by Morgan Brice
“Are you all right? Is the shop okay?” The worry in Erik’s voice warmed Ben’s heart. Caleb had never bothered to worry about Ben, not even when he was on dangerous undercover busts, because he figured Ben could watch out for himself. He could, but that didn’t mean he minded having someone who cared enough to be concerned.
“Yes to both,” Ben replied. “They got in, but it doesn’t look like anything was stolen. Which means I think we were right—someone was looking for the clock.”
“It’s in the safe at the shop,” Erik replied. “And the Kramer box is locked in a steamer trunk.”
“Good job,” Ben replied. “So what are you doing with the rest of your evening, now that your date ended early?”
“Um…lying on my couch, thinking about what I wanted to do if you’d come over.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” Erik’s voice was low and seductive, and Ben realized this was a side of Erik he hadn’t seen yet. Maybe he’s more confident because it’s not in person? Interesting.
“Why don’t you tell me what I missed out on,” Ben prompted. The tone of Erik’s voice already had Ben hard, even though he’d thought he was too tired to do more than sleep when he climbed the stairs.
“Well, you haven’t seen my place yet,” Erik replied. “So I was going to show you around. Make a memory in every room.”
“I like that.”
“Do you? I thought I’d kiss you in the kitchen, take your shirt off in the living room and run my hands all over that fine body of yours, and get you out of your pants in the hallway. So by the time we got to the bedroom, I could get on my knees and see how you taste.”
Fuck. Ben thought phone sex only happened on 900 numbers and in romcom movies. Caleb would have rather cut out his own tongue than try to be seductive over the phone. Ben didn’t know what got him hard faster—listening to Erik talk dirty or knowing that he was fantasizing about Ben in such maddening detail.
“Uh-huh,” Ben said, and his voice sounded breathy, even to him. His cock was already hard, and Ben unbuttoned his jeans and slipped a hand inside.
“Are you touching yourself?” Erik asked. “Because I am.”
Damn. Ben pictured Erik sitting on a sofa, legs splayed, sweatpants pushed down to his thighs, slowly jacking himself. The thought made his own prick leak even more.
“So what would you do, on your knees?”
“Lick you,” Erik replied. “Get you real wet. Taste you. And then go down on you like I’m starving for cock. I might not get you all in. But I’d be willing to give it a try.”
Ben moaned, and his hand moved faster, slicking with pre-come. He and Erik only got as far as that one handjob in bed—was it only this morning? But if they’d gone home together tonight, Ben had intended to see if Erik would be up for blowing each other. Maybe at the same time.
Apparently, the answer would have been yes.
“I’d move my tongue over the top, swirl it all around, suck on you real good,” Erik continued in a sultry tone that just made the words even sexier. “Then I’d put my hand between your legs and roll your balls on my palm, run my finger up your taint, and circle your hole.”
“Erik—” Ben groaned, knowing he wasn’t far from climax. “I’m gonna—”
“And then I’d take in everything I could fit, and swallow everything you gave me.”
Ben cried out as his back arched and he shot, feeling his release explode through his body. He heard Erik shout his name a second later, and the mental picture of him coming like that sent an aftershock through Ben’s body.
“Was that good for you?” Erik asked with mock innocence.
“Oh, baby. The only way it could be any better was if you were really here.”
“At least you know what I think about when we’re apart.”
And didn’t that just give Ben new material for his morning shower? “Really?”
“Uh-huh. Did I do okay?” Seductive Erik suddenly gave way to a much less confident version.
“You were fantastic,” Ben assured him, reaching for a box of tissues to clean up. “Maybe the next time we get together, we could try that in person.”
“I’d like that,” Erik replied, and Ben found the shy note in Erik’s voice to be just as much of a turn on. “Want to come over for dinner tomorrow? I picked up this recipe for arrabiata sauce in Rome that’s easy and sooo good. We could eat in, for a change.”
Left unspoken was the fact they could also babysit both the box and the clock.
“Sounds perfect, if you don’t mind cooking.”
“I actually like to cook, but it’s less fun when it’s just for one.”
Ben was discovering all kinds of new things about Erik, and each one just reinforced the dangerous attraction. Dangerous to Ben’s heart, that was. Because if Erik walked away now, deciding Ben wasn’t good enough to keep for the long run, Ben knew it would hurt a lot.
“Same time?” Ben asked. “What can I bring?”
“Just yourself,” Erik replied. “And a healthy appetite.”
After they said good night, Ben took a shower to clean up, and slipped into a T-shirt and sleep pants. He could still pick up a faint trace of Erik’s scent on the pillowcase. Ben wasn’t sure exactly how it happened, but Erik was getting past his defenses, and working his way farther into Ben’s heart than Caleb ever had been.
I thought I was in love with Caleb. But it never felt like this. Oh, God. Does that mean? But he already knew the answer. I’m falling in love with Erik.
The next morning, Ben went down to the office early to clean. The police had left a mess of fingerprint powder and footprints, and the would-be thieves had rummaged through the papers in the folders on the desks. He mentally cataloged everything as he straightened up, then ran the vacuum and wiped down the furniture until he had erased all traces of the invasion by both the thieves and the cops.
He had already decided not to open today, since the season still hadn’t started, and gave Jenny, the office manager, the day off with pay. Anyone interested would call or email, and he could take care of both without having to be in the office. Very few clients just walked in, unless they were returning a key or reporting damage. They could leave the key in the night drop box, Ben figured. He needed today to figure out what the hell was going on.
Ben made a pot of coffee and ran through the messages, returned calls, and answered emails. They were already eighty percent booked for the summer and booked solid from Memorial Day through mid-July. Ben had to admit that his aunt and uncle had built a very solid business, and he was both humbled and a little scared that they trusted him enough to take it over.
He also indulged his investigator side, doing a web search on Erik Mitchell, which turned up a lot more than he’d expected. Ben spent the next hour reading articles about Erik’s role in recovering stolen pieces and unmasking frauds. There weren’t many pictures—no surprise, given the nature of his job—but in the few Ben found, he quickly recognized his new boyfriend. Only that Erik didn’t look like his Erik. The Erik in the tuxedo at an event in Paris looked stiff and aloof, as if he was somehow separate from everyone else even while he was standing in the middle of the action.
Ben tried to square that stranger with the Erik he knew, the man who’d been in his bed, who’d talked dirty to him over the phone. The charming geek who blushed easily and laughed quickly. The damaged man haunted by past betrayals. Did Erik have some PTSD? Not unlikely, given what he’d survived. Ben had spent his own time in mandated counseling, so he wasn’t one to judge. Those shadows never really went away, although you could learn to cope, compensate.
If he’d been happy in his old life, he wouldn’t have left. Buying a house and a store is a pretty big commitment. If the men he knew then were all bastards like Josh, then maybe—just maybe—he’s ready for someone who isn’t his usual type. Christ, Ben hoped so.
By the time he needed to meet with the retired cop friend-of-a-friend, Ben had drained the coffee pot, confirmed
half a dozen new rentals, emailed information packets to another eight potential customers, ordered some do-it-yourself surveillance cameras for the office, and paid the bills. A note on the door directed anyone who showed up to either use the key drop or leave a message. With that, Ben double-checked the locks, set the alarm, and headed out to Abbott’s, a bar on the outskirts of town.
He pulled in and parked the Mustang, pausing to size up the joint. His cop instincts had served him well so far, and he didn’t see a reason to change now. Tony Basalmo was one of the few Newark cops he still trusted, who’d earned that trust by sticking by him during the aftermath of the clusterfuck that had almost killed Ben. Tony believed Ben that the gang had been tipped off by an insider, although no one was ever caught. So if Tony thought his dad’s buddy was a good guy, Ben trusted the intel.
Still, he’d learned a long time ago to trust—and verify. Everything he’d been able to find on retired Detective James Cooper—short of a full background check—panned out. Ben just hoped the man showed up.
Ben walked in and scanned the room. A few men were already at the bar, some eating lunch, others already nursing beers. None of them looked like tourists. In the back corner, a man who might have been in his early seventies was staring at Ben with an intensity that marked him as a cop. Ben strode over.
“Mr. Cooper? I’m Ben Nolan.”
The older man’s grip was firm. Cooper looked in good health. Maybe seventy was the new fifty.
“Basalmo said you wanted to talk to me. Have a seat.” He had a voice that sounded like it had been honed by a pack a day and hard liquor.
“Tony said you knew his father.”
Cooper nodded. “I did. Tony Senior was a good cop. We worked together in Newark, and then I moved down here with my wife. Got a promotion that I wasn’t going to get anytime soon in Newark—you know how that goes. Found out the sea air did me good.”
“You were on the force here in the seventies, eighties, and nineties, right?” Ben waved off the server who showed up with menus. Depending on how the conversation went, he’d either order later or grab something elsewhere.
“I retired in ninety-five,” Cooper said. “That’s a long time ago. Especially for you.”
Ben nodded, trying not to react to the older man’s jab about Ben’s age or the edge of macho posturing in his voice. Marking territory, measuring dicks—Ben knew how to play the game, and still hated it.
“You would have been around when the Commodore Wilson was still in its heyday.”
Cooper raised an eyebrow. “Debatable whether that snake-bit place ever had a heyday. I got here in seventy-seven, two years before that no-good preacher Hank Chason disappeared.”
“You ever meet him?”
“Chason?” Cooper snorted. “Sure I met him. He’d throw a big retreat, bring in his faithful sheep from all over the country, and we’d have to work overtime to handle the traffic or keep the protesters away.”
“Protesters?”
“Guy was a phony. Oh, he was slick, and he could talk real pretty, but I’ve seen eyes like that on every grifter I ever busted. Although I will say, he sure could put on a show.”
Ben had done his homework. After Cafaro’s death, Hank Chason bought the Commodore Wilson to help him make the jump from fire breathing radio preacher to TV evangelist. His mix of Red Scare politics and red-meat fundamentalism drew a faithful—and well-armed—crowd, eager to hear a gospel that linked the End Times with their own paranoia.
“The locals hated the guy, by the way. But he brought in the crowds, and they spent money in the beach shops and at the bars—since Chason didn’t serve alcohol at the Commodore, if you can believe that. The hookers made bank whenever he held a convention because the faithful weren’t very faithful, if you know what I mean.” Cooper took a gulp of his beer. “Chason wasn’t any better. There were always rumors about whose wife—or husband—he was fucking. Guess it doesn’t count if you pray afterward.”
“Chason disappeared. Did anyone ever figure out what happened?”
Cooper shook his head. “Nah. I hadn’t made detective yet when he pulled a runner. But it’s true what people said. One of the maids found a sex dungeon in the basement. Chason snorted coke like he was taking communion. And he might not have served alcohol to anyone else, but he liked to wander the halls dead drunk, in nothing but a bathrobe.”
Well. Those details hadn’t been in any of the retrospectives Ben had read. “So he was losing his grip.”
Cooper gave a cold chuckle. “Oh, he’d lost it, all right, toward the end. Chason made a mint fleecing his flock, but he didn’t pay his taxes. More to the point, he didn’t pay the construction company he hired to shore up the east wing. And the Mob doesn’t take that kind of thing lying down.”
Another mob connection, Ben thought. “So they never figured out what happened to Chason?”
Cooper’s shrug made it clear he didn’t care. “They had him on all the wanted lists, but he never turned up. Probably got a bullet in his head. Maybe he’s bunking with Jimmy Hoffa under a parking garage.”
Cooper reminded Ben of the older cops he’d worked with in Newark. Most were ex-military, and they policed like they were in occupied territory, not an American city. Some of them saw the Mob as a source of order in the midst of Newark’s gang-fueled war zone chaos.
“What happened after Chason?” Ben accepted the glass of water the server brought and took a sip. Somehow, despite all the years of non-smoking laws, the smell of stale cigarettes still clung to the bar.
“This crazy long-haired hippie guru bought the place. Kendry Ambrose. He turned it into a goddamned celebrity playground.” Cooper shook his head. “I was a detective by the time he finally burned out, and let me tell you, it was wild over there. Supposed to be some kind of New Age wellness retreat,” he said, adding air quotes, “but what I saw looked more like sex, drugs, and rock and roll.”
Ben remembered the picture of Ambrose he’d seen on the web, a model-handsome man hawking his bestselling self-improvement books to an audience that couldn’t seem to get enough. For a while, Ambrose built an empire. But he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants. Alimony, jealous mistresses, harassment lawsuits, and lavish spending meant bankruptcy—and maybe prison—had been in the golden boy’s future.
“But that didn’t last either, did it?”
“‘Course not. That guy Ambrose was just a different kind of con man.” Cooper took another slug of his beer. “Although I didn’t think he’d have the stones to go out the way he did. Walked out on stage in front of a packed audience, shoved a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.” He made a gun shape with his thumb and index finger. “Bam.”
“Is there any reason that someone with a grudge against anybody connected with the Commodore might still be out there?” Ben asked.
Cooper tilted his head, giving him a look. “Meaning what?”
Ben had been debating whether to trust Cooper enough to tell him about the clock. He liked playing things close to the chest, but this wasn’t his hometown, and he needed a lead. Cooper was his best bet.
“I found a clock hidden inside one of our rental properties—a new place we bought recently. I think it’s connected to the old Cafaro killing. They never solved that one, did they?”
Cooper watched him with cop eyes, the cold, calculating stare Ben reserved for suspects. “No. They never pinned anyone for the bomb, but that was a long time ago.”
Ben ran a hand back through his hair. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Then someone tried to break into my place last night, and there’s no reason except for searching for that clock. And that fire, over at the Kramer house? Rumor had it the owner had some stuff he’d bought when the Commodore closed down.”
Cooper sat back and let out a guffaw. “That’s what’s got your panties in a wad? My God, boy. Is that what passes for policing in Newark these days?”
“I didn’t imagine the break-in. And the fire at the Kramer house—that wasn’t my ima
gination, either.” Ben leaned forward. “Yeah, Cafaro died a long while ago. But that wasn’t the end of the Mob’s ties to the Commodore. They had their hooks into Chason and Ambrose.”
“Chason’s missing. Ambrose is dead. It’s over.”
“Maybe someone is afraid that it isn’t.”
Cooper hunched closer, and Ben instinctively drew back. “Son, let me give you some advice. Those dogs bite hard. If they’re sleeping, let them lie.”
Ben walked out to the Mustang, torn between being annoyed at Cooper and angry at himself for expecting to find answers. Then again, guys like Cooper lived to be a ripe old age by being sons of bitches. If Cooper knew anything that linked the Commodore to the current Mob, he wasn’t talking.
And why should he? What’s past is dead and gone. Maybe he’s right.
Ben’s phone rang, and he recognized the tone. It belonged to Dan, the head of his remodeling crew. “What’s up?”
“Boss, I need you over at the Weber house. There’s something you need to see.”
Ben pulled up in front of the gray Victorian house with the widow’s walk on top. Sean had told him the house was a rental favorite, but it had gotten so much use that it needed a refresh. Right before Aunt Meg left on her permanent vacation, she’d scheduled Dan to handle freshening the place up. New paint, patched drywall, replacing tile, fixing all the little things that could go wrong. The house had been off the rental schedule for a couple of months and probably had at least another month before it was ready to have guests.
He hurried up the steps. Dan sounded a little freaked out, and that didn’t square with the level-headed guy Ben had met.
“Dan?” he called when he got to the entrance hallway.
“Up here. Second floor, third room on the right.”
Ben was surprised to find the rest of the crew gone. Dan was waiting for him just inside the empty bedroom.
“What happened? Someone get hurt on the job?” Ben hoped not, but construction could be dangerous. At least the company carried plenty of insurance.