The Mystery of the Moving Image

by C. S. Poe

  The other movies, to be precise.

  So, did that imply the Kinetoscope had come with more than one canister? But it hadn’t. Max and I had checked that crate inside and out. Or did—did he perhaps know about the murder spliced on the end? Were there more than one of those? Did that bring legitimacy to my suggestion that someone in modern times was somehow concerned about the content—be it uncovering who the victim and killer were, or perhaps even keeping those identities concealed?

  Or was this all nothing more than an elaborate attempt to hold me accountable for lost property?

  I huffed to myself.

  But why kill that kid? Brat though he might have been, no one deserved the fate he had. No one deserved to have their fucking body dumped as if it were actual trash. Maybe the kid wanted to call the whole thing off. Or maybe his partner didn’t want to share the potential cash I’d be liable for?

  And who was Mr. Licorice? I thought our suspicions of Pete had seemed legitimate. No one outside of my little circle knew about this footage except him. And Pete was well aware of what the Kinetoscope was. But even if he’d been working with the kid killed tonight… he hadn’t been the one to attack me. Pete looked fairly strong, sure, but he wasn’t tall enough. That, and while I hadn’t seen Mr. Licorice’s face, he’d gotten close enough that I’d have felt a beard on my ear, should it have been Pete.

  Was there a third person involved? Or was I suspicious of Pete just because I didn’t like him?

  I shuddered when a very real thought occurred to me: If Mr. Licorice expected me to have more movies—which I did not—was my fate going to be found inside of a dumpster too?

  The door buzzer nearly scared the shit out of me when it sounded, bouncing and echoing off the still-empty walls of the apartment.

  Dillon stood as I did and followed me to the door. He was a good dog. He’d protect me until Calvin got home. And be handsomely rewarded in biscuits.

  I tapped the intercom button. “Hello?”

  “It’s Neil.”

  “Hang on.” I hit the door buzzer, holding it down for a few seconds before letting go. I didn’t unlock the door until he knocked, and I checked the peephole to be certain it was actually Neil.

  Paranoid?

  A little, yeah.

  I opened the door, and Neil held out my messenger bag in one hand. “Thanks for coming all the way over.” I accepted the bag and dug inside for my glasses case.

  “I wasn’t far away,” he answered. “What happened to you?”

  “Hmm?” I looked up as I removed my sunglasses. He became a blurry gray blob before I slid my regular glasses on. “What do you mean?”

  Neil motioned to his own neck. “Are those bruises?”

  “What?” I instinctively touched my neck and felt that telltale tenderness just under the skin. “Christ….” I dropped my bag on top of Junk Mountain to my left. “It’s a convoluted story.” I held the door open wider.

  Neil glanced over my shoulder, likely surveying the living room, before reluctantly stepping inside. “What happened?” he asked again. He slid his hands into his trouser pockets.

  I shut the door and turned. Dillon was sniffing at Neil’s leg and hesitantly wagging his tail. Neil didn’t offer the pup any behind-the-ear scratches.

  “Want a drink?” I asked. “We have tap water.”

  “No.”

  “Sit down?”

  “I probably shouldn’t,” Neil stated.

  I opened my mouth, ready to accuse him of pulling some alpha male bullshit and to knock it off because it’s just a chair, but it occurred to me that Neil was simply being respectful. This wasn’t my house. It was our house. And he was being very mindful of Calvin’s personal, private space.

  “We never did have that cup of coffee,” I stated, voice sounding loud after the silence.

  His smile was distant. “Another time.”

  Doubtful. I knew Neil would never be in the same headspace to say what he wanted when we’d been standing in front of the bank. And maybe it was for the best.

  I simply nodded and soldiered on. “Someone attacked me.”

  His posture changed, and Neil grew more alert. “Someone—what the hell?”

  “Calvin put me in a cab home, I got inside when a neighbor was leaving the building, and he must have slipped in behind me before the door shut. I got all the way up here, and when I was trying to figure out how to get inside without my keys, he grabbed me from behind and started choking me.”

  “Sebastian! Jesus! Did you—”

  “The police were already here,” I interrupted.

  “And?”

  “I filed a report, but he’d run off before I got much of a look.”

  “Did he rob you?”

  “No. Well, yes, technically. I had a canister of film. He took that and wanted more movies.”

  Neil stared blankly.

  “That machine you were fingerprinting at the Emporium is a movie viewer.”

  Neil took a hand from his pocket and held it up. “So this may have been the man who killed Dumpster John Doe?”

  “He certainly wasn’t after my Buster Keaton collection,” I answered. Which, mind you, I’d lost when my apartment went up in flames. Calvin had recently replaced it for me. I think he enjoys silent comedies more than he cares to admit.

  Neil walked toward me. “Show me your hands.”

  “What?” I held them both up.

  “Out. Palms down.”

  I did as instructed.

  “Do you know if you happened to scratch the assailant?” Neil carefully put his fingertips on my palms and raised my hands up for closer inspection.

  “I don’t think so. He wore a long-sleeve shirt—a hoodie.”

  “You keep your nails too short.”

  “For collecting the DNA of strange and unhinged men? My bad.”

  “Not now, Sebastian.”

  I sighed.

  He let go of my hands and said, “Give me your clothes.”

  “I’m in a relationship that utilizes an ampersand. But thank you.”

  Neil pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know you’re being a smart-ass because you’re scared—”

  “Whoa, who said I was scared?” I said, speaking over him.

  Neil raised an eyebrow. “We dated for four years, Seb. It’s not like we forgot each other’s habits upon breaking up—the good, bad, and ugly ones. I’m trying to help, okay? Spare me the attitude.”

  I was scared.

  Shit scared, if I was being honest.

  I’d wanted to throw up most of the night.

  My business had been invaded. My home wasn’t safe. I felt helpless—like I was standing at the East River Greenway with a gun to my head all over again.

  I needed Calvin. I needed him to wrap his arms around me, hold me against his chest, and whisper, “I’ll protect you.”

  Because Calvin never broke his word.

  But the world simply doesn’t have enough heroes, and he was needed elsewhere tonight.

  So… if I was calm enough—smart enough—I’d be okay.

  I could watch my own ass.

  I’d managed to get this far in life.

  I was just feeling… a moment of insecurity.

  That was all.

  I cleared my throat and took a step back. “I’ll go change.”

  I walked through the living room and heard Dillon patter behind me, then stop at the bottom of the stairs as I went up. Once I reached the loft, I stood at the foot of the bed and undressed. I made a folded pile before finding my pajamas pants and tugging those on. I sifted through the T-shirts hanging up in the closet, picked one of Calvin’s, and pulled it over my head.

  The scent was a brief comfort, but my reflection in the mirror beside the door was a fucking joke, shattering the respite my partner’s clothing had given. Calvin was a brick wall, all height and muscle. I looked like I was drowning in his shirt.

  Too many cookies. A sedentary lifestyle. Soft hands from working with p
ages instead of firearms.

  Maroon sweater.

  Red socks.

  “Stupid….”

  Suck it up.

  It would be okay.

  Just another moment of insecurity.

  That was all.

  I yanked the shirt off, grabbed one of my own, and put it on. I found a paper bag on the floor from part of the moving mess, stuffed the day’s clothing into it, took Calvin’s shirt into my other hand, and went downstairs.

  “Here.” I held out the bag as I reached Neil once again.

  He took it and glanced at Calvin’s shirt in my hand. “That too?”

  I shook my head. “It’s Calvin’s.”

  “All right.” Neil turned a bit, then paused. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  He knew. “If you want—no one will blame—” Neil paused and collected his thoughts. “I’ll stay, if you want company. I’ll call Winter and let him know so he’s not, you know, taken off guard or something.”

  “Thanks… but… I think I’ll be fine.”

  “You sure?”

  I smiled and waved my free hand in an “ehhh” fashion.

  Neil looked down at the bag of clothes. “I’ll have these checked out for trace evidence.”

  “There’s probably nothing,” I said. “I went for a walk afterward and picked up dinner.”

  “Better to be safe.” Neil started for the door. “Come lock this behind me.”

  I followed, murmured a goodbye, and shut the door. I glanced through the peephole. Neil was standing in the hall. I turned the dead bolt on the door, and when he heard it, he left.

  Silence settled on my shoulders like heavy weights.

  I wished my ego hadn’t sent Neil away. I was sure he wanted to go to bed after a long day, but he’d offered to stay. And this apartment was new. Unfamiliar. I was still learning the sounds the building and its occupants made.

  I walked across the room, and Dillon followed. I picked up a few throw pillows from the couch and tucked them under one arm. I grabbed one of the chairs from the partially buried table with the other, and dragged it to the door. I shoved the chair under the knob, made sure it was secure, then got down on the floor.

  I put my head on one of the pillows and pressed Calvin’s shirt against my chest.

  Dillon lay down at my side.

  If I was calm enough—smart enough—I’d be okay.

  Chapter Eight

  IN THAT distant, hazy place where reality began to seep into dreams, I heard a key unlock a door. Then a knob turned—a thump and a creak.

  I cracked open an eye and watched Dillon jump to his feet, staring at the front door just behind me. I sat up, fixed my glasses, and looked to see the chair holding firmly in place, despite someone trying to get into the apartment.

  A knock.

  Wait….

  And another.

  “Sebastian?”

  The knob was twisted again.

  I got up, dragged the chair away, and threw the door open.

  Calvin looked up, holding his cell to his ear.

  The house phone on the opposite side of the apartment rang.

  Without a single second of hesitation, I leaped forward and wrapped my arms around Calvin’s neck. The phone stopped ringing. His arms locked around me.

  I took a deep breath, picking up notes of cinnamon, the lingering whispers of his cologne, and the city night. “I’m really glad you’re home,” I mumbled.

  Calvin lifted me off my feet and silently walked us into the apartment. He set me down and, with one hand, shut the door and threw the dead bolt.

  “What time is it?” I whispered, still holding on to him. The heat radiating from Calvin’s body, the gentle thump, thump, thump of his heart against my own chest—they were a soothing balm over my stressed soul.

  “Three in the morning,” he answered, just as quiet. Calvin tilted his head and kissed my hair. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing that can’t wait until daylight,” I said, finally taking a step back. “Can we go to bed?”

  It was sort of obvious I’d been scared—what with the chair—but Calvin looked as exhausted as I felt. He simply nodded and followed me through the dark apartment to the loft.

  I set my glasses on the nightstand, pulled back the blankets on the bed, and collapsed on the new mattress. Calvin undressed and left his clothes on the floor to be dealt with later. He climbed in beside me in nothing but boxer briefs, tugged me closer, and wrapped his arms around me.

  Heaven.

  MY ARM was asleep.

  I yanked it free from underneath Calvin and rolled over. My fingertips tingled as blood pumped back into them.

  Calvin moved with me. He slid an arm underneath mine and pressed himself against the length of my back. Waking up to fresh bedding and a powerful, living body at my side made me feel strong. Fear that had been worming its way back into my heart last night scurried away like a mouse after hearing the roar of a lion. It was a good thing. The insecurity and worthlessness that had cropped up alongside the very real concern for my safety had been almost too much.

  I grunted. “No.”

  “No, what?” Calvin murmured.

  “If you’re awake, that means it’s time to get up.”

  “We don’t have to get up yet,” he said, breath ghosting across the back of my neck.

  “I don’t want to get up ever,” I corrected, speaking into the pillow.

  “How’re we supposed to eat?” Calvin asked, words still a little slurred from sleep.

  “Delivery.”

  He chuckled and tightened his hold on me. “Pretty sure they don’t offer in-bed service.”

  “An untapped market.”

  Calvin reached underneath my shirt and trailed his hand up my chest.

  “Don’t say it,” I warned.

  Calvin sat up on his elbow and kissed my ear. “I’ll service you in bed,” he said, voice deep and sexy, but I could hear the smile in his tone.

  I laughed and looked over my shoulder. “What did I just say?”

  “It was too easy.”

  “Usually I’d take you up on it, bad joke and all,” I said as I rolled onto my back.

  “You slept with your contacts in again.”

  “Fuck, I know.” I rubbed one eye. “But we can’t,” I continued.

  “Why’s that?” Calvin asked. He propped his head up and let his free hand caress my exposed stomach and hip.

  “I threw out the condoms.” I blinked a few times as the red-tinted contact adjusted itself.

  “That was silly.”

  “It was like being stabbed in the ass by a lightsaber.”

  Calvin snorted and pressed his face against my shoulder. “Jesus, baby.”

  “And I never made it to the drugstore yesterday,” I finished before glancing at him. “Unless you’ve stashed one somewhere for emergencies?”

  “Sure, in my shoulder holster.”

  I cocked my head to the side. “What? Really?”

  “You know what they say about protection.”

  I rolled my eyes and shoved Calvin. “You’re so full of shit this morning.”

  He smiled and slipped his hand under the waistband of my pajama bottoms, then leaned in and kissed me. Deeply. Exploringly. Like we had forever and his alarm wasn’t going to beep soon and demand the start of another day.

  It was just me and him, and we were about to lose control.

  Calvin broke the kiss, shoved the blankets off us, and held my arms as he rolled onto his back. He reached up, yanked my shirt over my head, and tossed it in the general direction of the laundry pile he started last night. He sat up and took my mouth again—harder, like a man who survived on kisses alone and he was starving.

  Calvin bit my lower lip before pulling away. “I want to suck your cock,” he groaned. “Do you want that? To fuck my face?”

  “Have I ever turned down the offer?”

  Calvin leaned forward and started nipping my neck, biting th
e spot that made my eyes cross.

  The one thing I wasn’t in the mood for that morning was dirty talk. From me—I should reiterate. I’d had enough blows to my ego in the last twenty-four hours. I really wasn’t up to feeling like an awkward fool this early, even if Calvin insisted it was good for him.

  “I want to suck you too,” I said quickly. “How about at the same time?”

  Calvin let up on my neck. He gave me the sexiest goddamn smile I’ve ever had the honor of being on the receiving end of, then threw me onto my back. I let out a yelp as I fell backward on the mattress. Calvin leaned over me—all muscles, freckles, thigh-hugging briefs, and Christ… I was going to bust a nut then and there.

  “Can you stop being gorgeous?” I asked. “For like—ten seconds. Hold on.” I closed my eyes and reached down to give my dick a firm don’t misfire squeeze.

  Calvin chuckled. His voice was so deep and beautiful that a conversation about toothpaste usually left my gut doing somersaults. Imagine how my balls felt when he was actually trying to be sexy?

  “No talking either,” I added before taking a deep breath.

  The mattress shifted, and when I opened my eyes again, Calvin was entirely naked.

  Fuck. I’d been looking forward to getting him in bed since yesterday. I was so amped up now, I wasn’t going to last.

  “I’m going to beat the alarm clock,” I stated.

  “That’s all right.” Calvin tapped my hips and pulled my pajamas off when I raised them.

  “All the self-control of a teenager with their first dirty magazine. Flip right to the centerfold.”

  Calvin leaned over me. “My first was Blueboy and I spent on the cover.”

  “I had Playgirl hand-me-downs from onetime handjob buddy, Ethan Cohen.”

  “Yikes.”

  “Tell me about it. Some of those pages were stuck together. Man of the Month for February tore.”

  “Are you sufficiently distracted?” Calvin asked after a beat.

  “What? Oh—oh yeah. I’m good.”

  He smiled and lay on his back. “Come up here.”

  Sometimes getting into positions necessary for letting someone put their mouth in interesting areas wasn’t so much a game of sexy Twister, but one of “oops, sorry,” “closer,” and “ouch, fuck—no, I’m fine.” In past relationships, I’d always felt embarrassed in those moments. I still did. But… less so, I guess. Sometimes. My subtle growth in self-confidence had been warring with my tendency to self-deprecate as of late.