by Morgan Brice
He didn’t mention his odd hunches, the ones that always seemed to know the forgeries from the real deal. They were never wrong. Erik also didn’t mention his second sight, the way some objects gave him flashes of their history, showing the world as the object had seen it, a window in time.
Thank God that didn’t happen with everything. But it occurred often enough that he usually wore gloves to handle new acquisitions, until he could check them privately to avoid an embarrassing incident. He’d only told one person about that ability, Simon Kincaide, a grad school friend who was a psychic medium. Simon had understood. Erik knew others wouldn’t.
“I believe. In ghosts, I mean,” Susan said. “There are plenty of things about the world we don’t understand. Seems a little arrogant to think we’ve got it all figured out, don’t you think? I don’t understand why some people can see ghosts and others can’t, but I know enough people who have that I can’t dismiss it.”
Erik relaxed a little. Susan set him at ease. Most of his friends in Atlanta and on the cases he had worked were situational, so when they weren’t forced together by circumstances, the connection withered. He could count the friends who didn’t fit that pattern—Simon included—on one hand. It felt good to make a new friend who liked him just for being him.
“So every now and then, I pick up a hint of a drawl from you,” Susan said, going back for another small slice of meatloaf. “I get the impression you’re not a Jersey boy.”
Erik usually didn’t say much about his family, but he appreciated that Susan hadn’t just Googled him. “I’m from Columbia, South Carolina. State capital and all that. But I’ve been gone for a long while, and I’ve lived in New York, London, Rome, and Atlanta. I think the accent comes out most when I’m tired.” Or stressed or hurt, he didn’t bother to add. Josh had always chided him when his drawl slipped out, calling him a “redneck” and spewing bigoted stereotypes.
And yet, I sat there and took it. So what does that say about me?
“Your parents must be so proud. I imagine they’ll be the first to tune in if your TV show comes through.”
Susan meant well, but she didn’t know his family. “My sister was an Olympic athlete—brought home two silvers and a bronze in gymnastics—and now she coaches. If the TV is on at home, it’s usually because Macy has a televised meet.”
“That sounds exciting.” Susan didn’t press for more, and Erik got the impression that she read between the lines.
When Erik was growing up, Macy was being groomed for gold medals. All of his parents’ time and money went toward coaches, lessons, and going to competitions all over the country and later, the world. That usually meant no one was around to go to his high school plays or other events. Erik had worked part-time jobs and gotten scholarships to put himself through college and graduate school. He loved his sister, and he did his best not to hold his parents’ favoritism against her, but they weren’t really a close family.
“How about ice cream?” Erik asked. It wasn’t the smoothest segue, but it worked to get past an awkward moment. It wasn’t Susan’s fault that a question normal people could answer without blinking was such a minefield for him. Even now, with all his accomplishments, Erik had to remind himself that he wasn’t as invisible and replaceable as his parents’ indifference always made him feel.
“Count me in!” Susan replied with a grin. “And I know it’s still off-season, but once everything opens up for the summer, there are some fantastic local ice cream shops that make everything from scratch. I’ll have to take you!”
“You’re on.” He ran upstairs to get the ice cream out of the freezer and returned a few minutes later with a scoop and bowls.
“I’m really looking forward to seeing the town wake up from its winter nap,” he said as he set out generous portions of vanilla bean for both of them, finishing off what was in the carton. Once he got settled, he’d have to see about adding toppings to his grocery list. “I know a lot of shops and restaurants close in the off-season. I’m looking forward to getting the whole Cape May experience!”
He had fond memories of the seaside town with its stately Victorian homes and yellow-striped beach tents. Aunt Karen and Uncle Jim included Erik whenever they could in their vacations, saying it was because he was the same age as their boys. Now that he looked back on it, Erik guessed that they were doing their best to make up for his parents’ indifference. Their visits to Cape May had left a lasting impression.
“Oh, you’ll love it,” Susan gushed. She was definitely the town’s biggest booster. “I mean yes, there’s more traffic. But there’s also a lot more energy. Plus even more theater and music, live bands in the bars, fireworks—I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else!”
They chatted about favorite kinds of ice cream and desserts, fun topics without any stress. Once Susan scraped her bowl clean and licked every drop from her spoon, she sat back with a satisfied sigh.
“This has been fun. Thank you.”
Erik gave her a perplexed look. “You volunteered to spend an afternoon helping me unpack and brought dinner. I owe you a big thank you!”
Susan shrugged. “I enjoyed the company and got to see some lovely antiques up close. I stay pretty busy, but it’s nice to get out. Tank and Ziggy are good company, but the conversation gets a little one-sided.” Erik had already met Tank, the bulldog, and Ziggy, the black cat.
“Anytime,” Erik said. “This was fun.” Once he unpacked his kitchen boxes, he’d have to find the few recipes he could make well enough to serve to company and repay the favor.
Susan helped clean up the garbage and went to grab the slow cooker. She divided the leftover meatloaf and put half into a plastic container for Erik. “Here. It makes great sandwiches.”
“I never turn down good food,” he assured her. “Thank you—for everything.”
She grinned. “You’re very welcome. Don’t forget it’s Friday night—why don’t you wander into town and see if there’s anyone worth meeting? You never know if you don’t try!”
With that, she was out the door and across the yard. Erik watched out the window to make sure she got in safely, still thinking about her words. Before he could second-guess himself, he pulled out his phone and downloaded a dating app. As soon as the app registered his location, he uploaded a photo and sketched out a quick bio.
He hesitated, staring at the photo, worried it might not attract interest. He considered his looks fairly average, and he hadn’t devoted enough time to the bar or club scenes to gauge his effect on other men. He hadn’t had difficulty finding casual boyfriends in college and graduate school, but then he’d connected with Josh and taken himself off the market.
His light blond hair had a bit of a wave no matter how he styled it. Erik had always considered his blue eyes to be his best feature. They were dark like sapphires, and he thought they made up for other unremarkable features. At five foot ten, Erik wasn’t short, but he wasn’t terribly tall, either. Running and lifting weights kept him in good shape, although he doubted anyone would mistake him for an underwear model. His build remained on the slender side, even now that he was in his mid-thirties. He’d discovered long ago that he preferred men who were taller and more muscular, and had found that interest was often returned.
Erik paused. He really wasn’t looking for a quick fuck. The appeal of hookups had gone cold in grad school. Trying not to overthink this, he dismissed the profiles that made it clear they were “one and done.” Whether they were telling the truth, a few of the profiles indicated they wanted friends with benefits or were willing to start slow and see where it went.
For once, his intuition wasn’t telling him a damn thing as he looked through the remaining profiles. He picked one for “David,” a good-looking man with dark hair, a muscular build, and the promise of intriguing tattoos peeking from beneath the sleeves of his T-shirt. Then Erik gathered his courage and hit “send.”
Two
Ben
“What the hell did you pack in these
boxes? Rocks?” Sean Meirlach shifted the heavy moving box on his shoulder. Sean looked and sounded like the Jersey Shore guy he was, brawny and blunt.
“Books,” Ben replied. “You know, those rectangular paper things? Ever read one?” The teasing was good-natured. Ben Nolan had spent most of his summers working for his cousin’s mom, and they were thick as thieves. Which, Ben reflected, was a poor analogy for an ex-cop-turned-former-private-investigator. And now, at least for this summer, a vacation rental manager in beautiful Cape May, New Jersey.
“Yes, dumbass. I’ve read lots of books. And not just the ones with pictures in them,” Sean said with a smirk. Sean played up his bad boy persona, but Ben knew his cousin had plenty of brains, hustle, and street smarts.
“Good to know. I’d hate to have to break it to Aunt Meg that her favorite son was illiterate.”
Sean snorted. “Favorite son? I’m her only son, asshole. And she’s already pissed at me because I just want to run my food truck in Wildwood. Which is why you’re doing me a huge solid, taking over the family business.”
“Whoa, there! Hold up. I’m here for the summer. Just the summer. I said I’d see how it went. No promises.”
“Just the summer? You sure brought a lot of shit with you if it’s just for the summer.” Sean set the box down a little harder than necessary on a table in the upstairs apartment over the rental office, which would be Ben’s home for the next few months. Ben dumped the tangle of odds and ends he had carried up from the rented van and flopped onto the couch. He had put most of his things in storage when he left Newark and brought what he didn’t want to do without, or what the apartment didn’t have. Sean had driven the truck up to Cape May, while Ben drove his black Mustang, packed to the roof.
He owed Sean a lot for helping him move—and, if truth be told, for pushing him as the perfect candidate for the job to Aunt Meg.
“Don’t screw up the master plan, dude!” Sean chided. “You’re sick of the big city and getting shot. And I need a little of that good life, somewhere not quite as buttoned-down.” He reached for a bottle of water and took a swig. “I love this town, but I need to stretch my wings. And the vibe in Wildwood is different. People come for the Pier and the Boardwalk and the rides. More singles, not just families. And they all have to eat!”
Sean’s truck, Put A Ring On It, specialized in kickass onion rings, which went on everything—burgers, hot dogs, chicken wings, even chili. The combination of great food, a catchy name, and Sean’s outgoing personality had made for a very successful launch.
Ben knew that his cousin had dreamed of owning a restaurant for years, almost as long as Ben had wanted to be a cop. While Ben had earned his badge with the Newark Police Department, Sean had been the good son, helping his mother with the rental business after his father was sidelined with emphysema.
“I am really happy that you’re finally living the dream,” Ben said, and meant every word.
“We had a great first summer, and even though we’re in the off-season, there are enough events every weekend that we’re doing better than just okay.” Sean’s love for the truck and his new-found freedom were clear in his tone and in his radiant smile. “So I think we’re gonna crush it this summer. And if we do, maybe it won’t be too long before I can buy a second truck. It’s really happening, Benny, just like I always said.”
Ben took one look at how happy Sean was and felt like a jerk. Yeah, becoming a cop hadn’t worked out quite like Ben had expected, but he’d had a shot at his dream. Sean deserved his turn, and Ben could do worse than taking over an established business with a decent salary and an absentee boss who also happened to be his aunt and his biggest supporter.
“I’m sure I’ll love it here,” Ben said, trying to make amends. “My head’s spinning and I haven’t even unpacked my suitcase. I just need time to settle in.”
“Then let’s get to it so we can have a little fun later!” Sean and he were the same age—thirty-three—but Sean still acted like he was twenty-three and holding. Ben felt every moment of those years.
Maybe taking a few bullets had something to do with that.
The nightmares and PTSD were easing up, but his department-ordered therapist warned him that they might never completely go away. Three years later, Ben hadn’t seen as much of a difference as he’d hoped.
He’d been undercover on a racketeering bust that had been in the works for more than a year. His boyfriend hadn’t been able to take Ben’s absence and the secrets being undercover meant Ben had to keep. Caleb had bailed on him, moving out and leaving a note while Ben was on the job. Then someone in the department had tipped off the racketeers, the bust turned into a shitstorm, and Ben ended up shot twice and nearly died.
When he finally recovered, he had no desire to go back to the department, especially since the traitor was never caught. He took his settlement from the department and got his private investigator license. But after more than two years as a PI, seeing the worst of human nature, Ben was depressed and drinking too much, with nightmares worse than before. That was when Aunt Meg threw him a lifeline, offering him the chance to step into the family vacation rental business. They’d agreed he would work the season, and if he liked the job, Meg wanted to arrange a gradual buyout, since Sean had no interest in taking over. And so, here he was.
“What kind of fun?” Ben asked. God, when had he become such a wet blanket? He remembered their teens and early twenties, partying all night. Even his early years on the force had been all about “work hard, play harder.” Blowing off steam on the weekends diffused the terror of the worst moments on the job. Now he sounded like he planned to watch Jeopardy and fall asleep on the couch by ten.
“Chill, Badge-Boy. Nothing illegal. There’s a great bar—The Spike—with a fire pit, live music, and drink specials. We can walk, so no ride-share required. Some of my boys are coming down from Wildwood. You’ll like them.”
“Okay. That sounds good.”
“Do you remember Sherri, from when you worked summers up here?”
Ben searched his memories and came up with an image of a blond girl with short hair and a wide smile. “Yeah, kinda.”
“She and Jo own The Spike. Best bar in Cape May.”
“So did Sherri and Joe get married? We always thought they would.”
Sean chuckled. “That’s right, you’ve missed a few years. Yes, they’re married. And Joe is now Jo without the ‘e.’ Or, as she puts it, ‘same person, new and improved packaging.’”
“I guess I was away longer than I thought.” The town itself hadn’t changed much, but Ben figured he shouldn’t be surprised people he knew had moved on. He certainly wasn’t the same. Bullet wounds and a broken heart had made him wary of trusting, afraid to risk another betrayal. Maybe that was more proof that coming back to a familiar place was the right move.
Ben and Sean got the sound system set up first, and jokingly argued over whose playlist to blast while they finished unboxing and got Ben’s stuff squared away. Aunt Meg had paid her housekeeper to stock the fridge and freezer like she did for rental clients, so Ben could put off grocery shopping for a while and not starve. The apartment came furnished, but Ben had brought towels, and a stash of kitchen appliances, pans, and gadgets that went beyond the basics.
“Do you like the couch where it is?” Sean asked as Ben got his printer and computer station arranged and connected.
“Can I see the TV from the couch? If so, then yeah.”
“Just asking. I think we’re pretty much done with the heavy lifting.” Sean stood with his hands on his hips and turned in a circle, surveying the apartment. “Let’s get your art up, and then we can hit the town.”
Ben could have hung the pictures by himself, but it was so much easier with someone else to tell him when the height was right. Removable sticky hooks made short work of the task, and when he stepped back to admire their handiwork, he had to admit that his collection of framed Marvel movie posters went a long way toward making the apartment feel
like his space.
“Not too shabby,” Ben said, pleased with the way things looked. He had been afraid that his decorations would be as bland and lifeless as he felt inside. The movie posters had been packed away for a while because Caleb hadn’t been a fan. Other pieces were souvenirs that brought a smile when he looked at them. A painted vase from a long-ago trip to Cancun. A conch shell was a reminder of a vacation to the islands. German beer steins he had bought when he and Sean had done an Oktoberfest tour through New Jersey and Pennsylvania.
His awards and commendations stayed in storage. But over in the corner, he had the big Spider-Man statue Aunt Meg had bought him as a graduation present, next to a large—and transformable—Optimus Prime. Caleb had shamed him about his “geeky” favorites, and Ben had gradually hidden them away. Giving them prominent display in his new apartment felt like coming out all over again, a statement that he was never again going to hide who he really was.
Then again, he wasn’t expecting that he’d have many visitors other than Sean. Caleb walked out two years ago, and Ben still wasn’t sure he was ready for another relationship. His cop wariness made him leery of picking up guys at bars, and he wasn’t much for the club scene. At thirty-three, the idea of an anonymous fuck in a back room held no appeal. So far, he’d kept himself busy to stay distracted, and rubbed one out in the shower when he needed to scratch that itch. It wasn’t where he thought he’d be at this point in his life, but he hadn’t expected to end up managing rental real estate property, either.
I’ve still got my New Jersey PI license if I decide I want to go swimming in the sewer again.
“Tomorrow I’ll give you the tour of all the rental properties that aren’t occupied,” Sean promised. “But we’ve worked hard enough today. Let’s get cleaned up and go down to The Spike. I’m hungry, and I could use a couple of cold ones.”
Ben let Sean get the first shower, while he put his clothes in the dresser and chest of drawers in the bedroom. He snorted when he found a bottle of lube and a string of condoms, and tossed them into the nightstand drawer, figuring they’d probably pass their expiration date, unopened.
