by Josh Lanyon
“If it were me, I’d have taken you to that conveyor-belt sushi place by the convention center. Or Vietnamese. Something we don’t have on the island, anyway. Or a food truck.”
While all those things did appeal to me, I wasn’t ready to admit that.
“Well, it’s not you, so you’re going to have to settle for overpriced unimaginative appetizers and wood-fired pizza,” I said. “Or you could just say you followed me, go get sushi, and meet me on the ferry back tomorrow morning.”
“Can’t do that, I’m afraid.”
“Sure you can. Think of it as an undercover investigation you’re performing on my behalf. Take some pictures. Bring me back a takeout menu.”
Mac just shook his head and looked back down at his phone. I watched as he found the Boiler Room menu and started thumbing through his future dining options. The announcement came that the ferry would be docking shortly, and I stood to go. “I’m going to check in at my hotel. It’s the Spencer on Second Avenue. I’ll see you at the Boiler Room at eight.”
***
Probably the only thing more demoralizing than being on a boring date is the knowledge that there is a cop watching you tread water.
The guy—Erik—was nice enough. He was a tall, sandy-haired California transplant, who worked in tech (shocker) and had a nice condo in Belltown only a couple of blocks away from the dark, trendy restaurant where we sat. He sipped bourbon and told me about being new to town while I drank Rainier and struggled to find his conversation even remotely interesting.
Why had I thought I needed this? Why had I thought I could be attentive to another human being after having been interrogated by the police? Why a date and not the simplicity of an anonymous grope in the back of some dark bar?
And glancing over Erik’s shoulder to where Mac sat alone at a table, I felt a weird need to go there and relax. At least the guy knew what I was going through. Even if he was one of the people putting me through it. Was this how a person comes to welcome Stockholm Syndrome?
Mac pulled out his phone, texted something, and I felt a buzz in my pocket. Then another.
After the fourth alert, I finally excused myself to look.
This guy seems nice.
Kinda boring, though.
You work in tech? You don’t say…
I think he’s going to regret ordering the mahi-mahi tacos.
Struggling to suppress an unwanted smile, I typed: Maybe you could come over and arrest me, and then we can both get out of here.
Mac smiled when he got my text. Then, to my shock, he stood, walked over to our table, and said, “Drew! Wow, buddy, it’s great to see you!”
I sat paralyzed for just one second before I stood and gave him a big, long-lost-friend hug. I meant it to be just for show, but when he wrapped his arms around me, I suddenly realized that this was what the child inside me wanted when I went searching online. I didn’t want a date or dinner or even somebody down to fuck. I just wanted a hug.
Kinda pathetic, but that’s what we monkeys are like. We get scared and need comfort even if it’s wearing cop shoes.
Mac sat down uninvited, and without consulting Erik or me, directed the server to bring his duck prosciutto, chèvre, and fig pizza to our table.
Erik didn’t last long once Mac started on a dull monologue of the least interesting aspects of island policing. He thanked me for my time, and I promised I’d text next time I was in town.
He left two of his three tacos uneaten on his plate.
Once Erik had gone, Mac said, “See? The mahi-mahi just didn’t sound like a winner.”
I laughed and finished my beer.
“I suppose being on duty means you can’t have a drink,” I remarked.
“Nah, it’ll make it hard for me to keep tailing you.”
“You really don’t need to. I’m walking three blocks to my hotel room and spending the night in. Where are you going to be? Your truck?”
“I’m in an unmarked cop car,” Mac said. “The seats recline pretty far.”
“Now that’s just ridiculous.” I dismissed the idea with a wave of my hand. “Tell you what: I’m booked into a double room for tonight because it was the only one they had on short notice. Why don’t we go to the convenience store, buy a six-pack, go back to my room, and watch something stupid together? You can even have the bed that’s closest to the door, in case I try to creep out and murder somebody in the night. Unless you’re scared of me. Then I guess you could sleep in your car.”
“I don’t think you’re going to creep out and murder anybody.” Mac sighed and folded his hands on the table. “All right, I’ll come up. But you can’t tell anybody I did this. I’m not even supposed to be talking to you.”
“Fear not, I know how to keep my big gay mouth shut about who I’ve been in a hotel room with.” I gave him a wink, which brought a little color to his cheeks.
Our walk to the hotel was mostly silent, punctuated with only perfunctory talk about who would pay for the beer. We got back to my room before ten.
I liked the Spencer Hotel because it reminded me of my first apartment—built around the turn of the century, heated by clanging radiators, and decorated in a shabby kind of hipster chic.
Mac sat down on the bed closest to the door, looking nervous, but also happy—like he’d been chosen by a television crew for a man-on-the-street interview.
“This hotel is my home away from home,” I announced, spreading my arms out like I invented the place. “How do you like it?”
“It’s nice. High ceilings.”
“Right? I like to be able to stretch and not scrape my knuckles on the ceiling…or get whacked by some low-hanging fan.”
We fell silent. The sludgy waves of awkwardness lapped at the shores of hospitality. What was I really doing here apart from wading into strange and murky waters? I needed to step back and think.
“I need a shower.” I cracked a beer and handed it to Mac. “Please make yourself at home. Also feel free to search my overnight bag for any items you might need…or just to satisfy your curiosity. Whatever.”
“I’m not going to search your bag, Drew.”
“Just saying that mi casa es su casa.”
With that, I took myself to the mostly hot shower. To be honest, I hadn’t expected Mac to do something as inappropriate as agree to come to my hotel room. And now that he’d called my bluff and we both inhabited this neutral, rented space, I didn’t really know what to do.
The way Mac vacillated between professional and those shy, private looks undid me in a way I found profoundly distressing. Mac was into me, certainly. Or was he setting me up? Or was he into me and setting me up? Or was he setting me up and not consciously acknowledging he was into me?
And above all, why had I invited him to my room?
I supposed I shouldn’t have been so cavalier, but that’s the story of my life. Low impulse control. I can’t keep my mouth shut. I say something, make that joke, and then suddenly I’m bunking with the cop who’s supposed to be following me.
I turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. Mac had turned the TV on, but I couldn’t tell to which channel.
I pulled on my boxers and paused before putting on my jeans. I hadn’t planned to need loungewear as I’d either be sleeping alone or having sex—and in either case I’d be naked.
I decided the jeans would go back on, but I could leave the shirt behind. I emerged from the bathroom still toweling my hair dry.
Mac had removed his shoes and socks and left them by the door. He sat propped up against the headboard, legs straight and ankles crossed in front of him. If he meant for this to be sexy, I couldn’t understand how.
I realized that maybe all my obsessing on whether or not Mac was attracted to me might actually be me finding my way to the terrifying knowledge that I wanted him. A lot.
I sat down on my own bed, and taking in the salient points of the on-screen cooking competition, remarked, “That guy’s really in the weeds. Can’t take
the pressure.”
“Yeah, I think he’s gonna get cut.” Mac glanced over at me, looked me over. “Good shower?”
“Yes and no. The pressure’s lackluster, but the nozzle’s high enough. Did you search my stuff yet?”
Mac sighed. “I told you I’m not searching you.”
“Why not?”
“What do you mean why not?”
“Well,” I said, “I watch a fair number of those forensics shows, and it seems like you should be rifling through my bags for evidence that would eliminate me as a suspect.”
“I don’t have to. I’ve already eliminated you.”
“Then why are you following me?”
“My uncle hasn’t cleared you.” Mac turned off the TV. “Look, I know those clothes were planted at your place, but until the experts come back with their findings, my uncle won’t rule you out.”
“But what makes you sure they’re not mine?”
“The shoes we recovered are too small. You’ve got feet like water skis,” Mac said.
“Thanks for that.”
“Well, you do, and the shoe impressions will confirm it,” Mac said. “I volunteered to tail you because you don’t seem to realize you’re not safe.”
“I’m definitely in danger of being wrongfully convicted by your uncle,” I conceded.
“That’s honestly the last thing you have to worry about.” Mac spoke with more urgency than I’d heard from him before. “The real danger to you is that there’s a murderer out there whose attention you’ve attracted. Probably with all the questions you keep asking. Once it becomes obvious they can’t get rid of you by pinning Dorian’s death on you, they may take more extreme measures. And it’s not like they haven’t already solved one problem with homicide. You could be in serious danger, Drew.”
After the sting of Truth with a capital T wore off, I managed, “First a food critic, then an arbiter of men’s fashion, now a bodyguard. You are truly a man of many dimensions, aren’t you?”
“Everybody has a hidden side,” Mac said.
“Like the side of you that secretly wants to get down with me?” I teased. Then, understanding the confirmation in Mac’s complete silence, I continued, “’Cause that’s not hidden.”
“Well,” Mac said slowly. “I’m not trying to hide it from you.”
And this is why banter is not always a good idea. Nonetheless, I am not one to shirk. He’d met my challenge, and now I would have to escalate. Because I’m competitive. And because I wanted another hug.
I crossed the room, pulled the stiff orange curtains closed, then sat on the edge of Mac’s bed.
“Have you ever kissed a guy?”
Mac let out a laugh. “I’m thirty years old.”
It wasn’t really an answer, but I leaned forward and laid one on him anyway. Gently. His lips parted slightly. I felt his hand on my thigh. I pulled back far enough to look him in the eye and said, “I only need to know one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Your first name,” I replied.
“Cormac,” he said. “Cormac Patrick Mackenzie. You can stick with Mac, though.”
“Okay, then, Mac.” I swung my leg over to straddle his lap. “Wow me.”
Mac stared unblinking at me for so long, I thought I’d made a grave error in judgment. But then he laced his fingers behind his head and said, “You’re apparently the expert. Why don’t you show me how it’s done?” Mac’s quick concession made me pause, but then he gave a challenging smile and added, “No pressure.”
“Oh, it’s on.” My hands went immediately to his belt.
Mac lifted his hips as I pulled his pants and boxers, and then my own, down and off.
I stared at his half-hard dick with something approaching awe.
There was a long silence, and Mac didn’t try to fill it, which was unusual enough to make me drag my eyes away from possibly the finest cock I’d seen outside of porn, to his face. His confidence was vying with something that looked like embarrassment or maybe uncertainty, which is a normal reaction to having your dick assessed by a comparative stranger. But with a cock like that, it made no sense at all. He should have been waving it at passersby. Still, something in his expression made me want to reassure him.
“Well, you’re, um…” I cleared my throat. “You’re definitely in proportion.”
Mac blinked and blushed. He had lovely eyelashes. I hadn’t noticed that till then. Or how nice his skin was. Or that his stomach looked like a laundry washboard.
“So…” I said, with an attempt at flirty roguishness, “are you going to let me suck it?”
Mac drew a visibly deep breath, and his cock jerked against his muscular thigh as it filled to full erection.
That’d be a yes, then. It certainly wasn’t a no.
I leaned down and licked the silky tip of the now-swollen head. Mac groaned in disbelief. I pressed my mouth against the rigid length of his dick and smiled. The sense of control I felt was unbelievable.
“You still haven’t said,” I murmured against hot, taut velvet skin. “Do you want me to?”
“Are you kidding?” It sounded desperate. Outraged.
“No, Deputy, I am not.” I blew on the wet stripe, scratched my fingernails through thick, dark pubic curls, and peered up at him with a try at polite interest.
But beneath the frustration I thought I saw…he looked lost, as if he didn’t understand or enjoy the sleazy etiquette of casual encounters. I felt a melancholy hook land in my shriveled, jaded heart.
“Why don’t you put your hands on my head,” I said, “and just push down when you’re ready to signal your complete consent.”
His eyes widened. He looked about twelve years old. So I leaned down, took the head of his dick in my mouth, and began to suckle very gently. Tormenting him with it.
It didn’t take long before I felt his hands in my hair, fingers opening and closing helplessly on my skull, but instead of trying to hold me in place, he cradled my head and let me set the pace. Which was really just as well, given the size of that dick. I don’t know what I’d have done if he’d decided to go triple X on my face.
This could have been Erik, I thought randomly, but it wasn’t, so…lucky me.
And then it escalated too fast. I was starving for release, too long without touching another body, never mind an attractive one.
In no time I was holding Mac’s hips, jaw aching, as he tried not to fuck too far into my throat, and I was humping the puffy hotel comforter like a horny mutt. Mac kept saying my name, as if it added to his high. It certainly added to mine.
I love giving head. The smell and sound of it—the obscene sucking squelch, the panting and whimpering as I take someone else apart with my mouth.
Our stamina was frankly pathetic, but we came pretty much together, which is more or less the desired endgame, isn’t it? It’d never happened to me before anyway, and it was crazy it happened now. I just knew that Mac felt and smelled and tasted perfect, and I shot like a fire hose.
I had needed it, and I think, probably he did too.
When I’d finally caught my breath, I rose, turned out the lights, and lurched into my own bed. I didn’t look at Mac. Somehow I couldn’t bear to see his reaction to what we’d done, now that the clammy chill of reality settled over my damp skin. If he didn’t regret it now, he probably would once the sun came up.
But I couldn’t help saying, “You can come to my side if you want. It’s dry over here.”
Mac said nothing, but a few seconds later I felt him slide into bed beside me. And just before I fell asleep, I felt him pull the crisp white comforter up over my bare shoulder.
Like some kind of romantic dork.
Chapter Nine
The next morning I had texts to reply to. I started with the one from Lionel, asking if he was supposed to come to work at five or if the bistro would be closed because I was in jail.
I glanced over at Mac, still asleep, arm draped across my abdomen. I considered waking
him up and asking whether he thought I’d be taken in for questioning, then decided to err on the side of optimism. I told Lionel to report to work at five as per usual. Even if we didn’t open, I wanted to tell him in person that we were considering selling the Eelgrass.
My second text came from Sam, apologizing for losing her shit and asking if I wanted to open the bistro for dinner. I told her that I did. After a few moments, Sam agreed. Then she informed me that Troy wanted to meet with us both at the restaurant at three to discuss a possible offer.
I’ll see you there, I wrote. I hit the Send icon before I could rethink the decision.
I lay there for a few moments, feeling adrift. I ran my hand over Mac’s arm, admiring its foreign solidity and wondering if I’d ever cook for him again. If the restaurant closed, would we ever see each other again? Naked or any other way?
My phone buzzed again, and a flurry of messages scrolled up my phone screen. All of them from Evelyn.
“Mac?” I patted his arm—very gently. He didn’t rouse. Or even shift. “Mac!”
“What?” His eyes popped open, then seeing me perfectly fine, drooped closed. “What the hell?”
“There’s been a break-in at the Beehive. A guy tried to choke Julie.”
That got Mac’s attention.
“Is she hurt?” Mac reached for his phone.
“I don’t think so. Evelyn says it’s not too bad.”
“Do they have the perp?”
“No. Evelyn texted me to warn me that the sheriff was coming around looking for me because apparently I’m his favorite suspect for all crime on the island now.” I leaned closer to try and get a look at Mac’s texts. “Any official messages about that?”
“You don’t have to worry about being charged with that.” Mac shifted to prop himself against the headboard, where I couldn’t see his screen.
“I don’t?”
“Obviously not.” Mac patted my shoulder but kept his eyes on his screen. “You have a really solid alibi.”
“But do I really?” I had hoped not to broach the subject of whether or not Mac would have my back—at least not so early in the morning—but needs must…
Mac twisted his fingers through my hair and gently tilted my head toward him. If I were to deny a thrill went through me, would you believe me?