Every Breath You Take

by Robert Winter

  Every Breath You Take

  By Robert Winter

  When Zachary Hall leaves Utah for a job in Washington, it’s finally his chance to live as a gay man and maybe find someone special. In a bar he meets Thomas Scarborough, a man who seems perfect in and out of the bedroom. But Thomas never dates. He never even sleeps with the same man twice. Despite their instant connection, he can offer Zachary only his friendship, and Zachary is looking for more.

  Thomas is tempted to break his own rules, but years before, he became the victim of a stalker who nearly destroyed his life. Even though his stalker died, Thomas obsessively keeps others at a distance. Despite his fascination with Zachary, he is unable to lower his barriers. Frustrated, Zachary accepts he will never have what he wants with Thomas and soon finds it with another man.

  But young gay men in Washington, DC, are being murdered, and the victims all have a connection to Thomas. Once again someone is watching Thomas’s every move. Can it be a coincidence? When the depraved killer turns his attention toward Zachary, Thomas must face the demons of his past—or lose his chance to open his heart to Zachary forever.

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  More from Robert Winter

  Readers love September by Robert Winter

  About the Author

  By Robert Winter

  Visit Dreamspinner Press

  Copyright

  To Colin James, for his friendship and his help in my writing adventures.

  Prologue

  BRIAN GALLAGHER stormed out of the bar into a cold February night, but he failed to notice when the door opened again behind him. A man with silver-framed glasses emerged slowly and focused his eyes on Brian’s retreating back.

  Brian twisted his scarf around his neck and then yanked up the zipper on his red puffy jacket with trembling hands. The zipper stuck, and he muttered, “Shit,” but kept tugging until finally the slider moved and the teeth closed. The parking lot was mostly full with people coming and going from Mata Hari, the newest gay bar in town, and the nearby dance club Pyramid. He stomped across the lot toward P Street and pulled out his phone.

  “Hey, kiddo.” Sandra sounded cheerful when she picked up the call, even though she probably guessed what was coming. “Whatcha doin’ calling on a Saturday?”

  “I’m going home already because I’m having a shitty night.” Between his own anger, the pulsing beat from Pyramid’s music system, and the chatter of men scurrying from car to club, he practically had to yell into the phone. “Talk to me and make me feel better, please?”

  “Aw, baby, wassup? I thought you were gonna hook up with that guy again.”

  “That’s what I thought. Well, it’s what I hoped, anyway. We were so hot last week. I was sure he’d want to get together again. He wasn’t even talking to anyone important, just this guy. But when I walked up, he shut me down.”

  “So… you didn’t have a date. You just surprised him?” Sandra asked.

  “Well, you know.” Brian was aware he sounded whiny. “He wouldn’t give me his number last week, but I still figured he’d be happy to see me.” He emerged from the parking lot and headed up P Street toward his apartment. “The sex was just spec-tac-ular. Like ‘once in a lifetime’ great. And he was so nice to me. I thought we had, like, a connection.”

  “Baby, did he say he wanted to see you again? If he didn’t give you his digits, then that sounds intentional….”

  “Okay. He did say it was a one-time thing, he doesn’t do dating, blah blah blah. But come on. We had sex twice that night. Twice. Like, I never gave it up so fast before.”

  “Bullshit. You’re as easy as they come,” Sandra said, probably to get a laugh, but it didn’t work. Brian just got mad again.

  “That asshole. Who does he think he is? God’s gift to men?” he fumed. “Yes, he’s gorgeous, but come the fuck on. Like, I got so pissed that I threw his own drink at him.”

  “Well, he’ll remember you, then, no question. But I’m sorry he hurt your feelings.”

  Brian deflated suddenly. “What’s wrong with me, Sandra?” he asked as he turned right onto Hopkins Street, where he lived. “Why do I keep going for these guys who treat me like shit?” The streetlamp on the corner was out.

  Oh, fucking perfect.

  His footsteps sounded loud to him once he turned off busy P Street. His quiet block was dark because of the busted streetlight.

  “Nothin’, baby. You just get close too quickly because you’ve got a big heart and you want a big love,” Sandra cooed in his ear.

  “You always say the right thing,” Brian sighed. “But I’m a goddamn mess. I know it, and you know it.”

  As he expected, Sandra kept talking and tried to persuade him the right guy was out there somewhere, waiting for him. He just needed patience. She’d given him variations on the same speech so many times she must have it memorized. But he loved her for it.

  As he hurried down the street toward his rented garden apartment, he heard the scuff of a shoe behind him. He glanced back over his shoulder and noticed a man with shaggy blond hair and glasses, walking in the same direction but on the opposite side of the street. He thought no more about it and got out his keys to unlock the wrought iron security gate at the bottom of the stairs. He was relieved the metal didn’t squeal anymore when he turned the key and pushed it open. His landlord must have oiled the hinges.

  “Thanks, Sandra.” Brian locked the gate behind him and then unlocked the front door. He pressed the phone between his ear and shoulder as he pulled off his jacket and hung it on the coat tree by the door. “You have once again fulfilled ‘Best Friend for Life’ duties.”

  “You home safe?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Home at ten on a Saturday night, alone,” Brian groused as he unwound the scarf from his neck and placed it with his coat. “Guess it’s time for, like, ice cream and a sappy movie.” As an afterthought he flipped the lock on his front door and then turned on a lamp.

  “You want me to come over, baby?” Sandra asked.

  “Nah. That’s sweet, but I just need some time to beat myself up. I’ll get back out there again next week. Besides, I don’t want you on the streets this late.”

  “I’ll see you in class Monday, ’kay? Call me if you need to talk some more.”

  “Thanks for listening.” Brian signed off with another sigh. He set his phone on the side table and then changed out of his bar clothes and into comfortable sweats. He pulled a pint of Ben and Jerry’s out of the freezer. Curled up on his small sofa. Searched through his Netflix queue and finally settled on a really bad romantic movie he’d seen three times already.

  Just to make sure I’m completely miserable.

  ACROSS THE street the man with the silver-framed glasses stood back in the shadows and stared at the front window of the garden apartment. He could
see the back of his quarry’s head as he watched a small flat-screen TV.

  Time passed.

  Eventually the head nodded forward and then jerked up. When it happened a second time, the creature turned off the TV and then the lamp and headed to bed.

  The man waited for another half hour with his back pressed against an alcove formed where two brownstones met. The street was quiet. Almost no one walked by, and the lone person who came down the street failed to notice him in the shadows.

  The man felt his breath grow hoarse, and blood rushed in his ears as his heart began to pound. He cultivated that sensation as he reached into his coat pocket for the screwdriver that rested there and made himself imagine the creature’s hands touching the Beloved’s face. Stroking his body. He curled his fingers around the screwdriver and then clenched and unclenched rhythmically. Its thick handle felt rough against his palm because of the grooves and sharp edges he had chiseled into it. He had ideas for other implements that would serve his purpose, but for now, this would do just fine. This would make his point.

  His throat was dry, and his eyes burned from focusing on the darkened window, but he felt invincible. The tension in his body climbed exquisitely, and when he could take no more, he slipped across the street and stepped down to the locked gate. It opened easily with his small set of picks. The gate made no noise when the creature went through it earlier, so he was confident and quick and didn’t bother to lock it behind him. Child’s play, he thought as he worked the lock on the apartment door.

  The tumblers clicked into place.

  He stored his lockpicks, slipped inside the darkened apartment, and then closed the door behind him as silently as he could. Streetlight came through the slatted blinds the boy had failed to close completely. He waited quietly until he heard a faint snore from the back and then removed his glasses and tucked them in an inside pocket of his jacket. The scarf his quarry had been wearing caught his eye, and the man bared his teeth as he lifted it off the coat tree and tugged it tightly between his hands. It was well made. It would hold. He smiled.

  He slid through the gloom toward the room where the creature lay sleeping. He was hard, and the blood in his erection pulsed in time to the pounding of his heart. That boy had dared to touch his Beloved. He had probably even been fucked by him. But that wasn’t enough—oh no. He came back for more.

  It had taken the man so long to find his Beloved and interpret his subtle clues. He finally understood what was required of him. The undeserving gnat must be chastised, and he would be the Beloved’s angel of retribution. He was conscious of the weight of the screwdriver in his pocket, the scratch of the wool scarf in his hands, and the power in his arms.

  He reached for the boy on the bed.

  ON MONDAY, when Brian Gallagher failed to show up for class, Sandra Yu went by his apartment. She found the gate open and the front door unlocked. After an anguished moment, she called the police rather than go inside. That was a good decision because the sight of her best friend—face down, naked except for a scarf knotted around his neck, his buttocks and bed covered with blood and other matter—would have scarred her for life.

  Chapter 1

  ZACHARY HALL rocked back and forth on his heels as he stared up at the sign that read Mata Hari—his first gay bar. Ever since he accepted the new job in Washington, DC and knew he was finally—finally—leaving home, that was the milestone he’d looked forward to the most.

  Ogden had a few gay bars, of course, and his buddy Fred and the others from his college circle frequently tried to get him to go. The fear of being seen always held him back. If he were spotted, if word got back to his parents…. Well, he wasn’t sure exactly what they would have done, but it wouldn’t have been good.

  Now, though, Zachary was in a new town, with his own money, a job he was going to love, and an apartment. And at last he was going to see what a real gay bar was like. Would there be a back room, like the setting of a lot of the porn Fred had shown him? Public sex? Men in leather? It was Saturday night, the lot was full, and he was ready to take on the world.

  Zachary took a deep breath and made himself walk across the parking lot toward the entrance. Two men walked into Mata Hari ahead of him, hand in hand, so he grinned and made a point of falling into step right behind them.

  Bring it on, baby.

  When Zachary entered the bar, he was relieved to find it was elegant, comfortable, and apparently respectable. Relieved, but maybe a bit disappointed.

  The main room was filled with club chairs, deep sofas, and small cocktail tables. The windows were covered in Roman shades of a cream silk decorated with stripes of red and gold. All the seats he could see were filled with nicely dressed people. Men mostly, but a few women here and there, sipped cocktails and chatted. The mahogany bar that framed the back of the room had an old-world feel, with carved wooden figures running up and around a large mirror. High-backed stools faced the bar, and most of those were occupied as well. The walls were decorated with an eclectic collection of art. Many pieces looked to him like actual oils rather than prints. Other smaller rooms branched off from the main bar.

  A grand piano took up one corner of the room and a black woman with some gray in her hair sat before it. She played softly as she chatted with a few patrons who stood around her or leaned against the piano, and Zachary could tell she was good.

  The overall effect was of being in someone’s home for a cocktail party. Whatever he’d expected or secretly yearned for, that wasn’t it. But he loved it instantly.

  When Zachary checked his overcoat in the coatroom by the door, he was glad he dressed up a bit for this first foray to Mata Hari. The online reviews had told him the bar was new and attracted an upscale crowd. He wasn’t sure what that meant but figured he couldn’t go wrong with black trousers and a nice button-down.

  Now that Zachary was there, though—now that he’d broken through the fear of being seen and outed—he didn’t know what to do next. He looked around at the crowd and tried to make his feet move, but he was suddenly nervous again.

  It’s just people, for God’s sake. They’re drinking and talking and having fun. You can do this.

  Most patrons were paired up or in small groups, though he did notice one man with shaggy blond hair and silver-framed glasses standing by himself in a distant corner. Zachary took a deep breath and walked up to the bar, where he waited near the hinged opening in the wooden countertop for the muscular bald bartender to notice him.

  Damn. That guy is hot. The man was probably late forties or early fifties and stood well over six feet tall. He had a face made up of hard planes and a nose that appeared to have been broken at least once. A bit of dark scruff framed his strong jaw. His broad chest stretched a fitted white shirt, which was tucked into trim black pants that curved over a meaty rump.

  Woof. Serious muscle daddy. Straight off one of the websites Fred follows.

  The solidly built man was chatting with a customer and leaned forward so his big hands and thickly corded forearms rested on the bar. Zachary glanced at the customer then and thought his heart would stop.

  The man reclined casually against his bar stool. He had one arm extended so his hand wrapped around a rocks glass full of ice and amber liquid. The other arm rested on the back of his stool, and his long fingers dangled down. He was probably a few years older than Zachary, maybe early thirties, and wore a tailored black blazer over a blue dress shirt paired with black jeans. He had dark wavy hair, and his eyebrows were thick. His straight nose carried a slight upturn at the end, and his smiling lips were full. He was the most handsome man Zachary had ever seen, and when he happened to turn his head a bit, he met Zachary’s gaze. His large blue eyes crinkled at the corners, and he brightened the smile even more.

  Zachary blushed to be caught staring and quickly turned his head. He focused his eyes straight ahead at the liquor bottles along the back of the bar.

  “What’ll it be?” a low, gravelly voice said, and Zachary jerked his head as the b
artender moved over to his end of the counter.

  “Oh, um… can I get a seven and seven, please?”

  “Sure, soon as I see your ID,” the bartender all but growled, and Zachary fished it out of his wallet. The big man took the Utah driver’s license in his thick fingers and scanned it. “Twenty-seven, huh? Coulda fooled me. I figured you for nineteen, maybe twenty.”

  The bartender’s tone wasn’t exactly friendly, but maybe he wasn’t as scary as he looked either. Zachary licked his lips and shot back, “Someday that will feel like a compliment, but right now, I have to tell you that having a baby face usually sucks.”

  The bartender laughed—a deep rumble Zachary could feel across the bar. He turned to get the bottle of Seagram’s 7 to make the drink. Zachary risked another sidelong glance at the handsome customer and saw he was in conversation with two other men. One appeared to be in his sixties with white hair. The other was a bit younger—maybe late forties or early fifties—and taller with brown hair. The white-haired man was effusive and gesticulated wildly as he talked. The brown-haired man had an arm around his waist, and Zachary smiled at the palpable connection between the two.

  “Seven and seven. That’s twelve dollars,” the bartender said, and Zachary handed him a twenty. More customers waited behind him to order, so Zachary took his change, left a nice tip, and carried his drink closer to the piano. Maybe he’d be able to get up his courage to talk to someone after he lurked a bit.

  The woman at the piano nodded slightly at him as he approached, and he dipped his head as well. He took a swallow of his seven and seven and looked around the room. A flash of blue caught his attention. As he focused on that, he realized he was staring at the shirt of the handsome customer as he rotated on his bar stool. The stranger smiled in his direction—kindly, Zachary thought, not in a patronizing way—and inclined his head to address the white-haired man.

  Embarrassed to have been caught looking again at a man so far above his reach, Zachary turned his attention squarely to the piano player. One of the patrons who rested his elbow on the piano started to sing a show tune Zachary remembered from his mom’s record collection. The guy had a nice tenor voice, and Zachary leaned back against the wall to listen. When the song ended, Zachary joined in a little applause. Another customer asked for “Moon River,” so the piano player modulated right into that song and encouraged those standing around to pick up the melody.