All of the Voices

by Bailey Bradford

  Matt frowned. Why was he so worried about this all of a sudden? Sure, he felt awful for Mrs. Hawkins, and the two of them had grown close really fast, but still. It was almost like something poked at him, prodding him to think about the situation some of the other residents could be facing. The very situation—he realized with startling clarity—he could someday be facing himself.

  “Maybe that’s it then,” Matt mumbled. “Which is stupid. I’m young, there’s no reason for me to believe I’ll end up alone when I’m old.” Except he might, because he’d been having some thoughts for a while now, thoughts that confused the hell out of him. The one person he could talk about those things with was gone before she’d been able to help him find a resolution for his internal disquiet.

  The scent of fresh baked cookies wafted through the cruiser. Matt’s skin prickled at the familiar odor. It reminded him of Mrs. Hawkins. Instead of reigniting the sharp throb of pain he felt at her loss, the aroma comforted him, easing his dark mood.

  It felt so good to let go of the anger that had been springing up inside him in random spates, Matt couldn’t bring himself to be freaked out. The mind played funny tricks on people, but at least this time, his was actually making him feel surrounded in the memories of Mrs. Hawkins.

  Chapter Two

  After another sleepless night, Matt crawled out of bed in something worse than a foul mood. Images of Mrs. Hawkins lying dead on her porch had tormented Matt the past two nights. There may have only been a little less than half an hour from when the call came in to the time he’d arrived, but during then, the poor woman had suffered a massive heart attack and died. She’d have been scared and hurting, probably even terrified of dying.

  That more than anything ate away at Matt, the way his imagination kept filling in the last few moments of the widow’s life. He’d asked himself over and over if he’d hesitated, if he’d dawdled at all because Mrs. Hawkins put in calls for prowlers on a regular basis. Matt knew he’d rushed to the scene, had been prodded by the weird prescience that had crept over him, but still…had he hesitated at all? Was there one moment he’d lost that could have saved Mrs. Hawkins? Even the split second he’d stared in horrified shock at her abused body, had that cost her her life?

  Matt grunted and stumbled to the bathroom, his bladder cramping severely enough that sweat broke out on his brow. He knew better than to drink like he had when he’d finally got home last night, but desperation for oblivion had had him refilling his shot glass against his better judgment.

  Matt sniffed and scowled at the bitter scent of sweat and alcohol rolling off him as he pissed. He stank, his head felt like someone had loaded his skull down with sharp rocks, and his stomach was on the verge of turning itself inside out to ditch the alcohol, or whatever dregs of it were hanging around the abused gut.

  A few ibuprofen would help his head, and toast would line his stomach to keep it from cramping from the pain pills, and hopefully the bread would also soak up whatever lingered in there that wanted to climb back out. As for the odor, that was what showers and soap were for.

  After flushing the toilet, Matt washed his hands and brushed his teeth. He considered shaving, but the way his hands were shaking made that task too daunting just now. He started the shower, adjusting the water temperature until it was as hot as he thought he could stand, then turned the knob just a little more before stepping under the stinging spray. Matt groaned as the water burned his skin. Damn, it was too hot but he needed the burn to wake him up and clear his head.

  By the time he’d finished washing, barely giving a thought to the scar on his stomach or how it got there, Matt was surprised he didn’t have second degree burns all over his body. However, his achy muscles were nicely relaxed, so that was worth potential skin grafts.

  Right, dumbshit, it’s so much better to be sore until the ibuprofen kicks in. Matt wondered if he’d suffered brain damage when he’d been stabbed. Maybe the loss of blood had killed off a few brain cells he really could have used.

  Too late now. Matt grabbed a towel from the bar and quickly dried off, giving his thick brown hair a tentative pat. If he rubbed at it like it needed, his head might just blow up.

  With the towel wrapped around his hips, Matt swiped at the bathroom mirror, groaning when he got a good look at himself. Dark bags under his eyes really set off the blue of his irises, making them almost as pale as Severo’s green ones. Normally Matt just called his eye color blue—he was a guy, he didn’t give a shit about shades of blue other than dark, blue—which he figured was medium—and light. That was it, he didn’t need terms like cornflower or baby to describe the color, but now, looking at the pale eyes peering back at him, Matt wondered what shade of blue they’d be considered.

  Then he wondered why he gave a shit and promptly started finger combing the mess of hair on his head. He’d kept it shorter before…well, just before, but lately he hadn’t cared enough to keep up with his biweekly trims, and it showed. The unruly mass of hair was thick and wavy and almost curling on the ends at the back of his neck.

  And that just wouldn’t do, he decided. Soft waves and curls would make him look soft and that definitely was not happening.

  His image wavered in the mirror, splitting off into two blurry reflections of himself. Matt squinted and rubbed his eyes, which did nothing to help, instead it created two even fuzzier versions of himself. Except his hair was different, shorter. It had to be his subconscious nagging him about his appearance, just as it kept making him think he smelled those cookies, but he could fix that. Mind made up, the images merged, leaving Matt with only his own bedraggled face looking back at him. Definitely need to lay off the liquor.

  A glance at his watch told Matt he had about twenty minutes before he needed to leave for work. It was enough time for what he suddenly thought was a good idea. Brilliant, even. Maybe he should listen to his subconscious more often.

  * * * *

  Carlin Douglas hated McKinton. Small town, small minds, he was sure of it. His one visit here when he’d been a teen had confirmed it. There’d been a vicious attack on a gay man back then, and the fear that had flooded Carlin had him packing his bags and demanding his aunt send him back home to New York immediately.

  For a boy who’d just accepted he was gay, and was actually kind of reveling in the knowledge—because he finally, finally got why he didn’t get a woody around Becky Thompson—being anywhere he could potentially be killed for his newfound bit of self-discovery was absolutely terrifying.

  He’d told his aunt just that, and she’d taken it well, almost like she’d already known. Years later, Aunt Mary had confirmed his suspicions and claimed she’d known he was gay before he did. She was probably right.

  Of course, Aunt Mary had become one of his most staunch supporters when his dad had freaked out about him being gay. Luckily his dad had eventually got past his own issues.

  Carlin looked around at the shops lining Main Street. He fucking hated McKinton, and no doubt there’d be some hick-ass police department, some inbred three-toothed sheriff who spat snuff out between the gaps in those three teeth, straight onto the carpet…wait.

  Would they have carpet? Or would there be dirt floors? Carlin knew he was being unfair, every bit as judgmental as the people he was condemning in this town. He was an ass, no doubt, but it was all that was keeping him from thinking about his Aunt Mary’s death. Sometimes snark was his salvation, and wasn’t that pathetic?

  “How…quaint,” Carlin muttered as he pulled his rental car into the hotel parking lot. “A run-down motel. Of course. Fucking figures there wouldn’t even be a damn bed and breakfast here.” Staying at Aunt Mary’s was the only other option, but he couldn’t do that. Carlin turned the car off and groaned as he dropped his forehead to the steering wheel. Shit, he was cussing like he used to before he’d managed to clean up his act. Aunt Mary would have laughed at him then threatened to kick his butt. He needed to get it together before he met with the three-toothed sheriff.

 
“Crap! I am going to make an idiot of myself it I keep thinking about the sheriff like that.” Especially when he knew the sheriff had all his teeth—Aunt Mary had shared that bit—and was attractive. Then again, Aunt Mary thought any man was attractive as long as he had a pulse. Which reminded Carlin that Mary didn’t have a pulse, and his nose burned as tears pooled in his eyes and spilled down his cheeks. “Shit shit shit,” Carlin muttered as he swiped at his cheeks.

  “Quit stalling, you freaking wuss.” Carlin got out of the car and looked at the motel. The hideous army green and beige color scheme made Carlin cringe, but the place itself was actually decently maintained, from what he could tell. The U-shaped building was only a single story. There were assigned parking slots in front of each room. All the green doors had numbers on them, and a large window so the customer could open the curtain and peer out on the wonder that was downtown McKinton.

  Carlin rolled his eyes at his own cattiness. He really needed to find a more productive way to vent. He wiped at his cheeks again and wished he’d checked his appearance in the rearview mirror before he’d got out. Then he shrugged off the thought.

  It wouldn’t make any difference if his nose was red and his eyes redder, his hair disheveled and his clothes rumpled. He wasn’t here to impress anybody—just the opposite. Giving a shit what anyone else thought about him here in this town was stupid.

  The only thing he wanted from this trip was to make sure his aunt had a proper funeral. Everything else, going through her things, deciding what to do with them, finding a real estate agent to sell the house—those were secondary.

  The clerk behind the counter looked at him suspiciously as Carlin pushed the door open. He returned the look with a cool disdain that had said more than words ever could in a courtroom on more than one occasion. Mentally warning himself to turn down his flame, Carlin approached the desk and lowered his voice from its normal light tenor to something closer to a baritone, another trick he used in the courtroom.

  “I’d like your best room,” Carlin informed the clerk, ignoring the way the man narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know how long I’ll be in town, so if you have a decent room you haven’t booked for anyone else for at least, say, a week?” Oh God, please don’t make me stay in this hell hole that long. But he’d stay as long as needed.

  The clerk quit glaring at him long enough to tap at the keyboard. “You Mary Hawkins’ nephew?”

  Carlin jerked before he could stop himself. “How the fu—how the—?” Okay, not hell, either. After sputtering for a few seconds while the clerk smirked, Carlin finally found that smooth tongued devil he pulled out for the judges and juries. Pasting on his best tired and timid smile, Carlin dropped his gaze to his shoes, knowing the sheepish look was his best bet at charming the clerk. “I’m sorry, it’s been a horrible couple of days and a long, tiring trip. I imagine I’ve already come off like a prig. How’d you know who I was?”

  The clerk snorted and tapped the keyboard some more. “Small town gossip. Likely I knew you was here ‘fore you did. Sorry about Mrs. Hawkins, she was…she was something else. As for the rest, reckon you can be ’scused for walking in here like you was God Himself.”

  Well, how very charitable of you to ’scuse me, you twit. Carlin bit his cheek as he fisted his hands in his pockets. Flies and honey, don’t forget. “Ah. I’m not really familiar with small towns, and Aunt Mary was…” Carlin didn’t have to fake the emotion in his voice. He’d loved Mary for all her quirks and her support, once she’d given it. “I loved her a great deal.” The admission was easy to make. Carlin didn’t believe it made one weak to love, only stronger. Which didn’t explain why he ardently tried not to get attached to another man, but whatever.

  “Then maybe you shoulda visited her once in a while,” the clerk sniped, and Carlin very nearly resorted to violence as he imagined his fist connecting solidly with the man’s jaw. “Room one-nineteen, down toward the end. Ain’t no different than the others. They’s just rooms.”

  “I offered to buy Aunt Mary a roundtrip ticket to visit me in New York several times,” Carlin ground out against his better judgment. “She always refused, and I have other obligations—”

  The clerk snorted. “Yeah, well, guess no one felt obligated toward her. Need your credit card and license.”

  “Sure.” Carlin dug his wallet out of his back pocket, shame and anger making it take longer than it should have. He refused to care what this…this hick thought about him. There were reasons why Carlin hadn’t been able to come to McKinton besides the fact he didn’t want to experience any Smalltown, USA. Not that he’d share that information with someone who so clearly thought Carlin was an asshole. Let him think whatever he wanted. Carlin plucked out a credit card and his license and handed them over, determined not to let the obnoxious man get to him.

  “New Yorkers,” the clerk snorted. “Figures.”

  Carlin merely arched an eyebrow at the guy and silently willed an invasion of bedbugs on the man. Which was not a wise choice for payback, since the whole motel would end up infested. Fine. I hope he has a nasty bout of dysentery. He nearly snorted himself. Like there was such a thing as a ‘not nasty bout of dysentery’.

  Once he’d finished checking in, Carlin opted to skip stopping by his room to drop off his luggage. As tired as he was, he still wasn’t in a hurry to see the inside of what he was sure was a crappy room. Besides, he wanted to talk to the sheriff and the deputy who’d found Aunt Mary. He had his doubts about whether or not her emergency call had been answered rapidly.

  It didn’t take him long at all to get to the Sheriff’s Department. That was one thing McKinton had over New York, Carlin supposed. It would have taken him forty-five minutes in morning traffic to go the distance from the motel to the Sheriff’s Department had he been driving in New York.

  Then again, he didn’t drive in New York for exactly that reason. Traffic was a real bitch. Carlin took a moment to check his appearance in the mirror attached to the car’s visor. It wouldn’t do to confront the sheriff looking like a rumpled, emotional mess. He couldn’t do much about his suit, but his hair had been cut in such a way as to always look good. Court room professional or casual, sexy lover, all it took was a moment or two and Carlin could appear as either. A flicker of movement caught Carlin’s eye and his breath hitched when he cocked his head to the side to get a better look. Oh, damn.

  Another thing McKinton had over New York was the very attractive male bodies clothed in the dark uniforms of the Sheriff’s Department. Seemed like every cop Carlin had ever seen in the Big Apple was sporting a gut that’d make finding said cops’ dick darn near impossible without the help of a crane.

  Of course, Carlin was out, way out, and he was a lawyer, so cops weren’t exactly likely to flock to him, and certainly none like the ones currently in his line of sight. The two men in the parking lot walking up to the door of the building were both very fine. One was taller than the other and wearing a cowboy hat, his shoulders broad, waist small, and his ass was quite tempting.

  But it was the other man who truly caught Carlin’s attention. A few inches shorter and several pounds lighter, the guy had a butt that made Carlin’s mouth water, which was funny as he definitely preferred to bottom. Lean, almost too much so, and long legs that Carlin wanted to feel quivering as he bounced on the man’s cock. This guy had a hat, too, though he was holding it in his hand. His very big hand. Carlin dragged his gaze up the man’s back to his wide shoulders, admiring their breadth for a moment before looking farther up to his nearly shorn head.

  “Oh, nice.” Carlin could make out the pale strip of skin under the man’s hairline at the back of his neck. The short style must be new. “Almost like a gift just for me,” Carlin mused. He had a weak spot for men with buzz cuts, burrs, high and tights, or bald. God, he really loved the feel of a man’s smooth scalp under his palms or between his thighs.

  His lovers’ bodies, however, Carlin preferred them to have hair, the more the better. Carlin liked his m
en furry and rough, and this guy—well. If his front looked anywhere near as good as his back, the guy could have a body as smooth and hairless as Carlin kept his own. It’d be weird, but it also just might be worth it. Like that is ever going to happen here in Hicksville. Quit being an idiot, you’re not here to get laid. Probably get your ass beat if you so much as look at any man here.

  Except, as Carlin started to get out of his car, a gorgeous little guy with lovely dark skin stepped out of the building and greeted the bigger guy with the cowboy hat on with a long, definitely had to be tongue involved, kiss.

  Well. McKinton just got a whole lot more interesting.

  Chapter Three

  Matt looked away from Laine and Severo as they kissed. Thinking of Laine as the sheriff when he tried to devour Severo’s lips just wasn’t possible. Matt hissed as he heard footsteps.

  “Someone’s coming,” he informed the horny duo, feeling a bit like a teenager on the lookout for adults while his friends made out.

  “What was that about?” Laine asked Severo, a question Matt wondered as well. He usually didn’t see the men being so openly affectionate out in public. Seeing them kissing like that had been scary and…and hot.

  “I just had to,” was Severo’s answer.

  Matt barely kept from rolling his eyes. “Well, you two might want to work on your impulse control issues. I’m not the only one you just put a show on for.” He turned to see who was walking toward them and felt a punch of lust so strong his legs nearly gave out.

  “Holy shit,” Matt muttered before he could stop himself. The petite blond man heading their way was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen. Sleek lines and blade-sharp cheek bones set off by a firm square jaw, full, sensual lips, wide eyes—Matt couldn’t see what color they were, but he just knew they’d be gorgeous—topped by artfully arched light brown eyebrows. Shit, the guy even has one of those cute little dimples in his chin.