Dents and scratches covered the tabletop. Someone had carved the first four letters of the alphabet right in front of where Ben sat. He counted the scuffs, the imperfections.
Stacy snapped his fingers. “Hey. I’m trying to help you here. My partner already thinks you’re guilty. Me? I’m still open to the possibility there was someone else.”
Liar.
Ben didn’t have to be a seasoned cop to see it. Stacy practically flaunted it with the tone of his voice.
“I don’t know.”
“You sure about that?” Stacy’s eyes glittered.
Ben wet his lips. If he lied, this man would know. If he told the truth, he’d be behind bars before lunch. He shrugged.
“What about the text?”
“I didn’t text her.”
“I got the transcript on my desk. Came with the call log from your cell phone. Spoke with her twice, texted her a bunch of mushy stuff about how you wanted to get away from campus for a while, just you and her. Although I gotta say, your choice of a romantic location is a bit to be desired. Town’s small, but there are at least two other motels without the illegal and illicit reputation the Sunset Inn is known for.”
Ben didn’t doubt it.
“I didn’t text her.”
“So you were drunk? High? Don’t remember?”
“No.”
“But you don’t remember texting her.”
“I didn’t text her.”
“Message came from your number.”
“I know, but I didn’t…” Sweat collected at Ben’s temples. “I didn’t text her.”
“How do you ’spose that text got on her phone, then?”
“I don’t know.”
“You loan your cell out?”
“No.”
“So it just magically appeared.”
“Don’t I get a phone call?”
“Phone’s out of service right now. Should be fixed in twelve to fourteen hours. But that’s okay, you can wait here, I don’t mind.”
He’d probably enjoy it.
The air kicked on, and the sweat dried into salty lines across the back of Ben’s neck. He’d never make it that long. Even if he could, he was pretty sure the phone would break again, and he’d have to wait another twelve hours.
“Tell me what happened, Mr. Corbin. I’ve been a cop for thirty years. I know when a man has secrets eating him alive.”
If only Ben could argue. “You wouldn’t believe me.”
“Try me.”
He wouldn’t, Ben knew the man wouldn’t, but he told Stacy anyways. At some point, Oppenheimer came back in and left a paper cup of water in front of Ben.
He didn’t tell them about Marcel. Just how Shelly was supposed to meet him at the truck stop, and he never saw her. Then about how Yvette met him on the back road.
Stacy took out a piece of gum and popped it into his mouth. He folded and unfolded the wrapper. “Wow, that’s, that’s definitely a story. You a writer, Mr. Corbin? ’Cause that could be a plot for a Hollywood movie.”
“It’s the truth.” Well, most of the truth.
“Yeah. I tell you what. I’ll pretend that—” Stacy looked at his watch. “—the past forty-five minutes never happened. That I just now brought you in here and set you down to give you the opportunity to tell your side of the story. I mean, there’s got to be a reason to burn someone alive.”
An acrid flavor rose up Ben’s throat. He took a sip of water. Oppenheimer peeled himself out of the corner he’d stood in. A shadow in a shadowless room.
“Your hand.” Oppenheimer nodded, indicating Ben’s hand.
“What?”
“What’s that on your hand, a burn?”
Stacy took the cup from Ben. “Put your hand on the table, Mr. Corbin.”
Ben tucked it back into his lap. “It’s nothing. It’s just, just…” What? What could he tell them? Nothing.
Ben laid his hand on the table. Oppenheimer frowned.
“I’m no doctor, but that’s one heck of a burn, Mr. Corbin,” Stacy said. “Maybe got it while you were lighting up that fire you set.”
Oppenheimer caught Ben’s gaze for a moment, then whispered something in Stacy’s ear.
“Now?”
Oppenheimer nodded.
Stacy made a face but followed Oppenheimer to the door. It shut, and Ben was sealed in a box. Minutes passed. With no clock, those minutes might have been hours. Then the door opened. Oppenheimer had shed his coat at some point, leaving nothing to conceal his over the shoulder holster.
“You’re free to go, Mr. Corbin.”
Ben stared at the man.
“Unless you want to stay.”
Ben eased out of the chair. “I’m free.”
“Yes.”
“I thought—”
“Don’t think.”
Ben walked into the hall. There was no sign of Detective Stacy.
“Do you need a ride back to the motel?”
“No. I’ll call a cab.” At this point, Ben would have walked. But he wasn’t even sure where he was.
“Use the phone on my desk. It’s the one with the fern.”
Ben gave the man another disbelieving look. “Is this a trick?”
Oppenheimer looked down. Ben did too. There was a scar on the web of Oppenheimer’s hand. A plate? A triangle?
The image came together. A set of even scales. “It will be taken care of. You won’t hear from anyone again.”
And Ben believed him.
Jacob was on his way back from the running his errands when he saw Ben handcuffed and shoved into a car. He hurried to his room. Along the way, he managed to get his cell out of his pocket without dropping the bag he carried. He started to quick key Marcel’s number, then stopped.
The car left the parking lot with Ben in the back.
The tag was government. It had to be the cops. They’d probably found his girlfriend’s body. The fact she’d gone out of her way to visit Ben, made him look guilty as hell.
Marcel needed to know. Ben was his now.
Jacob put his phone back in his pocket and went into his room. He set the bag of groceries on the table then sat on the bed.
He took out his phone again and stared at the blank screen.
He needed to call Marcel. The number was the only one programmed into the phone. Jacob tightened his grip. What he wanted to do was let them carry Ben off. Get him out of Marcel’s life. Out of Jacob’s life.
Because Ben threatened everything, every bit of happiness Jacob had. And he’d fought for his happy moments. With broken bones, and beatings.
But Ben was in trouble. Marcel had promised to protect him. Jacob had no idea if Marcel could do anything to keep Ben out of jail. It wasn’t like he deserved to go. No matter how Jacob feared being replaced by Ben. A man who’d never been broken, thrown away, and destroyed. A man who had no idea what it was like on the streets, no understanding of how the need for escape made sticking a needle in his arm seem like a small price to pay. Ben was good. A truly good person. It showed in his mossy-green eyes. Even if he had called Jacob names, his apology had been sincere.
No. No matter how much Jacob wanted to hate Ben, he could only wish he was him.
The very act of pushing the buttons on the phone was a knife to Jacob’s heart.
But it was what Marcel would want, and Jacob lived for giving the man that. Even if he would no longer want anything from Jacob.
It rang. Picked up. “Jacob.”
Jacob eased out a breath. “Ben was arrested.”
“You are crying.” A cabinet closed in the background. Glass clinked. “Are you hurt?”
“No.” Not this time. At least not on the outside.
“I will go pick up Ben at the police station. Tomorrow, you and I will talk.”
Marcel hung up. And what would they talk about? Jacob’s future? Marcel sending him away?
The possibilities terrified Jacob.
Ben stepped onto the sidewalk outside the polic
e station. A dark green GTO occupied a parking space by the curb. The driver got out.
Marcel.
“Get in. I will take you home.”
“I called a cab.” And who the hell called Marcel? Oppenheimer? Or did Marcel just know? Like he knew everything else.
Ben shoved it out of his mind.
“Door is unlocked.” Marcel slid in behind the steering wheel.
Ben opened the passenger door. Flawless black leather beckoned him to sit. He did, and the seat sighed. “This is a really nice car.” Ben ran a hand over the dash. It looked brand new, but the car had to be almost sixty years old.
“So I have been told.”
The rumble of the engine filled the minutes. Ben hadn’t had much of a chance to look out the window on the ride here. But leaving, he had to admit the old-fashioned square was pretty.
Too bad it would be the background for future nightmares.
After a few more miles, the buildings grew tall and modern. Then they fell away to broken green space, old houses, and then subdivisions nestled between aging farms.
Ben almost touched the angry red mark on his hand, beating with a subtle heat. “Who was that guy at the station?”
“Gerald Oppenheimer.”
“Is he, uh, you know? Like you?”
“Does he kill people?”
Was that what Ben was trying to ask? Maybe. He nodded.
“He is of a different House. It is not their duty.”
“How many Houses are there?”
“Twelve.”
“What do they do?”
“Whatever duty they have pledged to uphold.”
Ben shook his head and leaned against the door. The glass of the passenger window cooled his cheek. They passed the motel. There could only be one place Marcel wanted to take him.
Ben scrubbed his palms on his jeans. His pulse jumped, and he shuffled his feet.
“You are nervous.”
There was no need to deny it.
“You are afraid of what I will ask of you.”
An understatement if there ever was one.
“Do not worry. I will take your fear.”
Ben would have called Marcel crazy, but Ben was the one with the brand between his finger and thumb.
Marcel turned into the subdivision. Kids with backpacks marched down the sidewalk. A small white dog barked at their heels until they passed its yard.
Two more turns, and they were at the cul-de-sac. Marcel pulled into his driveway. He pushed a button on the remote clipped to the visor, and the garage door opened. Shadows spilled into the cab as he pulled inside. The door slid down behind them.
Marcel turned off the car, retrieved his cane from the space beside Ben’s leg, and got out. Ben followed him inside.
“Shoes.” Marcel slipped off his loafers, leaving them on a mat by the door and put on the house shoes waiting there. Ben unlaced his sneakers.
Marcel went into the living room. Ben placed his shoes next to Marcel’s.
“You will go in room on left and wait. Door is open.”
Ben stalled out at the threshold. Nice wood furniture, a large chair in the corner, a cabinet between the windows.
And a bed. King-sized, with thick posts. The comforter was red. The sheets black.
Heat pressed against Ben’s back. He turned. Marcel was right there, inches away. Ben stumbled into the room.
Marcel’s good eye glittered. “Perhaps you drink too much caffeine.” Marcel hobbled over to the chair but remained standing, leaning on his cane.
Watching.
Ben tried to not stare at the bed.
Marcel thumped his cane against the floor, and Ben jerked to attention.
Again Marcel watched.
And what the hell was he staring at? He must have finally found what he was looking for because he nodded. Then said one word, crushing Ben where he stood.
“Strip.”
Ben pulled off his shirt. He unbuttoned his jeans but couldn’t seem to push them down his hips.
“Look at me, Ben.”
He did. The space around him shrank, even though nothing moved. Ben opened his hands. His jeans hit the floor.
Marcel tilted his head.
Ben hooked his thumbs in his boxers but didn’t think about what he did until they were around his ankles.
“Socks,” Marcel said.
Ben took them off.
“Come closer.” Ben took a few steps. His muscles jumped.
“Stop.”
Ben did.
Marcel ran his gaze up and down Ben’s body, but his expression was void of emotion.
He took a step forward, and Ben couldn’t keep from stepping back.
Marcel looked at him, and he returned to where he’d been standing. The thump of Marcel’s cane followed him as he circled Ben.
The sounds of rustling fabric faded. Had he left? Ben turned. Marcel stood behind him.
“Face the wall.”
Ben did.
Marcel’s touch slid down Ben’s spine, traveled to his hip, then back up to his shoulder. An electric tingle played over Ben’s skin. Marcel drew a line with his mutilated hand down Ben’s arm. Heat welled in Ben’s stomach, sliding down his legs.
The contact disappeared, and Ben opened his eyes. He had no idea when he closed them, or why. Marcel stepped into the space in front of Ben. His cane was gone, and he seemed taller, but nothing about him had changed. Marcel laid his fingertips on Ben’s chest, made a path to his navel, cut over to his hip, then back up.
An ache settled in Ben’s balls, and even though he didn’t want it to, his cock hardened. Marcel caressed Ben’s jaw, the column of his neck.
The air in the room thinned out, and Ben had to open his mouth to breathe. Marcel touched Ben’s cheek, the shell of his ear. His cock jerked like he’d felt the contact there. Closer, Marcel’s exhale mixed with Ben’s, and Ben found himself tilting his head up and leaning closer. Marcel held Ben’s jaw and ran his thumb over Ben’s lips.
Again Marcel moved his hand down. He stopped at Ben’s nipples. The touch was barely noticeable until he moved to Ben’s ribs, down to his hip.
Sweat beaded on Ben’s skin, and precum leaked from the tip of his cock. The need to come gnawed at Ben’s senses. Why didn’t the man just jerk him off or let him jerk himself off? Something. Anything. Because this was maddening.
It shouldn’t have been. If anything, Ben should have been terrified, but whatever fear he’d held had evaporated under the weight of carnal need.
Marcel moved his hand lower, close to Ben’s cock, so close he was sure the man would touch him, and if he did, Ben would shoot his load.
Marcel stepped back. His one leg dragging a bit, his shoulders hunched. As if age suddenly settled on him without warning.
“You may dress. I will call you when I am ready for you to come back.” Marcel picked his cane up from where it leaned against the bed and made his way to the door. Ben could only stare at the man, then himself—the weight in his balls almost excruciating.
Marcel left and Ben did what Marcel told him to do.
Jacob left the liquor store with a bottle of vodka wrapped in a paper bag. A fine mist settled on his skin, and cars passed on the road with a sticky sound.
He waited for the light to turn, then crossed the street, going from one puddle of halogen light to the next. The motel was only a half-mile from the small stretch of mom-and-pop stores tucked in a forgotten corner of Quinton.
There, old buildings had been squeezed together on a single block. As if the past had chipped a corner on its way down, managing to land between downtown and suburbia.
Jacob couldn’t help but hate the place. Not because of the people, not because of the rundown streets, but because it reminded him of home and how he’d been kicked out, only to be found by a smooth-talking conman with one goal.
Frankie had ruined the lives of a lot of people. Jacob hoped a few were as lucky as him and escaped.
He passed a man
and woman making out in the shadow of the bushes along the sidewalk. A guy with headphones cut in front of a car as he dashed across the street. A cab pulled into the parking lot up ahead. Its passenger fell out onto the asphalt, laughed, then stumbled to his feet.
It must have been the night to get smashed. Tomorrow, Jacob would go to Marcel’s and learn his fate. Tonight, Jacob intended to do whatever he could to forget about what that fate could be.
A station wagon sat in front of the lobby doors of the motel. Stuffed in the back, boxes, household goods, and one big black dog. It barked at Jacob as he went by.
People were always coming or going at Sunset Inn. Jacob was one of the few who had been there for more than a year.
He climbed the short flight of steps separating the two halves of the sidewalk along the building. Someone sat beside the door of Jacob’s room. With the overhead light burned out, the figure was nothing more than a gray shape. But Jacob already knew who it was.
Thunder rolled in the distance. The gentle mist turned into solid drops. Ben looked up as Jacob approached. Ben’s green eyes were black gems in the dark.
“What are you doing outside my room?”
“I…” Ben shook his head.
“You should go.” Jacob undid the lock on his door.
“Please.” Ben wrung his hands. His thumb lingered over the mark. “I don’t want to be alone.” He dropped his head.
The last thing Jacob wanted to hear was what Marcel did with Ben. And be forced to face all the ways he couldn’t compare. Would never compare, to someone untouched, unspoiled, and had never been broken. Jacob was pretty sure Alexander had been like that. If he had been anything like Ben, he would have.
Jacob knew he would regret this. “C’mon. I hate to drink alone, anyhow.”
Ben stumbled to his feet and followed Jacob into his room. He shut the door and turned the deadbolt.
“How long have you been sitting outside my door?”
Ben put his hands in his pockets, then took them out. “I don’t know. A few hours, maybe. You were gone when I got here.”
“I had errands to run and some library books to return.”
Ben looked up.
“What? Surprised I can read?” Jacob unwrapped the bottle of liquor and set it on the table.
“No, no, it’s just…”
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