by Hank Edwards
“Are you cozying up to my county coroner to find out information about this murder?” the sheriff demanded.
Now it was Jazz’s turn to frown, giving him attitude right back. “First of all, you’re pretty possessive about the county coroner. Second, I was told to wait here by Michael’s assistant. I’ve given you my statement, so I’m out of it. I have an alibi.”
“A weak one,” the sheriff reminded him. “I’m gonna want to talk to you again.”
The sheriff shifted the large white box in his hands to one hip. Yesterday’s date and “Roberts, D” were written neatly on the side. Jazz wondered if the condoms full of heroin the sheriff had mentioned were inside.
“Yes, well…,” Michael began. But when they both looked at him, he didn’t have anything to add. “Yes, then.”
“I’ll talk to you later, Fleishman,” the sheriff said, and then he pointed at Jazz. “Don’t go skipping town, Dillhole.”
Stopping himself before he threw up his hands in disbelief, Jazz settled on giving the man a curt nod. “I won’t, and it’s Dilworth.”
The sheriff smirked. “Whoops. My bad.”
After he left, the two of them stood in the hallway, staring at each other.
“I’m sorry,” Michael gushed. “I didn’t realize how late it had gotten. I don’t usually take my phone in with me while I’m with a patient.”
“No worries,” Jazz assured him, happy to be alone with Michael again. And the scrubs he wore fit him well.
Easy to take off.
“I’m afraid I smell like… well?” Michael hesitated, then chuckled. “A coroner at the end of his shift. I can’t go to the festival like this. I’m so sorry to have ruined your evening.”
“Didn’t ruin it. It’s not even seven-thirty. I don’t mind waiting while you clean up.”
“Oh, okay, then.”
His awkwardness made Jazz second-guess himself. “That is, if you still want to go?”
“Oh, I do,” Michael said at once, their eyes meeting until Michael looked away with a blush. “I just don’t want to take advantage of your good nature.”
Jazz grinned. “I would wait for you all night, if you asked.”
He didn’t know where the corny line came from, but it had the desired effect.
Michael’s blush deepened, and his mouth alternated gaping and smiling for a second.
Damn, he’s so fucking cute!
Jazz decided to let him off the hook. “I can watch TV while you clean up, no worries. You got Netflix?”
“I only have one TV,” Michael said. “It’s in my bedroom.”
The hushed way he whispered the word bedroom sent a trickle of desire down Jazz’s back. “Sounds promising.”
Michael’s eyes widened, and then he spun on his heels and walked away. “I just have to turn the lights off and make sure everything is locked. I’ll be right back.”
As Jazz watched him hurry away, he grinned. He’d been having a shitty afternoon, but at least he’d have a great evening.
MR. PICKLES was being persnickety and didn’t want to come with them, so Michael left him in the parlor. Mr. Pickles had all his usual amenities, and there was no way he could disturb the funeral home’s current guest.
Michael was so nervous leading Jazz into his house, next door to the parlor. The small two-story, whitewashed brick in the French chateau style had been his childhood home, but after Dad passed away, he’d slowly made it his own. Since Dad had never been an outdoorsy sort, he’d sacrificed their side yard to expand the parking lot and half of the backyard for a four-bay garage, large enough for all the lawn and maintenance equipment Steve used, a hearse, the coroner van, and a personal car. Which left next to no outdoor space that wasn’t exposed to the business.
Two summers ago, Michael hired Steve and several of his friends to build a custom-designed flagstone patio off the back of the house, topped by a second-story wooden deck just outside the master suite. Wooden lattice-work covered with vining morning glories concealed both levels on the side facing the funeral parlor, providing plenty of privacy for his morning coffee. Michael had strung small white lights along the upper deck railings and on the support beams of the flooring for the second level, and plugged them into a timer so they would come on at sunset and go off just after the eleven o’clock news. Though he rarely entertained, he was quite proud of the renovations since he had taken over ownership.
Michael’s heart raced as Jazz followed him to the patio. As he fumbled with the key to the back door—Michael always locked the funeral parlor and his house when he left—Jazz looked around.
“This is really nice out here.” Jazz ran his hand over the built-in brick grill on the farthest corner of the patio. “It’s like an oasis all of your own.”
“Oh, yes, well. I like it. This is my more public entertaining area.” Not that he did much of that outside of cocktails when Grandpa visited. “The private one is just above us,” he added, and then his face flushed. He focused on the key, which didn’t seem to want to go into the lock.
“Well, I hope to one day make the cut to see the upper level.”
“Oh, I’m sure you will.” Michael could imagine Jazz—naked in the moonlight—stepping through the french doors in his master bedroom and onto the upper deck. Would he smile in surprise at the incredible view of downtown Lacetown and beautiful Lake Michigan a mere five blocks away? His private deck even offered a distant glimpse of the Lacetown Light through the branches of the old oak on the north side of his house. Would Jazz like it?
Michael paused in his struggles with the key to rest his forehead against the glass and take a breath. When he straightened up again, he was mortified to see a wide greasy mark on the glass. He looked over his shoulder, but Jazz had his back to him, looking at the postage-stamp yard, which Steve kept landscaped as nicely as the funeral parlor.
Michael used his shirt tail to try and wipe away the grease, but all he managed to do was smear the glass. His pulse boomed in his ears as he wiped harder at the sweat mark, but he finally gave up and positioned himself in front of it. He got the key in the lock and turned it, then slid the glass door open and looked back. Jazz had heard the door open and approached.
Straightening his glasses, Michael waved for him to enter. “Please, come in.”
“Said the spider to the fly.” Jazz grinned and winked as he walked past Michael into the kitchen.
Michael breathed in Jazz’s scent—something sweet yet herbal this time. He couldn’t be sure if it was his hair or cologne, but he liked it. A lot.
Once he closed the door, they stood looking at each other across the large, granite-topped island, the key clutched in Michael’s hand digging into his palm.
Jazz finally pulled his gaze from Michael and looked around. “I like your kitchen. Lots of counter space and light.”
“Yeah. Yep. It’s, unfortunately, not used as often as I would like.” He’d renovated it fully, new lighting, granite counters, tile backsplashes, oak floors, and white cabinets that complimented the architecture of the century-old house. Not a fan of stainless—dead bodies were stored in stainless refrigeration units—he’d opted to have wooden false fronts on his appliances.
“Looks straight out of a magazine.”
Michael smiled, admiring Jazz admiring his home. Then he winced. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m a terrible host. Would you like something to drink?” He pulled open the refrigerator and scanned the shelves. “Um, I’ve got both diet and regular pop, some filtered water, cranberry juice. Anything sound good?”
“I’m fine, thanks. Go ahead and get changed. I’ll wait down here.”
“Yeah. Of course. I’ll just go up to the bedroom. Um, my room.” Michael started to leave, then turned back. “Sorry. I’m acting strange because I’m a little nervous. I haven’t been on a date in a while, and….” The words faded out, and he shrugged. “Well, that’s all. I’m nervous. And sweaty.” He dragged the back of his hand across his forehead. “So sweaty. Sorry. I swea
t when I work and, obviously, when I’m nervous. Like now.”
“It’s okay. I’ll wait down here for as long as you need to get ready. Is there a sitting room or should I wait here in the kitchen?”
“Yes. Absolutely. I mean, no, you don’t have to wait here. The living room is in here.”
Michael led the way down the hall to the living room. Bookshelves lined one entire wall, the rest of the room simply furnished with pale gray walls and comfy brown leather furniture Mr. Pickles had scratched in places. “Make yourself at home.”
“If I did that, I’d be taking off my pants and shirt,” Jazz said with a chuckle.
“Oh, well. If you want to do that, by all means.” Michael’s nervous laugh sounded more like a hyena caught in a buzz saw, and he turned abruptly and fled up the stairs.
Kitty had come over and laid out the clothes she’d purchased for him, and he looked them over. Steve had been right about Kitty’s taste. The outfit really did look good, at least arranged on his comforter. There was no guarantee how it would look when he put it on. Either way, he was glad to have it, and that he had left it all in Kitty’s hands, and that she didn’t tease him too much about having a date and telling her it was an “important meeting.” Steve and Ezra had teased him enough.
Michael hurried into the bathroom and stripped off his scrubs, then stuffed them into the hamper. His tiled walk-in shower was modern and sleek, and he’d fallen asleep with a glass of wine and a good book more than once in the spacious soaking tub in the corner. As he showered, he and his cock were both very much aware of Jazz waiting at the bottom of the steps. What would Michael do if Jazz just took matters into his own hands and came upstairs and into the bathroom? Joined him in the shower?
Suddenly Michael had the fantasy of Jazz letting him wash that lush wheat-colored hair. Was all of Jazz’s hair that color? Or did he shave his balls smooth?
“Stop it,” Michael said as he massaged a scrub all over his face and tried hard not to wonder if Jazz liked to come on his partner’s face.
He washed his armpits, crotch, and ass twice—just in case. Then he turned the water to cool and stood under the shower spray for a moment as he ignored his persistent hard-on. There would be time for that later, hopefully with some help from Jazz.
With quick movements, he finished his shower. Rather than simply towel-drying, he blow-dried his body to keep his new clothes from sticking to him—hopefully the outfit would fit and look good on him. After walking through a light mist of cologne and quickly combing his hair, he got dressed and checked himself out in the full-length mirror.
A man far more stylish than Michael was used to seeing stared back at him, and a shiver of excitement went through him.
You got this, Michael.
Downstairs, Jazz was leafing through a casket catalogue and smiled when Michael entered the room. “Fancy duds.”
“Thanks.” Michael had the presence of mind not to tell Jazz that Kitty picked them out.
“Riveting stuff here,” Jazz said, turning another page of the catalogue. “I think I would look amazing in the Eternal Slumber smoky gray satin, don’t you?”
“Oh, well… um?” Is he making fun of me? Michael hesitated, but then decided no insult had been intended and played along. “You have expensive tastes.”
“I may be easy, but I’m not cheap.” Smiling, Jazz put the catalogue back on the table and stood up. “Ready to go?”
“I am if you are.”
“Let’s go paint this small town red.”
Chapter Nine
IT WAS a pleasant evening, and Michael suggested they walk down to the festival, which pleased Jazz to no end. But if he was hoping they could stroll hand in hand, no such luck. Michael had both of his hands neatly in the pockets of his tailored black leather jacket.
With his dark hair, pale skin, and those rich cranberry fitted jeans and black dress boots, Michael looked very stylish, with just enough sophistication that Jazz wondered if his torn skinny jeans, Doc Martens, and purple leather jacket was too flamboyant. He’d pulled his hair back into what annoying hipsters called a man-bun.
Jazz hated that fucking term.
As much as he hated all of the men who were growing their hair out simply to wear a man-bun. As a man with long hair since he graduated high school in the 80s, what hipsters called a man-bun was simply a man tying his long hair out of his way.
Could Jazz help it that he might have been part of starting this trend?
“I like your T-shirt,” Michael said.
Jazz looked down at his gray-wash T-shirt with a pair of haircutting scissors and a comb on it that said: I cut people. He chuckled. “I have a dark sense of humor.”
“I like the eyeliner too. Very… um,” Michael hesitated. “Very Bret Michaels.”
Jazz laughed. “I’ll take that as a compliment. He’s hot.”
“He is.”
When Jazz caught Michael checking him out, his steps found a lot more spring.
They arrived at the festival and got in line to pay their five-dollar admission. Jazz spied his customer Carrie Davis, who sat on the women’s auxiliary board, selling entrance fees.
“Jasper!” she said, smiling sweetly. “Just go ahead.” She handed him a plastic wristband.
“Can I have another one?” Jazz flipped a thumb at Michael. “I’m on a date.”
“With Mr. Fleishman?” she whispered—not too discreetly.
“Yes, with Mr. Fleishman,” he whispered back loudly, then winked at Michael.
Michael squirmed uneasily. “Good evening, Mrs. Davis.”
Carrie was probably approaching eighty—though well preserved by Botox, money, and Oil of Olay—and she patted Jazz on his cheek and handed him another plastic wristband. “You boys have fun now.”
“Wine?” Jazz suggested, gesturing to a wine vendor after they helped each other attach their wristbands.
Michael fidgeted, then smiled. “That would be lovely.”
“I think we need to get drink tickets, though,” Jazz said, noting the people walking by with strips of red tickets.
Nodding, Michael pointed to a woman sitting at a table with wheels of tickets and a cash box. Above her was a sign that said, “Drink tickets.”
“Okay, let’s get in line.”
Michael hadn’t said much since they left his house, and Jazz hoped a little wine might lubricate the conversation wheel. The night was warm, but the cool breeze off the lake made it light-jacket weather—Jazz’s favorite. The town was full of happy people, enjoying the music and literary-themed activities. He noted a booth set up with costumes and large posters of book covers, which were obviously photoshopped over classic literary backgrounds with individualized titles.
How clever and fun!
Michael withdrew his wallet as they approached the table selling drink tickets. Before Jazz could offer to pay—he’d invited Michael, after all—a woman’s voice made them jump.
“Jazz?”
They turned, and Trish Johnson, one of his clients and Lacetown’s mayor, came up to them. “I didn’t know you were coming down tonight.”
“Hi, Trish,” Jazz said, hugging her. When he pulled back, he adjusted her side sweep of gray bangs. “You look lovely.”
“And I did it myself,” she said, proudly fluffing her hair a little.
“Looks great.”
“Are you buying drink tickets?” she said, looking at the table.
“Yes, we were—”
She cut Jazz off with a wave, then addressed the woman. “Give me a big roll of those.” Then she handed them over to Jazz. “My treat.”
“Thanks,” Jazz said, smiling wide. “We really appreciate it.”
“We?” She blinked twice, and Jazz had to bury his irritation when she looked at Michael as if just noticing him. “Ah, Mr. Fleishman. I didn’t see you.”
He bowed his head politely. “Good evening, Mayor Johnson.”
Jazz had visions of Michael as a funeral director, his smile
genuine but somewhat false as well. It didn’t reflect in those pretty brown eyes at all. Jazz didn’t like that smile because it belonged to a different person, and not the one Jazz wanted to get to know.
Trish glanced at Jazz, then back at Michael. “Well, you guys try to have fun. Remember all the proceeds go to the renovations for the Lacetown Light Park.”
Holding up the drink tickets, Jazz smiled. “We will, and thanks again.”
Try to have fun? Jazz didn’t think he imagined her emphasis on the word try.
When she left, Jazz offered Michael an apologetic smile. “Sorry about that.”
Michael shook his head. “About what?”
Maybe he didn’t notice? Or maybe he chose to ignore Trish’s behavior? Or maybe Jazz was just being overly protective of Michael?
Jazz decided to forget about whatever Trish may or may not have been insinuating. “Never mind.” He flashed Michael a smile. “Looks like we’re drinking free tonight.”
“You’re very popular, I see.”
He blew a raspberry. “Maybe. But everybody’s always happy to see their hairdresser. We’re like their BFF who makes them feel like the most beautiful and important person in the world. We listen to all their drama, we’re always in their corner, and they like to return the good feelings. That’s all.”
“You definitely have the charm. You make it all seem so effortless.”
Jazz grinned, divided the tickets, and handed half to Michael before placing the rest in his jeans pocket. “Hopefully that charm earns me a good-night kiss.”
Even in the dark beneath the golden streetlights, he could see Michael’s deep blush and his awkward smile.
To Jazz’s surprise, Michael said, “Yes, well, the jury is deliberating on that one.”
Jazz threw back his head and laughed. “C’mon, let’s get some vino.”
