Badlands

by Morgan Brice

  “Moved here not too long ago, so I don’t feel quite like a local, but definitely not a tourist,” Vic added.

  “You can still take in the sights, even if you live here. Most people don’t take time to enjoy what’s in their backyards. I’d love to show you some of my favorite spots.” Oh, just shoot me now. That sounded like the worst line from a cheap porno. I totally suck at this. No, don’t think about sucking…

  “Sounds fun,” Vic said, and Simon was so lost in his embarrassment that he almost missed it.

  “You would?” he asked, then cleared his throat. “I mean, that’s great,” he failed miserably to cover his awkward reply. Simon was just about to ask for Vic’s number when Vic’s phone went off.

  The ringtone sounded odd, and Vic’s manner shifted in the blink of an eye, going from casual and relaxed to tense and alert. “I’ve got to take this,” he said, without even glancing at the number. “I’m sorry. It’s work. Confidential—need to step away.” With that, he got up and headed toward the service corridor that went toward the men’s room, taking his coffee with him.

  “Shit,” Simon mumbled, running a hand over his eyes in utter frustration and disgust with his fumbling. Every phrase that came to mind about making a mess of things had a sexual connotation. Simon sipped at his now-cool coffee and glanced at his phone to check the time. Crap! I need to open in five minutes.

  He got up and walked to the doorway to the main shop. The rain had stopped, and most of the tables were empty, awaiting the main tourist rush about an hour from now.

  It won’t kill me to wait a few minutes, Simon told himself. With the rain, it’s not like customers will be waiting at the door. Then again, as two minutes stretched into five, Simon began to feel awkward sitting alone in an otherwise empty room when the other patrons left. He tried to remember if there was a back exit by the bathrooms. Maybe Vic had ditched him. Going to check on Vic was out of the question, but hanging around for no good reason looked pathetic.

  This is why I’m single, Simon thought with a sigh. He finished his coffee, chucked the cup in the trash, and went out.

  4

  Vic

  “There’s been another one,” Ross said when Vic answered the call. Vic gave Simon an apologetic smile, grabbed his coffee and headed to the back for privacy.

  “Murder or missing person?” Anger and fatigue made Vic’s voice raspy.

  “Missing person,” Ross replied. “Name’s Iryena Kovaleva. She works an Italian ice stand on the lower end of the boardwalk. Came on a seasonal visa, been in the States for three months. We aren’t releasing the name to the media just yet.”

  “Any priors?”

  “Nothing in our system. I’ve asked for records from Belarus, where she’s from, but I suspect if there was anything really bad, her employer would have known about it.”

  “Maybe it’s not a local problem,” Vic said, fiddling with his keychain as he thought. “Russian mob? Family debt from back in the Old Country?”

  “Possible. We need more information,” Ross replied. “Iryena’s roommate reported her missing when she didn’t come home last night. Says she always called to say where she was and when she would be back. Iryena returned the pushcart and the cash drawer, and that’s the last time anyone saw her.”

  Vic listened as Ross filled him in on the rest of the details. “I’m heading back to the precinct,” Vic said when Ross finally finished.

  “Don’t bother. Captain told us both to take the rest of the day off and pick up again tomorrow.”

  “But—”

  “He’s right, Vic,” Ross reasoned. “We’re waiting on reports to come in. Two officers already interviewed the roommate and spoke to her supervisor. There’s nothing to do except stare at our screens and wait. Might as well sleep and hit it hard tomorrow, when we’re fresh, and there’s actual data to do something with.”

  “All right,” Vic conceded reluctantly. “You’re heading home, too?”

  “Yeah,” Ross replied. “I’m beat after being up all night. The kids have been sick, so I haven’t slept a full night this week, and I’m feeling it.”

  “You’re getting old,” Vic teased. Ross was thirty-four, only three years older than Vic, but Vic had long argued that each child aged a parent at least five extra years, and Ross didn’t contradict him.

  “I feel old,” Ross replied, sounding ragged. “Maybe we’ll see something when we’re fresher in the morning.”

  “Okay,” Vic agreed, realizing that he had been gone from the table for a long time. Would Simon wait? Or would he figure Vic just slipped out the back? Damn, why hadn’t he been faster to get a phone number? “Call me if anything changes.” He ended the call, took a deep breath to clear his head, and walked back to where he had left Simon.

  The table was empty.

  “Damn.” Vic strode across the back room to the main section of the coffee shop. Now that the rain had ended, the tables there had emptied out too. Simon was nowhere in sight.

  “Hey, I have a question,” he said to the woman behind the counter. “I was talking with a guy in line—couple inches shorter than me, glasses, brown hair that’s almost down to his shoulders. He said he’s a regular. First name’s Simon. Do you know his last name? Or where he works?”

  She gave him a skeptical look, and he dug out his badge. “Look. Not a creeper. I’m a cop.”

  “You’re a cop. Doesn’t prove you’re not a creeper,” she replied, giving him a look. “He seemed familiar, but I just fill in from time to time. Tracey—she’s the owner—could probably tell you, but she’s off today. If he’s local, he probably works in one of the places along the boardwalk,” she added with a shrug.

  “Thanks.”

  The rain had done nothing to cool down the air; instead, it felt like a sauna, and it wasn’t even officially summer yet. Vic stood outside Le Miz with his hands on his hips, debating what to do. I’ve got the afternoon off, he reasoned. Been a long time since I’ve gone through the stores here. I might spot Simon. And if not, I should go check out that ghost tour person.

  He figured the tour guide/psychic was probably a middle-aged woman in flowing robes with a hokey Eastern European accent as fake as her so-called talent. Still, as long as a sign somewhere proclaimed “for entertainment purposes only,” she could avoid being charged with fraud. He didn’t really expect a boardwalk medium to be able to provide a tip to break open the case, but Vic felt so frustrated with the lack of leads he was willing to take a chance.

  Vic wandered in and out of the shops, inundated with the ticky-tacky-tourist fare of t-shirts, flip-flops, and shot glasses with the South Carolina palmetto tree, crescent moon, and star. He glanced into the restaurants, wondering if he would spot Simon, to no avail. When he got to the iconic Gay Dolphin Gift Cove—it had been a fixture on the Grand Strand for more than sixty years, long before “gay” took on a new meaning—he couldn’t resist taking half an hour to wander the seemingly endless aisles of the three-story shop.

  If I ever need seashells, wind chimes, an Elvis clock, or Christmas ornaments of Santa in a Speedo, I know where to find it, Vic thought, idly perusing the mind-boggling array of delightfully tacky collectibles. Still, the shop had a good-natured vibe to it, and he had to admit—at least to himself—that his ten-year-old self would have been tremendously impressed.

  By the time he left the Gay Dolphin, Vic realized he was stalling. Looking for Simon had been part of his quest for today, and he wasn’t quite ready to give up yet, but if there was any chance that the Grand Strand psychic could shed some light on the case, Vic knew he needed to schedule a reading.

  No one back at the precinct has to know, he told himself, realizing his palms were sweating, and not from the heat. If I get a lead, I’ll claim an anonymous tip from an informant. It’s not like what happened in Pittsburgh. And even if someone sees me, or finds out, I’ll get ribbed, but it won’t cost me my badge.

  Vic mustered his courage and walked down the row to the Grand Stran
d Ghost Tours storefront. He opened the door, and the blast of air conditioning felt arctic and welcome. To his surprise, no one was behind the counter, so he had a moment to get his bearings.

  The shop was nothing like he expected. Vic had figured there would be incense, flickering candles, and fabric draped like a fortune-teller’s tent. Maybe even a haunted house vibe and plenty of creepy, cheesy souvenirs. Instead, he saw the neatly displayed, surprisingly high-end jewelry and merchandise inside the glass cases, the professionally printed tour brochures, and shelves of books, card decks, and items that looked more New Age than Nostradamus.

  “Sorry, had to run to the back—” A man emerged from the bead curtain doorway and stopped in his tracks when he saw Vic.

  “Simon?”

  “Vic. Um, what are you doing here?” Simon replied, then winced. “That didn’t come out right. Hi! Nice to see you again,” he said with a self-conscious smile.

  Simon was even better looking on second glance. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, and while that gave Vic a better look at Simon’s hazel eyes, he had kinda liked the sexy-nerd look the lenses gave him. The beautiful wavy brown hair Vic couldn’t stop thinking about touching had been pulled up in a man bun, and from a certain angle, made it look as if Simon’s hair was very short. He’d swapped out his plain blue t-shirt for one that had the store logo, and it showed off strong arms and hinted at a toned chest. Simon still wore the form-fitting jeans that let Vic admire his firm ass and nice thighs when they were in line at Le Miz.

  “I take it you work here?” Vic said, looking around.

  Simon chuckled. “You could say that. I own the place.”

  Vic looked at him in surprise, waiting for the punchline, but Simon appeared absolutely serious. “You’re the Grand Strand psychic?”

  Simon hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Tour guide, author, seminar-giver, medium, and psychic. Dr. Sebastian Kincaide, at your service.”

  “Sebastian?”

  Simon shrugged. “My mother had a flair for the dramatic. I go by Simon. And let me guess. You’re a cop.”

  Vic started at that, and his eyes narrowed, just a bit. Simon laughed. “No, I didn’t use my powers,” he said, waggling his fingers to underscore the last word. “You have cop eyes. And the call you took, back at the coffee house? Soon as it rang, you went on alert. Not too many jobs do that to a person.”

  Shit, Vic thought. Now that he’d found Simon, he sort of wished he hadn’t. What were the odds that the first guy in forever that had really caught his eye would be a whack-job?

  “I don’t get the feeling you’re a big believer in the Unseen World,” Simon said, with an ironic tone, framing the last two words in air quotes. “So what brings you in? I promise I paid for my coffee this morning.”

  Vic cleared his throat. “Yeah, about that. I’m really sorry I walked off and left you. I’ve just been working a case—was up all night—and when my partner called, I knew it couldn’t be anything good. Kinda goes with the badge. But I came back, and you were gone.” Vic wasn’t sure why it mattered so much what Simon thought of him, but it did. There’d been a spark of chemistry between them, more than Vic had felt in a long while, and he didn’t want to come off like a jerk.

  Simon gave him a half-smile in return. “I figured it was important. And I did hang around for a while, but I needed to open the shop.” He gestured to the empty store. “As you can see, there were eager crowds waiting.”

  “You make a living from this?” Vic asked, and then could have kicked himself at how that sounded. “I mean—”

  “We don’t usually get busy until later in the day, but people do drift in earlier, and every sale matters.”

  “We?”

  “I have a part-timer who watches the register while I do the tours, and if I’ve booked events,” Simon replied. An awkward silence followed. “So,” he said finally, looking a little flustered. “Can I show you around? Looking for anything in particular?”

  Vic could hardly say just you. “I, uh, I’ve never been in a ghost shop before.” He wanted to facepalm. With moves like that, it’s amazing I’ve ever gotten laid in my life.

  “We sell a lot of stuff, but not ghosts,” Simon replied with a grin, and the awkwardness faded. He gestured for Vic to walk farther into the shop. “The tours and the t-shirts are for tourists. But a lot of locals come by for candles, hard-to-find botanicals—legal botanicals,” he emphasized at Vic’s side-eye. “And for the books, cards, and charms.”

  “Charms?” Vic asked, intrigued and suspicious at the same time.

  Simon motioned toward the glass cases. “Legends all over the world credit certain metals, symbols, and semi-precious stones with protective abilities. It’s a matter of belief, like with a religious symbol, but for those who do believe, having certain items makes them feel safer.”

  Vic reminded himself he had come for answers, and that going into skeptical cop mode would make Simon not only less willing to help with a reading but kill any chance of ever going on a date. “Interesting,” he replied, trying to keep his tone as neutral as possible.

  Simon had finished his mini-tour, and that left an awkward silence. “So…what brought you in today?”

  Vic decided to tell the truth and see what happened. “I was hoping that if I wandered in and out of the places on the boardwalk near the coffee shop, I might run into you. I enjoyed talking, and wanted to get your phone number.” Then he realized he knew nothing about Simon beyond the fact that he flirted back and wasn’t wearing a ring. Maybe he was already with someone. The thought sent a stab of jealousy through him, hard to fight even though he knew it was absurd. “If, you know, you’d want to. Exchange numbers.”

  “You were looking for me?” Simon asked with a hesitant smile. “That’s nice. And, yeah. Phone numbers. That’d be good.” When Vic pulled out his phone, Simon told him his number. A buzz indicated that Vic had messaged him, returning the favor. “I enjoyed talking with you, too.” That made Vic’s heart speed up, just a little.

  “And, I came into the ghost shop for another reason,” Vic admitted. “But I’ve gotta know—are you for real? I mean, the talking to ghosts stuff? Or is it just a performance?”

  Simon’s smile faded. “It’s real. Why?”

  Vic swallowed down his fear and the bad memories of what happened in Pittsburgh. “This case I’m working on, I could use a break. And I thought that, if you really can speak with the spirits, well…”

  “You want me to do a reading?” Simon asked, sounding surprised and unsure. “Is this ‘Vic’ asking or ‘Officer…”

  “Lieutenant. D’Amato,” Vic replied. “Homicide. And right now, it’s just me asking, unofficially. Because bad things are happening and at this point, I need something to go on.” He glanced at the board above the counter and saw that a half hour reading was thirty dollars. “I’ll pay you.”

  “I appreciate that,” Simon replied, with a quirk of a smile, as if Vic had said something that was amusing but not really funny. “And you know that there’s no guarantee the particular ghost you want to contact is going to show up. It’s not like on TV. Ghosts don’t participate unless they want to. And then they may not know the answers you want to hear, or sometimes, they can’t or won’t communicate.”

  Convenient, Vic thought and tried to shove down his skepticism. “All right.” He pulled two bills from his wallet and put them on the counter. “How about now, before the wild crowds show up?” he added with a smile that he hoped smoothed over his skepticism.

  “Sure,” Simon replied, putting the cash in the register and flipping the sign on the door to read “Back in 30 Minutes” before motioning for Vic to follow him through the aisles to an alcove in the back with a table and two chairs.

  “Isn’t it kind of bright here?” Vic asked, looking around. The table had no cloth to obscure what was on or under it. The simple wooden chairs provided no place to hide wires or buttons.

  “Expecting the Fox sisters?” Simon asked with an edge in
his voice. “I keep my shoes on the whole time, and I don’t make thumping noises with my toes,” he added, referencing two famous mediums later revealed to be frauds.

  “That isn’t what I meant,” Vic said, afraid that coming here was a mistake. He didn’t seem to be getting off to a good start with Simon. The cop in him automatically began to look for reasons to discredit the reading before it began. But the other part of him, that had trouble not staring at Simon’s lips or his long-fingered hands, hoped Simon could be trusted. Not just about the ghosts, but maybe, if Vic were lucky, with his heart.

  “You know what they say,” Simon said with a shrug. “Seeing is believing.” He stood on the other side of the table from Vic. “If you want to look underneath the table, or check out the chairs and walls first, do it. Being unsure is fine, but the ghosts can sense hostility.”

  Vic got on his knees and ran his hands all over his chair, then examined the underside of the table, and finally, Simon’s chair. That brought him dangerously close to Simon himself, and being on his knees when Simon’s crotch was only a few inches away brought heat to Vic’s face and sent a jolt to his cock. “Everything looks good,” he said, and silently groaned at the way that sounded.

  Simon chuckled. “Glad you think so.” He sat, as Vic retreated to his chair and hoped he wasn’t red-faced with embarrassment.

  “Now what?” Vic asked, trying to regain a little control.

  “Don’t tell me anything,” Simon said. “Just think about your case, what kinds of things you want to know, the people involved.” He paused. “Um, it works best with physical contact. May I touch your fingers?”

  “Sure,” Vic replied, leaving off that he’d be fine with it if Simon wanted to hold hands. Despite his skepticism about psychics, Vic found Simon even more appealing here on his own turf than he had been in the coffee shop. Simon was rocking the slightly bashful nerd vibe, and it looked good on him. Up close, the t-shirt pulled enough to suggest lean muscles every bit as nice as the ass and thighs revealed by his blue jeans. It hadn’t escaped Vic that Simon was a few inches shorter than his own six-foot, one. That meant they’d fit together well, standing…or lying down.