On The Hunt: Gay M/M Mystery Romance

by Marina Lander

  “My youthful, misguided decisions have nothing to do with my involvement in the criminal justice system,” Stephen replied haughtily, but his voice grew more and more breathless as Hunter crawled over him, straddled his hips and turned the kiss from chaste into something much more filthy.

  “Keep telling yourself that,” Hunter replied, rocking back against Stephen’ cock, which had miraculously gone hard again in the last few minutes. “Still worn out?”

  “You’re going to be the death of me, Dinosaur Boy,” Stephen groaned into Hunter’s mouth, already pawing blindly at the bedside table for the lube.

  ~

  When Hunter gets back, the squad room is quiet, Alyssa hunched over her desk. Stephen is nowhere to be found.

  Hunter takes a deep breath, an annoying twinge of guilt in chest.

  “Frederic wants to see you,” Alyssa says without looking up.

  “I know.” He’s been drafting his argument to Frederic for keeping him on the case for twenty-five blocks.

  He’s almost past her desk on his way into the Captain’s office when Alyssa reaches out and grabs Hunter by the wrist.

  “I get it, you know,” she says quietly, and gives him a small, knowing smile. She’s never looked so wise to him before.

  Hunter smiles back, thankful and relieved and unable to adequately express any of it at the moment. “Thanks,” he replies, and Alyssa nods, lets him go.

  Frederic’s glaring intently when Hunter comes in.

  “Before you say anything, I’m sorry, it’ll never happen again, and I refuse to be taken off The Scholar case,” Hunter says in a rush. He folds his arms tightly across his chest, chin tipped up defiantly, waiting for the inevitable rant.

  Instead, Frederic says, “I’m not taking you off the case.”

  Hunter blinks. “But—”

  “But you assaulted a lead agent in an investigation and made a spectacle of yourself, yeah, got that memo, signed and sealed.” Frederic shakes his head, a resigned slump to his shoulders. “Did you get it out of your system?”

  Sometimes Hunter wishes Frederic didn’t know him so damn well. “Sir, I—”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Detective, we both know what that was. Did you get it all out? Can you function more clearly now?”

  He swallows tightly, eyes trained on the edge of Frederic’s desk. “It was a mistake,” he says, when what he really means to say is, I’ll never get it all out, but it helped.

  Frederic nods slowly. “Probably. I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner.”

  Against his better judgment, Hunter asks, “So you’ve talked to Stephen?”

  “No. Detective Harrington filled me in on everything. Stephen hasn’t come back to the station.”

  “It won’t happen again,” Hunter says again quietly. He refuses to wonder about Stephen, or his location, or why the fuck he didn’t turn around and call Frederic the second Hunter stormed off.

  In the nearly six years that Hunter has known Frederic, he’s given Hunter sympathetic looks twice. This is the third time. It’s extremely brief, but Hunter thinks it still counts.

  “I know it won’t,” Frederic says, waving Hunter out of the room.

  ~

  He hadn’t noticed anything at first; they’d both been knee-deep in The Scholar case, chasing after leads that went nowhere, the notes left behind becoming more and more taunting and smug. Hunter was too sleep-deprived and frustrated to really focus on the way Stephen seemed to be a little more tentative with him, and a little more reserved. He’d caught Stephen watching him a few times with a distant, almost melancholy look in his eyes, but Hunter didn’t let himself dwell on it; they had a serial killer to track down, after all, and the slightly irregular actions of his partner could wait until later.

  In fact, everything could wait until later; Hunter began insisting Stephen head home alone each night, promising he’d catch up with him later, only to stay at the station until dawn. Stephen would call his cell around three in the morning, say, “Three hours of sleep, Hunter, that’s all I’m asking for,” and Hunter would mumble something about evidence and clues before he hung up and forced himself not to fall asleep at his desk.

  “I’m not going to watch you kill yourself for him,” Stephen said one evening as they drove back from a witness interview. He didn’t take his eyes off the road, but his hands gripped the wheel too tightly.

  Hunter shook his head. “You know how I get sometimes, and it’s not like this is just any case. How am I supposed to sleep when he’s out there just waiting to pick his next victim?”

  “You’re not a bloody superhero, Hunter. No one’s expecting you to figure this out on your own. And I’m not saying this as your partner, all right, I’m saying this as—as your—”

  “My what, caretaker?” He didn’t mean to say it so sharply, but he was running on nothing but coffee and exhausted frustration, which only grew worse when he saw Stephen flinch.

  “Not just your caretaker,” he replied quietly, glancing out the driver’s window.

  Hunter didn’t want Stephen’ sympathy; he’d been a detective long enough to handle himself in a complicated case, and he didn’t need Stephen to hold his own experience over Hunter’s head.

  “Sleep’s overrated, so just drop it, okay? You can stop calling me in the middle of the night just to check up on me if I’m not home. I’m fine.”

  Stephen’ jaw twitched. “If you say so,” he murmured, and nothing more was said.

  But the night after they’d found Melissa Ander’s body and Hunter received his fifth note from The Scholar, Stephen all but forced Hunter into the car and drove them home, lead him through the front door of the apartment, their fingers gently laced together, and proceeded to slowly take Hunter apart against the living room wall.

  “You’ll get this guy, I know you will,” Stephen whispered, teeth scraping over the sensitive skin of Hunter’s neck, his chest, thumbs sweeping over Hunter’s nipples until Hunter tipped his head back and shivered.

  “Stephen,” Hunter breathed, wondering why he wasn’t saying we, but lost the thought when Stephen opened his pants to palm his cock, licking over the head.

  He sucked Hunter down and made him come what felt like hours later, Hunter boneless and wrecked and pawing at Stephen’ hair.

  “C’mere, c’mere,” he gasped, pulling Stephen up his body until he had his weight holding him up against the wall. Hunter wrapped his arms around Stephen’ shoulders, splayed his hand over the base of Stephen’ skull and just held him there as he panted and tried to form coherent thoughts again. He could feel Stephen hard against his hip, but Stephen didn’t grind himself against Hunter, didn’t moan or whisper for Hunter to take him in hand.

  They simply stood there, wrapped around each other, Stephen’ face buried into the crook of Hunter’s neck.

  He wanted to say it, because he hadn’t yet. Neither of them had said the words out loud, and Hunter knew, deep down, he’d been avoiding making the feeling real, trapping it into concrete labels and terms. He didn’t want to say it and have it not mean the same thing to Stephen.

  Not that he didn’t think Stephen knew. He had to. Hunter couldn’t hide a thing from him—being in love with someone for almost two years made certain things become habit, like the way Hunter touched his hand absently in the car, or smiled at him first thing in the morning over coffee. There were some days when Hunter just felt so damn obvious that even Frederic rolled his eyes.

  So Hunter didn’t say a word as Stephen nudged him toward the bedroom, Sonny winding himself around their legs. He kissed the corner of Stephen’ mouth, and Stephen smiled that same sad, wistful smile as he kissed Hunter back, knuckles sliding over Hunter’s cheek. They fell into bed, and later Hunter rolled Stephen onto his back, loving with all his heart the broken, desperate way Stephen called his name just before he came into Hunter’s mouth.

  Hunter eventually crawled back up Stephen’ body and let himself be tugged against Stephen’ chest, wrapped up in
his arms. He fell asleep with a calm, steady heartbeat thudding heavily in his ear.

  ~

  Hunter comes back to an empty apartment, but Stephen’ laptop still sits on the kitchen table and his duffel bag lays open on the floor, spewing its contents all over the rug beside the couch. Sonny is curled up on a worn gray t-shirt Hunter’s fairly certain is one of Stephen’ old academy issues.

  He sighs, dumping his keys on the coffee table. “Long day for you, too?”

  Hunter gets a couple of tail thumps and a panting doggy smile. It helps.

  He’s just gotten out of his shirt and holster when he hears the front door open and Stephen say softly in reply to Sonny’s snuffles, “Hey, little man, is our boy home?”

  Hunter’s chest clenches tightly. Still wearing his pants and watch, he goes back into the living room, refusing to flush at the familiar sight of Stephen nuzzling the top of Sonny’s head.

  Stephen glances up at him then, and there’s an angry bruise beneath his right eye.

  “How long have you been home?” he asks Hunter.

  “Not long. You never came back to the station.”

  “No, Talbert got back to me with intel on Reeves. I went to do some digging.” His eyes dip down for a brief second, skimming over Hunter’s bare shoulders. Hunter resists the urge to cross his arms.

  “And?”

  “Thirty-eight years old, single, grew up in the Chicago city limits. He was in his second year of law school at Loyola when his sister was murdered, and there’s no record of him graduating.”

  Hunter swallows, left hand curling into a fist. “So he was going to be a lawyer.”

  Stephen nods, and Hunter waits for him to gloat about the fact that he was right all along, even though Hunter never believed him. But Stephen keeps his head bowed as he slowly shrugs out of his suit jacket and unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt. “Yes, it would seem so,” he replies. “And there are records of him making numerous inquiries to the Chicago PD about his sister’s case. He seemed convinced they’d caught the wrong guy. Then a year later, the man accused of the robbery/homicide was released due to insufficient evidence. The case is still open.”

  Hunter lets out a breath and circles around the back of the couch while Stephen kicks his shoes off and loosens his tie, like it’s completely normal for him to be making himself comfortable in the middle of Hunter’s apartment. Hunter’s eyes keep flicking to the dark bruise on Stephen’ cheek, feeling a gut-churning mixture of satisfaction and regret.

  “Vossamer was making a documentary on victims of the justice system,” Hunter says. “She interviewed Reeves three days ago.”

  “Do they know where he is now?”

  “According to Vossamer’s project partner, Reeves flew to California immediately after the interview. Or at least that’s what he told them.”

  “Of course he did,” Stephen sighs. “I assume you ran his name through the airline database?”

  “There’s no point. He’s still in Chicago; there’s no way he could’ve gotten Barton’s cell phone if he’d left town.”

  Stephen sighs again as he drops down onto the couch. He rubs both hands over his face before sagging back against the cushions. When he finally looks up at Hunter, his expression is one of exhausted resignation.

  “I’ve got Reeves’ mother’s address in Forest Park,” he says. “He’s been living with her for the past thirteen years.”

  “Since the murder,” Hunter replies quietly. “But you didn’t go out there?”

  “Thought you’d want to be the one to question her,” Stephen says and looks away toward the blank TV set in front him, Sonny nosing at his hand.

  A sudden tug of warmth slides through his entire body—He still trusts me. Hunter fights against the urge to thank him, or worse, apologize. “What about being a liability?”

  “I doesn’t matter what I think—you’ll never listen to me, anyway. Somehow, I forgot how ferociously focused you can be.” He smirks to himself, a touch of something dangerously close to affection in his voice.

  Hunter clears his throat, mumbles, “I’ll call Alyssa in the morning and we’ll head out,” before turning away to hide his blush.

  ~

  A week after they discovered Melissa Anders’ body, Stephen took Hunter to dinner at a ridiculously expensive restaurant with the excuse that they needed the break. Hunter didn’t object, because they hadn’t been out in months, not since everything with The Scholar had gone to fucking hell. He welcomed the distraction, thinking it was the best thing for them to keep their sanity.

  Then, over a bottle of wine that cost more than Hunter’s best suit, Stephen said, very simply, “I’m moving to D.C.”

  Hunter set his glass down. “What?” he said with a laugh. He couldn’t have heard Stephen right.

  But Stephen folded his hands on the pristine table cloth and looked Hunter straight in the eyes and said the words again. “I’m moving to D.C. next week. The Bureau has offered me a job, and they want me to start immediately.”

  Hunter could do nothing but blink dumbly, a horrible, sickening panic welling up in his stomach. “You—you’re leaving? But—I don’t understand, you’re—you have a job here.” You have me here.

  Stephen shrugged. “I’ve been trying to get on with the Bureau for years now, it just so happened that this time finally took.” His eyes darted away from Hunter’s, but the rest of him was perfectly still.

  “You never told me you wanted to be an agent,” Hunter replied softly, an angry flush crawling up his neck. “You never told me this is what you wanted, and yet you just—just did this behind my back? Does Frederic know?”

  “He wrote me a recommendation.”

  It was as if Hunter were sitting a table with a stranger, a man who looked and sounded just like his partner, but was a fucking impostor, someone he didn’t know at all. Suddenly everything made perfect sense: Stephen had brought him to this restaurant to keep Hunter from making a scene.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered, hand clenched in the table cloth. “Why lead me on this whole time,” and god, he hated the tightness in his throat and the way Stephen refused to look at him.

  “This was never meant to be a permanent thing, Hunter. You’re a rising star, after all, and I’m only your first partner. You’re destined for better things.” He smiled at Hunter, and it felt like a slap across the face.

  Hunter stared down at his wine glass, every moment from the past year and a half flashing through his mind in a flurry of images and emotions, every one tied to Stephen, wrapped around him like a thin, unbreakable thread.

  “You’re a fucking coward, Stephen. A pathetic, fucking coward.”

  Stephen barely flinched. “I’m very sorry, Hunter,” and it was the most insincere thing Hunter had ever heard him say.

  He folded his napkin neatly and laid it on the table, his hands shaking. Hunter pushed his chair back, stood up and took in the man sitting across from him, who was breathtakingly gorgeous, terribly brilliant, deadly funny and everything in the world Hunter thought he wanted until now.

  He wondered if it was physically possible to feel one’s heart break.

  “Sonny stays with me. You don’t fucking deserve him.” Hunter’s voice only wavered a little.

  For one brief moment, something crumpled in Stephen’ expression. “Hunter—”

  “Fuck you, Stephen, I could’ve handled it. I could’ve—” He swallowed past the anger and humiliation that threatened to break him completely. “I would’ve understood, I—”

  Stephen looked oddly hurt. Hunter wanted to punch him. “Hunter, don’t, all right?” The hurt quickly faded into a look of blank control, not a single emotion on display.

  Hunter shook his head. “Yeah, okay, I won’t. Consider it over and done with, end of story. Have a nice fucking life.” His voice finally broke, but Hunter didn’t care. As he turned to leave, Stephen didn’t say another word.

  He took a cab home and slept on the couch, because the sh
eets smelled like the sex from the night before and the bathroom still held the scent of Stephen’ cologne. Sonny, sensing something was very wrong, curled up on Hunter’s legs and didn’t move for the rest of the night.

  Stephen did not come back that night. When Hunter arrived at the squad room the next morning, Stephen’ desk was empty, and by the time he came home that evening, all of Stephen’ things were gone.

  It was as if he’d never existed.

  ~

  Hunter gets all of three hours of sleep that night, flitting in and out of consciousness, vaguely aware of the front door quietly opening sometime around two in the morning. When he blinks at his alarm clock again, it reads a quarter to seven, and lucky for Hunter, Alyssa is always an early riser.

  He rubs the back of his hand over his eyes as he dials her number and trudges down the hall to the kitchen. Sonny is waiting for him in the doorway, but he doesn’t greet Hunter with his normal morning grin. If anything, he whimpers.

  Hunter frowns absently, scratches Sonny’s ears while the phone rings.

  “You’re early this morning,” Alyssa answers, perfectly alert as always.

  “Are you up for a trip to Forest Park? Stephen got the address for Reeves’ mother’s house.”

  “What if Reeves is still there?”

  “Not all that likely, I think. He probably knows we’ve found her by now, he won’t stick around, at least not close enough for us to find him. I only wish he was that dumb.” Hunter glances into the living room and notices with a start that Stephen is gone, but his things are still scattered everywhere. “Hey, did Stephen call you?”

  “No, I haven’t heard from him since yesterday, why?”

  He flips the light on in the guest bathroom, but comes up with nothing. “He’s—not here.”

  “Well, maybe you scared him off with that punch.”

  “No, he came back last night, said he’d go to Forest Park with us—he was here when I went to bed, okay, and I heard the door open—” Hunter stops dead in the hallway.