by SJD Peterson
Readers love
SJD PETERSON
BAMF
“I loved that this book kept me guessing the entire time I was reading. I never knew what would happen or how the characters would react.”
—Love Bytes (The Blog of Sid Love)
“Part of what makes this book work so well is not knowing what is really going on, so just trust me here. Read this and enjoy the ride!”
—Joyfully Jay
“This is one book you REALLY can't put down! What a thrilling story.”
—Happily Ever After (USA Today)
Tuck & Cover
“The story was fun and sexy with enough depth in both of their struggles to come to terms with their sexuality within the confines of the military to be interesting.”
—Live Your Life, Buy the Book
“Recommended for readers who like their alpha males a hot, sexy mess and battling for supremacy.”
—Hearts on Fire
Beyond Duty
“I can’t say enough about this story. Read it and fall in love. Seriously, these men are that good.”
—Mrs. Condit & Friends Read Books
“This is a great story of that there is no doubt…”
—MM Good Book Reviews
By SJD PETERSON
BAMF
Beyond Duty
Leon
Masters & Boyd
Plan B
Splintered
Tuck & Cover
GUARDS OF FOLSOM
Riveted
Pup
Tag Team
Pony
Roped
WHISPERING PINES RANCH
Lorcan’s Desire
Quinn’s Need
Ty’s Obsession
Conner’s Courage
Jess’s Journey
Published by DREAMSPINNER PRESS
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com
Copyright
Published by
DREAMSPINNER PRESS
5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886 USA
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Splintered
© 2014 SJD Peterson.
Cover Art
© 2014 Reese Dante.
http://www.reesedante.com
Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.
All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/.
ISBN: 978-1-63216-452-0
Digital ISBN: 978-1-63216-453-7
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014945074
First Edition October 2014
Printed in the United States of America
This paper meets the requirements of
ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).
To my editor, Erika, I’m so, so, so sorry. I promise not to fire you (at least not this week).
Chapter 1
I am the conductor, leading the sweet symphony of pain and agony.
THE DEW glistening on the grass in the early-morning light gave the impression that each blade had been infused with brilliant, flawless diamonds. The sun just beginning to crest above the horizon cast the field in a stunning orange glow. Special Agent Todd Hutchinson, known simply as Hutch, stood on a slight rise and looked down at the beautiful sight before him. It reminded Hutch of scenes he’d seen in photography magazines. He’d tried his hand behind the lens, but found he didn’t have the eye for it. Still, he enjoyed looking at the work of others. Hutch could get lost in imagining being there; it was calming. The only thing keeping the sight before him that morning from being postcard perfect was the easterly breeze bringing the stench of rotting flesh to his nose.
Turning back to the forest behind him, Hutch scanned the area. He saw no indication of any disturbance in the foliage, no signs of a struggle or that the body had been dragged here. He was convinced the murder had occurred elsewhere, and whoever the killer was, they were fit and strong. They’d carried the body some distance to dump it.
The body was that of a naked man, facedown in the center of a small grouping of trees. He was thin, weighing no more than about one hundred-twenty pounds, and small of stature, approximately five foot six inches. His hair was dyed an unnatural shade of red with black streaks running through it and medium in length. He had ligature marks on both wrists and ankles as well as on his neck. Insects feasted on his pale skin.
Granite, Hutch’s best friend and associate, bent under the yellow crime scene tape and made his way toward him. “Glad you could join us this bright early morning. How ya doing, Hutch?”
“Well, other than a little disgusted at the fine men and women in blue of Jefferson County traipsing all over, fucking up the crime scene—” He took a cigarette from his coat pocket, lit up, and blew out a long stream of smoke. “—I’m good, what have ya got?”
“Not much, other than the obvious,” Granite drawled. He pushed his long bangs out of his eyes and flipped open the small notepad he always carried. “Woman, one Florence Carmine, fifty-four years of age, local resident, came upon the body while walking her dog. Body appears to have been dumped at the site. Still waiting for the coroner to get here before we can fully check out the vic, but the dark blue color on his wrists, ankles, and neck make it pretty obvious he didn’t do this to himself.” He shrugged, closed his notepad, and returned it to his pocket. “Then again, I’ve seen some pretty messed-up shit. Remember that guy with the gasmask hanging from the bedpost by his tie? Fuck, after that scene, nothing really surprises me anymore.” Granite shuddered.
Hutch shook his head as he remembered the accidental death. Young guy alone in a sleazy downtown motel playing autoerotic asphyxiation games. Poor bastard had a dildo up his ass, hand on his dick, and had hung himself from the bed by his own tie. Probably wasn’t the way the man ever imagined leaving this world. Hopefully, for his family’s sake, those crime scene photos wouldn’t make it onto the World Wide Web, though in this day and age, they were more than likely already there.
“Got an ID on the vic?” Hutch took another deep pull from his smoke. It was a nasty habit, but the world was a lot safer for others when he got his fix of nicotine.
“Not yet,” Granite responded as he scratched his head. “Unless he’s hiding it beneath him, we’re not going to know who he is until they run prints. It’s like whoever dumped him here flew in and flew right back out. Hell, maybe he was teleported here, who knows? We’re not going to get shit for evidence with this one.”
If Granite said there wouldn’t be any evidence, then Hutch wouldn’t waste his time looking. Granite was rarely wrong. To look at him, it was hard to imagine that beneath the unusual outward appearance was an intellect that few would ever come close to matching. His straight jet-black hair was cut long so his bangs were always hiding one eye. He had a propensity for anything gothic, including
his wardrobe. That morning he wore a Pure Psycho black T-shirt. Granite’s shirts were always black; only the words or pictures changed. Black skinny jeans, a Crombie three-quarter black wool jacket, and heavy-soled black boots completed his ensemble. He looked like the poster child for the Goth Nation. He might have looked like a punk kid, but that was just a flash of frosting to cover what lay beneath, and what was under that crazy façade was impressive as hell.
Granite’s real name was Travis Green. He graduated from Simon Fraser University’s School of Criminology in British Columbia, Canada, top of his class, specializing in geographical profiling. He had soon surpassed his professors, and now, if not the best in the field, he was damn close to it. The guy was an absolute genius, which was one of the reasons Hutch wanted Granite on his team, despite his freakish appearance. Hutch also respected the hell out of the man. They had connected the instant they met. Anyone who could sit in the room with Hutch for more than an hour and not piss him off was a hell of a guy in Hutch’s book. Granite was one of the few. Although to be quite honest, Hutch wasn’t sure Granite could say the same thing. Hutch had a way of rubbing people the wrong way. It was a gift.
Hutch spotted the coroner’s van pulling up and stabbed a finger at it. “Well there’s the man of the hour. Hope he’s not one of those who take ten hours to process a scene and weeks to pop out a prelim,” he grumbled.
“You wanna go assist, get a closer look?” Granite asked as he watched the older, balding guy step out of the van.
“What the hell for? You said we’re not going to get anything out of this one. I’ll wait for the photos.” Hutch snubbed out his cigarette on his boot. He started to toss the butt but thought better of it and pocketed it. He watched as the doc pulled his kit from the van and moved to the scene, before turning and heading back to his car.
“Hey! Where the hell are you going?” Granite called out. “Don’t you want to know if I was wrong? What if the doc finds his ID, the perp’s signature, social security card, and a formal invitation to his house under the body?” Granite asked slyly as he chased after Hutch. “I have been wrong before, ya know.”
“Really? When were you ever wrong?” Hutch asked dubiously.
“What about that time I set you up on a double date with Carrie’s girlfriend from college?”
What a clusterfuck that had been. Carrie—Granite’s girlfriend—was nice enough, and Hutch was sure she was just trying to be helpful. Hell, her friend, umm… he couldn’t remember her name, was nice enough too. But friends should not let friends set them up on blind dates. Not if they wanted to remain friends. However, as soon as Granite learned Hutch was gay, he didn’t try a second time.
“Okay, let me rephrase it. You’re never wrong about a case,” Hutch amended. He pulled opened the car door and raised a brow at Granite. “Look, you go play nice with Dr. Coroner, find out what you can, and I’ll see you back at the hotel.” Hutch slid behind the wheel.
Granite opened the passenger door and stuck his head in. “You’re not staying? Why the hell do I have to talk to him? They called you, not me,” he complained.
“Because I have a three o’clock meeting with Jefferson’s finest. Why should I have all the fun of dealing with these yahoos?” He gave Granite a dismissive wave.
“Great, now we’re even sharing yahoos,” Granite muttered before slamming the car door and stomping back to the crime scene.
There was still plenty they weren’t sharing, but Hutch didn’t see any need in pointing it out. He grabbed his shades and slipped them on, then started the car and headed back to the hotel.
“SPECIAL AGENT Todd Hutchinson,” he said by way of greeting to the young dark-haired woman standing behind the counter.
She took his badge and studied it, then lifted her blue eyes up at him and batted her lashes, literally batted her eyes and gave him a come-hither grin. Guess in a town this small, the dating pool was rather slim. He did his best to keep his features neutral, but more than likely it came across as bored.
“Good afternoon, Special Agent Hutchinson,” she drawled and handed him back his badge. “They are waiting for you in the conference room.” She pointed one of her long, painted claws toward the hall behind her.
He muttered his thanks and made his way down the hall. Ten sets of eyes turned toward him when he walked into the room.
“Good, we can get started. Have a seat,” the captain ordered.
There hadn’t been time for the receptionist to have announced him, but it wasn’t hard for them to guess who he was. The boring dark suit and the fact that he was holding up his badge was a dead giveaway. Hutch slid into a chair at one of the tables at the back of the room. He’d never liked having anyone at his back. Hutch drummed his fingers against the fake wood tabletop as he ran a critical eye over the men around him.
The captain, who kind of reminded him of an older Bill Murray, ran down the list of facts Hutch had already gathered at the crime scene. The captain’s tone sounded disinterested, or maybe that was just the way he always sounded. As he rambled on, Hutch realized the former was correct, and it pissed him off. There had been three murders in the past two months, and no one seemed particularly concerned. He had a sneaking suspicion the only reason he and his team had been called in the first place was due to criticism from the media after the first two murders, not out of any real inclination to solve the crimes.
“Look, Cap. Those guys put themselves at risk by doing those unnatural things,” an officer at the front said as he waved a hand, his voice dripping with disgust. “I don’t see how we’re going to save them from each other.”
The officer sitting directly in front of Hutch leaned over to the officer sitting to his left and mumbled, “I’m not working overtime for a couple dead faggots.” But aloud he only said, “Harris is right—they put themselves at risk.”
“Good riddance,” another muttered under his breath.
Hutch was having a difficult time remaining silent as the officers threw around their homophobic bullshit. In fact, he was fucking seething. He wanted nothing more than to put his fist upside their idiotic heads, but he’d learned a long time ago to keep his mouth shut, watch, and listen. It did absolutely no good to engage idiots. No matter how appealing the idea, going Rambo on their asses wouldn’t help him solve the case.
It was obvious a couple of dead “faggots” wasn’t on the list of priorities for some members of the department. Hutch couldn’t tell if the captain or the lieutenant had overhead the exchange, but the smirk on the lieutenant’s face, made it likely he had. Although he didn’t respond, too smart to have it put on record, bastard probably harbored the same homophobic ideologies. Hutch’s attention kept shifting back to one officer who was sitting at the other end of his table. The young officer, late twenties to early thirties, flinched with each offensive remark. No one was saying anything of real importance, so it gave Hutch plenty of time to study the cop. He sat rigidly, back ramrod straight, hands folded on the table. He kept his eyes low, but Hutch could tell by the thoughtful expression on his face that he was taking in everything around him. By the end of the meeting, Hutch hadn’t decided if the man—who he later learned was Sergeant Struk—was gay, an open-minded ally, or had some information he wasn’t sharing. Whatever it was, Hutch planned to find out.
BACK AT the hotel, Hutch sat in a cheap faux leather chair and stared at lifeless wide brown eyes from the glossy eight-by-ten photo. The young Asian male had been identified as Akira Kimura, who had been reported missing by his roommate the day prior to the discovery of his body. Akira was an openly gay male who attended community college during the day and worked as a go-go dancer at the Torch at night to help pay tuition. The Torch wasn’t natty for the rich and flamboyant, like Hard Candy or the Purple Moon, but it was a decent enough place. At least the Torch was a step up from Ram Rod or some of the other sleazier joints on the Gideon strip.
“What the hell happened to you, and how did you get so far away from home?” Hutch asked
the man in the photo.
He set the picture aside and picked up the preliminary autopsy report to study once again. The ligature marks he could easily dismiss as a bondage game gone wrong. He’d read enough cases and witnessed some scenes firsthand that he knew it wasn’t unheard of for Dom/sub games to go bad. A couple would check out a website or read an erotic story, ignore the warnings, and instead of getting the rush of orgasm, the “Dom” got prison time and the “sub” got a one-way ticket to the morgue. Considering the state of Akira Kimura’s body and mutilated genitalia, though, it was highly doubtful this was a consensual role-play game gone wrong.
Akira’s vocal cords showed signs of severe inflammation and swelling, normally seen in prolonged screaming. The perp obviously either lived in a rural area where the homes were isolated or he had one hell of a soundproofing system. The amount of torture the young man endured over approximately three to five days also gave credence to that theory. This guy—Hutch was sure he was looking for a male—had some seriously warped views of sexuality. It was also quite possible he had at least one accomplice, possibly more. Hutch would need more facts before he could answer that question for sure.
He threw the report on the table, leaned back in his chair, and rubbed the throb that had begun in his temples. Too bad he couldn’t rub the lifeless brown eyes from his brain. Those eyes would be haunting him for a while.
“Check this out,” Granite said as he threw a file on the table in front of Hutch, pulling him from his thoughts.
He glanced at the manila folder but didn’t reach out to take it. “I’ve already seen the report. They didn’t find anything.” He arched a brow at Granite. “You know, gloating isn’t one of your more endearing qualities.”
“Oh, right, that would be one of yours. Just look at the file.” Granite pulled up a chair and sat next to Hutch. From the sullen expression on his face, Hutch was relatively sure he wasn’t going to like what he was about to see.
