by Anthology
“A long tall one who understands me.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Beer, long and cold.”
“Is Budweiser all right?”
* * *
The shot of vodka sat on the bartop, taunting him. He should have downed it an hour ago, but instead let it sit there, taunting him.
He’d really thought that Jay had been the one. Everything about him was exactly the way he’d dreamed of for years. Handsome, smart, sexy, caring. Really good in bed. Well, at least he had thought so.
“Look, Tracey. You’re a good guy. But you’re just…well. Just not gay enough.”
Gay enough? What the fuck did that even mean? He was gay enough to get fired once. He was enough to get kicked out of his house when he came out. He was gay enough to like it in the ass. So what the fuck did Jay even mean by that?
That had been answered just two days ago when he saw Jay at their favorite bar, with someone who was clearly more gay than he was. He’d known Alton his whole life. He’d known Alton was gay before he knew what gay was, or even before he’d realized he was. Alton was downright, plain old, effeminate. There was nothing about the man that turned Tracey on.
Realizing he was gay did not mean he had given up his masculinity. That was exactly what turned him on. Maleness. Big, strong men. Rough hands. Hairy chests. Bulging muscles. Men. Like, Victor Walsh. Damn he’d give anything for a man like that.
He simply hadn’t realized he wasn’t gay enough for Jay. There was never any discussion of their likes and dislikes. He had always just assumed that they had matched.
Wrong.
And now, he was staring at a shot of vodka he wasn’t even sure he wanted anymore.
“Are you sulking?” Brad’s voice was a welcome distraction.
“And what if I am?”
“Lame.” His partner sat on the stool next to him.
“I was with him for three years.” Tracey finally picked up the shot. “I’m allowed to sulk.”
“Jay’s already moved on.”
“I did not see this coming, Bradley. I had no idea I wasn’t gay enough for him.”
“You need to let that go, man. You have to. What you think of as sexy is not universal. Plus, did you realize he was always trying to dress you up. Put hand cream on you. I mean my God, man. He took you to get your eyebrows threaded.”
“That was unpleasant at best.” He paused for a moment thinking about all the clothes he had packed to move out. Shirts he couldn’t stand in colors he hated. There were facial cleansers, hair product, colognes he’d never used.
Why did it take his best friend and partner—a straight guy with a sub and sadist tendencies—to point this out? He put a hand over his face and downed the shot. “Fuck this. Fuck Jay. You’re right, Brad. I just didn’t want to see it.”
“That’s my man!” Brad declared. “Well done. We’ll find you the kind of dick you like, and the kind that likes you.”
* * *
Paul pulled the last stitch tight and knotted it off. He put the needle to the side, and slumped. It was a passion to find out the cause of death of people. It was taxing, hard work, that sometimes required weird times, but he wanted to put the bad guys in jail—and that meant finding out what had killed them.
Sometimes, though, sadly, the cause of death was twofold and obvious, as it was with this gentleman and the woman who had come in with him. A shot gun blast had wrecked her heart after it had gutted him. In a gruesome series of events, the shot gun had been lodged in his rectum and discharged. The gentlemen hadn’t died immediately, and Paul had to record everything that pertained to this death and this situation.
The best thing he could do now was make sure their respective families could have a proper burial for both. He was pleased that he would be able to let both families know that open casket was possible. It was important to have closure.
Paul rolled the man on to his back, and looked at the face there, repose in death. He nodded, his own way of telling the victim they were going to be cared for and seen to the right way. He pulled the sheet up, rolled the table to the drawer where the dead would rest until the funeral home came for him. This one was lucky—there was family.
Closing the drawer, he let out a breath. There was just some paperwork left, and he could go for the weekend. Paul snapped off his gloves and dropped them into the medical waste bin.
A knock at the door had him snapping his head up to see who was there.
And it was the sexiest man he’d ever seen.
Tall, dressed in black slacks and a polo, sporting a three-quarter length coat and a mane of shaggy but oddly-neat hair, his blue eyes caught his own in a moment.
Was he really going to meet the man of his dreams in a goddamn morgue? The handsome man took a step in, and that answered the question—yes, he was about to find his fantasy in the damn morgue.
God, that made him sound like a necrophiliac.
“Doctor Wainwright?” Mister Fantasy walked in.
“Yes, and you are?”
“Tracey Dunham, private investigator.”
Damn, a PI? “You have your papers?”
“I don’t, actually. I’ve left them at—”
“I’m sorry, detective. I can’t let anyone in who doesn’t have their paperwork with them. I can’t answer any questions, either.”
The hot guy—Tracey—nodded. “It was worth a try. I’m trying to help the McInnis family with this. His sister Bernadette doesn’t believe that this a random act of violence.”
Paul held up a hand. “I can’t…”
“When is the body going back to the family?”
“I’ve just finished and was about to notify the family.”
Tracey grimaced. “Damn.”
Paul stared at him for a very long moment. The policy was that if there were no credentials, there was no admission. But he was the deputy medical examiner, and he’d already been informed that he’d been picked to be groomed to run the place. That was an unexpected detail, and so was the fact that it would be less than six months before that happened.
And if it was his lab, he was going to bend the rules.
Frankly, he’d felt something was off with Doctor McInnis, Senior’s cause of death.
“Talk. Quickly. I want to call the funeral home before I go home tonight for my date.” The date he had no real interest in anymore. “If I have to open him back up, I want to do it quickly.”
“That’s crude.” Tracey seemed completely put off.
“It’s the truth. I don’t dance around it. I can’t afford to.”
“Understood.” He held up a file folder. “Can we just review this to make sure that you’ve covered everything. Not that you don’t know what you’re doing, but there are things that I know a typical autopsy doesn’t cover. I need those.”
Paul motioned to the table. “Let’s review.”
Tracey dropped the file, and they both started to page through and comparing notes. And nearly two hours later, Paul ran a hand down his face. “I knew I had a bad feeling about this. None of this jives at all. I have all the information from the autopsy, but I never saw this.”
“Granted you’re brand new, so it wouldn’t be something that you would know.”
“Are you okay with the results of the autopsy so far? I still have all the tests to set up and run for the fluids.”
Tracey nodded. “As long as you approve that one test, and possibly get me one of the shotgun slugs for my own testing, I’m happy.”
“You really think there’s a serial killer?”
“How much more time do you have? Because I can drop the whole thing on you?”
Paul looked at the clock. “I have a date at eight. I need to go home and get ready. I can’t go without a shower.”
“Then, can I come back on Monday and we can talk?”
“Yes, absolutely. That would be ideal. And we can go over the whole thing again. I have court in the afternoon because they couldn’t wait for me to get
here and take on some of the case load, but the morning should be good.”
Tracey nodded. “Then I’ll be back on Monday. With my credentials.”
“Deal. Thank you for sharing all of this with me. Most PIs aren’t quite as willing.”
“I was kind of hoping that you’d be here, and be more reasonable than the last guy.”
“When it comes to closing the case, I’m always reasonable.”
Tracey stood and stuck out his hand. “Monday then.”
Paul took it. “Monday.”
And he watched each step that Tracey took until he disappeared through the door.
How terribly unprofessional of him.
But what a lovely ass.
CHAPTER 2
The very idea of a club made Paul shiver. But that was where this date wanted to go. Club Imperial. He’d been gone long enough to have no idea what was a good spot and what was bad. This guy—Donally—wanted to go something fierce, so Paul pulled strings and got an application.
An application. For a club?
Reading it over, he got a little worried.
Rule 1 – No pictures. This applies to all forms of image capture. Patrons taking pictures will have their device confiscated and destroyed, no exceptions. Privileged of membership revoked.
Rule 2 – All activity within the club is strictly private. No blogging, posting, social media statements of any kind. No revealing names or activities once a patron has left the premises. Privileged of membership revoked.
Rule 3 – No sex on premises. No exceptions. Privileged of membership revoked.
No sex? No sex? What the hell kind of club was this?
“It’s the hottest club in Pittsburgh. Haven’t you heard?”
“Don, I moved away four years ago, and back two weeks ago. I’m lucky I can find Giant Eagle.”
Don giggled—honestly giggled—and Paul had a bad feeling about the whole date. Still, the guy was cute, and he did want to give the dating scene a try again. Two years was an awful dry spell for anyone.
His application was approved.
Don came out of his apartment building, and Paul instantly knew there would be no second date.
He had pulled out his good khakis, bought a new shirt and polished his shoes. He shaved and combed his hair.
Don was wearing plaid pants, a striped shirt, a sweater vest and bow tie. His shoes were brown loafer that hadn’t seen a stick of polish ever. His beard was entirely too much, and his hair was full of…product.
When he climbed into the car, it got worse. He smelled like he’d pickled in Axe Body spray.
“Hey, sexy!” Paul suppressed a gag. He wasn’t sure what he was going to talk about, but it was a pointless worry—Don the Pickled Hipster filled the car with meaningless chatter.
Paul kind of wanted to stab his own ears.
Don finally shut up when the glass edifice of Club Imperial loomed large over them. Even Paul was quietly impressed.
“Oh my God, yeah!” Don’s yelp scared the shit out of Paul. “I have wanted to go here for months! They wouldn’t approve me. They said I couldn’t afford to be trusted.”
Paul almost couldn’t stop the eye roll.
They walked to the front doors, which strangely lacked a line. Paul pulled the door open, and Don danced through.
One date, Wainwright. Just one. Hold it together.
The door attendant was waiting and in just a moment, Paul had a gold bracelet with a red gem in it. Don had a black paper wristlet. The maître d’ waved him away from Don for a moment.
“Doctor the only reason your guest is being allowed in here is because of you. If he misbehaves—”
Paul sighed. “If he misbehaves, please know this is our first date, only date, and I will not be associated with his antics or idiocy.”
The man nodded. “Very good. Noted in our log. And may I offer condolences and admiration for following through.”
Paul laughed, earning him a look of scorn from Don. Apparently, he was not interested in sharing his date. Paul motioned him through the doors in to the main hall of the Club.
This was unlike any club Paul had ever been in.
Low, dark lights were held at bay by the bright spots on the dance floor. But it wasn’t necessarily the décor that caught his attention—it was the scandalous lack of clothing and liberal use of leather implements.
This. Was a sex club.
Don grabbed his arm and pulled him toward a dark corner, laughing the whole way. Paul felt he ought to be offended by that laugh—he was not excited, he was mocking. And a moment later he pulled a paddle off the wall and handed it to Paul.
“Spank me!” Don’s insipid laugh was the last straw.
Paul raised an eyebrow and let his very dominant personality out. He shoved Don forward onto the table and held him there. Don laughed, asking if he was going to pull his pants down. Paul leaned down to his date’s ear. “Don’t top from the bottom. Stay. Be quiet.”
Taking a step back, he pulled the paddle back and swung with all his might. The sounds of the crack against his ass was almost as loud as Don’s yelp. He jumped up from the table, genuinely shocked.
“What the fuck?”
“You wanted to play, didn’t you? You told me to spank you. So I did.”
“Love taps! Not—not that!” He massaged his ass.
Paul stepped in close. “You think I’m going to give you a tap when you bring me to a BDSM club? Where you giggling like an ass because you think this is some kind of show? Oh, no, Donny. No. You bring someone here, you assume they know the lifestyle, and you’d better know what you’re getting into.”
“It’s a club. Just a club.”
“It’s a lifestyle. And you’d better learn about it.”
“Is there a problem here?”
Paul turned to tell the guy to buzz off—and lost all train of thought.
Standing there in a charcoal grey, 3-piece suit, perfectly pressed, was the handsome, delectable private eye he’d spent the afternoon talking to. He saw him in a different light here—tall, his own height in fact, with muscles clearly defined in his suit, his green eyes were serious but relaxed. His jaw was strong, his short brown hair neat.
“Sir, a problem?”
Paul snapped back to himself. “Ah. Yes. Right. I believe my companion needs an escort to the front and a taxi home. Can you accommodate that?”
The nod was brief. “We can. Your card, cash or his problem.”
“My card, please.”
“But Paul…I thought we were—” Don was cut off.
“You thought wrong. I spent seven years working to get where I am when you lose the pickled hipster bullshit, then, just maybe, you’ll find someone like me. But right now, you don’t deserve me. Go home, Don. Grow up.”
The smirk on the suit’s handsome face was very nice to see. He caught Don by the arm and guided the speechless hipster, pickle-style, back the way they had come in just a few minutes before.
Paul looked around, hoping to see the PI again, but there was no sign of him. He sighed. BDSM wasn’t really his thing. Still, there was something classy about this place. The bar looked well-stocked, and there were seats open. It took only a moment for him to decide to have at least one drink.
His nerves were shot. And he wanted to celebrate his first week as an assistant medical examiner.
A young woman he recognized walked over to him to take his order. She gasped, then tried to lose the shock. Paul didn’t feel like pretending. “You’re a court clerk, aren’t you?”
She put a finger to her lips. “What happens in Imperial, stays in Imperial. You can call me Wisconsin. What can I get you?”
“I want a beer. A real beer. A local beer that will knock my socks and rock my cock.” Shit did he just really say that?
Wisconsin laughed. “Gotcha.” She nodded and walked to the tap. He watched as she filled a glass with a golden IPA that foamed perfectly and smelled amazing when she set it down in front of him. “Best curre
ntly on top. H-Two P Double IPA.”
It even sounded good. Paul picked up the glass and took a healthy sip.
His mouth woke up. The beer danced on his tongue and nearly cried at the amazing flavor. “Sweet Jesus. That’s amazing. This beer alone makes coming back here worth it.”
“Back here?” she asked, politely.
“Spent too many years in California.”
“Well, if a beer will make you cry tears of joy, let me put that on my tab.”
Paul knew the voice already. The tall, cool drink of masculinity he had drooled over a few minutes before. The tall, fine creature that had shown up on Friday an hour before close of business looking for help. He turned to look, saying a quiet prayer that this god-in-a-suit-at-a-kink-club was gay. He braced for disappointment.
Wisconsin winked at Paul and nodded at the hot guy. “Will do, State College. You gonna have one too? Break time?”
“Yes, he will.” It was another new voice. “It’s break time.” Another man appeared and clapped the handsome bouncer on the shoulder. “In fact, take your lunch. Des Moines and I have it covered now that this fine gent explained BDSM to the only problem child we were watching.”
The bouncer—the same PI that had been in his morgue, Tracey—smiled at his cohort. “Thanks, Bethel Park.”
Paul got it. Everyone had nicknames based on their life. It told an interesting story. One he wanted to hear from State College.
The bartender slipped a napkin at him with something written on it. Paul looked down: he’s been burned, bad. last bf said he wasn’t gay enough. feel free to show him he is. He grabbed the napkin, folded it before State College could see it. And shoved it in his pocket.
He liked this place already. Kink wasn’t his thing, but camaraderie and loyalty were.
“Sorry about Don,” State College said. “He’s infamous in the community for being a douche.”
* * *
Staring at this pinnacle of masculinity, Tracey couldn’t help but hope he was gay. He desperately wanted to spend the night flirting and topping the night off by asking for a date.
The problem was that the type of guy he clearly liked was hard to spot. Despite coming in with a date, this guy could be bi, married, closeted or into—
