by Josh Lanyon
Chapter Ten
Someone was howling—a thin, breathless cry that was, in fact, more breath than cry.
Me.
Far from splitting the night, my bleat barely carried three feet, so I had no trouble hearing my attacker’s exasperated, “What. The. Fuck?”
I knew that voice.
I bit off the rest of my screech and sat up, wincing as pain shot up my spine. I was sitting in a puddle, ice-cold water soaking through my trousers. The last time I remembered being decked had been a playground rumble at Our Holy Mother. I’d been thirteen. My bounce had been better back then. Now I felt like I’d wrenched every muscle in my already worn-out body. And my back… I’d be lucky if I wasn’t crippled for a month. I wiped the mud off my face.
“I am so going to sue your ass,” I spluttered.
“Well, what the hell are you doing out here?” J.X. demanded.
No apology seemed forthcoming. Also, I couldn’t help noticing, neither was help from the lodge. Were we too far away to be heard? Not a happy thought.
“What do you think I’m doing? I’m going to my cabin.”
“Crawling on your hands and knees?”
“I wasn’t on my hands and knees till you knocked me down.”
“You sure as hell were skulking in the bushes.”
“I heard something—you—and I was making sure it was safe.”
He continued to stare down at me. I wished I could see his face. His motionless outline caused my scalp to prickle. Then he reached down a hand.
His hand was warm on my chilled one. Again I was aware of his wiry strength. He wasn’t much taller than me, but he was in a hell of a lot better shape. He pulled me to my feet and dropped my hand.
“What are you doing out here?” I asked, uneasily rubbing the twinging small of my back.
“Grabbing a log for my fireplace.” He reached past me and picked up a nice stout sawed-off limb. “It’s going to be a cold night.” He picked up another log. “Here’s one for you.”
“Thanks.” I stepped out of range, trying not to be too obvious about it. Not that I didn’t appreciate the gesture, but there was something unconvincing in his manner. What had he been looking for out here?
J.X. still held out the log. I took it gingerly.
“I’ll see you to your cabin.”
“Oh. Okay. Thanks.” I remembered my minibar set up. “Hang on.”
I limped back to where I’d set down the tray. Everything was as I’d left it. I lifted the tray and nearly dropped it. J.X. stood right behind me, log in hand.
I managed to save the gin. The tonic water, ice bucket, and glass slid off the tray and landed in the mud.
“What is it with you?” I demanded and thrust the log and the tray at him. I knelt, gathering up the fizzing bottle and glass. The scattered ice cubes winked dully in the pallid moonlight.
“What the hell is this about?” J.X. indicated the tray.
“What the hell does it look like? I’m planning to drown my sorrows.”
“That’s not going to solve anything.”
“I’m not trying to solve anything.” I added pointedly, “I’ll leave that to the experts.”
“It’s your head,” he said. “Come on.” He put his hand under my arm as I started to rise, and I nearly lost the entire load again.
“Do you mind?”
“Sorry. Jesus, you’re jumpy.”
“I can’t imagine why.” I rebalanced and set off—limping—down the path.
“Do you really have a bad back?” he asked, behind me.
“No, it’s just something I say to get chicks.”
He didn’t respond, but as we reached the edge of the meadow, he caught me up so that we were walking side by side. “This way.”
I followed him down the dirt path that cut across the open field toward the cabins. The sodden clouds had parted, and a lackluster moon gilded everything in unnatural light. In the absence of the rain and wind, the stillness seemed uncanny.
Mostly to fill the uncomfortable silence between myself and J.X., I said, “There’s something eerie about the stillness.”
“It’s the eye of the storm.”
“You mean there’s more rain on the way?”
“Oh yeah. We’re a couple of hours away from another downpour.”
“Great.”
“Which is your cabin?”
“That one—with the lights on.”
He said sharply, “Did you leave the light on?”
“Yes.” I cast a quick glance at his silvered profile. “Why? You don’t really think I’m in any danger, do you?”
“No.”
“You could try to sound a little more convincing.”
What he sounded was irritable. “You had to go around telling everyone Peaches had been murdered, didn’t you?”
“That’s it.” I stopped walking. The glassware rattled to a halt with me. “We need to have this out here and now.” I was talking to his back. “Hey.”
He kept walking. I had to trot to catch up—which irritated me further.
“Listen,” I said, “I did not tell anyone anything. Peaches was everybody’s candidate for unnatural selection. From the minute I said I found her in the woods, people were speculating about how she died.”
“And you encouraged their speculation.”
“I didn’t. I didn’t say anything one way or the other. I didn’t know anything one way or the other. I still don’t.”
J.X. stopped walking. His voice was low. “We both know she was killed.”
I swallowed hard. “Are you sure?”
He nodded.
“Did you tell the sheriffs?”
“Yep.”
He started walking again. After a few seconds of thought, I tagged after.
As we reached my cabin, he asked, “You want me to take a look inside?”
I hesitated. If he was a homicidal maniac, this was his big chance. No one had seen us walk out here together. Certainly no one had responded to my shouts.
On the other hand, what if the homicidal maniac was hiding under my bed? I didn’t feel up to dealing with it on my own.
I unlocked the door and pushed it open. The first sight to meet our gaze was my brand-new silk jockstrap lying on the floor next to the bed. Scarlet silk. I mean…
“I had no idea,” J.X. murmured.
“You still don’t.”
He laughed, and I was abruptly reminded that this was not the first time he had been in my bedroom. I remembered some other things too—things I’d thought I’d forgotten: the smoky, sweet taste of his mouth, his husky laugh, his strength—and his gentleness. You don’t expect gentleness from a twenty-five-year-old macho cop, but he had been…tender. Energetic, but tender.
I had handed him the drinks tray while I unlocked the door; now I watched him set the tray of gin and tonic water on the table by the wall. I opened my mouth to ask if he was married—but there is no way to ask that it doesn’t sound like you have a personal stake in the answer. It’s like asking a man if he’s gay—which would have been my second question.
And while I had no personal interest in J.X. Moriarity, hearing him confirm tonight that he was straight would have felt like the very last straw.
So I watched him open the closet and push my few clothes aside. He stepped into the bathroom and shoved the shower curtain back.
I squatted down and looked under the bed. “All clear.”
His expression told me that I was not taking this seriously enough.
He examined the window casings while I went to rinse my muddy glass out in the bathroom.
I sat on the bed and unscrewed the bottlecap. “Would you like a nightcap? I think there’s a plastic cup in the bathroom. Or you can use the coffee pot to drink from.”
He studied me.
“Look, Kit, I realize it’s none of my business, but go easy on that stuff. You need to keep your wits about you.”
“I’m never wittier than when I’ve had a fe
w drinks,” I informed him in my best Elsa Lanchester imitation. Not that he would have a clue who Elsa Lanchester was; she was well before his time. Well before mine, too, now that I thought about it, but the evening had aged me.
J.X. sighed. “I know you’ve had a rough day. But this is for real. If someone really wanted into this cabin, it wouldn’t be hard to get inside.”
“I’ll sleep with one eye open.”
“Better yet, sleep with that chair propped beneath the door handle.”
Great minds.
“Okay.” I held up the bottle. “Sure you won’t have one for the road?”
He shook his head. “I need to sleep. I’m dead.”
“Unfortunate choice of words.” I poured gin in the glass. Studied the still bubbly tonic water. That bottle needed to be opened in the bathroom over the sink to minimize loss of vital fluids. “Sleep tight. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”
J.X. opened the cabin door. He hesitated. “Steven can be a real asshole.”
“There it is again, the keen eye of the master detective.”
His mouth tightened. “Don’t forget to lock this door.”
I rose, went to the door. He stepped out, and I closed the door, sliding the bolt home. I leaned against it and closed my eyes.
“What is the matter with you?” I whispered.
Then I nearly jumped out of my skin as someone banged on the door. I backed away and called, “Who is it?”
“Me.” The muffled voice was male.
Heart thudding, I got out, “Me who?”
“Kit!”
I recognized the exasperation. I unbolted the door and opened it.
J.X., looking unexpectedly self-conscious, pointed to a few cabins down and said, “Look, if something does…happen. I’m right over there. Cabin six.”
“Within screaming distance,” I observed.
“Uh…yeah.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll try not to take advantage of the situation. I know you need your beauty rest.”
He gave a funny laugh, shook his head, and turned away.
“J.X.?” I said.
He stopped. I fastened my hand on the damp collar of his leather jacket and drew him through the doorway and back into the cabin. With my free hand I gave the door a shove. It snicked shut. J.X. reached back and locked it.
If they gave prizes at picnics for shucking your clothes fast, we’d have scored a jar of homemade preserves and a blue ribbon for sure. As it was, we had to be satisfied with our performance in the three-legged race, which somehow occurred as J.X. was struggling out of his jeans and I was dragging him to the bed. We collapsed on top of the calico bedspread, J.X. gracefully sprawled beneath me.
He was beautiful. I’d forgotten that about him in all those nasty online exchanges through the years. I gazed down at the strong, handsome lines of his face—dark eyes shining and a crooked white smile framed in the perfectly trimmed Van Dyke—took in the bronzed, muscular chest. Like rock…only not. His skin gleamed like brown satin, the small, flat nipples like dark copper pennies. I traced the left one with a fingertip. He closed his eyes, the lashes black crescents against his high cheekbones.
Reaching up, he locked his hand in the back of my hair, pulling me down. Our mouths met in a warm open kiss, and he tasted cold like the outdoors and the night, and he tasted unbelievably hot.
I kissed him hard, and he smiled against my mouth and rolled us over onto our sides. I knew I’d had way too much to drink because for once I wasn’t worrying—wasn’t thinking at all. No self-consciousness, no second thoughts… I was totally in the now, touching and tasting. I’d nearly forgotten how much fun sex was. How good it felt.
J.X. nibbled my earlobe, his breath gusting moistly into my ear, and I found that incredibly arousing. In ten years David hadn’t thought to kiss that tiny hollow, or the one at the base of my throat, or my eyelids or—actually, David and I hadn’t done a lot of kissing. In fact, I didn’t care for kissing, really…
Except that J.X.’s kisses were getting me so hot and excited I wasn’t sure my skin could contain all that light and energy buzzing inside me. I wrapped my arms around him, delighted when he reciprocated, pulling me tight to him with those hard, muscular arms.
He thrust against me, his cock poking me painfully in my belly, leaving that streak of sticky, and I thrust back, and it was a relief to let go, to bump and grind, to hump away like a pair of landed porpoises, to rut and root in the blessing and beauty of uncomplicated and impersonal sex. The bed thumped rhythmically against the wall of the cabin. I thought it might have been bouncing off the floor—I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear the cabin itself was shaking beneath those rafters of moonstruck clouds.
It felt too raw and real to compare with…any memory, but I did remember something as we rocked in each other’s arms, dicks rubbing enjoyably, skin flushing hot and moist beneath our hands, belly to belly, chest to chest, tangle of legs—I remembered the first time we had fucked he had come almost immediately. J.X. had been…so young. So tough, but so young. And every time we had fucked that long-ago weekend, he had shot his load fast and frantically—and it had embarrassed him.
And I had told him we just needed more practice.
My chest tightened with those unexpected memories, an unforeseen sentimental ache—or more likely I was too old for this and about to have a heart attack.
The good news was his technique had improved a lot through the years, and as harried and feverish as this was, it was a good long ride before it exploded in juddering, convulsive pleasure. Pleasure being one feeble word for that blissful sensation of physical release so intense it felt catastrophic.
We lay there catching our breath, relaxed and boneless in a hot and sticky tangle of limbs.
J.X. said finally, sitting up and raking a hand through his shiny black hair, “Well, that was a mistake.”
Chapter Eleven
I sucked in a sharp breath and then let it out. “Thank you for saying so,” I said coolly, and I sat up too.
There are few things more awkward than the moments after sex with someone you shouldn’t have had sex with. No way was I going to sit here side by side making polite—or not so very—conversation with J.X.
I got off the bed, and he had the same idea. He rose and began pulling on his Levi’s. He was still wearing one sock. One white boot sock, which seemed fascinating to me as I poured myself another couple of fingers of gin.
“You know what I mean,” he muttered.
Does anyone ever really know what anyone else means? I said, “Sure.” I unscrewed the top of the bottle of tonic water, and fizzy wet sprayed me in the face—which was really the perfect touch.
He didn’t laugh, and neither did I. Actually, I don’t think he even noticed. He buttoned up his shirt almost as quickly as he had unbuttoned it. I wiped my face on my arm, splashed tonic water in my glass, and drank it down fast. The burn nearly choked me, but I kept swallowing. When I surfaced, he had the door open.
“Lock this behind me,” he ordered.
“Oui, mon capitan.” I came up close to him. He smelled like soap and sex, and he avoided my eyes.
“Good night,” he said.
“Night,” I returned. “Oh, and please don’t forget to fill out our customer-satisfaction survey.”
His eyes met mine. I could see he was about to say something, but then he changed his mind. He went out, and I closed the door behind him and locked it.
The rain was starting to fall again. The eye of the storm had closed.
* * * * *
I woke drenched in sweat, my heart thudding with the panicked memory of my dreams—nightmares. Or was it a nightmare? I stared into the darkness, listening.
The wind howled outside the cabin. Was it my imagination, or were the curtains by the window stirring?
I sat bolt upright and reached for the bedside lamp.
Mellow light flooded the room. No one stood over my bed. No one crouched in the corners of the c
abin. No one was trying to pry open a window. The curtains trembled in the draft from the leaky window casement as the wind gusted outside.
I was perfectly safe, but my heart continued to race. I had a pounding headache and a mouth like cotton. One too many nightcaps had about capped me. I pushed aside the blankets and staggered across the chilly floorboards to the bathroom. I relieved myself, gulped down a couple of plastic cupfuls of tap water, and stumbled back to bed.
I needed Tylenol and an ice pack. I needed central heating and a stack of feather pillows. A full-time nurse wouldn’t be a bad idea—a really handsome, muscular, tender—
The windows rattled as another gust of wind shook the cabin.
“That’s it.” My voice sounded very loud in the cabin, underscoring how alone I was out here.
It would take me less than five minutes to walk back to the lodge. Given the adrenaline and alcohol coursing through my body, I could probably make it under two. There would be ice at the lodge and headache tablets, and best of all, people. Lots of people—most of them probably still drinking at the bar.
Shuddering at the thought of any more alcohol, I climbed out of bed, pulled a sweater and jeans over my pajamas, slipped on my Reeboks and coat, and grabbed the poker from the fireplace.
I was slightly drunk, slightly sick, and totally annoyed. God help the homicidal maniac who got in my way.
I opened the door to the cabin, and the wet wind hit me with a cold slop in the face. I don’t do dark and stormy. I particularly don’t do it at three o’clock in the a.m. But what was the choice? Rose-tipped dawn was hiding out in some warmer clime. Overhead, the thunderous black cloud cover looked like upside-down mountains, like the world had flipped over—or maybe that was my stomach.
I started walking, picking my way through mud and rocks. The lights were out in all the other cabins, and it was impossible to see through the wall of dense hedges and trees whether any windows were still lit in the lodge. The barren landscape stretching before me had an otherworld, wind-scrubbed look. I dodged a tumbleweed rolling past.
