by Gregory Ashe
Shaking his head, Hazard backed toward the dresser. He stretched one arm behind him, the other still protectively curled across his chest. He yanked out a drawer, grabbed a wad of clothing, and lurched toward the door.
Somers was in his way. “No. I’m not done talking to you.”
Hazard just lowered his head and kept going. It was like a bull charging. Hazard was big. He was fucking massive, even with the weight he’d lost. And he was probably used to people getting out of his way.
Somers, on the other hand, had played football. And he’d been good. He dropped into position, and right as Hazard got within range, he shot forward, catching Hazard with his shoulder, knocking the big man off balance and then sending both of them crashing to the floor.
The wrestle was short and frantic, both of them grabbing at the clothes, grabbing at each other, their breaths harsh and whistling with the frenzy. And then Hazard’s size and strength came into play, and he rolled Somers and landed on top of him, his weight pinning Somers to the floor. Somers continued to struggle, but Hazard had his wrists, pinning him.
“You think I don’t want to touch you,” Hazard growled, the dark waves of hair spilling over his eyes so they glinted out at Somers like gold fire. “You think I don’t want to touch you every fucking minute of every day, the way I’ve wanted you my whole fucking life.”
“Fuck you,” Somers screamed, twisting, trying to get free. “I fucking hate you right now.”
Hazard rolled his hips, and even through the rage, Somers was aware of Hazard’s body, of the ripple of muscle, of skin so pale and soft it was like moonlight. Hazard was hard, Somers realized with shock. Rock hard. Wet cotton dragged and rasped against Somers’s thigh. Somers’s reaction was instant, inexplicable. He was harder than he’d ever been in his life, rutting up against Hazard, swearing and shouting and still trying to get free.
Grunting, Hazard thrust against Somers, the weight of the body and the friction of his movement displaced, not giving Somers the relief he needed because Hazard directed all of it at Somers’s thigh and not at the part that needed it most. With a move that somehow felt like a trick, Hazard managed to get both of Somers’s wrists locked in one hand. With the other, he reached down, yanking on Somers’s jeans, trying to undo the button by force. He dropped his head, his breath hot on Somers’s ear.
“Yes or no? Right now. Right fucking now.”
“You are the biggest fucking asshole in the entire universe. I hate you, you selfish piece of shit. I hate you for making me feel so fucking shitty.”
And even as Somers was screaming this, he was rocking up into Hazard, whimpering, his whole body begging.
“Yes or no, baby? This instant.”
Somers thrashed. “Fuck. Yes! Yes, yes, yes!”
Hazard stopped fooling around, gathered a handful of denim, and ripped. Somers heard the brass button rip free and then ping off something in the bedroom. Still pinning Somers’s wrists, Hazard worked the jeans down around Somers’s ankles, then he dragged the boxers down, and Somers hissed as the cool air in the bedroom washed over feverish, inflamed skin. Hazard shoved down his own boxer-briefs, and then he rocked into Somers, adjusting position so that they met, sliding against each other. Their breathing was ragged but unified. Somers could hear the whine building in his throat because the sensation was so much but somehow not enough. Hazard just kept going, slow and steady, like a machine. Beneath the wild drift of hair, his face was fixed in the fuck-frenzy that Somers had come to love, an intensity that Hazard brought to their lovemaking without ever losing that shocking, hidden side of gentleness that he exposed so rarely. Even now, Somers realized, some of that gentleness was still there: the soft pressure of Hazard’s hand around Somers’s wrist; the way he had asked and waited for an answer; and then, as though reading Somers’s mind, Hazard dropped his head and began kissing Somers’s chest, nuzzling aside the shirt to bite and suckle at Somers’s neck and collarbone.
It wasn’t like anything else Somers had experienced: an incredibly long fuse that didn’t burn brighter so much as it did hotter, and hotter, and hotter, but always just this spark of friction and contact. And then it hit, so intense that Somers was actually frightened by it, so long and drawn out that he found himself sobbing and turning away, trying to find Hazard, wanting relief from the relief that was pulling him apart.
When it ended, it took him a moment to realize Hazard was holding him, their bodies curled together on the floor, Hazard’s arm pillowing Somers’s head.
A rumble moved through Hazard’s chest, low and satisfied.
“Yeah,” Somers said, laughing and turning, burying his face in Hazard’s shoulder. “Uh huh.”
After a moment, Hazard wriggled free. Somers made a noise of complaint, but Hazard just chuckled as the floor creaked under his weight. He came back from the bathroom with a warm washcloth, and he wiped them both down. Then he tugged Somers’s shirt up and off.
“I’m cold,” Somers said. “I needed that.”
Hazard stretched out on the floor, wrapping both arms around Somers’s bare chest and drawing Somers to him.
“We have a bed, you know,” Somers said, shifting, his head pillowed this time on Hazard’s shoulder. The only answer was another of those low, satisfied, animalistic rumbles. Somers laughed, relaxing into Hazard’s embrace, the heat of his body, the feel of his skin.
He was surprised to feel Hazard’s fingers on his jaw, turning his face gently, and then kiss after kiss peppered his mouth, his chin, the curve of his neck, back up to his cheek. They came in bursts, with little intervals in between when Hazard pulled back and stared at Somers, his eyes wet.
“Hi,” Somers whispered.
Hazard’s arms tightened around him again until Somers grunted.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Somers said, trying to smile, to make it a joke.
To Somers’s surprise, a tear ran down Hazard’s cheek, and then Hazard turned his face into his shoulder, wiping away the tear.
“Ree, what’s going on?”
“I wouldn’t do that. What you said. I’d never do that. I’d die first. Or kill myself. You know that, right? Because if you don’t, if you think—if you honestly think I could do that, I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”
Somers nodded slowly. “I know. I just wanted to be a bitch, I guess. And I don’t know, I was scared and I wasn’t thinking.”
“I want you. Only you. Forever.” Hazard’s voice thickened, and he looked away. “Since I was sixteen years old.”
“Ree.”
Hazard shook off Somers’s touch, releasing Somers and getting to his feet again. Somers sprawled on the floor, not quite ready to get up and enjoying the view of his boyfriend, who was built like a tank and had an ass like a park bench. And who, Somers thought, touching a hot spot on his neck, was unreasonably good at giving hickies.
When Hazard took his jeans off the dresser and shook them out, Somers said, “Where are you going now?”
Hazard shook his head. He pulled something from one of the pockets, and then, instead of the careful folding he had performed earlier, let the jeans fall. He padded back over to Somers and dropped down next to him, holding out his hand.
Somers took the card, turning it over once. His heart thumped wildly, and a flush went through him, prickling across his chest.
Emery Hazard. Private Investigator.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Hazard shifted onto his knees. His eyes were dark gold, amber, and liquid again.
“Ree, what’s the name of your business? Do you have an office? How long have you been taking clients? Oh my God. Are you working Fabbri’s murder? Jesus, I’ve got to get you a trench coat and a fedora and a bottle of scotch, and—”
“You’re not mad?”
Huge eyes. Amber eyes. Liquid eyes.
“No. Jesus, sweetheart. No. I’m so happy. I’m so proud of you. I can’t even tell you how happy I—whoa.”
“What’s all this, then?” Somers said, laughing as he hooked an arm around Hazard’s neck.
Hazard walked toward the bed, slowly and steadily.
“I think you’ve got designs on my virtue,” Somers said.
Hazard lowered Somers onto the bed.
“Oh,” Somers said, grinning, a wild grin that slipped dangerously close to tears. “You do remember that we have a bed.”
Straddling Somers, Hazard bent and kissed him: hard, deep, and insistent.
“Uh.” Somers could feel his brains puddling at the back of his head. “Um. What was I saying?”
“John?” Hazard splayed a hand on Somers’s chest.
“Huh?”
“No more talking.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
NOVEMBER 3
SATURDAY
8:36 AM
HAZARD SLEPT WELL. MORE importantly, he slept—truly, deeply—in a way that he hadn’t in months. No dreams of Mikey Grames and the fall into darkness. No grayscale hours of staring and waiting and pretending. Just sleep. He woke loose-limbed, with an energy he hadn’t felt in a long time. Some of it, he knew, was the epic sex. And some of it was this part of him that had come awake, the lights still going on one by one.
When he got downstairs, Somers was at the stove. Cooking an omelet.
“Morning,” Hazard said, kissing Somers’s cheek and turning to the coffee pot.
“Already on the table,” Somers said.
And he was right: a steaming mug sitting with silverware. Waiting for him. “Don’t you need to get to work?” Hazard asked.
“Turnabout,” Somers said with a grin. “The shoe is on the other foot. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.” He slid the omelet onto a plate already loaded with sausage links and brought it over.
“Are you the goose?”
“I guess so,” Somers said, returning to the stove and starting the next omelet.
“I didn’t think geese had phallic fixations,” Hazard said, rolling a link of sausage with one finger.
Somers laughed and said, “Don’t flatter yourself.”
The rest of breakfast went like that, the way it used to be. They talked about the case; Hazard noticed that Somers was less forthcoming than he had been, and Hazard interrupted to say, “I don’t expect privileged information, John. We tried that, and look where it got us. You can just tell me that you can’t say anything. And it’s going to be the same with me; unless I’m subpoenaed, I’m not going to tell you about my client or my investigation. It’s just got to be that way.”
“We could be like Cold War spies, trading information in manila envelopes under the table.”
“I already got all your information,” Hazard said.
“Nope. I got new stuff. Good stuff.” Somers blew out his cheeks. “Too bad I can’t tell you.”
Hazard frowned. “Let me ask you something.”
“Sorry, sweetheart. Privileged information. I can’t say anything about an ongoing case. Even if you tortured me. Although, I might be able to be corrupted; I might be amenable to sexual bribery.”
“Did you pick up the word amenable from the back of a cereal box?”
“Hey, I read!”
“Novels,” Hazard said. “Why didn’t you and Dulac follow up on the witness who told you he saw Fabbri and the Ozark Volunteer arguing before the Halloween party?”
Somers frowned and shook his head. “None of the witnesses said that.”
So Hazard repeated the story, keeping Mitchell’s name out of it.
Another frown. Another shake of the head. Somers said, “That didn’t happen, Ree.”
“Ok, fine, maybe he—”
“No, I’m not talking about details. That didn’t happen. Nobody told us that story. Nobody wrote it in any of the witness statements. I mean, give me some credit. If a witness claimed to have seen Fabbri and the killer in a physical altercation a few hours before the murder, even if every other word was bullshit, you know I would have tried to run it to ground.”
“That’s what I thought. He said it was Dulac’s fault. Shit.” Hazard shook his head. “He knew exactly what to say to play me.”
“Is your client blond?”
“What?”
“Blond.” Somers pointed to his hair. “Yellow hair.”
“Your hair isn’t yellow. It’s more like this soft gold that lightens when the sun—” Hazard stopped. His face heated.
“Aww,” Somers said with a grin.
“Fuck you.”
“You sounded so sweet for a minute.”
“It was just an observation.”
“You could write copy for the back of a hair color box. Summer Sunlight. That could be the name. Ok, now your turn. Keep going. Soft gold that lightens when—no, don’t go. Come back!”
Hazard collected the dirty dishes and carried them to the sink. He started the hot water. And then, because Somers knew how to get under his skin, Hazard finally turned around and asked, “Why does it matter if the client is blond?”
“Don’t you read mystery novels?”
“Oh sure. I read one every day. Right after I finish reading gum wrappers that get stuck to the bottom of my shoe.”
“Snob.”
Hazard shrugged. “Well?”
“Because in mystery novels, it’s a trope.”
“Another back-of-the-cereal-box word.”
“The femme fatale. This deadly blond woman who hires the detective under false pretenses and lures him into a dangerous, maybe deadly, situation.”
“I already have one manipulative, cunning, deadly blond in my life,” Hazard said, turning back to the dishes. “God help me if I ever have to deal with two.”
“That’s sweet.”
Hazard rinsed the plates and loaded them.
“That’s really sweet, Ree.”
Hazard stuck the silverware under the flow of hot water.
“I hope you write that on our anniversary card.”
“Ok,” Hazard said, turning off the water and drying his hands.
“Ok, meaning, you’ll put that on the card? And maybe that little bit about the color of my hair?”
Slinging the towel over one shoulder, Hazard crossed the room.
“Because I might not have ever said this, but I kind of like a little poetry now and then.”
“You need to get to the station.”
“They’ll live another hour while I help you clean up.”
“You’re not helping. You’re yammering.”
“It’s a kind of helping.”
Hazard took his boyfriend’s hands and pulled him up. He kissed him. And then he kissed him again.
“Maybe I should call in,” Somers said, his cheeks hectic. “I might have a fever.”
“You don’t. And you shouldn’t. You’re out of sick days, and we need the money.”
“You’re choosing lucre over my health.”
“That’s your third cereal-box word today. I’ll get you a gold star for your chart.”
“You’re always so salty after sex.” Somers tilted his head. “Maybe I should leave you high and dry for a while.”
“Go ahead,” Hazard said, spinning Somers toward the door and smacking his ass to get him moving. “Try.”
After Somers left, Hazard finished cleaning the kitchen. For a man who had done little more than brown the sausage in a pan and whip up two omelets, Somers had somehow managed to turn every surface into the culinary equivalent of a war zone: eggs and grease all over, a million dirty bowls, two—two!—funnels, although God only knew what he’d thought he needed them for. It went on and on like that.
Hazard found himself smiling as he wiped everything down.
Lost in the task, he didn’t notice the rapping at the front door. It was so soft that it had become background noise without him rea
lizing it, and it was only when he was putting away the cleaner that he noticed it. He made his way to the door, anticipating a visit from Tomlinson, the ancient queen, or maybe from Noah, if he was in a pinch and needed help with the kids. But when he opened the door, nobody was there.
Although, he realized as his mental processes kicked into gear, that wasn’t quite true. A plastic skeleton, almost life-sized, hung on the front door. Hazard reached out to move it, not sure why someone would have put it there. And then he saw the piece of paper. Old instincts kicked in, and he kept his hands to himself.
The type on the front of the paper was easy to read: Do you like puzzles?
Swinging the door open wider, Hazard looked around the skeleton for any signs that something else was hidden. He found nothing. He went back to the kitchen, took a clean knife from the block, and carried it back to the door. Using the tip of the blade, he folded back the paper—it was wedged between two ribs—and studied the back. Nothing visible. But maybe whoever had put it here had slipped up, left a fingerprint.
Do you like puzzles?
What the hell did that mean?
Hazard found his phone and dialed Somers, but before he could press send, he heard the garage door. A moment later, Somers stepped into the kitchen. All the familiar signs of anger were there: red dusting his cheeks, the tightness around his eyes, the slight stiffness in his posture.
“What’s wrong?” Hazard said.
“What’s wrong?” Somers said at the same time.
“You first. Why are you home?”
“Because my ex-sister-in-law is the biggest fucking bitch in the entire world.”
Hazard blinked. Naomi Malsho, sister to Cora Malsho, Somers’s ex-wife, was, indeed, a bitch. She had worked her way to the inner circles of the Ozark Volunteers, and a few months previously, she had leveraged that influence into winning an election. She was now the right honorable mayor of Wahredua, and it had given the Volunteers a degree of boldness and daring that they’d never had before. Like the lunatics driving through the trunk or treat. Or a madman murdering a professor in his own home, in front of dozens of witnesses.
