by Morgan Brice
The clock would show up in press and tourist photographs, since the Commodore Wilson played host to celebrities from around the world. Those photos established that both clocks were in their rightful place and established an alibi as good as a timestamp.
Erik lifted the clock again and thought the weight felt odd. He laid it on its face and carefully opened up the back with a tiny screwdriver from the kit. Erik wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t two faded, folded ledger pages and a yellowed photograph of Cafaro standing over a man’s dead body, holding a gun.
He sat back and stared at the clock, wondering what Ben would make of this new development. Somehow, it hadn’t surprised him that Ben had been a cop—or an investigator. He had a hardness to him that suggested law enforcement, or at least ex-military, even though Ben was trying to start over.
Which meant that it probably hadn’t escaped Ben’s notice when Erik had zoned out as he touched the clock and got a flash of insight, or there at the end, when he had been staring at Cafaro’s ghost over Ben’s shoulder. Erik wondered how Ben would take it if he told him the truth, and decided it wouldn’t go over well. Cops stuck to what they could see and prove.
Since Cape May had more than its share of documented hauntings, claiming to have seen Cafaro’s ghost wouldn’t be too strange. Ben might not believe, but perhaps he wouldn’t think Erik was lying or crazy—or making a dramatic bid for attention. The mental images from the past, though, that would be asking too much.
Erik had seen TV shows featuring psychics and mediums. His buddy Simon was both and made his living from what Simon called his Gifts. Simon seemed comfortable in his own skin, so if he’d ever had a problem with his abilities, he’d made peace with it, owned it just like he was open about being gay. Erik had come out as gay a long time ago. But he was still in the back of a haunted closet when it came to his visions. He’d always thought of his abilities as a burden. Ben was likely to see them as a liability.
Maybe it wasn’t a bad thing that Ben might not stay in Cape May. Despite their attraction, even if Ben was really interested, he wouldn’t stick around. Not when he found out what a freak Erik was, and not even the sexy kind.
Eight
Ben
Ben rushed upstairs as soon as he finished going over the books with Sean, glad to close the rental office for the night. He hadn’t told his cousin about meeting Erik for dinner, but Sean guessed something was going on and had surprised Ben by not ribbing him about it.
In fact, in his own affectionately obnoxious way, Sean had urged Ben to have a good time, then asked if he needed to pick up any “supplies” before the big night out.
Ben let his imagination supply the images that would require those “supplies.” Erik’s lean chest against his own, his strong, slender body naked and his cock hard and leaking. Would that happy trail of his be blond or ginger? Ben wondered. Was he cut or uncut? Ben’s mind supplied the details, and his cock stiffened eagerly.
It’s just dinner. Doesn’t mean anything’s going to happen.
Maybe not, but that didn’t keep Ben from wishing. He rubbed one out in the shower, but that only took the edge off. Nothing compared to the real thing.
Ben took more time to get ready than usual, even though he wasn’t sure their dinner counted as a date. Or, more to the point, Ben wasn’t sure Erik considered the night out to be a date. But with luck, maybe the evening would end that way.
He’d finally decided on a blue shirt over black jeans. Nice, but not too fussy. Despite the disastrous first attempt at The Spike, Ben knew he was seriously out of practice. He’d liked Erik after just one meeting. The run-in this afternoon just confirmed that attraction.
He still wondered what Erik was holding back. Then again, it was hardly like Ben had spilled his entire life story, either. By the time anyone was over thirty, there were likely to be ghosts and scars, topics that would take years of trust to discuss, and some that might stay buried forever. Absent a fresh corpse and a smoking gun, Ben resolved to give Erik that space and see what happened.
The walk to Trinkets wasn’t far, and Ben arrived a few minutes early. He had checked out the store’s website and found a little about Erik’s background. The bio on the site listed Erik’s Ph.D. in Art History and Preservation from USC and mentioned having worked with museums around the world, although the nature of those jobs was vague. Part of him felt guilty for having checked up on Erik, while his cop self wanted to dive deeper.
Once again, he had the feeling that Erik was hiding something. Ben pushed it from his mind. Tonight, he hoped to get to know Erik better. If that worked out, perhaps he’d eventually get the answers he needed to put that annoying inner voice to rest.
This time, the “Closed” sign hung in the window, so Ben knocked. He heard footsteps on the other side, and then Erik opened the door. His hair still looked damp from the shower, and he smelled of citrus and coffee. The pale green shirt played up the blue of Erik’s eyes, and his distressed jeans showed off his lower body to good advantage.
“Hi,” Erik said. Ben thought he looked pleased and a little awkward, which just added to the charm.
“Hi,” Ben replied. “It’s a nice night—are you all right with walking?”
“Sure.” Erik locked up, then fell in stride beside Ben. The rhythm felt natural, happening without thought. Ben hoped that was a sign.
A sea breeze stirred the night air, cool enough to remind Ben that it wasn’t summer yet. Only a few weeks until the season kicked into high gear, and already many of the shops and restaurants that shuttered for the colder months were opening up, cleaning away the remnants of the winter, getting ready for business.
“I spent summers here when I was a teenager. Helping out my aunt and uncle. Sean and I got up to shenanigans,” Ben recalled fondly. “Nothing too bad. Just burning off some energy.”
“Funny. I came here with my aunt and uncle, too. My sister was always training for one gymnastic meet or another, so my parents were usually too busy to vacation. We only came a couple of times, but something about the place stuck in my mind.” Erik looked toward the dark horizon where they could hear the ocean waves.
“That’s what brought you back?” Ben tried to be careful not to use his cop voice. He didn’t want Erik to shut him out.
“I was ready for a change,” Erik replied. “You know what they say about life in the fast lane. Makes you lose your mind,” he added with a chuckle.
“So you just bought the shop and moved in?” Ben had thought his move from Newark was gutsy, but he had a known situation and supportive family. Showing up to a brand-new town, taking over an unfamiliar shop—that took brass balls in Ben’s book.
“Pretty much. I just—when I saw the listing for the shop, it felt like it was supposed to be mine.” Erik smiled self-consciously. “Probably sounds crazy, right?”
Ben shrugged. “Sometimes when it’s right, you just know.”
When they reached Peter’s Place, Erik looked up at the sign, puzzled. “I thought you said this was Greek?”
“It is.” Ben pointed to the lettering on the door, which proclaimed “Damian Petrakis, Owner.” “It’s good stuff. Better than anything I had in Newark.”
“Then what are we waiting for? I’m hungry.”
The restaurant didn’t usually take reservations, but Ben had leveraged a favor and snagged them the table all the way in the back, where they could talk undisturbed. He waited while Erik examined the menu, which covered both sides of a large sheet.
“It’s all good,” Ben assured him.
A dark-haired young man came to take their order, and Ben felt certain he was the owner’s grandson. “We want some stuffed grape leaves and spanakopita to share,” Ben ordered. He glanced to Erik and raised an eyebrow.
“Souvlaki for me, please,” Erik asked. “And water.”
“Moussaka, please. And a Coke.” The server nodded and headed off, only to return with their drinks, warm pita bread, and a bowl of olives whi
le they waited for the rest of their food.
“Have you been here a lot?” Erik asked.
Ben shook his head. “A few times with my aunt, but she knows everyone. I know they don’t serve alcohol, but it’s also quiet enough we can actually talk.”
“That’s fine,” Erik replied, starting to look more comfortable. “And the food smells amazing.”
They chatted about the weather as they waited for the appetizers, and Ben felt his stomach rumble. Beneath the table, his longer legs brushed against Erik’s, and when the other man didn’t move away, neither did Ben.
“So, you were a cop?” Erik asked, in a tone that suggested he was doing his best to make the question sound off-handed.
“Twelve years. Took my exam a month after I turned eighteen, started out as a dispatcher, worked a lot of different beats, and ended up getting moved to undercover.” Ben felt his smile dim. This wasn’t something he enjoyed talking about, but if he and Erik were going to get more than a one-night stand off the ground, he knew he needed to open up, at least a little. To his surprise, that wasn’t difficult with Erik. “Believe me—it’s nothing like you see on TV.”
“What made you quit?” Erik’s gaze felt supportive, not judgmental.
“Two bullets. A bust went bad and—wham! Almost lights out.” Ben tried to keep his tone conversational, but he didn’t quite manage it.
“And you thought being a private investigator was safer?”
“Nothing’s really safe in Newark. Have you been there? Being a PI meant I could set my own hours and stay out of department politics.” The answer sounded good. Ben had rehearsed it well. He just left out the part about being betrayed by a dirty cop and having the “thin blue line” close ranks around the traitor instead of him.
“How about you?” Ben asked, eager to step out of the spotlight. “You said something about tracking art theft?”
Erik hesitated long enough that Ben thought the other man wouldn’t answer. “I worked with law enforcement agencies in various countries to authenticate stolen and recovered items, relics with a shady provenance, forgeries. Saved a lot of art, returned some important pieces to their rightful owners, and pissed off a bunch of folks who didn’t get what they wanted.”
Ben saw the change come over Erik’s green eyes, a haunted look he’d seen on the faces of plenty of career cops. Erik had obviously been playing at a much higher level than Ben had originally supposed. He didn’t have to guess what kind of enemies might be made cutting power brokers out of deals for items they coveted.
“Sounds exciting. Why give it up to come here?”
Erik shifted and cut his gaze to the window, a classic tell that the subject made him uncomfortable. Ben resigned himself to the futility of completely turning off his cop brain.
“A sting went wrong. The people involved weren’t happy about it. I got shot and got a concussion out of the deal. A couple of my team members didn’t make it back.”
“I’m sorry.”
Erik shrugged, but it looked more like a flinch. “It’s over. I had time to think in the hospital, and I figured I’d used up my luck, tapped out my guardian angel. And then I saw the listing for Trinkets, and it was like the daydream I’d always had was right there for the taking.”
The similarities in their backgrounds didn’t escape Ben’s notice, despite their different professions. Shared experiences—especially traumatic ones—sometimes also meant similar old wounds to overcome. He tried not to look surprised when Erik disclosed that his work had taken him around the world.
Even if the sex is fantastic—assuming we ever get to that point—a guy like him won’t be interested in a damaged Newark ex-cop for long. But maybe I can keep him for the summer.
They polished off the appetizers just in time for their entrées. Ben regaled Erik with some of the funnier moments from his police years, and Erik matched him tale for tale with stories of travel screw-ups and cultural snafus. Through it all, their knees remained touching beneath the table, and occasionally their fingers brushed as they reached for bread or dolmas. Ben did his best to flirt, and Erik flirted right back, reassuring Ben he hadn’t read the signals wrong.
When the plates were cleared away, and they had ordered homemade baklava for dessert and strong Greek coffee, Erik pulled out his phone. “I had another look at that clock you brought in,” he said, pitching his voice low so that the bustle of the restaurant and the canned music covered his words. “And it turned out to be loaded.”
He slid the phone with its photos of the old picture and the ledger sheets across the table. “Whether or not the clock was stolen or part of an insurance scam, someone thought they had the goods on Cafaro.”
Ben let out a low whistle. “Can I get a copy of the ledgers? I’d like to have a look at them.”
Erik nodded. “Sure. The clock and what’s in it belongs to you. I can give you the originals, when we’re done with it. From a quick glance, I’d guess someone was keeping two sets of books, but we’d need to spend some time on them to be sure.”
“The photo is pretty damning. It’s long before Photoshop.”
“So here’s a question for you—who hid the clock, and why? And…why there?”
“I don’t know, but I did put in a request at the recorder of deeds to double check the history of who owned the house. Maybe there’s more to it than what we know,” Ben replied.
Ben had been turning the same question about who and why over in his mind since he’d been thrown through the window seat. He wondered how Erik would react if he told him the full story.
“And…I guess if we’re going to take this thing further,” Erik said, leaving it unclear whether he meant the mystery or their mutual attraction, “I should probably tell you something else.” He cleared his throat. “I see ghosts sometimes. Just see them—I don’t hear them, can’t make them do anything. And today, when you were in the shop, and then when I opened up the clock, I swear I saw Vincente Cafaro’s ghost.”
The rush of relief Ben felt at Erik’s confession surprised him. “Welcome to Cape May, the haunted gem of the Jersey Shore,” he replied with a wry grin. “Just about everyone here has seen a ghost or two, I wager. And so have I.”
Erik’s smile lit up his eyes, and Ben felt a warmth that started in his chest and then moved south, right to his groin. Damn, Erik was beautiful.
“I’m glad. I mean, that’s good to know.” Erik licked his lips, giving Ben all kinds of ideas. “I wasn’t sure how you’d react.”
Ben slid his hand across the table and wrapped his fingers around Erik’s. “I like you. I want to get to know you better. And a little thing like seeing ghosts isn’t going to change that.”
“Good,” Erik replied as the server brought their baklava. “I like you, too.”
Ben had never considered baklava to be an aphrodisiac, but watching Erik move his lips over the flaky pastry layers and lick at the warm honey made Ben’s cock uncomfortably hard. Erik met his gaze, winked, and licked the rest of the sticky fluid from his long fingers. Ben’s quiet moan made Erik’s smile broaden.
“I was wondering if you’d like to come up for a drink,” Ben asked, feeling his heartbeat rise. “It’s still early.”
“I was hoping you’d ask.”
They walked back a little more quickly than before, bumping shoulders and brushing fingers if not quite holding hands. Ben found his stomach tight with excitement and nerves. Under the streetlights, Erik looked even more beautiful, with a blush of color in his cheeks that excited Ben to think he’d put it there.
He nearly fumbled the key when they reached the door to his apartment. “Right this way,” he said, stepping aside to let Erik enter. Just in case, he had spent some time tidying up, wanting to make a good impression. He decided not to look too closely at why Erik’s opinion mattered quite as much as it did.
“Nice. More modern than I expected,” Erik observed, taking in the living room.
“It’s usually a rental unit, but Aunt Meg’s
letting me stay here for as long as I want.” Or until I decide to move here and get a place of my own. “There’s plenty of room, especially compared to what I was used to back in Newark.”
He ushered Erik into the kitchen and opened a cabinet. “Not quite the selection they have at The Spike, but I’ve got wine, beer, and some whiskey, plus soda if you want to mix.”
“Jack and Coke is good for me please,” Erik said, and Ben mixed drinks for both of them.
He was surprised when Erik stepped up behind him, close against his back, resting hands on his hips. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you, since we met,” Erik murmured.
“Me, too,” Ben confessed. He left the drinks on the counter and turned, finding himself face to face with Erik, confirming that their heights were perfect to fit their bodies together just right.
Ben lifted a hand to brush the backs of his fingers across Erik’s cheek. Erik leaned into the gesture, maintaining eye contact, pupils dilated with arousal. Ben moved forward, Erik stretched up, and their lips met midway. Ben’s arms slipped around Erik, while Erik placed one hand on Ben’s lower back and the other on his ass.
The kiss started out light, tentative, but it deepened quickly when Erik opened to him, flicking his tongue across Ben’s lips for good measure. By the time they came up for air, Ben’s heart pounded and his erection ground against a very similar bulge in Erik’s jeans.
“Is this okay?” Ben asked.
Erik smiled. “More than okay. What do you want?”
“You. Whatever you’ll give me,” Ben replied, surprising himself. “I’d like to see you again. So tonight can be as much or as little as you want. We don’t have to rush.”
“I’d like that,” Erik said. “I’d like that very much.”
Erik slid his palms up Ben’s chest, while Ben let his fingers trace the muscles in Erik’s back. Ben tugged Erik toward the couch, leaving their drinks behind on the counter. Then he backed Erik against the wall, reversing their positions.
