sterling around town since. The whole experience had an unreal tinge to it, like a dream. Except there was no doubt he’d had Sterling’s lips on his cock. Thinking about it was giving his dick ideas.

  He pushed open the door and did an internal fist-pump; it wasn’t a holiday he had been unaware of. No banners flying, no crowd. In fact, he saw only four or five groups sitting at tables and three people at the bar. Sterling was behind the bar, of course. As Weir scanned the room, deciding where to sit, he caught Sterling’s glance and a slight facial movement that might have been a smile.

  Sterling was older than Weir by a bit. Weir thought he was in his early thirties. He hadn’t paid much attention to him before the notorious Valentine’s Day Blow Job. Sterling seemed a little goth. Frankly, Weir was tired of that look. Although maybe he should reconsider, because Sterling looked good. His pale skin glowed next to his usual somber clothing. Short black hair, deep-blue eyes. Weir had already experienced the lips, and they were as soft as they looked. He shivered, catching Sterling’s glance again. He knew the guy was on to him. Whatever, he was a guy, sex was on his mind a lot.

  “You look like shit.” Sterling eyed him head to toe. “Worse than the last time you were in here.”

  “Thanks. You know how to make a guy feel great.”

  “Jesus, you’ve lost more weight. Those cargos are about to slide off your ass. I thought you had bags under your eyes before, but now you have an entire luggage carousel.”

  “Seriously, did you go to charm school for all that?” Weir was beginning to doubt the wisdom of stepping into the Loft, much less sitting at the bar.

  Sterling slapped a trifold paper menu in front of him.

  “Soup today is split pea,” Weir wrinkled his nose, “or chicken chili.” His traitorous stomach chose that moment to rumble its approval. Sullenly, he snatched up the menu. Childish, yes—he had been in search of a decent meal, after all. But for some reason he hated being told to do things. Long ago in another life, his dad used to comment that the best way to get him to do something was to tell him to do the opposite. Oppositional personality disorder, his middle name.

  Eventually he settled on the chili. When Sterling plopped the bowl down in front of him, he’d been staring into space for ten minutes. “Thanks.” Sterling didn’t move away until Weir picked up his spoon and began to eat. Weir rolled his eyes.

  It turned out to be pleasant, sitting at the bar chatting with Sterling about nothing while he worked. A dribble of customers would come in, Sterling would serve them and then return to continue their conversation. Weir couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a casual conversation. Even the New Year’s party at Buck Swanfeldt’s had been strained because of the “developing situation” at the time with the case he had been working on.

  “So what are you, besides a suit?”

  What a good question. “Not much these days,” he answered, trying to recall what he used to do before he began his crazy journey as a federal investigator. “I used to surf a lot. I run.”

  “Oh, yeah. Like big surf?” Sterling looked mildly intrigued.

  “Yeah, pretty big. I placed in some small tournaments back in the day. One season I had a sponsor. That was pretty cool. Nothing big, though. Running, too. I’m actually better at that.”

  “Like marathons?”

  “Kinda. More endurance races, some people call it ultra-running.”

  “What’s the longest you’ve run?”

  “I’ve done a 100k before.” Qualifying for that race had been one of the hardest and easiest things he had ever done. There was one in New Zealand he planned on doing, someday, when he had the time again.

 
“How many miles is that?” He could see Sterling trying to do the math in his head.

  “About sixty-five.”

  “That’s… that’s impressive. I have trouble going more than a couple miles.” Sterling was doing the old-school bartender thing, polishing glasses while he stood there chatting. Weir glanced at his phone. He had been there for more than two hours. The bar area had emptied out, leaving just the two of them.

  “It’s not for everybody.”

  “Why do you do it?” Ah, the question everyone eventually asked him. He had a stock answer, usually something along the lines of “just do it” or some shit like that.

  “Running’s free. Nobody can stop you but yourself. Throw on a pair of shoes and go as far as you can.” Sterling stopped pretending to polish the wine glass in his hand, waiting for Weir to continue. “I didn’t have the best home life. Well, that’s not entirely true. I had a great home until I was five or so.” He leaned back, away from the bar, and crossed his arms, then continued, focusing on the pattern of the wood grain, not Sterling. “My older sister was kidnapped. Or wandered off, no one knows, but she was never found. Things pretty much went to shit after that. I started running in fifth grade, for lots of reasons, but mostly because I could get away from my own head.” Which was about the most he’d ever said to anyone, especially someone who was basically a stranger, blow job or not.

  “That is all kinds of fucked up. Are you trying to con me for pity sex?”

  Weir chuckled. Glancing up, he found himself trapped by Sterling’s gaze. He shook his head at the guy. “Really?”

  Five

  “Really? I bare my soul and you think ‘blow job’? Dude, that is classless.”

  Sterling could tell Weir wasn’t upset. “I wouldn’t say no to a blow job, just saying. I’m open to the idea if that’s where you were headed,” he teased. “You kinda owe me.”

  Dark brown eyes gleamed wickedly; it seemed Weir wasn’t averse to the idea of a blow job either, now that it was out there in the universe.

  He was still sitting at the bar hours later when Sterling flipped the Closed sign. What the hell was he thinking? Not only was he violating his “no customers” rule, he was violating his “no repeats” rule. It must be two-for-one night somewhere. He couldn’t bring himself to care much. They were both having a good time, and it’s not like the last time they had done this Weir had come back the next day begging him for more—or, worse, a phone number.

  They were, in fact, two consenting adults, of the gay male persuasion, with an unspoken no-strings agreement. Another blow job did not mean they were in a relationship.

  He flicked off the front lights, leaving only the safety lights on. Chairs went up on the tables so the morning crew could sweep before opening. A thunk caught his attention, Weir had hopped up to help out. Nice. Ten minutes later they were back in the office.

  “I gotta do the bank first.”

  “’Kay, I’ll make myself comfortable on this awesome couch.” Sterling caught the smirk Weir threw his way.

  “We’ll see about that,” he murmured under his breath before he got to work counting the tills.

  After stashing the day’s receipts in the small safe he had in the corner, Sterling turned to face Weir. A thought crossed his mind.

  “What is your first name, anyway?”

  The smirk grew into a broad smile. “I guess that’s for me to know and you to find out.”

  Sterling rolled his eyes. “I’ll find out one way or another. Let’s get down to business.”

  “Such a romantic.” Weir stood up and motioned to the couch. “Sit.”

  Sterling sat, in much the same pose as Weir had a few weeks before, lazily slumped against the back of the couch, legs splayed in a kind of wild abandon. Weir kneeled on the rug, licked his lips, then reached out to tug Sterling’s hips closer the edge of the couch.

  “That’s better.” He unzipped Sterling’s jeans. “Mmm, look at you.”

  Weir had zero gag reflex. He swallowed Sterling whole, all the way to the base. The single thought Sterling had before his brain shut down was he hoped Weir was getting enough oxygen.

  It had been a while since he’d had a decent blow job, or any blow job. The wet heat of Weir’s mouth, the rough tongue stroking him, the overall sensation of everything made it impossible for him to last long. Hell, thinking about it for the past few hours had made his jeans tight.

  Never one for delayed gratification, Sterling let himself fall into the sensation of Weir’s soft, hot mouth on him. Thinking all shift about the possibility of a blow job later had him in a semi-erect state even before they’d come back to the office.

  Weir’s cheeks hollowed while he sucked in more air and dragged his lips up Sterling’s shaft, teasing his hot tongue into Sterling’s slit before swallowing him again, letting Sterling fuck into his mouth and throat. The only warning Sterling had was a tingling sensation that exploded into his balls before he released down Weir’s throat.

  “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.” Sterling threw an arm over his face while his hips jerked one more time.

  Weir sat back with a grin, letting Sterling’s cock slip out of his mouth, swallowing before wiping his glistening lips. “Not bad? It’s been awhile, thought I might have lost my touch.”

  “Your touch is just fine,” Sterling rasped. “Come ’ere.”

  Weir considered for a second before crawling onto the couch, straddling Sterling, knees on either side of his thighs, hands on the back of the couch. Weir’s decadent bulge hovered directly in front of Sterling’s face. He reached up and popped the button of the familiar cargo pants. Weir’s fully erect cock was pressed against his thigh under a pair of sexy black knit boxer briefs. Sterling kind of wanted to stare for a moment, but Weir made a strangled sound, spurring him on.

  Tugging down the cargos and then the briefs as far as he could, Sterling admired Weir’s package. He pressed his nose into the clipped dark-blond hair surrounding it.

  “Are you going to suck it or sniff it?”

  Sterling looked up at Weir. His hair was longer than it had been when they first met, and it hung down, shadowing his face. His cheekbones were sharp in the dim light. The guy was too fucking skinny. “You got somewhere to be? Lemme enjoy myself.”

  Instead of replying, Weir leaned into Sterling, bringing himself even closer, the heat emanating from his body restoking Sterling’s own. He took the hint, opening wide and taking him in as far as he was able, one hand at the base of Weir’s erection to keep him from gagging and the other grasping a firm, round butt cheek. Weir must’ve been feeling pent up as well; it didn’t take long, or much work on Sterling’s part, before he felt Weir tremble under his hand. He sucked harder, hollowing his cheeks with effort. Keeping his fist in place, he palmed Weir’s ass as hard as he could, slipping his fingers into his crack, reveling in the quiet gasp he heard before he was swallowing.

  Sterling let Weir’s softening dick slip out of his mouth, but Weir didn’t move away. He slumped closer, resting his head on the back of the couch and Sterling’s shoulder while he caught his breath. Sterling didn’t mind. It was pleasant to have the heat of another body close. His usual hookups didn’t allow time for any more physical contact than absolutely necessary.

  After a little while Weir leaned back, extricating himself from their tangle. Cocking his head, he watched Sterling while tucking himself away and re-buttoning his cargos. Lips parted, he seemed about to say something. Shaking his head slightly, Weir finished tucking in his shirt, then checked his face in the small mirror hanging over the desk. His pocket buzzed, and he grimaced before pulling his phone out, tapping the screen, then slipping it back into his pocket.

  “Sorry, I need to go.”

  “S’all right, I’ve got work to do.”

  Companionably they left the office together, Weir following Sterling to the front door. Minutes later he was gone, disappearing down the sidewalk into the darkness. Sterling wondered what he thought he was up to, shook his hea
d, and headed back to the office to start monthly inventory.

  Fatigue was Sterling’s companion when he stumbled home in the early hours of the morning, inventory having taken much longer than it should have. Someone was stealing liquor. Which goddamn pissed him off. He hated when he had to be the bad guy. Now he was going to have to be an asshole and threaten everyone with firing until somebody caved. True or not, he counted a lot of the staff as friends—maybe not friends he’d invite to breakfast on a regular basis, but still friends. He didn’t want to fire anyone.

  Home wasn’t far, since he had managed to rent the small apartment above the retail space where the Loft was located. It wasn’t the nicest place, small by the standards he had grown up with, but 500 square feet of his own space counted for something. It had been a long haul, but things were looking up.

  The building had been constructed in the 1880s. Red brick, unusual for the region, just two stories, one exterior wall covered top to bottom with an original painted advertisement from the 1930s hailing the long-gone Kangaroo Café. The faded ad displayed a large tan kangaroo enjoying its morning cup of coffee while inexplicably reading the paper and wearing reading glasses. Sterling loved it, and hated seeing it fade year after year.

  His apartment consisted of two-and-a-half rooms: main room-kitchenette and bathroom. He’d bought a large Asian-style rice-paper screen that stood between his bed and the rest of the room. He was single; it worked for him. He didn’t see it changing. Two large windows looked down onto Steele Street, and another on the opposite wall had a great view of the alley. It could have been worse. He could have been directly across from the fish market.