by Morgan Brice
He realized that he hadn’t answered Ben’s question. “Yes to a shower. That would be good.”
Erik had wondered if they’d both fit. The master bathroom in his Victorian house had a retrofitted claw-foot tub with a curtain, and for all its charm, it wasn’t made for two grown men to use at the same time.
Ben’s modern bathroom included a walk-in tiled shower with glass doors and a rain head, and plenty of elbow room. “Nice,” he said, as Ben adjusted the water temperature.
“I know, right? So much better than my old place in Newark. The shower surround in that dump was crappy plastic, and the water pressure sucked.”
They stepped in together. Erik felt suddenly shy. Last night’s conversation had stripped him bare emotionally, and the intimacy of his confession, before they had really done anything physically, made him feel topsy-turvy.
“Just relax.” Ben’s voice had lost some of its morning rasp, but the low tone made Erik shiver as the water sluiced over his skin. “Let me take care of you.”
Ben poured a puddle of golden shampoo into his palm, tipped Erik’s head under the water to wet his hair, and then began to rub the rosemary-scented liquid down to his scalp, pulsing his strong fingers through the hair. Erik let out a little whimper of contentment and felt sure he was about to wake up from the best dream he’d ever had.
Ben’s soap smelled of balsam and cedar. He lathered his hands and then ran them all over Erik’s body, stopping now and then to suds up again. His strong fingers massaged the tight cords of Erik’s neck and shoulders, slid down the planes of his back and across his pecs and belly, then—finally—down between Erik’s legs, slicking his cock and balls.
“That feels…fantastic.”
Ben chuckled. “That’s the idea.” He left one hand cupping Erik’s groin, while the other slipped behind him, across the globes of his ass, one soapy finger sliding between them to tease at his hole before moving on.
“So important not to miss any spots,” Ben whispered.
Although Erik definitely counted everything so far as foreplay, Ben didn’t seem to have an agenda. He didn’t try for a second round, although Erik had definitely started to plump at the contact and the feel of Ben’s strong hands on his body. When Ben ran his hands down Erik’s legs, first one and then the other, Erik wondered if Ben meant to turn him around and go down on him, but he didn’t, and Erik found himself fighting disappointment.
“All clean,” Ben murmured, shifting him to let the water rinse away the suds.
“My turn,” Erik said, taking the bar. He met Ben’s gaze, hoping his eyes could say everything he didn’t trust his voice to speak. Thank you. I want you.
Erik took his time, even though he had to stand on tip-toe to wash Ben’s hair. He loved the scent of the soap—another sense memory he’d never forget—and the feel of the lather as he took every excuse to touch Ben everywhere. He studied the tats, memorized the symbols, and let his fingers skim over the old scars, reassuring Ben that he didn’t find them ugly.
The muscles in Ben’s arms and thighs felt as good as they looked, as did his tight, dimpled ass and a well-hung package Erik hoped he would get the opportunity know better.
Cooling water reminded Erik he needed to finish the job. And although he wanted to go to his knees and give Ben the blow job he’d fantasized about, he knew this wasn’t the time.
Later. Please let there be a later.
Ben chuckled and reached out to tip Erik’s chin up so that their eyes met. “There’ll be time for that.” Erik blushed, but he didn’t object to having Ben guess his thoughts.
They finally got out and toweled each other off. “I need to go open the office,” Ben said with a sigh as he rummaged through his dresser for a shirt. Erik retrieved his cast-offs from the night before, figuring no one was going to notice if he was wearing the same clothes.
“I should go work on inventory,” Erik replied. “And I promised Jaxon I’d stop back at the Arts Center.” He was reluctant to leave, because for as badly as last night had ended, this morning was more than he’d hoped for, and Erik was afraid that stepping outside the apartment would somehow break the spell of what had just happened between them.
He followed Ben to the kitchen. “I’ve got toast and coffee to offer you,” Ben said. “I’m not a big breakfast eater.”
“That’s fine.” Erik stared at the table that had caused so much trouble last night. It was just a table, nothing more.
“Don’t.”
Ben’s voice made him look up. He hadn’t turned around from where he was readying the coffee maker. “Don’t worry about what happened last night. I’m not. If we’re going to do this, it would have come up sooner or later. It’s okay.”
“Thanks,” Erik murmured, still fighting embarrassment.
“So…if you’re not busy tonight, I might have some new intel for you on that clock,” Ben said, changing the subject. “Assuming you’d be free for dinner again. We can try someplace different. There’s a great seafood place at the marina.”
“I’d like that.” Erik knew they were moving fast, but his heart seemed to be on board. He didn’t dare hope that Ben would change his mind about staying in town, but if he ended up leaving, Erik didn’t want to squander a moment of memories.
“Great,” Ben said. “Same time?”
“That works.”
They ate quickly and walked down the stairs together. It felt comfortable and normal and so right that Erik’s heart skipped a beat at the thought. Maybe I’m not as broken as I thought…
When they reached the bottom of the staircase, Ben pulled him in for a quick kiss. “Make sure you have a good appetite,” he whispered. “You’ll want to be hungry for tonight,” he teased.
“I don’t think that will be a problem,” Erik told him. “I’ll see you later.”
Erik spent the morning on inventory, pausing only long enough to make himself a sandwich for lunch and grab a cookie from the container he’d bought at the bakery a few doors up from the shop until it was time to go back to the Arts Center. All morning he fought the pull of the box of memorabilia and consoled himself that he’d tackle it as soon as he got back.
He’d made sure to take gloves and his tools with him. Jaxon hovered as Erik examined the Ingraham clock. While Erik couldn’t confirm it was owned by the Commodore Wilson or that it was the clock in the pictures, he did verify its authenticity as an Ingraham. The old clock wasn’t hiding any other mysteries or clues. There were no impressions or visions – it seemed to be exactly as it appeared, an antique clock.
When he returned to the shop, he ignored the inventory and went right to the box of items from the cursed hotel. He tempered his guilt over avoiding his “real” work with the excuse of wanting news to share with Ben at dinner that night.
Erik forced himself to slow down and examine the box with the same trained observation he used on his old cases. The cardboard box showed its age, but any packing labels were long gone. Erik documented as he unpacked, taking photos as he removed each layer of items, then photographing the pieces themselves. From the odd assortment, Erik wondered if the box had been sold “as is,” a grab bag of sorts. He’d seen auctioneers sell odds and ends that way plenty of times, and occasionally, the buyer netted a real find. More often than not, the mishmash was just junk or valuable only in the eye of the beholder.
Erik grabbed a tablet and started a running tally of the items as he laid them out across the break room table. Paper items on the top layers—menus, event programs, monogrammed napkins, and the like—had discolored, but those farther down were well-preserved. Collectors paid a pretty penny for “ephemera”—items that became valuable in their rarity because they were never meant to be saved. At the least, Jaxon might find a trophy or two for his exhibit.
He found a cup and saucer with the distinctive “CW” monogram as well as a single dinner knife, and a similarly etched “Baby Ben” alarm clock with a round face that probably dated from the 1930s. Beneath that w
as more paper—which he put to one side to go through later—a couple of metal fobs for hotel room keys, two ashtrays, and a few random pieces of barware, along with salt and pepper shakers.
Erik had been so focused on the Cafaro connection that he felt surprised when the box proved to be a time capsule of sorts, with pieces from the forties through the late eighties. He vowed to go back and read up on what happened in the years after the hotel slipped out of the Mob’s grip. Erik thought he remembered Susan mentioning a shady televangelist, but he couldn’t recall the details.
The old clock Ben had found might not turn out to be as mysterious as it appeared, Erik thought. Even if he was right about the insurance fraud, they were long past the statute of limitations—on everything except murder. But Cafaro was dead, and after all this time, so would the detectives who worked the case as well as any of Cafaro’s associates. Even if he and Ben could prove something, it would be moot.
But it sure could be fun, he thought with a grin. And it gave him one more excuse to spend time with a certain sexy ex-cop who seemed to be enjoying the thrill of the hunt as much as he was.
Erik had dared to rummage through the box without gloves, almost challenging the items to show him visions and reveal their ghosts. He caught fleeting images skittering through his mind’s eye, moments in time, but nothing that grabbed his attention or seemed more than just a faded memory of a long-gone era. Perhaps when he came back and handled the pieces more slowly, they would share more secrets, but he felt relief that he had avoided a psychic wallop.
Even the ghosts kept their distance. Erik sensed them and saw glimpses of movement, but if they retained enough energy or sense of self to manifest more clearly, they chose not to do so. Perhaps they were watching, waiting, to see what he intended. If so, they’d need to be patient, because Erik himself didn’t have the answer to that.
On impulse, he went to his sales receipts and found the phone number for Justin Kramer, the man who had sold him the box. He called, not quite sure what he meant to say, but the phone rang until it went to voice mail.
He decided that he needed to know more about Justin’s grandfather who had purchased the box and see if the old man had passed along any stories. Erik typed Justin’s address into his phone, locked up, and got into his black Grand Cherokee. He’d bought the SUV when he left Atlanta, figuring that he needed the cargo room to pick up antiques from estate sales or auctions and that the four-wheel drive would come in handy for Cape May winters.
Police tape cordoned off the house at the address Kramer had given him. Erik parked a block away, and walked back, trying to figure out what prompted the crime scene markings. Then he saw the broken windows and soot streaks, as well as where part of the roof was gone. A chill went through him, and he wondered what had become of Justin.
Before he could second guess himself, Erik walked up to the next-door neighbor’s house and knocked. A pleasant-looking older woman answered the door.
“Hi. I’m looking for Justin Kramer—he lived in the house next to yours. Do you know where I can find him?”
The woman gave Erik the once-over, and he hoped he looked trustworthy and non-threatening. “Justin’s gone. I don’t know where. Someone broke in and set the place on fire right after he left. So either Justin was very lucky, or he had reason to think his luck was going to turn,” she added. “I knew his grandfather, God rest his soul. He was a nice man. Never any trouble.”
She’d managed to imply, without actually saying so, that the problems that followed were somehow Justin’s fault.
“Justin had called my store and asked me to come by and have a look at some antiques, give him an appraisal,” Erik fibbed. “I’m the new owner of Trinkets. I finally had a chance to stop over, and well…” He gestured toward the ruined house.
“I don’t know what that boy was thinking, bothering you like that,” the neighbor replied. “I’ve been over there a time or two to give old Mr. Kramer a hand, and I doubt there was anything a shop like yours would be interested in. The furniture I saw might have been old, but not that old, and it got used, so it had wear on it. I’m not sure the consignment store would have taken it, to be honest.”
“Still, it’s a shame the house was damaged,” Erik said, with complete sincerity. It had probably needed major renovations before the fire, but he hoped it could be restored. The house was a Queen Anne style and had good bones.
“That boy should have come around more than he did,” the woman said. “Then again, I doubt Mr. Kramer asked for help, even if he needed it. And I did see the grandson working hard to clean the place out after the old man died.” She shook her head. “And then to have a break-in, on our street…what’s this world coming to?”
Erik excused himself and headed back toward his car. On a hunch, he kept walking. The Kramer house sat on a corner, so by going down the side street, he could get a good look at three sides of the building. The old house needed repair and looked as if it had skipped a lot of maintenance in recent years. The outdated windows wouldn’t have been a challenge for even a rookie to break into, and Erik doubted there’d been a security system.
The real question is why a thief would bother.
Was it just a coincidence? Am I just being crazy to think there could have been something in the box he sold me that a thief wanted? The box that’s sitting in my break room.
Erik found himself holding his breath when he went home, worried that somehow the people who had broken in at the Kramer’s house would have already ransacked Trinkets, but to his relief, the store was as he left it. Following another hunch, he called Susan.
“I bought cookies at Crumble,” he told her when she answered his call. “More than I should eat by myself. And I have questions—and coffee.”
A few moments later, Susan knocked at the door. He welcomed her and turned the lock, leading her to the break room where the promised treats awaited.
“What’s all this?” Susan asked after she had helped herself to a shortbread cookie and a cup of coffee.
“It’s a treasure box—and it needs to stay a secret,” he replied. “Seriously. I think someone might be looking for it and was willing to break into an old man’s house to get it—although I don’t for the life of me know why.”
Susan finished her cookie and set her cup aside. “It looks like Commodore Wilson stuff.”
“I bought it from a guy who was cleaning out his grandfather’s attic. Said the old man bought it at the bankruptcy sale, and no one’s really touched it since then.” Erik gestured at the random assortment of objects on the table in frustration. “I can’t see anything especially valuable, but maybe I’m missing something. And when I went over to ask the guy some questions, it turns out he’s left town suddenly, and the house was broken into—and burned.”
“Yikes. Does anyone know you’ve got the box?”
Erik shook his head. “Just you—and Ben Nolan. Unless Justin—the guy who sold it to me—told someone, or they saw him carry it in.”
Susan chewed on her lip as she thought, walking around the table and peering at the objects without touching anything. “Probably good to keep it that way, at least until you can rule out it having anything to do with the break-in.”
“I wanted to ask Justin if his grandfather had told him any stories about the Commodore Wilson. The old man worked there as a bellhop back in the day. I think that’s what I need right now. Context. Maybe if I spoke to some of the old-timers, I’d figure out what I’m missing.”
Susan peered at him over her glasses. “You sound like a character in one of those cozy mysteries I read. What’s got you playing Nancy Drew?”
Erik smirked. “Hardy Boys, please.” He didn’t want to endanger Susan by drawing her into the Cafaro situation, but he needed her connections. “Jaxon Davies over at the Arts Center asked me to consult on his new installation, which is going to include some of the history of the Commodore. I’m trying to be helpful, but since I’m not from here, talking to people who had a p
ersonal tie to the hotel would help me get more of a feel for the place.”
Susan nodded, still eyeing the pieces on the table. “If you aren’t particular about the exact date, I know folks who worked there or just liked to party there regularly. They’re all my age or older, obviously, and there’s no one old enough to go all the way back to the start, but I can probably give you a list of people who can speak for the fifties through the time the place closed in ninety-five.”
“That would be fantastic,” Erik replied, grinning. “Thank you.”
Susan helped herself to another cookie. “You’re welcome. Thank you for the cookies. That bakery is bad for my waistline.” That didn’t stop her from finishing the treat. “How’s the inventory coming?” she asked.
“Slowly. I’m making progress. Robert had an odd eye for acquisitions. I’m not sure yet whether he was an unsung genius or a closet hoarder.”
Susan laughed. “Probably some of both. I used to go with him sometimes to estate sales and auctions. I figured he could use a hand loading and unloading his truck, and I needed to get out after Keith died. We made a regular outing of it and had a lot of fun. I never could find a pattern to the things we brought back with us, so I asked him one day why he bought what he bought.”
“And what did he say?” Erik found himself genuinely curious.
“He said that he bought the pieces that spoke to him. He wasn’t into collecting any particular kind of thing—jewelry, furniture, memorabilia. He said that he just knew when he saw or touched a piece that it was meant to be his, and that’s what he bought.”
Erik felt a chill go down his spine. Robert’s comment sounded far too much like his own touch magic to be a coincidence. Had the old man had some of the Sight himself? Other than Simon Kincaide’s cousin, Erik had never heard of psychic abilities being common among antique store owners. He’d have guessed the opposite, that being psychically null around objects that had witnessed all the good, bad, and ugly parts of other people’s lives would be a blessing. Maybe not.