When It Rains: Accidental Roots 8

by Elle Keaton

  “All right. I gotta go.” Gómez stood, crumpling her napkin and the foil from her lunch into a ball as she extricated herself from the picnic table. “Take care, gentlemen. I’ll let you know what I find.”

  As she was leaving, a family came in and sat down at the table next to them. The kids chattered in Spanish about their day while the mom calmed the youngest, strapped to her chest in one of those baby things.

  “What was it like growing up here?” Beto asked, even more curious about Jorgensen’s take on Skagit now.

  “For me?” Jorgensen asked. “It was fine. No one bothered me. My uncle was the chief, right? And after he died nothing changed for me. But growing up here in general? Especially when you’re different? That sucks.”

  Something about his tone … “Troy was different?”

  Jorgensen nodded. “He was gay. Is gay. And everybody knew it—I think that’s why his dad was such a jerk. Troy waved it in his face all the time, making sure everybody knew the pastor’s kid was one of the rainbow family.”

  “Hmm. What happened to Troy’s father? Is he still here in Skagit?” Carsten had led Beto to think Troy didn’t have any family.

  “Probably; he seemed like a popular guy. One of those backslapper, everybody-likes-me types.”

  Beto nodded, thinking. “Okay, you do some quiet research into Troy’s family. If nothing else, maybe they’ll want to know he’s in the hospital. Don’t make contact yet, though; for now I want to keep this quiet. I do want to drive up 20 as you suggested, but we’re going to need something other than an SkPD vehicle.”

  Rain started to thrum against the corrugated plastic roof material, reminding both of them that the weather hadn’t stopped, it had only been on a break.

  “I can drive my truck tomorrow.”

  “I suppose you own one of those enormous 4x4s?”

  “Cherry red, with sweet chrome runners.” Jorgensen grinned. Beto shook his head but couldn’t help a half smile.

  “Inconspicuous. Fine, my place by eight.”

  Jorgensen seemed happy to go, antsy even. Beto wondered if it had anything to do with their conversation the other day. Who’d finally gotten his attention?

  * * *

  He half expected Carsten to have disappeared by the time he got home; his houseguest was cagey. Carsten had legitimate reasons; he didn’t know Beto from anyone and had no real reason to trust him. And Beto was a cop. Whatever Carsten and his “roommate” were involved in, Beto was almost certain it had something to do with why he was in Skagit. He didn’t have proof, only his gut, but his instincts had proved to be right enough times that he trusted them—when on a case, anyway. Carsten Quinn and Troy Bakker, although older now, fit a certain profile: throwaway kids, not accepted socially, the kind who won’t be missed or are easily coerced because they have no one to turn to. The kind human traffickers snatched up because they had no one who’d care if they went missing.

  Much to his surprise, the lights were on in the house, and when he came through the front door he smelled something delicious cooking. Freya woofed before bounding over to greet him as he hung his coat up and slipped off his shoes. Carsten padded out from the kitchen area, and Beto got a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  His guest had showered; his feet were bare, his blond hair no longer dull and tangled. He was wearing a pair of Beto’s sweatpants—Beto knew they were his because the letters FBI were emblazoned up the side. If anyone asked, Beto would have said a friend gave them to him … which was mostly true. Carsten was also wearing one of Beto’s white T-shirts. It looked good on him. An unexpected swell of possessiveness bloomed in his chest, pride that Carsten was wearing his clothes. So of course he reacted like an ass.

  “Those are my sweats and my shirt.”

  Carsten shrugged and smiled, a mischievous expression on his face, definitely flirting. “Yeah, but we’re the same size, and my clothes are in the wash. I didn’t know when you’d be back.”

  “I brought you clothes.” Did it bother him that Carsten had borrowed his clothing? No … it didn’t—but it was different; no one had ever done that before. Even when he and Jerry were together, they’d been very careful never to exchange gifts or wear each other’s clothing. He was definitely thrown off balance.

  “I made you dinner.”

  Carsten drew the word dinner out in a way that had Beto thinking about something else entirely. Dinner was an innuendo, dinner was sex, a blowjob, skin on skin. All things Beto hadn’t had for a long time. Since Jerry died.

  Thinking about Jerry made him speak more harshly than he intended, anger rising to the surface with the hunger. “Did you expect something in return?” Even before the words left his mouth, he regretted them; he liked seeing Carsten in his sweatpants, for Christ’s sake.

  The amused light in Carsten’s eyes snuffed out, and his shoulders slumped. “I’ll go change.”

  Instinctively, Beto stepped closer. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry. I was reacting to a situation with someone else from a long time ago; you didn’t deserve that.”

  Carsten eyed him, icy blue eyes half shuttered as Beto moved closer. Beto brought a hand up to pat him on the shoulder, but it kept going and he found himself dragging two fingers down Carsten’s cheek again.

  Beto was stuck, unable to move forward past Jerry’s ghost, but also wanting to forget his dead partner, to have a new memory. It was Carsten who broke the weird impasse by leaning forward just enough to brush his lips across Beto’s. The spark of want arced between them like one of them had been dragging their feet across a carpet. Except he had hardwoods.

  He allowed his hand to drift to the back of Carsten’s neck, deepening the kiss beyond a mere brush of lips. Carsten stiffened and then relaxed, opening his mouth slightly. Beto ached to snatch this moment, to discover what Carsten was hiding, to expose the secrets of his mouth and body. It had been a long time since he’d felt this kind of attraction. Maybe he never had before.

  If the dog hadn’t chosen that moment to let out a sharp bark, Beto didn’t want to think where the moment of madness might have led. He had no business kissing someone he was running a background check on. Someone who was possibly, probably, lying to him. He hated that he didn’t trust himself; intuition told him Carsten was a good person.

  Carsten stepped away, mouth slightly open, breathing heavily. He was shivering. Beto wiped his own mouth with the back of his hand. What was he doing? What was he thinking?

  A part of him that hadn’t allowed itself to be heard in years wanted to wrap around Carsten, keep him safe. Another louder part told him to slow down, it was too soon …

  But how could it be too soon when the last person you were with wouldn’t let you acknowledge them? When what they were to you and what (you thought) you were to them was a secret?

  There was no right answer. It couldn’t be both too soon and too late, that was ridiculous. It was Carsten Quinn himself, and right or not, Beto gravitated toward him and wanted, possibly hoped for, more. The fact that he dared to hope scared the crap out of him.

  Carsten continued to watch him with wary eyes.

  “So hey,” Beto began.

  “I get it. I’m not good enough for you. Whatever.”

  Beto reached out and lifted Carsten’s chin so he would be looking him in the eye. “None of those words are words from my mouth.” He made sure he had Carsten’s attention. “I was going to say, it would probably be a good idea for me to take you home before this goes further—right now—than either of us are ready for, but …”

  Something like hope flitted across Carsten’s handsome face.

  “I know this cozy bar. I don’t go there often, but the bartender is nice enough, and they don’t show a lot of sports on the TV. Unless of course you’d rather go to a sports bar?”

  Carsten smiled, grinned even. “Oh, yeah? And no, no sports bar.”

  Beto knew he’d said the right thing. “I was thinking, if tomorrow doesn’t end up being overtime, I mi
ght stop for a drink after my shift. Around seven thirty?”

  “Seven thirty, huh? I’ll probably be done painting walls by then; maybe I’ll see you there.”

  13

  Carsten

  * * *

  The walls of Sara Schultz’s new café weren’t going to finish painting themselves. Carsten made himself head over around midmorning. Painting was the last thing on his mind, though. Instead his thoughts kept drifting to his date that night. As he spread out the plastic tarp and finished taping the corners and edges he’d started the week before, he found himself thinking about Beto Hernández, and then the tape would turn out crooked and he’d have to start over.

  The cop had been kind to him twice now without asking anything in return. There’d been that moment last night about the sweats and T-shirt, but if anyone understood baggage it was Carsten, and Beto had been truly apologetic. He wondered what hid in Beto’s past to make him so defensive about sharing.

  Carsten was ridiculously nervous about the approaching evening. He’d never been on an actual date before. Although he’d already slept in Beto Hernández’s bed, and the man had seen him at his worst. Still. Carsten wiped his hands on his jeans, forcing thoughts of a sexy man in a suit out of his head so he could pay attention to what he was being paid for.

  Lifting the heavy paint can, he poured the liquid out into the aluminum tray, then dipped the roller in. Up down, up down, with smooth even strokes, Carsten focused on covering the prior occupants’ dingy yellow paint. The walls were going to be a sweet shade of cherry red with a hint of black so it didn’t burn out patrons’ eyeballs, perfect for displaying framed art against.

  He’d managed to get a nice rhythm going when he heard the jingle of the door opening behind him. He didn’t stop what he was doing; there was only one person it could be.

  “Hey, Carsten, how’s it going? Wow, what a difference!”

  Carsten finished the section he was working on and put down the roller to answer. “The color was a great choice, Sara.”

  Sara, no matter what she was doing, had an outfit for it. Today she wore worn denim coveralls with a checked red-and-white short-sleeved button-down blouse. She had a paper grocery sack in one hand and a leather messenger bag hung over her shoulder.

  “You’re rocking the Rosie the Riveter look.”

  She even had black Doc Martens on her feet, completing the ensemble. She put the bags down on the floor near the counter area. “Looks good, doesn’t it?” She did a little twirl.

  Carsten liked Sara a lot. She … well, she was one of the most vocal supporters of the queer community in Skagit. She always had one or two people working at the Booking Room who might not be able to find work elsewhere due to their history. Carsten knew some of her profits went to the recently reopened halfway house and community center for LGBTQA+ teens and young adults. She was infinitely patient and protected those kids like a mother bear.

  He didn’t really feel like he fell into the same category as her “projects,” because he was closer to her age than most of them, but she never asked questions Carsten didn’t want to answer and paid him in cash instead of cutting him a check.

  “Are you actually going to help, or did you just stop by to get the okay on your outfit before you go to the Booking Room and drop in on Deke?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Carsten snorted. “I have eyes, you know, and ears. Deke can’t keep his—eyes, that is; I wouldn’t know about his ears—off you.”

  “Deke?” Sara repeated with exaggerated innocence, eyes wide and eyebrows raised.

  “Whatever, try and pretend you’re not circling for the kill. I wouldn’t worry. Deke is already useless whenever you’re around.”

  Sara eyed him. “He’s a nice guy.”

  “Oh, kiss of death, ‘nice.’ Poor guy.” Carsten chuckled.

  “Okay, fine, he is more than nice,” she huffed. “But I don’t know what that has to do with anything.”

  Carsten fiddled with the roller he’d propped on the edge of the tray before trying to wipe the semi-dry paint spray off his hands. “I’m going on a date tonight.” He immediately regretted opening his mouth, afraid she was going to shriek or something—which, to be fair, would’ve been very unlike her.

  Sara cocked her head at him, assessing. Ugh, she was very very good. “Yeah? That’s great, right? You don’t date much.”

  “At all,” Carsten muttered.

  Sara put her hands on her hips. “Spill. Tell me everything.”

  Turning around, she dug into the grocery bag. She pulled out a couple of premade sandwiches and bottles of water, handing one of each to Carsten. Then she headed over to the counter where the stools that had finally arrived were sitting.

  “Come on, pull up a chair and tell me what’s going on.”

  With a sigh, Carsten did as bidden. He was hungrier than he’d realized. Between bites of sandwich and sips of water, he told Sara how he and Beto had met. He tried to gloss over the part about Beto coming to the apartment about Troy, but Sara demanded full details.

  “Please don’t try and see him or anything, just, it’s dangerous.” What would he do if Sara got pulled into this mess? It would be like her too, to jump in headfirst.

  Sara was quiet for a moment, then sighed. “How do my boys get themselves mixed up in stuff like this? Fine, I won’t involve myself for now—but the minute you ask or give me a signal, I will be there for you.”

  “You don’t really know Troy.” Or me, he added silently.

  “He’s your friend. I’ve seen him around. That’s good enough for me.”

  Then he told her how Beto had worried about him and come to the apartment to make sure he was okay and taken him home.

  She sat up. “I knew I should’ve checked on you.”

  “You don’t know where I live.”

  “Of course I do.” She gave him a look that said he was delusional if he thought he could keep secrets from her. And, he supposed, here he was telling her almost the biggest secret of all.

  “Anyway,” he said, refusing to ask how Sara knew where his apartment was, “we’re meeting up tonight.”

  “You’re going on a date,” Sara corrected.

  Right, it was a date. Something more official than anything Carsten had ever done.

  He was no angel; he’d hooked up with guys from bars or clubs for sex. But he’d never been intrigued enough to want more afterward. He’d never felt if they knew about his past they wouldn’t care about it. Hernández didn’t know everything by a long shot, but he knew enough, and still he’d asked.

  “I’m nervous.” Carsten popped the last bite of sandwich in his mouth. Normally he might talk to Troy about this, but Troy was in the hospital fighting for his life.

  “Tell me more about this detective. Why is he the one you said yes to? You’ve never said yes before, right?” Sara propped her elbow on the bar, leaning on her chin, waiting.

  “Aside from being hot?” The part where he was kind, and listened, and seemed to see Carsten for more than his looks.

  “Yes, Carsten, aside from being hot. You wouldn’t be this nervous unless it could mean something.”

  * * *

  It was raining, of course, but at precisely seven-thirty, Carsten pulled open the door of the bar where he and Beto had first met. The place was busier than it had been before, but the same bartender was there, and even from the back Carsten recognized Beto sitting at the bar, his shoulders filling out yet another incredible suit.

  Carsten himself had panicked and spent about an hour trying to figure out what to wear before deciding Beto must not care since he’d already seen Carsten’s wardrobe. In the end he decided on clean Levi’s with no holes in them, a T-shirt, a black-and-white striped sweater from Troy’s closet, red Converse sneakers, and his leather jacket. From the appreciative look he received in the mirror behind the bar, he’d chosen correctly.

  Smiling at Beto, he asked, “Hey, is this spot taken?”

&nbs
p; Beto patted the back of the barstool. “Nope, I’ve been saving it for you.”

  Carsten took his jacket off and hung it on the back of the stool before sliding onto the seat. Beto shot him a smile that made Carsten think Beto was as nervous as him.

  “I think I know you. Weren’t you here a few weeks ago?”

  Carsten rolled his eyes. “Doofus.”

  The bartender came over. “ Can I pour you a drink?”

  Carsten contemplated the selection. “Hmm, no Lone Wolf this time.” Beto snickered, and the bartender grinned. Eventually he settled on a pint of IPA. He and Beto watched as the bartender poured his beer and brought it back over, setting it in front of him.

  “Thank you,” Carsten said. His mother may have been a failure in many ways, but she’d drilled please and thank you into his head. He turned a little in his seat so he could see Beto better—and suddenly he was tongue-tied. What did he have to offer a seasoned police detective with a real history and a future that was more than taking under-the-counter jobs because you didn’t have any ID to prove who you were … and you didn’t know if you wanted to be that person ever again anyway?

  Tonight the TV over the bar was playing Jeopardy!. Carsten watched as the host welcomed his guests for the evening.

  “For four hundred, what’s your favorite color?” Beto asked.

  Carsten laughed. “You need to make it harder than that.”

  “Come on, let’s start easy, favorite color.”

  “Um, green.”

  “You don’t sound very sure about that.”

  “It’s green. I’m certain.”

  “It’s your turn; ask me something now.”

  Alex Trebek was smiling on the TV, and even though Carsten couldn’t hear it, he knew the music was playing while the contestants thought about their answers.

  He looked at Beto, sexy and in charge in that suit, his hair slicked back from his face, his brown eyes intent on Carsten. “Okay, for four hundred, what else do you do besides detect stuff and catch bad guys?”