On The Hunt: Gay M/M Mystery Romance

by Marina Lander

  It’s strange how Hunter, when he really thinks about it, has been imagining this moment for years; what it would be like to have Stephen come back to him and apologize for leaving, ask for Hunter’s forgiveness, and in Hunter’s fantasies he’d laugh and laugh and maybe punch Stephen and watch smugly as he slunk away. He’d imagined the humiliation in Stephen’ eyes, the crushing despair, and Hunter had told himself it was all he wanted, all he needed to get past the always-present ache that followed him everywhere.

  But he’s never imagined Stephen standing just inside his apartment, looking skittish and almost painfully earnest and maybe even a little scared, which makes no goddamn sense. He has nothing to fear from Hunter.

  “You don’t need to be in Chicago. The Scholar case is closed,” Hunter says softly. Sonny sits on the carpet directly between them, watching their conversation like a tennis match.

  Stephen shakes his head. “No, you’re right, I don’t.”

  “There’s—there’s nothing keeping you here.” Hunter has a flash of memory back to Rebecca, thinks maybe Stephen wants to be close to her again, be like old times, best friends catching up—

  “Hunter,” Stephen breathes, and finally, finally, he looks straight at him, “you don’t remember what happened after, do you? When Reeves shot you?”

  He shrugs. “It’s all a blur. Just—sounds, mostly.”

  “Then you wouldn’t remember my hands trying to fucking keep you from bleeding out all over the floor of Reeve’s house, would you?”

  He remembers Alyssa’s words: It took Frederic and Agent Talbert ten minutes to calm him down...

  “I had your blood all over me, Hunter, like a reminder to me that I’d nearly gotten you killed, that your fucking life was all over my hands and it was my fault.”

  “Stephen—”

  “I know you still hate me. I would, too, if I’d—if you’d treated me the same. I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but you should know that I.” He pauses, ducks his head as his throat bobs sharply. “I just wanted you to be happy,” Stephen whispers.

  “Happy?” Hunter blurts out, feeling a hysterical burst of laughter get caught in his chest. “You cut me loose without any warning, without anything, and then tell me it was because you were concerned about my fucking happiness? Do you have any idea what that did to me, how I spent months thinking you’d—”

  “I didn’t know what else to do, all right? I’d known about the Bureau job for weeks before I ever told you. I let it sit and stew, and meanwhile you got more and more wrapped up in the Scholar, and I didn’t—I couldn’t think of a single bloody reason why you would just leave everything for—why you’d ever want to—”

  “Fuck, Stephen, I was so—god, all I wanted in the world was to be with you. How could you possibly not know that?”

  “You never said it!” Stephen yells, arms flying out, his cheeks suddenly flushed. “You never once bloody said it, and I waited for it, I fucking waited, I can’t tell you how long, Christ.”

  “I fucking said it every goddamn day, and you knew it, I know you did.” Hunter storms across the room and shoves at Stephen’ chest with his good hand, feeling reckless, his heart racing. “The way I touched you, looked at you, Jesus Christ, I was pathetic, how could you not know?”

  “You’re not as blatant as you like to think,” Stephen says, catching Hunter by the wrist. He struggles a bit, but the sudden warmth of Stephen’ fingers closing around his skin makes Hunter shiver and instinctively want to touch Stephen back, even though he hates him, he does—

  Stephen tugs slightly, and Hunter falls forward, his sling brushing against Stephen’ chest. “I swear I didn’t want it to end like that,” he breathes against Hunter’s ear. “You have no idea how much it killed me to walk away from you, to leave you with nothing.”

  Hunter inhales a shaky breath, refusing to let his free hand curl around Stephen’ side. “All this because you thought I didn’t love you?” he whispers.

  He feels Stephen’ sigh against his neck, the small nudge of his nose against the edge of his jaw. “Maybe I did know, a little. But I thought you loved Chicago and your job more.”

  “And when you left again? After sitting with me in the hospital for three days?”

  Stephen leans his forehead against Hunter’s temple. “Like I said, coward. But then, after driving myself crazy for a few weeks, I said fuck it and came back. Because you may not want me like that again, but at least I feel like I’m back where I belong, like I’m making amends.”

  Hunter finally gives in, lets his fingertips clutch at the hem of Stephen’ shirt. “I don’t hate you.”

  Soft, warm lips skim over Hunter’s cheek. “No?”

  “I don’t think I really know how.”

  Stephen pulls back slightly and gives Hunter a tiny, rueful smile. “I think you have some idea. You at least know how to throw a mean punch.”

  The bruise under his eye has mostly healed, but Hunter can still see faint traces along Stephen’ cheekbone. He reaches up, touches the skin there, holding his breath as Stephen closes his eyes and sighs.

  “I know you can’t promise me anything,” Hunter whispers, “and that scares the shit out of me.”

  “But I can try. I can promise you I’ll try.”

  Hunter shakes his head, and somehow his fingers are now cupping Stephen’ jaw. “I’ve spent three fucking years making myself forget you. I can’t just—this isn’t something I can just accept overnight. I swear to god, Stephen, if you leave again—if I have to come home and find all traces of you just, just wiped out like you never existed, I don’t know if I—I can’t fucking do that again.”

  He can feel Stephen’ jaw tense beneath his palm. “Then let me prove to you that it won’t happen again. Let me earn your trust again, love.” Stephen says that last word like it’s something precious, like he’s handing it to Hunter as a tentative gift.

  Hunter thinks about that night on the sidewalk outside the station, Stephen standing before him in his billowing topcoat and smiling at Hunter like he was only thing that mattered, and how much Hunter just wanted to pull him in, breath him like air.

  Maybe it’s a terrible idea. Maybe he shouldn’t be making decisions like this when he’s still relying heavily on painkillers. But if there’s one thing Hunter’s always been sure of, it’s that he’ll never be rational when it comes to Stephen.

  Hunter kisses him, a slow, careful slide of his lips, earning a startled inhaled breath from Stephen. The kiss stays gentle for several long moments, barely-opened mouths push-pulling as they relearn the feel of each other. Hunter had almost forgotten the way Stephen breath grows shallow, the way his hand curls into Hunter’s shirt almost on instinct.

  Careful doesn’t last for long, though, and suddenly Hunter’s pulls at Stephen’ lower lip with his teeth just to hear him moan.

  He hasn’t forgotten how much this could make him feel.

  Stephen breaks away, cups both hands over Hunter’s flushed cheeks. “This isn’t taking things slow,” he gasps. “We—we really should just—”

  “D’you have somewhere to be right now?” Hunter asks, his entire body shivering, anxious and starving for touch.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then—stay here. With me. For now.” He kisses Stephen again, but this time it’s wet, edging into filthy, and he loves the way Stephen shudders and clings to him more tightly.

  “It was never my intention to move back in—”

  “Not asking you to move back, just...stay the night. Please.” It feels like the night on the sidewalk all over again.

  And just like that night on the sidewalk, Stephen gives a gorgeous little groan and buries his face into the curve of Hunter’s neck, whispering, “Thought I’d never hear you say those words again.”

  “Don’t make me take them back,” Hunter says, tugging awkwardly at Stephen’ t-shirt.

  He feels a gust of air as Stephen chuckles against his skin. “Darling, I’m not about to take advantage of
a wounded man.”

  “You’re not taking advantage of me, I’m taking advantage of you.”

  “Oh, is that it?” Like no time has passed at all, Stephen wraps an arm gingerly around Hunter’s waist and steers them both slowly toward the bedroom, tracing soft patterns over Hunter’s stomach under his shirt. It’s embarrassing how much Hunter’s missed that idle touch, like Stephen himself isn’t entirely conscious of the motion, like he just has to without any real thought.

  “I’ve been stuck in my apartment for days with nothing but a dog and daytime television to keep me occupied.” Sonny gets behind his legs, makes Hunter trip and bump his bad arm into Stephen’ chest. He hisses sharply in pain, but Stephen splays his fingers over Hunter’s cheek and kiss the corner of his mouth.

  “We don’t have to,” he whispers as they stop in the bedroom doorway.

  Hunter shakes his head. Fuck the bullet hole; he’s done having Reeves control his life. “I think we do,” he says, ignoring the way his voice catches. He hooks his good arm around Stephen’ neck, pulls him into another messy kiss until they both fall back onto the bed. His thigh ends up wedged between Stephen’ legs, pressing up, and Stephen moans into Hunter’s mouth.

  “I—I don’t want to hurt you—”

  “You’re not, I promise,” Hunter gasps, tugging one-handed at the waistband of his sweatpants. “Just, fuck, I don’t—shit, I don’t have any condoms, I haven’t—”

  Stephen makes a low, growling sound, scrapes his teeth over a tendon in Hunter’s neck. “God, please tell me you haven’t, that there hasn’t been any—I know it’s stupid, but I want—”

  “Not in the last year or so,” Hunter breathes, and that’s all he’s going to give Stephen for now. He doesn’t need to know about the handful of drunken one-night stands Hunter’s brought home in the past, or how all of them were solidly built, broad-shouldered, blue-eyed. He doesn’t need to know how Hunter hated himself in the morning, and in turn tried to hate Stephen more.

  He fumbles with his t-shirt, tries to yank it off without any help while Stephen strips, but the damn thing gets tangled on his sling, wrenching his arm in the wrong the direction and pulling at his stitches. Hunter grits his teeth and tries to bite back a moan, rolling onto his good side to take the pressure off his bad arm, but Stephen catches on immediately.

  “Hey, hey,” he whispers, crawling back onto the bed shirtless, his jeans unbuttoned. He kisses Hunter’s jaw, gently untangling him from the stupid t-shirt before tossing it on the floor. “Shit, this is too much for you, I’m sorry, we should—”

  “Here.” Hunter manages to kick his sweats off. He’s not wearing boxers—not that he’d planned to get naked today by any means, but still. “I’m not fucking broken, Stephen, we can still, I don’t know, blow each other, or—”

  “Jesus Christ.” Stephen leans back, mouth in a tight line. He’s frowning at Hunter’s left shoulder, which is still mottled with purplish-black bruises beneath the gauze and bandage tape. Hunter wants to say it looks worse than it hurts, but that would be a lie most days.

  Stephen goes to touch the bruises, then jerks his hand back as if burned. “Fuck, Hunter, no wonder you—god.” His expression is completely wrecked, like he’s committed some awful sin by touching Hunter like this.

  Hunter shakes his head, reaches for him. “You didn’t do this,” he whispers against Stephen’ mouth. “These aren’t the bruises you’re making up for, okay?”

  There’s a moment where Stephen is simply suspended over Hunter, not kissing him back so much as sharing breath with him. This close Hunter can see every single eyelash fanned out over the top of Stephen’ flushed cheeks, every imperfection, every little scar.

  “When we were in that house,” Stephen breathes, pressing closer to Hunter, chest to back, “I had to sit there and watch that lunatic play with your head, make you think I was dying, and yet I was never frightened for myself—I was scared for you. I was terrified, because I couldn’t stop him, I couldn’t do anything to protect you.” The bed shifts slightly, and soon there’s nothing but hot skin along his back as he hears Stephen’ jeans and underwear land somewhere in a heap.

  “How do you think I felt? He had a gun on you the whole time, but I didn’t shoot him. I didn’t act when I should’ve and that’s—” Hunter gasps, rocking back against Stephen’ erection thrusting lazily against the seam of his ass. “You were right, I was a fucking liability.”

  “Reeves never would’ve—god—put himself out there were it not for you.” Stephen muffles a groan into Hunter’s hair, one hand splayed over the dip of Hunter’s waist before sliding lower. He fits his fingers between Hunter’s thighs and gently lifts his left leg, until Stephen is able to slip his thigh underneath. Hunter feels slightly spread, but it’s not uncomfortable, not when he’s got all of Stephen’ solid warmth covering him from behind.

  Then the slick head of Stephen’ bare cock presses between his legs, and Hunter jerks at the sensation.

  “I wanted to kill him,” he moans, needing to grind into Stephen but not having enough leverage. “I wanted to put a bullet in him for hurting you, for making me watch you die—”

  “He didn’t want me, he wanted you. I was the distraction, and I should’ve seen it coming sooner.” Stephen rolls his hips, riding the crease of Hunter’s ass. It’s nowhere near being fucked, but it’s close enough, because it’s Stephen.

  Hunter’s good hand clenches in the sheets. He wants desperately to touch himself, but the angle is awkward and his body’s still working properly yet; he’ll have nothing supporting himself if he reaches for his cock now. He whimpers, deep in his throat, and somehow, Stephen still knows how to read him.

  “I’ve got you,” he whispers hoarsely into Hunter’s ear, wrapping his hand tightly around Hunter’s cock, already leaking against his belly. “Whatever you need, just tell me.”

  Hunter thinks, I wish you could fuck me for real and Don’t ever stop touching me, but what comes out instead is, “Stay there. Just...stay.”

  Stephen kisses his shoulder, above the bruises, his breathing uneven and shallow. “I’m here for as long as you’ll have me,” he says, and not once does he stop fucking against Hunter’s ass. He’s shaking all over, like it’s killing him to keep things so painful slow. It’s not nearly enough for the both of them, but Hunter knows he can’t take anything more than this.

  He starts to tell Stephen that they don’t have to do it like this, that Stephen can turn him onto his back so they can jerk each other off and fall asleep together, but suddenly Stephen starts pulling at Hunter’s cock a little faster, his hips picking up speed.

  “Fuck,” he gasps, sucking sharply at Hunter’s earlobe, “fuck, I wish I could sink into you, feel your heat, know you were truly here and real and mine. I still remember every inch of you, Hunter, and knowing that monster fucking scarred you like this...” He snaps his hips harder, and it almost—almost—feels like the real thing. “God, I love you so goddamn much it hurts, I swear, I—”

  Hunter shudders, tightens his thighs, and seconds later Stephen groans against his neck, hot wetness spreading between Hunter’s legs. Stephen whispers Hunter’s name, over and over, as he twists his hand, begs Hunter to come, for him, and Hunter does.

  “Just so we’re clear,” he pants afterward, listening to the rough, staccato bursts of Stephen’ breath, “the...feeling is mutual.”

  Stephen buries his nose in Hunter’s hair, and Hunter can feel his chest expanding and contracting on a deep, silent sigh.

  “I missed you. Every day. Just so we’re clear.”

  Hunter’s shoulder aches from the exertion, his stomach and thighs all filthy and sticky with come, but Hunter still sinks back into Stephen’ warmth for the moment, letting their whispered words hang in the air, sated and content.

  ~

  Anatomy of a Case: Detective opens up about bring down The Scholar

  by Stephenie Jarowski for The Chicago Tribune

  Detective Hunter Mor
ris knows what it’s like to be inside a serial killer’s head.

  “It’s not something I like to brag about,” says the fresh-faced Chicago homicide detective. “But it’s also not something you can really avoid.”

  Morris’s youthfulness belies the fact that he’s been with the Chicago Police Department for nearly ten years. And while he’s been bringing criminals to justice for most of that time, The Scholar is the case that’s put him on the map. A six-year-old case that was once thought cold, Morris took over the investigation when Sean Reeves—The Scholar’s confirmed identity—resurfaced last fall.

  It was later discovered that Reeves, a former law student at Loyola, had suffered a psychotic break after the death of his sister, killing members of the academic community specializing in criminal justice as a way to avenge her murder. It sounds like something straight out of a David Fincher movie.

  But Morris is reluctant to take all the credit for apprehending Reeves. He is quick to point out his partner of three years, Alyssa Harrington, as well as Special Agent Daniel Stephen of the FBI, who was the lead agent on the case for the Bureau out of Washington, D.C., but has since transferred to the Chicago area. Agent Stephen even accompanied Morris to the interview, acting almost like Morris’s own personal bodyguard.

  Rumor has it Agent Stephen was responsible for shooting down Reeves after he made an attempt on Detective Morris’ life, but Morris will not comment on the matter.

  “I’m grateful for his quick thinking,” he says instead. “I couldn’t have solved this case without him.”

  When asked about his involvement with the case, Agent Stephen is quiet and humble. He seems uncomfortable having the focus taken off Detective Morris. “I started this case with Hunter from the beginning, as his former partner, but this was always Hunter’s case. I was just happy to be there to help.”

  “He did more that help,” Morris insists. “He put the pieces together.”