Badlands

by Morgan Brice

  “Not just yet,” Vic coaxed. “You’re so tight.”

  “Told you, it’s been a long time.”

  “It’s easier if you’re on your stomach, but not with that shoulder and arm,” he said, looking down at the bruise Simon had glimpsed in the mirror and the half-healed gash. “And I like this better where I can see you,” he added with a wicked grin.

  Vic slipped his arms beneath Simon’s legs again, lifting him up, and positioned the head of his stiff, thick cock against Simon’s furl. He pressed in slowly, giving Simon time to adjust, and Simon panted as he took in every inch of Vic’s hard length until Vic was fully seated inside.

  “So good,” Simon managed, trying to keep his eyes open so he could watch Vic’s face. For the first time, all of Vic’s defenses were down, the “cop eyes” were gone, and the unguarded emotion on the other man’s face made Simon’s heart clench. Simon already knew he was too far gone over Vic to be safe. Maybe, just maybe, Vic felt the same about him.

  Vic pulled out, then plunged back in again, and set a rhythm, slow at first and then faster, rocking them together and filling Simon over and over, so hard and thick and right. Vic curled his fingers around Simon’s dripping cock and stroked him once, twice, and then Simon came hard, shouting Vic’s name and painting his chest and chin with thick strands of come.

  Simon clenched hard around Vic’s cock, and that tipped the other man over the brink, finishing in just a few hard, fast thrusts until he spilled into the condom, filling Simon with warmth.

  “My god,” Vic gasped, as he shifted forward to look down at Simon’s face. “That was—”

  “Yeah,” Simon agreed, not caring if the grin he wore looked like he was completely high. “It was.”

  Vic kissed Simon, slow and gentle; their bodies still joined, both hearts pounding. “It really was,” he repeated in a throaty voice just above a whisper. He moved back reluctantly, reaching down to hold the condom in place as he pulled out, then tying it off and tossing it into the waste can beside the bed.

  “Stay right there,” he said as he got up and went to the bathroom to clean up, returning after a moment with a warm, wet towel to wipe off Simon’s chest and then between his legs. It seemed so simple an act, so natural as if Vic hadn’t even given it a second thought to tend to his lover, but Simon’s throat tightened at the intimacy, something no one had bothered to do for him before.

  “Better?” Vic asked, tossing the towel on the floor as he lay beside Simon, pressing his front against Simon’s side.

  Simon turned onto his good shoulder to face Vic, and let his fingers ghost down over his brow, his cheekbones, lips, and chin. “Much. That was—” Perfect? Amazing? Heart-stopping? “—Just what I needed.”

  Vic kissed his cheek. “Just what I needed, too. I care, Simon. More than I should. I’m going to do my best not to let the job get in the way.”

  “I care, too,” Simon murmured. “We’ll figure it out.” Simon kissed Vic lightly on the lips. “We can do this our way.” He glanced at the clock on the nightstand and saw that it was after midnight. “I know we both have to work tomorrow. Can you stay?”

  Vic smiled. “I was planning on it, no matter what happened tonight. Brought a change of clothes. Figured you wouldn’t want to be alone.”

  “You figured right.” They moved off the bed just long enough to pull down the covers, then Simon slid inside and held out his hand for Vic to join him. Vic’s smile made Simon’s heart flutter, and a warm contentment coiled in his belly as Vic slipped beneath the sheet and pressed against his back.

  Vic settled an arm over Simon’s hip; his fingers splayed possessively over his abdomen. “Sleep tight,” Vic murmured against Simon’s ear. “I’m here. And I won’t let anyone hurt you.” Simon fell asleep to that sweet promise, listening to the sound of Vic’s breathing and the beat of his heart, and prayed that this was something he could keep.

  12

  Vic

  “You’re whistling Springsteen. You never whistle,” Ross said as Vic walked to their shared desk and hung up his jacket.

  “It’s a nice day out. Whistling isn’t a crime.”

  “Springsteen isn’t meant to be whistled, or hummed,” Ross grumbled. He looked up, eyes narrowed, assessing Vic like a crime scene. “Dammit. You slept with him again, didn’t you?”

  “Since anything I say can and will be used against me, I’m not going to answer that,” Vic replied. His leave-taking from Simon that morning had gone much more smoothly than before, with some kisses and a sleepy make-out session that left them both hard and breathless. He had promised to have Simon over to his apartment, although Vic knew it lacked the charm of the blue bungalow and he intended to text at least once during the day.

  “Seriously, Vic? There are plenty of fish in the sea—surely some of them aren’t crazy.”

  Vic rounded on him. “You want to back that up, or walk that back?”

  Ross’s eyes widened at the change in tone. “Whoa, partner! I guess this guy’s really gotten under your skin.”

  “His name is Simon. And, yes, he has,” Vic admitted. “And he’s not crazy.”

  “I kinda get the ghost tour thing,” Ross said. “It’s entertainment, like the pirate show. But if he’s claiming to give séances and readings that aren’t just putting on a play, then that’s either fraud or crazy.”

  “My nonna could put the Evil Eye on someone,” Vic replied, logging into his computer. “Nobody in the neighborhood would cross her.”

  “That’s hardly the same thing.”

  Vic struggled with himself over the need to defend Simon. He hadn’t told Ross about his visit that first day he and Simon met, or his tip about Iryena’s ghost. And while the hotel with the blue fish and the light-up palm tree hadn’t materialized into a solid lead yet, Vic wasn’t ready to give up on it. But if he told Ross, his partner would fault him for revealing police business—or worse, think Simon was somehow involved. So he kept that to himself, at least for now.

  “It’s a matter of belief,” Vic muttered, as he waited for his email to load. “Cause from what I remember out of catechism, the saints had all kinds of visions and heard plenty of voices.”

  Ross gave him a look. “That’s different. At least back off until we catch the Slitter. You don’t want rumors to start. Like last time.”

  Vic glared at him. “I’m well aware. Drop it.”

  Ross raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “This is me, dropping it. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Vic knew he shouldn’t be more than mildly pissed at Ross; after all, it was a good partner’s job to butt in and push back when their counterpart was about to do something stupid. Then again, Vic kept his mouth shut whenever Ross vented about marriage or parenting, aside from a few snarky comebacks. Or maybe Ross’s warnings sounded too much like that fatalistic voice in the back of Vic’s head that always told him everything was about to go to shit.

  He focused his attention on email, opening a file he had requested a couple of days ago. Simon didn’t know Vic had spent an evening following him as he ducked in an out of beachfront hotels and touched base with his Skeleton Crew. Vic felt guilty not telling Simon about the recon, but if Simon was determined to play detective, Vic was equally determined to keep an eye on him. He told himself it was to keep Simon safe, but the cop inside wanted proof that Simon was who he claimed to be. Especially now, when Vic knew he cared far more than was prudent and caught himself hoping the relationship might deepen further still.

  The file revealed the police record for Marcus Walker, who worked at Gym-tastic. Grew up in foster care, busts for underage drinking, an arrest for weed, cops called to his apartment once for a noise complaint. Nothing damning, but not a sterling resume. The list of arrests for the sex worker who called herself Rennie was much longer. Prostitution, soliciting, disturbing the peace…the busts weren’t violent, but she wasn’t going to win a citizenship award.

  Vic sat back in his chair, staring at the
information. He had no way to confirm whether Marcus or Rennie had low-level psychic abilities, as Simon claimed. If they did, and they’d grown up without anyone to train them or help them make sense of the weird things happening to them, he could see how that could get a kid into trouble. But that involved a very big “if,” and that key element was something neither Vic nor anyone else could substantiate.

  They might just have untreated mental health issues arising from childhood trauma. Vic had seen enough in his time as a cop to know just how much a crappy family life could screw over a person and point them in the wrong direction. Not that it gave someone a free pass for crime, but a bad start certainly made it harder to stay on the proverbial straight and narrow.

  What if Simon was wrong—mistaken or misled? What if the misfits he was getting information from, and risking his life to protect, were delusional? Or what if one of them was the Slitter?

  Vic felt his chest tighten. Simon’s gift is real. There’s no way he could have known about Iryena and Katya. I might not have been around for that bloody horse head or the car that tried to run him over, but I know for sure someone took a shot at him. Why would they, if all this is fake?

  Ross mumbled something about getting more coffee. Vic was glad to have a moment to himself as he tried to sort through the information. His heart wanted to believe Simon. But his head, and his cop training, made him look at all the evidence objectively. Deep down, Vic desperately hoped that the evidence would come down on Simon’s side.

  He looked at the rest of his email, and saw another new message, from an old friend now working for the Columbia police.

  Hi Vic.

  * * *

  Great to hear from you. Myrtle Beach sounds like it’s treating you well I called a friend with the university. Off the record. That professor you asked about, Sebastian Kincaide? He taught there for several years, humanities stuff—history, mythology, that kind of thing. Seemed to get on well with the students, was engaged to one of the other professors. What happened to him depends on who you ask.

  One group says he was the victim of a witch hunt, because some kid’s father got bent out of shape over him telling ghost stories and teaching folklore. But talk to some other folks, and they’ll say he was odd, secretive, always going on about strange things. Creepy, even. Big into occult stuff like witches and magic, not just stories, but like he believed it was real. Hard at this point to figure out the rumors three years later, but the wilder tales about sacrificing cats and dancing around bonfires are probably hearsay. Although, I don’t know, man. It sounds like he was into some weird stuff. What’d he do, kill someone?

  * * *

  Keep in touch. Brad.

  Vic’s chest tightened. He knew how unreliable hearsay was, and how once someone was singled out, others would pile on, inventing wild stories to get attention. South Carolina was still part of the Bible Belt, and claims that someone teaching folktales might be subverting young minds wasn’t as impossible to believe as Vic might wish. He didn’t think it was likely that Simon was inducting students into a secret coven or trying to summon eldritch monsters. But did he have a clear grasp on what was real and what wasn’t? Could his love for the subject matter have clouded his judgment?

  Vic wanted to believe he was a better judge of character than that, but he knew he’d been fooled before. Yet Simon had answered all of his questions, shared his information, and provided tips that panned out. Vic saw how scared Simon had been after the attacks, and seen the damage inflicted with his own eyes. No, he refused to credit the naysayers. Simon’s story about what happened at the university made sense, and Brad hadn’t found anything to prove it wrong. He was going to put his money on Simon, unless or until something could prove he should do otherwise.

  Vic pulled out his phone. Day going well so far?

  Hard to beat the early morning.

  Vic smiled, remembering the warmth of waking up with Simon in his arms, and the burn of Simon’s stubble against his cheek. Agree. Dinner at my place?

  I don’t close up until 7. That okay?

  I rarely get home earlier. See you at 7:30?

  Sure. What can I bring?

  Just yourself. For dessert, Vic added. Simon returned a few smileys, along with a couple of eggplant emojis.

  “Geez, you’re as bad as my kid sister,” Ross growled, returning to his desk.

  “Have you had your blood pressure checked lately?” Vic asked with contrived innocence. “Or maybe get checked for a blocked colon? What next? Tell me to get off your lawn?”

  “You’re pushing your luck, D’Amato,” Ross muttered. “Just keep your wits about you with this psychic guy—”

  “Simon.”

  “Simon,” Ross repeated. “Maybe cool things down until the investigation is over?”

  “And then what? Because there’s always going to be another investigation.” Vic leaned back. He didn’t want to argue. Ross was a good partner, and while they weren’t best friends, they worked well together and got along most of the time. “See, I’m thinking that’s how people end up like Mosley and Dawson, forty years on the force, no partner, no kids, no friends,” he replied, mentioning two of the department’s longest-tenured officers.

  “There’s a reason cops don’t tend to stay married,” Ross said and shrugged. “We’re not easy to live with, and neither is the job.”

  “You’re managing.”

  Ross sighed. “And it’s harder than it looks. We promised each other we’d get up every morning and fight to keep what we’ve got one day at a time.”

  Vic felt a pang of jealousy at the thought of sharing that level of commitment with a partner. Could he and Simon be like that? He’d moved in with Nate, largely because it was convenient. But they had never discussed the future, certainly never contemplated marriage. Vic hadn’t spent much time thinking about a forever partner, at least not once he realized that he wouldn’t ever have a big traditional Catholic wedding like his siblings had.

  But having someone to go home to at night and wake up with in the morning, the same someone? Vic thought he could get used to that. And while it was far too early to have any thoughts like that about Simon, Vic surprised himself to find that the possibility didn’t panic him.

  “Earth to Vic!” Ross said, clapping his hands in front of Vic’s face. “Geez, you really are a poor besotted fool, aren’t you?

  “Fuck off.” Vic’s voice lacked heat, although his cheeks colored at being caught daydreaming.

  “Yeah, I’m right,” Ross replied with a grin. “Just do me a favor and keep your wits about you, so you don’t get canned. You don’t fart like my last partner. And Jonesy’s new partner sweats like a stuck pig.”

  “See, I’m a diamond in the rough,” Vic teased.

  “You’re rough, all right.” Ross stretched and flexed his shoulders. “You got anything new on the case?”

  Vic refused to glance at the two emails in his inbox. “Nothing that pans out. There’s got to be something we’re missing. Guys like the Slitter always slip up.”

  Ross gestured toward the piles of paper on his desk. “He’s got his pick of J-ones, and we’re trying to play catch-up.”

  “Are we sure all the deaths are foreign help?” Vic asked, thinking back to Simon’s theory that the real common factor was untrained psychic talent. He had no idea how to come up with a reason Ross would accept, but maybe they could find a pattern aside from a fondness for easy kills.

  “You know something?”

  Vic shook his head. “Just found myself thinking they were all seasonals, and then thought I’d better fact-check.”

  “Good point. Let me look.” Ross pulled up a file and checked down through it. “Seven kills over six months, but the last three have been closer together than the first several. Like maybe he’s preparing for something? Nobody’s figured out a pattern for where the bodies have been found, except that he likes parking garages. Ah…here’s the list.” He frowned as he read the names silently. “You’re
right. Two weren’t J-ones.”

  “What about missing persons in the same period?” Vic asked. “The foreign workers can’t leave without defaulting on their visas. So if they go missing, they might be victims we haven’t found. Has anyone figured out what the two who weren’t seasonals have in common?”

  Ross scanned the report again, though Vic knew the two of them had read it many times. “Nope. So guess what we’re gonna do for the rest of the afternoon?”

  Seven thirty found Vic fidgeting, waiting for a knock at the door. He had texted Simon his address earlier in the day and decided at the last minute to pick up Pad Thai for dinner rather than fail at cooking for company. In the half hour after he got home from work, he tore through the apartment to clean up, make the bed, check to confirm that condoms and lube were in the nightstand drawer—just in case—got a shower and ran the vacuum. If Ross could see him, he’d be laughing his ass off.

  He’d turned on music—a Springsteen list from one of the streaming services—and the familiar songs eased his nerves.

  Vic looked around his apartment, wondering how Simon would see it. Compared to the blue bungalow, the sleek lines and modern furnishings looked stark, cold, and impersonal. Now that he thought about it, he’d put out very few personal photos or knick-knacks. He had his TV/stereo/gaming console set up in the living room, with a decent library of favorites. But he’d switched to downloading or streaming music, movies, and games when he moved from Pittsburgh, just like he’d moved very few of his paper books and given in and bought a Kindle. That left his shelves a little too bare.

  And maybe that was the heart of the matter, Vic thought, punching one of the throw pillows on his leather couch to fluff it up. Maybe he’d never unpacked himself after Pittsburgh, just like he hadn’t bothered unboxing his things. Was he waiting for the other shoe to drop? For something to go wrong here, like it did before? Or holding himself in reserve, keeping himself safe by not committing all the way?