by Pandora Pine
Ronan looked taken aback. “Let’s go. You’re bleeding. Don’t think we’re done talking about what happened back there. I want answers and you’re going to give them to me.”
Tennyson nodded. He only hoped that what he had to say was what Ronan wanted to hear.
Thankfully, Ronan lived out of his car when he was investigating cases and had a huge stash of fast-food napkins in the glove box of his Mustang. There had also been an unopened case of Poland Spring water bottles in the trunk.
Between the napkins and the water, they’d been able to clean up his cut and bandage it up well enough so that Tennyson wasn’t bleeding when he got back into the car. The cut wasn’t very deep and wouldn’t require stitches, but all the same, it hurt like the devil. Served him right though for running off like Usain Bolt into a blossoming snow storm.
As they drove quietly through the streets of South Boston then into Dorchester, the radio DJ announced that the Greater Boston area was in for nine to twelve inches of snow overnight. Joy…
They’d all been so busy with figuring out how the first meeting with the Fryes would go, no one had bothered to pay attention to the weather report.
The other thing Tennyson hadn’t been paying attention to was where they were now. Not an expert in Boston geography by any stretch of the imagination, even he could see they were traveling through residential neighborhoods and seemed to be getting further away from city streets and the highways that would lead north, back to Salem. “Where are we going?” His voice sounded hollow breaking the silence.
Ronan grumbled under his breath.
Tennyson’s heart kicked up a notch. He wasn’t sure, but he thought Ronan said, “home.”
A few minutes later, the Mustang roared to a stop in front of a five-story walk-up in a neighborhood Tennyson would never have pictured Ronan living in.
“Let’s go.” Ronan was out of the car before Tennyson had even unbuckled his seatbelt. Seconds later, Ronan was yanking the passenger door open and folding his arms over his broad chest, a less than amused look played across his weathered face.
Tennyson quickly scrambled out of the seat and onto the sidewalk, his feet nearly sliding out from under him on the snow-slicked sidewalk. The second Tennyson’s loafer touched the first step of the building, he was assaulted by voices and visions. He took an instant step backward and stumbled back onto the sidewalk.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Ronan growled.
“You wouldn’t understand,” Tennyson said, his voice shaking.
“Try me.” Ronan’s tone brooked no argument.
“You lived here while you were still working homicide cases, yes?” Tennyson knew he did. The spirits he could see and hear told him that was the case.
“Yes,” Ronan answered tightly. “Look, if my house isn’t good enough for you…”
“The ghosts of the dead glommed onto you. They followed you home. They’re still here. All I can hear in my mind are their voices. They aren’t quiet like Michael, they’re screaming. It’s off-putting is all.” Tennyson straightened his spine and climbed the front stairs, leaving Ronan behind him.
Ronan silently opened the front door for him and led him up to the fourth floor, twisting three keys in various locks before pushing the door open for him.
Tennyson whispered cleansing words, wishing he had sage with him, but his words would have to do. He had a feeling this was home for the night.
“After you, Princess Grimm.” Ronan half-snickered from behind him.
“I’m reciting an incantation.” Tennyson shook his head and entered the apartment.
Ronan sighed, but waited for Tennyson to finish what he was doing.
The apartment was, unfortunately, just what Tennyson expected, tiny and loaded with spirits and old pizza boxes. He knew this was going to be an uneasy place for him to spend any amount of time.
"Dining room table." Ronan pointed and headed toward a dark hallway.
Tennyson obeyed, wondering how much longer Ronan was going to think he had the right to boss him around. He also couldn’t help wondering for how much longer he was going to continue to obey.
When Ronan returned a few minutes later, he was carrying bandages and a tube of what he assumed was an antiseptic cream of some sort.
Ronan worked quickly, cleaning and then bandaging the cut. "Pizza or Chinese food?"
Tennyson wasn't really in the mood for anything, but knew Ronan needed to eat. "Pizza, anything but mushrooms and anchovies.”
Ronan grunted and made the call. Pepperoni and sausage with a garden salad on the side.
Sitting across the table from Tennyson, Ronan folded his hands. “Start talking.”
Tennyson sighed. He knew Ronan was suspicious of what he did in the first place. What he was about to say wasn’t going to do much to make the wary detective build trust in him. In fact, it might make the cop trust him even less.
9
Ronan
Ronan’s temper was just shy of the boiling point. It wasn’t going to take much to set him off like a torch to a powder keg. This wasn’t what he wanted. He didn’t want to be sitting at his own scarred dining room table laying his life bare to the fruitcake, but with the weather turning from bad to worse he didn’t see any other option but to bring Tennyson home with him.
He needed answers, and like it or not, Tennyson was the only person who could give them to him. The one thing he had to give the other man credit for was not having this conversation in front of the cameras. Before they’d left to drive into Boston, Brett McCabe and the film crew had wired his Mustang with tiny cameras that were voice activated. The second a door opened, the recording started to roll. By Tennyson ending up on Carson Beach rather than hopping in his car, he’d saved Ronan some embarrassment by not having their fight captured on tape.
“In order for you to understand what happened today, you need to understand my gift.” Tennyson was staring at his folded hands.
“Your gift?” Ronan’s voice had an edge to it. He needed to get that under control and treat this conversation like any other interview he conducted with a witness. He was treating Tennyson like a suspect.
“Yes, damn it! My gift!” Tennyson said hotly. “I get that you don’t believe in what I do, detective, but I believe that what I have is a gift.”
“Tell me about it.” Ronan nodded, taking a deep breath. He could do this. He could listen to Tennyson with an open mind.
“They show me images, whisper words. To me, they mean nothing, but to you, they could mean everything.”
“What do you mean?” In order to understand what Tennyson was talking about he was going to need to dig deeper.
“Do you really want an example?” Tennyson’s dark eyes bore into Ronan’s.
Did he? He could see the challenge in Tennyson’s eyes. “Yes.” It was the only way to know if this was bullshit or not.
“Okay, then. Let’s start with 744. What does that number mean to you?”
“Oh come on! You looked that up.” Ronan shook his head. He knew this whole thing what a crock of shit.
“Looked what up, detective?” Tennyson smirked at him.
“The number of the house I grew up in.” Ronan folded his arms over his chest and leaned back against the chair.
“So, it’s easier for you to believe that I Googled you and found out that you grew up at 744 Highland Avenue in Quincy, Massachusetts, rather than believing that your mother Erin told me, right?”
Ronan growled, his entire body tensing.
“We’ll discuss your sainted mother another time, detective.” Tennyson narrowed his eyes. “Michael Frye was only giving me a little bit of information to work with. Channeling spirit isn’t like reading an open book or watching a movie. It’s more like seeing a flash of images or hearing a line of dialogue. Some people are more open than others. Your mother wants to talk, talk, talk. Michael Frye doesn’t.”
At the mention of his mother’s chatty ways, Ronan felt the old grief swam
p over him. He ground his teeth and did his best to keep those feelings from showing on his face.
“When you worked homicide, did you have your partner’s back?”
“What?” Tennyson’s question startled him out of his memories of his mother.
“Did you have your partner’s back when you worked homicide cases?” Tennyson leaned across the table. “Because you didn’t have mine today.”
“I always had my partner’s back.” Ronan didn’t like the way Tennyson was challenging him right now. How he acted with Tony Abruzzi was none of his business.
“Just not today,” Tennyson challenged back.
Ronan exploded out of his seat. “You have no idea what those people have been through! Their son has been gone for seven years and you walk through their door and tell them he’s dead! Then you won’t tell them who killed him or where his body is! How the fuck can I stand behind you when all you’re doing is putting them through more pain?”
Tennyson sighed, sounding like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. “What’s my middle name, Ronan?”
“What?” He was losing his mind. They were talking about Michael Frye and now Tennyson was asking about his middle name. This guy was seriously one nut shy of a fruitcake. “How the fuck do I know your middle name. You’ve never told me what it is!”
“That’s my point exactly! I don’t know who killed Michael Frye because he hasn’t told me, Ronan. I don’t know where his body is because he hasn’t told me that either.” Tennyson got up from the table and walked over to the detective. “I know all of this is hard for you to believe. You’re the kind of man who needs to be able to see something in order to believe it. I get that. I really do. I’ve been reading dead children since I was a teenager, so I do know how hard this is on the Fryes. I know how hard this is on you, detective.” Tennyson set a hand on Ronan’s beefy shoulder.
There it was again, that feeling of instant calm warring with the need to take a step closer to Tennyson. The confusing emotions darting through his body were the last things he needed at the moment. He stepped back from the comfort of the psychic’s hand.
“It’s going to be okay, Ro Your Boat. I promise.” Tennyson turned and headed back toward the table.
Ronan stood rooted to the floor. How in the name of Mother Theresa did Tennyson know his mother used to call him Ro Your Boat? It wasn’t possible. It just wasn’t possible.
“What did you just call me, Grimm?” Ronan took two menacing steps toward Tennyson, grabbing the other man’s arm as he started to retreat backward.
“I think you heard me the first time, detective.” Tennyson tried to jerk his arm away, but Ronan only gripped him tighter.
“No one called me that but my mother. Who told you, huh? Who?” Ronan jerked Tennyson closer. He could smell the flowers in the shorter man’s shampoo and caught a whiff of his fresh smelling soap. Only an inch or two separated their lips and Ronan was just angry enough to do something about it.
“You won’t believe me if I tell you anyway, so what’s the point?” Tennyson tried weakly to pull away again, but he was no match for the stronger cop.
“Oh no, you’re not going anywhere, Princess.” Ronan’s voice was just above a whisper. He knew this was absolutely the wrong thing to do but couldn’t fight it one second longer. Closing the distance between them, Ronan kissed Tennyson. His fingers dug harder into Tennyson’s arm, while his other hand came up to hold the side of his face. He used his thumb to push down on the psychic’s chin. There was no way he was going to come this far and not get a taste of the maddening man who was kissing him back.
Tennyson managed to work a hand between their bodies and gave a weak push against Ronan’s chest. He whimpered when the cop pulled him closer, surging his tongue into Tennyson’s now open mouth.
Where Tennyson had whimpered before, he moaned now, in concert with Ronan.
Ronan knew this had gone far enough. He’d proven his point, even if he was too far gone to remember what his original point had been. He needed to stop kissing the psychic’s soft lips, even though it was the last thing he wanted to do. He needed to push him away even though all he wanted to do was pull him closer. The ringing door buzzer decided the matter for him.
“Dinner,” Ronan said lamely.
Tennyson nodded, breathing heavily.
Shit, shit, shit… Ronan hadn’t just stepped over the line, he’d blown it up with dynamite. All he could do now was pay for the pizza and figure out how to apologize to Tennyson for all of the dick moves he’d made today, like not having his back and kissing his lips off.
10
Tennyson
Hours later, Tennyson could still feel the ghost of Ronan’s lips on his own. The tender flesh felt swollen and abused, but truthfully, he couldn’t bring himself to care. No man had ever kissed Tennyson like that in his entire life.
He’d been able to taste Ronan’s anger, fear, and frustration on his lips, but once their tongues had tangled, there had been something else. Something dark and dangerous. Something addictive. Something Tennyson knew he could never get enough of. Something he knew he could never taste again.
Dinner had been a quiet affair. Both men ate with their heads down. Ronan shoveled the food in like he couldn’t eat fast enough. Tennyson wondered if he even tasted it. For his part, he ate half a piece of pizza and pushed his salad around on his plate, barely eating any of it.
After dinner they’d sat in silence and watched the news followed by a few episodes of some 80’s comedy on cable. Before he’d stalked off to bed, Ronan had been kind enough to make up the couch for him.
Not that Tennyson would be getting a lot of sleep tonight. Between the spirits haunting the apartment and Ronan, and the cop’s kiss haunting him, he knew there would be no rest for him tonight.
From his spot on the couch, he could see the falling snow illuminated by the streetlight outside the window. Being here with Ronan like this, snowed in, as it were, reminded him of being a kid back in Union Chapel. Only this time, there would be no waking up to a day of sledding and snowball fights with his friends.
There would be a fight all right, but it would be about Michael Frye.
“Hey, you up?” Ronan’s voice asked quietly from the hallway. His body was backlit by the bathroom light which he’d left on so Tennyson could find his way in the dark.
“Yeah,” Tennyson sat up. He could tell from the low light that his host was only dressed in a pair of sweatpants, slung low on his hips. Christ, if he wasn’t sleeping before, he sure as hell wasn’t going to sleep now. Ronan’s broad chest was on full display. He could see a light dusting of hair covering his defined pecs and six pack abs. What Tennyson would give to tangle his fingers in that soft fur and lick Ronan’s ripped muscles until he ran out of saliva.
“Grimm?” Ronan’s voice was tinged with amusement.
“Huh?” Shit, Ronan must have been talking to him while he was fantasizing about using the stacked and jacked detective’s body like a jungle gym. “You do know I’m gay, right? Put a shirt on and I won’t get distracted.”
Ronan snorted and took a couple of steps forward into the living room. “What did you mean about spirits following me home?” His voice had taken on a softer tone. Gone was the gruffness Tennyson had gotten used to hearing in the detective’s voice.
Tennyson couldn’t help liking this middle of the night version of Ronan with his soft edges and willingness to listen to him. “People that I refer to as the lowest common denominator, drug dealers, prostitutes, criminals, vibrate at lower level than law abiding, good people like us. When people like that die, they’re looking for the light.”
“You mean the white light of heaven?” Ronan took a few more steps into the living room. His arms hung loosely at his sides instead of being crossed over his chest, making him look open and approachable.
“Right, but since they’re confused and might not have people waiting to welcome them into heaven, they’ll often glom onto any light they
can find.” Tennyson pointed a finger at Ronan.
“Me?” the detective scoffed in obvious disbelief. Ronan walked over to the couch, sitting down next to Tennyson.
He could feel the heat radiating off of the detective. His arousal ramped up even higher as he imagined himself falling asleep with his head on Ronan’s shoulder. “You have an amazing light, Ronan. It’s plain to see that you became a cop to help people. I’ve known other police officers over the years whose only aim in getting into law enforcement was being able to carry a gun and bully other people into obeying the law.”
“I was a bully today.” Shame and embarrassment were obvious in Ronan’s voice.
“You were, but that was partly my fault.”
“No, it wasn’t, Ten.” Ronan shook his head, reaching out for Tennyson’s hand. “My being a complete dick had nothing to do with you.”
Tennyson squeezed their joined hands. It felt so right sitting here in the semi-darkness like this with Ronan, talking out their differences. “I should have explained to you how my gift worked before we went to see the Fryes, that way there you would have been better prepared for what happened.”
“It won’t happen again. I promise.”
“What won’t happen again?” Tennyson hoped to God Ronan didn’t mean the kissing. He was hoping that was going to happen again in the next few minutes.
“Me not having your back. We’re partners now and no matter what happens, I’ve got you.”
“I’ve got you too.” Tennyson offered him a shy smile.
“Finish what you were saying about my light. I’m a broken down alcoholic cop with a divorce under my belt. How can I possibly have any light left?”
“Your circumstances don’t define the light in your soul, Ronan. Your divorce wasn’t your fault and you started drinking because you were led to believe it was.”
Ronan stiffened beside him. “Are you reading me?”
Tennyson shrugged. “A little. I know you didn’t cheat on him and that you loved him with your whole heart. Any man who would walk away from that kind of love and faithfulness is a fool. I also know neither of those things were returned to you.”
