This past year has been a trying time to say the least and personally 2020 really screwed with my reading mojo, instead of finding solace in reading I found myself looking to visual forms of entertainment, we all need to use whatever we can to keep going. So I was only able to read 160 books and many were re-reads. This year's Best of series may not feature as many new releases but they are just as brilliant in my opinion, the old adage of "oldie but a goodie" was a prominent theme in this year's readings. Course, just because they are "oldies" doesn't mean everyone has read them so I hope my Best of list helps you to find a new read, be it new-new or new-to-you or maybe it will help you to rediscover a forgotten favorite. Happy Reading and my heartfelt wish for everyone is that 2021 will be a year of recovery, growth, and in the world of reading a year of discovering a new favorite.
Shadow and Light by RJ Scott & VL Locey
Summary:Arizona Raptors #3
Is it easier to fall into the shadows than hold onto the light?
Injured in a horrific car accident by a man who made him feel like nothing, Henry was left with life threatening injuries, crippling self doubt, and his career as a hockey player destroyed. He’s struggling to see, and as much as people tell him to have hope because he’s young and fit, his vision is compromised and he’s spiraling into despair. Estranged from his family, and his money all gone, there seems to be no hope. Hockey gave him freedom, and now it’s all been taken away.
Adler insists on letting Henry stay in a vast Lockhart-owned mansion in Tuscon, but it's a big and lonely place. When Apollo arrives at the house with his sunny smile and infectious optimism, along with his no-nonsense rules, he slowly becomes an integral part of Henry’s life. But one day, when Henry is better, Apollo will leave, and what happens then? Has Henry really fallen for the dark eyed man, or is it all just smoke and mirrors?
If there is one thing that Apollo Vasquez knows all about it’s helping others and living with quirky athletes. After all, he’s spent most of his adult life tending to one of the richest hockey playing heirs in America. His days have been filled with friendship, laughter, and the knowledge that he’s needed. Or he used to be. Over the past year Apollo’s best friend, Adler Lockhart, has been slipping away, his time spent with his boyfriend, on the ice, or traveling the world with the man he loves. This leaves Apollo feeling like a clunky third wheel or all alone in a luxurious apartment with no one to fuss over.
Knowing that his life is at a crossroads, his loving nature leads him far away from his childhood friend to the dry desert town of Tucson where he signs on to care for Henry Greenaway as the young Raptor recovers both mentally and physically from a near fatal car crash. Henry is also facing a new life, one that might lead him from the sport he has loved for so long. Cooking, cleaning, and providing moral support is just what the doctor ordered for Apollo, and he soon finds himself not only rediscovering himself and a new life he adores, but falling for the sweet, lost, injured man who’s slowly capturing his heart one timid smile at a time.
Original Book of the Month March 2020:
It seems like forever that I've been waiting for Henry's story but I was patient and I knew that when he was ready to tell RJ Scott & VL Locey his journey it would be amazing. HOLY HANNAH BATMAN!!!! I was not disappointed.
Some might see Henry Greenaway as broken and they might see Apollo Vasquez in a smiliar light because of certain aspects that have brought them to where they are. I don't want to go into particulars because if you haven't been reading Arizona Raptors then I feel that I'd be spoiling some of the series. Each entry is a standalone as it's a new pairing but characters and elements are carried through. But back to the broken bit, I know that Henry and Apollo probably see themselves as broken but I don't like that term, I don't think anyone is "broken" they are hurting, they have issues that brought them to where they are, but never "broken". Is this what makes them such a perfect fit? Maybe. I think they work because they each bring something to the table that is both different and similar that gives them strength. Maybe I'm over analyzing it but whatever "it" is, it works and brilliantly too.
I don't often say this in a series where there is different couples but I believe that Henry and Apollo are my favorite Raptors pair yet. What surprises me most about that isn't that 99% of the time I fall so hard for the first pair none of the following ones quite compare, but because I was looking so eagerly to Henry's story I was a little afraid it wouldn't match up to my anticipation. I needn't have worried because Scott & Locey told an amazing story that is entertaining and believable with humor, drama(probably the most dramatic so far, some might even say angsty), romance, heat, but most of all it's got heart from beginning to end.
There's never any doubt that Scott & Locey will bring you a HEA tale but the journey getting there is what makes their work so outstanding. There is no page filler, no extra bits to cause unnecessary drama, nothing that doesn't enhance their tale. I can honestly say that for the first time in months I only ever wanted to protect these guys. Generally I war between Mama Bear Hugs and whacking a frying pan to the back of the head, but not with Henry or Apollo. I want to give Apollo never ending Mama Bear Hugs, to protect him but also to keep him warm and I would say hugs to Henry but he doesn't always like to be touched so I want to wrap him in warm layers of bubblewrap to let him know he's protected.
I feel like I've given away too much already or am about to if I keep going so I'll end by saying again: HOLY HANNAH BATMAN!!!! I was not disappointed.
For those wondering about reading order, I highly recommend reading them in order of release. Personally, I can't imagine reading the Raptors series without having read Harrisburg Railers and then Owatonna U but I can't say you'd be lost if you start here but I feel everything flows better especially in regard to friendships, character cameos and mentions. However you read it, Shadow and Light is a journey not to be missed.
RATING:
Injured in a horrific car accident by a man who made him feel like nothing, Henry was left with life threatening injuries, crippling self doubt, and his career as a hockey player destroyed. He’s struggling to see, and as much as people tell him to have hope because he’s young and fit, his vision is compromised and he’s spiraling into despair. Estranged from his family, and his money all gone, there seems to be no hope. Hockey gave him freedom, and now it’s all been taken away.
Adler insists on letting Henry stay in a vast Lockhart-owned mansion in Tuscon, but it's a big and lonely place. When Apollo arrives at the house with his sunny smile and infectious optimism, along with his no-nonsense rules, he slowly becomes an integral part of Henry’s life. But one day, when Henry is better, Apollo will leave, and what happens then? Has Henry really fallen for the dark eyed man, or is it all just smoke and mirrors?
If there is one thing that Apollo Vasquez knows all about it’s helping others and living with quirky athletes. After all, he’s spent most of his adult life tending to one of the richest hockey playing heirs in America. His days have been filled with friendship, laughter, and the knowledge that he’s needed. Or he used to be. Over the past year Apollo’s best friend, Adler Lockhart, has been slipping away, his time spent with his boyfriend, on the ice, or traveling the world with the man he loves. This leaves Apollo feeling like a clunky third wheel or all alone in a luxurious apartment with no one to fuss over.
Knowing that his life is at a crossroads, his loving nature leads him far away from his childhood friend to the dry desert town of Tucson where he signs on to care for Henry Greenaway as the young Raptor recovers both mentally and physically from a near fatal car crash. Henry is also facing a new life, one that might lead him from the sport he has loved for so long. Cooking, cleaning, and providing moral support is just what the doctor ordered for Apollo, and he soon finds himself not only rediscovering himself and a new life he adores, but falling for the sweet, lost, injured man who’s slowly capturing his heart one timid smile at a time.
It seems like forever that I've been waiting for Henry's story but I was patient and I knew that when he was ready to tell RJ Scott & VL Locey his journey it would be amazing. HOLY HANNAH BATMAN!!!! I was not disappointed.
Some might see Henry Greenaway as broken and they might see Apollo Vasquez in a smiliar light because of certain aspects that have brought them to where they are. I don't want to go into particulars because if you haven't been reading Arizona Raptors then I feel that I'd be spoiling some of the series. Each entry is a standalone as it's a new pairing but characters and elements are carried through. But back to the broken bit, I know that Henry and Apollo probably see themselves as broken but I don't like that term, I don't think anyone is "broken" they are hurting, they have issues that brought them to where they are, but never "broken". Is this what makes them such a perfect fit? Maybe. I think they work because they each bring something to the table that is both different and similar that gives them strength. Maybe I'm over analyzing it but whatever "it" is, it works and brilliantly too.
I don't often say this in a series where there is different couples but I believe that Henry and Apollo are my favorite Raptors pair yet. What surprises me most about that isn't that 99% of the time I fall so hard for the first pair none of the following ones quite compare, but because I was looking so eagerly to Henry's story I was a little afraid it wouldn't match up to my anticipation. I needn't have worried because Scott & Locey told an amazing story that is entertaining and believable with humor, drama(probably the most dramatic so far, some might even say angsty), romance, heat, but most of all it's got heart from beginning to end.
There's never any doubt that Scott & Locey will bring you a HEA tale but the journey getting there is what makes their work so outstanding. There is no page filler, no extra bits to cause unnecessary drama, nothing that doesn't enhance their tale. I can honestly say that for the first time in months I only ever wanted to protect these guys. Generally I war between Mama Bear Hugs and whacking a frying pan to the back of the head, but not with Henry or Apollo. I want to give Apollo never ending Mama Bear Hugs, to protect him but also to keep him warm and I would say hugs to Henry but he doesn't always like to be touched so I want to wrap him in warm layers of bubblewrap to let him know he's protected.
I feel like I've given away too much already or am about to if I keep going so I'll end by saying again: HOLY HANNAH BATMAN!!!! I was not disappointed.
For those wondering about reading order, I highly recommend reading them in order of release. Personally, I can't imagine reading the Raptors series without having read Harrisburg Railers and then Owatonna U but I can't say you'd be lost if you start here but I feel everything flows better especially in regard to friendships, character cameos and mentions. However you read it, Shadow and Light is a journey not to be missed.
RATING:
Without a Trace by RJ Scott
Summary:Lancaster Falls Trilogy #2
When long-buried secrets are exposed, and the search for truth becomes a race to save a life, how can two men ever hope to find real love?
Losing his brother has shaped Drew to become the man he is today—heartbroken, alone, but determined to make a difference in the world. Joining the military, fighting battles in places that he’s never even heard of, is his attempt to make amends for telling his brother to go to hell. After his brother disappeared, he’d clung to the hope Casey was out there living his life. Of course, he’d be furious at Drew, and probably hate his brother, but at least in Drew’s head, Casey was safe.
One call changes everything. Casey’s body has been found, and the hope that had fueled Drew’s constant search for the truth is destroyed. Coming home to Lancaster Falls to bury his brother and face his mom’s anguish and accusations, is a nightmare made real, and he has nowhere to run from the pain.
Logan has made a home in Lancaster Falls. As a police officer, he plays by the rules, and he would never think of working off-the-grid. All that changes when an anonymous tip crosses his desk, and he is thrust headlong into solving a hundred-year mystery that could be connected with the modern day death of Casey McGuire. Fighting an attraction to Casey’s brother is hard enough, but the infuriating man is there at Logan’s every turn, interfering with the case, breaking the rules, and demanding that Casey’s story be heard.
Original Review March 2020:
There have been series where I was "late to the party" and started either when the series was over or nearly over so that I could just keep going from one entry to the next. There have been series that I started as it was written and the wait between entries was no big deal. Then there is Lancaster Falls. I've been on board from day one and have loved the characters, the mystery, the heat, the drama, it's an all-around great package. On one hand I wish I had waited because the waiting is excruciating but on the other hand I can't imagine not experiencing this expertly crafted journey of mayhem as it unfolds.
I'm not going to say much about the plot, the mystery, or the story in general as nothing is filler, everything is important and I don't want to give anything away. One thing I will say: there came a point where I said to myself "that's who did, I just know it, that's the dirty culprit". Then a chapter or two later I was saying "well, maybe it wasn't that one but I'm still sticking with that underhanded sneaky bugger"(yeah you got me I didn't say "bugger" but I'm trying to keep my review cleaner and more ladylike than my twisted brain😉) and by the time I reached the end "well crap! I don't know who it is. WHERE'S BOOK 3?!?!?!?!?!"
I've been watching mysteries of all sub-genres ever since I could sit in front of the television and I've been reading them ever since I was about 10 years old so there are very few mysteries that keep me guessing till the big reveal. I'm not boasting at my magnificent power of deduction, it's just after all that time I've seen/read just about every conceivable plot course of a who-done-it. Mystery might not be RJ Scott's go-to writing genre but boy does she know how to weave a tale of mayhem. I may have been screaming "WHERE'S BOOK 3?!?!?!?!?!" and "I NEED IT NOW!!!!!" but truth is, whether it takes her 3 days or 3 years to write and release it, I'll be first in line to gobble it up.
Now I haven't mentioned Drew and Logan, the main characters of Without a Trace but that's mainly because they and their journey(both solo and together) is so intricately intertwined into the plot I don't want to risk giving anything away. But I will say, as so often with Miss Scott's intriguing characters, I was equally divided between keeping them tightly wrapped in huge Mama Bear hugs and whacking them upside the head with a frying pan. It's that kind of deep emotional response that makes this story, these characters, and this trilogy such a winning gem.
RATING:
Losing his brother has shaped Drew to become the man he is today—heartbroken, alone, but determined to make a difference in the world. Joining the military, fighting battles in places that he’s never even heard of, is his attempt to make amends for telling his brother to go to hell. After his brother disappeared, he’d clung to the hope Casey was out there living his life. Of course, he’d be furious at Drew, and probably hate his brother, but at least in Drew’s head, Casey was safe.
One call changes everything. Casey’s body has been found, and the hope that had fueled Drew’s constant search for the truth is destroyed. Coming home to Lancaster Falls to bury his brother and face his mom’s anguish and accusations, is a nightmare made real, and he has nowhere to run from the pain.
Logan has made a home in Lancaster Falls. As a police officer, he plays by the rules, and he would never think of working off-the-grid. All that changes when an anonymous tip crosses his desk, and he is thrust headlong into solving a hundred-year mystery that could be connected with the modern day death of Casey McGuire. Fighting an attraction to Casey’s brother is hard enough, but the infuriating man is there at Logan’s every turn, interfering with the case, breaking the rules, and demanding that Casey’s story be heard.
There have been series where I was "late to the party" and started either when the series was over or nearly over so that I could just keep going from one entry to the next. There have been series that I started as it was written and the wait between entries was no big deal. Then there is Lancaster Falls. I've been on board from day one and have loved the characters, the mystery, the heat, the drama, it's an all-around great package. On one hand I wish I had waited because the waiting is excruciating but on the other hand I can't imagine not experiencing this expertly crafted journey of mayhem as it unfolds.
I'm not going to say much about the plot, the mystery, or the story in general as nothing is filler, everything is important and I don't want to give anything away. One thing I will say: there came a point where I said to myself "that's who did, I just know it, that's the dirty culprit". Then a chapter or two later I was saying "well, maybe it wasn't that one but I'm still sticking with that underhanded sneaky bugger"(yeah you got me I didn't say "bugger" but I'm trying to keep my review cleaner and more ladylike than my twisted brain😉) and by the time I reached the end "well crap! I don't know who it is. WHERE'S BOOK 3?!?!?!?!?!"
I've been watching mysteries of all sub-genres ever since I could sit in front of the television and I've been reading them ever since I was about 10 years old so there are very few mysteries that keep me guessing till the big reveal. I'm not boasting at my magnificent power of deduction, it's just after all that time I've seen/read just about every conceivable plot course of a who-done-it. Mystery might not be RJ Scott's go-to writing genre but boy does she know how to weave a tale of mayhem. I may have been screaming "WHERE'S BOOK 3?!?!?!?!?!" and "I NEED IT NOW!!!!!" but truth is, whether it takes her 3 days or 3 years to write and release it, I'll be first in line to gobble it up.
Now I haven't mentioned Drew and Logan, the main characters of Without a Trace but that's mainly because they and their journey(both solo and together) is so intricately intertwined into the plot I don't want to risk giving anything away. But I will say, as so often with Miss Scott's intriguing characters, I was equally divided between keeping them tightly wrapped in huge Mama Bear hugs and whacking them upside the head with a frying pan. It's that kind of deep emotional response that makes this story, these characters, and this trilogy such a winning gem.
RATING:
Summary:
Thanksgiving can't end too soon for Victor Bayne, who's finding Jacob's family hard to swallow. Luckily, he's called back to work to track down a high-profile missing person.
Meanwhile, Jacob tries to find a home they can move into that's not infested1with either cockroaches, or ghosts. As if the house-hunting isn't stressful enough, Vic's new partner Bob Zigler doesn't seem to think he can do anything right. A deceased junkie with a bone to pick leads Vic and Zig on a wild chase that ends in a basement full of horrors.
Original Audiobook Review October 2020:
I don't think I can add anything to my original review. Once again, the blending of mystery, humor, paranormal, heat, creepy, romance . . . well it's just absolutely brilliant! Vic and Jacob just keep getting better and better. As for Gomez Pugh's narration? That too keeps getting better and more fitting with each adventure.
Original Review March 2020:
Another new partner for Victor Bayne and let's hope this one is a keeper. I think this one is even creepier than the previous entries. Where the case leads Vic and Zig(his new partner Bob Zigler) is so not what I was expecting but HOLY HANNAH BATMAN! I couldn't put Body & Soul down. That's it, that's all you're getting from me about the mystery side of PsyCop #3.
As for Vic and Jacob? Who knew there was so much to think about when it came to househunting when you see dead people? Another element of ghost & spirit stories that I've never thought about before, and Jordan Castillo Price's world building and character development is pretty amazing when it comes to Vic's "talent". Jacob is still incredibly supportive especially about finding properties that didn't have any kind of history that could lead to spirit roommates. The scene where he rips into their estate agent over just such a thing, well if I didn't already believe in his love for Vic and his passion for standing up for his love than that scene cemented it for me.
I don't think I'll say much more because I'm off to start book 4, Secrets. I have a feeling that this is going to be one of those series that if the author chooses to write only a 5 sentence coda or 100 full length novels, I'll be first in line(once I get caught up) to gobble it up. Victor Bayne, Jacob Marks, and the whole PsyCop universe is incredible storytelling at it's finest that leaves me smiling, cringing, laughing, "awwing", and a dozen other emotions on the feelings spectrum. A definite keeper from start to finish.
Last but Not Lease by Jordan Castillo Price
Summary:The ABCs of Spellcraft #5
Location, Location, Location!
Yuri knew his idyllic beachfront cabin wouldn’t last forever—but he wasn’t expecting to come home to an eviction notice. And with Uncle Fonzo back in town, Dixon’s attic apartment is getting crowded.
Unfortunately, real estate in Pinyin Bay is surprisingly scarce. Good thing there’s an up-and-coming crowdsourced experience called Hunting Party that really moves the needle on the traditional rental acquisition model.
Okay, it really is as obnoxious as it sounds. But rentals are so few and far between, Dixon and Yuri are willing to give it a shot.
Pitted against a group of apartment hunters, the guys must compete with the other hopefuls to land a new place. It’s clearly all just a cheesy sales ploy, and the apartments they view are real dumps.
And yet…they’re also oddly appealing.
Since all the rentals are in the falling-down neighborhood known as Scrivener Village, it stands to reason Spellcraft is involved. But when exposing the magic could leave Dixon and Yuri without a roof over their heads, can they really afford to be so picky?
The ABCs of Spellcraft is a series filled with bad jokes and good magic, where MM Romance meets Paranormal Cozy. A perky hero, a brooding love interest, and delightfully twisty-turny stories that never end up quite where you’d expect. The books are best read in order, so be sure to start at the beginning with Quill Me Now.
Original Book of the Month Review April 2020:
Who knew home-hunting could be so . . . magical? Dixon and Yuri are back!!!! I love these two, they are such a mismatched pair on paper but the minute they're together you just know that not only are they perfectly matched, there really is no one else for either. Dixon's peppy-ness and Yuri's stoic-ness should make them run for the hills in opposite directions but they calm each other, balance each other, makes the other stronger. I guess what I'm saying is Jordan Castillo Price knows how to make them work and work they do!
So, in Last but Not Lease, Yuri has lost his home and Dixon's place is cramped, sardines-in-a-pea-pod cramped, so the logical thing is to go home-hunting. But as you can imagine, this pair always seems to find themselves in an intriguing, controlled chaos(and if you don't know what I mean then you haven't been reading the series and need to go back to the beginning-trust me you'll love it!). So I'm not going to give anything away because the magical craziness of this duo is something you need to experience yourself to fully appreciate them and their predicaments.
The best way for me to explain the meshing of humor, magic, mystery, and chemistry is Lucy & Ethel meets Samantha & Darren Stevens meets Nick & Nora Charles. Brilliant characters, great world building, and amazing storytelling make for an all around reading gem that just keeps getting better and better. This is a series that is best read in order as each entry has a little something that is part of a bigger picture as well as following along with Dixon and Yuri as their relationship grows.
The ABCs of Spellcraft was one of my favorite series last year and their new adventures seem to be well on the way to being a fave of 2020 too.
RATING:
Yuri knew his idyllic beachfront cabin wouldn’t last forever—but he wasn’t expecting to come home to an eviction notice. And with Uncle Fonzo back in town, Dixon’s attic apartment is getting crowded.
Unfortunately, real estate in Pinyin Bay is surprisingly scarce. Good thing there’s an up-and-coming crowdsourced experience called Hunting Party that really moves the needle on the traditional rental acquisition model.
Okay, it really is as obnoxious as it sounds. But rentals are so few and far between, Dixon and Yuri are willing to give it a shot.
Pitted against a group of apartment hunters, the guys must compete with the other hopefuls to land a new place. It’s clearly all just a cheesy sales ploy, and the apartments they view are real dumps.
And yet…they’re also oddly appealing.
Since all the rentals are in the falling-down neighborhood known as Scrivener Village, it stands to reason Spellcraft is involved. But when exposing the magic could leave Dixon and Yuri without a roof over their heads, can they really afford to be so picky?
The ABCs of Spellcraft is a series filled with bad jokes and good magic, where MM Romance meets Paranormal Cozy. A perky hero, a brooding love interest, and delightfully twisty-turny stories that never end up quite where you’d expect. The books are best read in order, so be sure to start at the beginning with Quill Me Now.
Who knew home-hunting could be so . . . magical? Dixon and Yuri are back!!!! I love these two, they are such a mismatched pair on paper but the minute they're together you just know that not only are they perfectly matched, there really is no one else for either. Dixon's peppy-ness and Yuri's stoic-ness should make them run for the hills in opposite directions but they calm each other, balance each other, makes the other stronger. I guess what I'm saying is Jordan Castillo Price knows how to make them work and work they do!
So, in Last but Not Lease, Yuri has lost his home and Dixon's place is cramped, sardines-in-a-pea-pod cramped, so the logical thing is to go home-hunting. But as you can imagine, this pair always seems to find themselves in an intriguing, controlled chaos(and if you don't know what I mean then you haven't been reading the series and need to go back to the beginning-trust me you'll love it!). So I'm not going to give anything away because the magical craziness of this duo is something you need to experience yourself to fully appreciate them and their predicaments.
The best way for me to explain the meshing of humor, magic, mystery, and chemistry is Lucy & Ethel meets Samantha & Darren Stevens meets Nick & Nora Charles. Brilliant characters, great world building, and amazing storytelling make for an all around reading gem that just keeps getting better and better. This is a series that is best read in order as each entry has a little something that is part of a bigger picture as well as following along with Dixon and Yuri as their relationship grows.
The ABCs of Spellcraft was one of my favorite series last year and their new adventures seem to be well on the way to being a fave of 2020 too.
RATING:
The Clockwork Nightingale's Song by Amy Rae Durreson
Summary:In the automated Vauxhall Floating Gardens, high above the smoggy streets of London, Nightingale No. 48 is refusing to sing. Stern mechanic Shem Holloway brings in the Gardens' brilliant but arrogant inventor, Lord Marchmont, to fix the broken automaton. But the clockwork nightingale has a secret, and soon both men find themselves questioning whether they should be trying to fix a mechanical heart at all.
I'm not going to say too much about the particulars of The Clockwork Nightingale's Song other than it is sweet, intriguing, attention-grabbing, with likable(dare I say lovable? yes, I dare because Shem Holloway and Lord Marchmont are characters I'd love to know even if I don't particularly want to live in a world with steampunk creations😉😉) characters. This may be a short story and that can be hard to pull off in science fiction/steampunk and still create the world building I want to get lost in with so few pages. Amy Rae Durreson has done a marvelous job of doing just that. I was so immersed in the story that when the last page swiped I was shocked to realize I completely lost track of time and though it may have only been about 45-50 minutes, I could have swore I just sat down and opened my kindle. To me when an author can trigger that loss of time for the reader, I know I read a gem. I also know that if the author ever has plans to revisit the world of Nightingale, I'll be first in line to read them.
RATING:
Loving Layne by VL Locey
Summary:Hockey Allies Bachelor Bid #2
Sometimes the last thing you expect to happen might turn out to be what you needed all along.
Roman Kennedy’s first trip to the Windy City isn’t going quite as planned. Mysteries intrigue him, and his best friend Dillon seems to be sitting on a whopper. So, with his grandfather’s favorite hat on his head and his notebook in hand, the journalism major starts digging. Sadly, getting his bestie to spill the beans on what the secret is isn’t as easy as Roman had hoped.
Now, through no fault of his own, he’s stuck in an expensive hotel attending a bachelor auction of all things. He’s surrounded by lumbering jocks who, he’s sure, are just waiting for the chance to poke fun at the skinny, gay Jewish guy. Imagine his surprise when one of the big lugs sits down with him and talks Bernstein and Woodward.
Layne Coleman is sexy as sin, smart as a whip, considerably older, and has the same passion for investigative journalism as Roman does. His deep blue eyes and dark hair make concentrating on anything but the soft kisses they’re now sharing difficult. Roman’s keen instincts are understandably clouded by romance, so when Dillon reveals his secret in a highly public way, it’s hard to say who is more stunned—Roman or Layne, the man at the center of it all.
Original Review April 2020:
This story was absolutely brilliant! I'll admit it took me a couple of chapters to get into it but that was more to do with the fact that the last book I read before starting Loving Layne was a highly paranormal and complete opposite of this but once I was able to let go of the previous reading I was hooked on Layne and Roman's journey.
I won't lie, I was expecting a completely different kind of set-up with a series titled Hockey Allies Bachelor Bid but I wouldn't want Layne and Roman's story any different than the one VL Locey has written. May/December romances are not something I generally seek out but nor to shy away from them, Miss Locey has done a wonderful job showing that age is just a number and that you don't have to be within 5 years of each other to be a perfect fit.
As for Roman, well his love of nearly everything "old"(and I am not referring to Layne😉😉) was a welcome element. I love so many things classic and it's just not an aspect you often find in main characters when reading so it was a point that I not only welcomed but highly appreciated. When it comes to Layne, well I loved him, it wasn't hard to see what drew Roman in. Not making Roman feel like an odd duck for his love of everything classic was also highly appreciated. There really is no doubting their connection from the getgo.
As for Dillon's bombshell, well I won't go into that and spoil anything but I truly loved the reactions and how each character dealt with the news. Perhaps Dillon's original dropping of the bombshell could have been handled better but we have to have some drama, don't we?😉
Could Loving Layne been even better with a few points explored deeper? Maybe. Did the story being on the shorter side leave some lacking gaps? Perhaps. Personally, when written well, "gaps" that happen off-page pull me in even deeper because it kicks my imagination in high gear to help the author "write" the journey. So in short: Loving Layne is an amazingly fun, dramedy with real characters that entertained me, and I can't ask for nor want anything more.
RATING:
Roman Kennedy’s first trip to the Windy City isn’t going quite as planned. Mysteries intrigue him, and his best friend Dillon seems to be sitting on a whopper. So, with his grandfather’s favorite hat on his head and his notebook in hand, the journalism major starts digging. Sadly, getting his bestie to spill the beans on what the secret is isn’t as easy as Roman had hoped.
Now, through no fault of his own, he’s stuck in an expensive hotel attending a bachelor auction of all things. He’s surrounded by lumbering jocks who, he’s sure, are just waiting for the chance to poke fun at the skinny, gay Jewish guy. Imagine his surprise when one of the big lugs sits down with him and talks Bernstein and Woodward.
Layne Coleman is sexy as sin, smart as a whip, considerably older, and has the same passion for investigative journalism as Roman does. His deep blue eyes and dark hair make concentrating on anything but the soft kisses they’re now sharing difficult. Roman’s keen instincts are understandably clouded by romance, so when Dillon reveals his secret in a highly public way, it’s hard to say who is more stunned—Roman or Layne, the man at the center of it all.
This story was absolutely brilliant! I'll admit it took me a couple of chapters to get into it but that was more to do with the fact that the last book I read before starting Loving Layne was a highly paranormal and complete opposite of this but once I was able to let go of the previous reading I was hooked on Layne and Roman's journey.
I won't lie, I was expecting a completely different kind of set-up with a series titled Hockey Allies Bachelor Bid but I wouldn't want Layne and Roman's story any different than the one VL Locey has written. May/December romances are not something I generally seek out but nor to shy away from them, Miss Locey has done a wonderful job showing that age is just a number and that you don't have to be within 5 years of each other to be a perfect fit.
As for Roman, well his love of nearly everything "old"(and I am not referring to Layne😉😉) was a welcome element. I love so many things classic and it's just not an aspect you often find in main characters when reading so it was a point that I not only welcomed but highly appreciated. When it comes to Layne, well I loved him, it wasn't hard to see what drew Roman in. Not making Roman feel like an odd duck for his love of everything classic was also highly appreciated. There really is no doubting their connection from the getgo.
As for Dillon's bombshell, well I won't go into that and spoil anything but I truly loved the reactions and how each character dealt with the news. Perhaps Dillon's original dropping of the bombshell could have been handled better but we have to have some drama, don't we?😉
Could Loving Layne been even better with a few points explored deeper? Maybe. Did the story being on the shorter side leave some lacking gaps? Perhaps. Personally, when written well, "gaps" that happen off-page pull me in even deeper because it kicks my imagination in high gear to help the author "write" the journey. So in short: Loving Layne is an amazingly fun, dramedy with real characters that entertained me, and I can't ask for nor want anything more.
RATING:
Shadow and Light by RJ Scott & VL Locey
One
Apollo
Another sigh escaped me. I poked at the casserole with a wooden spoon, muttered under my breath, then placed the spoon on the blue-and-white checkered placemat. Dinner was ruined. Again. For the fourth time this week. Kicking my foot against a stool, I sat hunched at the new kitchen island Adler had installed for me two months ago, pushed the dried-up husk of what had been vegetarian lasagna away, and stared down at my phone.
“Why does he disrespect me so?” I asked Madonna as she wheeled around with a puma on the screen— although she sweetly called it a tiger, oh my God wasn’t she just the most amazing person to walk the planet?— in a cage in the backseat of a Rolls Royce. Or I thought it was a Rolls. Didn’t matter. Nothing seemed to matter lately. A big gray cloud of sad had been my constant companion ever since… well, ever since months now. I sighed yet again and turned up the volume on my comfort flick.
When feeling blue, I watched Who’s That Girl. I’d always loved the movie but the past six months had raised my views through the roof. “Is it asking too much for the man to get home in time for dinner?” My foot was swinging so hard my slipper flew off, sailing across the kitchen just in time to hit Adler in the face. “Good. Serves you right. Where have you been?”
He blinked, bent to pick up my silver slipper, then gave me that off-kilter smile of his. “Uhm, I was with him.” He jerked a thumb at Layton Foxx standing behind him.
Ah. Yes, of course he had been. He was always with Layton. They were in love. I was alone with a crusty lasagna and Madonna, sounding like some sort of queer fishwife bitching at her husband. Ugh, I hated that queer fishwife so much. Why did she keep popping up?
“Apollo, I told him to text you,” Layton said, easing into the kitchen, checking my feet in case another slipper went airborne. “He said that you’d know we’d be grabbing dinner after our matinee game.”
I folded my arms over my chest. Adler gently handed me my slipper before dancing back out of swatting range. I really wanted to rage at my best friend but seeing him so happy and so deeply in love, I found that I couldn’t. I could give him dirty looks though, so I did.
“Apollo, come on, not the Mama looks, please.” The big oaf huddled in on himself, hugging his midsection.
“I think I’m missing something here,” Layton said, easing around his melodramatic boyfriend to grab a bottle of water from the fridge.
“My mother has a look that can gut a man twice her size. Apparently, I have it as well,” I explained as Adler coughed, hacked, and fell to his knees to expire theatrically on the freshly mopped kitchen tiles.
“Ah, okay, yeah, I saw that look when we went to the Lockhart manor in Maine for her birthday.” Layton stepped over Adler lying dead on the floor while cracking his water. “She was mad at you two for making pornographic fruit sculptures.”
“That was him,” I stated, pointing at the dead Railer on the floor with my bare toes. “I told him she would get mad when my family saw a banana dick with two big grapefruit balls on the table among the party foods, but did he listen?”
“No,” the corpse said.
“Hush, you’re dead,” Layton told the dead man on the floor. “Oh yeah, your aunt from Arizona was the only one who thought it was funny.”
“Tía Sofía is the bomb,” the corpse spoke up again, so I kicked my other silver slipper off and it hit him in the belly, bouncing off his expensive suit jacket to lie on his chest. “Oh sorry, yeah, I’m dead. Ignore me.”
“We’re trying,” Layton parried, gave me a wink then padded out of the kitchen. On his way to the bedroom, more than likely. Which, again, was fine. I’d grown very fond of Layton over the time he and Adler had been together. He was a calming influence on the man I called my best friend and the world’s largest toddler.
“Get up,” I said to Adler. “I’m not so mad anymore. Just kind of mad.” My movie was still playing and I hit the rewind a bit to catch what I’d missed. Adler’s big hand settled over my phone, taking it from me and holding it over his head. As I said, world’s biggest toddler.
“I need you to talk to me.”
I reached for the phone, he held it even higher. Given he was six-foot-seven or ten or something crazy and I was five-foot-eight on tiptoes, I never won this game. I’d quit trying when we were thirteen and Adler had shot up a foot overnight. I was still the skinny, short boy who preferred doting on kittens and baby dolls instead of shooting hockey pucks down the marble hallways of the Lockhart home in Palm Beach where the family wintered.
“You’ve been super surly of late and watching way too much Madonna.”
“Okay, first off there is no such thing as too much Madonna.” I waved a finger under his nose. “Secondly, how would you know if I’m surly or sad or happy when you’re never here anymore?” Adler lowered my phone, his jaw slack, his eyes wide. I bit down on my lower lip. “Sorry, no, forget that. I didn’t mean that. I’m just… this needs to be cleaned up.”
Eyes averted, I slid from the stool, wiggled my feet into my slippers, and picked up the cold pan of crusty lasagna. Adler slipped between me and the ruined food, blocking me with ease just as he would someone going after a puck. I nibbled on the inside of my cheek, looking left then right, anywhere but up at him.
“Apollo, what’s going on with you? I thought you were happy for me and Layton.”
Ack, sweet Jesus and Mary. He knew just what to say to make me feel like homogenized shit. I drew in a deep breath, tipped my head back a bit, and gazed at the redhead who was my brother in every aspect other than sharing the same blood. A brother from another mother. And father.
“I am happy for you. I am!” I insisted when his eyebrows knitted. “I am really happy for you, honestly. It’s not you, it’s me. I’m not happy with me anymore.” I thumped my chest. “I’m just…” I searched for the right word to fit my mood. “Stagnant. Lonely. Unneeded. Unwanted.”
“Whoa, just whoa. You are most certainly needed and wanted, please don’t ever think you’re not. Who else would put up with my stupid shit on a daily basis?”
“Layton,” I whispered as Griffin Dunne and Madonna exchanged witty banter.
His wide shoulders sunk a bit before he handed me my phone. I glanced down at my cell to pause the movie.
“I’m sorry you’re lonely, Apollo. We can come over here more. I know we spend a lot of time at Layton’s but he’s kind of more comfortable there, but I can insist that we—”
“No, no, no.” I slid around him, grabbing the pan of congealed noodles, cheese, and sauce and carrying it to the sink. “Do not make him do anything. He’s sensitive. If he’s happier at his place, go to his place. This is all on me.” I grabbed a knife from the sink and started chipping at the crusty mess.
“Maybe you should try dating more.” I threw him another Mama look that made the big man draw back a step. “It’s been a year since… he who must not be named. Maybe I can set you up with one of the guys on the team.”
“There are no gay or bi men on the Railers that aren’t spoken for, Adler. And I don’t want to have you set me up. I’m a fucking fabulous Latino queer man and I’m quite capable of finding my own dates, thank you very much. Stupid fucking cheese!” I stabbed violently at the mess in the pan. “And do not bring up Jean-Claude again, even in passing and with a fake name! That cheating, pig-faced jackass! I will never cheer for that stupid team ever again! Sweet-talking French goalies are heartbreakers!”
“Sorry, okay, I just don’t know what to do for you. Can you stop assaulting that poor food?” I paused, breathless, and stared down at the carnage. “Oh man, my lasagna.” I dropped the butter knife and the pan into the sink. Then I covered my face with a sauce-speckled hand. “I’m just not happy anymore, Adler.” One large hand settled on my shoulder, then another on the other shoulder. I shook my head but he spun me around with ease, the big pushy asshole. “What will make you happy?” “I don’t know. I want someone to want me, to need me, to love me.” “I love you,” he said, pulling me in for a big, brotherly hug that felt so good I started crying like that soap opera star Mama adored. That woman could weep at the drop of a hat. Seemed I could too, but my tears were brought on by food murder. “I know, and I love you too, but that’s brotherly love. I want…” I mumbled into his silk shirt then paused. What did I want? “I want someone of my own, Adler. Someone who’ll look at me as you look at Layton. I want something strong, real, happy. I want to feel happy again. I want to be needed.” “I need you.” “Not like you did before.” I wrapped my arms around him and held him. “You found your future; I think maybe it’s time I found mine.” He pulled back to gaze at me. His eyes were dewy. God damn me for making everything so fucking dramatic. “Can it be here in Harrisburg? I’m not sure I can function if you’re not here at my side. We’ve been together since we were kids. I remember toddling around the Maine mansion with you, running outside with Nanny trying to keep up, making mud pies then serving them to my parents when they dropped in. Oh! And that time we snuck out when we were ten to go see that horror movie. We slept together for four months afterwards. Stupid fucking shaky-headed demon women still freak me out.” I smiled, a reedy smile yes, but it was a smile. “I remember all of that, and I treasure each of food?”
I paused, breathless, and stared down at the carnage. “Oh man, my lasagna.” I dropped the butter knife and the pan into the sink. Then I covered my face with a sauce-speckled hand. “I’m just not happy anymore, Adler.”
One large hand settled on my shoulder, then another on the other shoulder. I shook my head but he spun me around with ease, the big pushy asshole.
“What will make you happy?”
“I don’t know. I want someone to want me, to need me, to love me.”
“I love you,” he said, pulling me in for a big, brotherly hug that felt so good I started crying like that soap opera star Mama adored. That woman could weep at the drop of a hat. Seemed I could too, but my tears were brought on by food murder.
“I know, and I love you too, but that’s brotherly love. I want…” I mumbled into his silk shirt then paused. What did I want? “I want someone of my own, Adler. Someone who’ll look at me as you look at Layton. I want something strong, real, happy. I want to feel happy again. I want to be needed.”
“I need you.”
“Not like you did before.” I wrapped my arms around him and held him. “You found your future; I think maybe it’s time I found mine.”
He pulled back to gaze at me. His eyes were dewy. God damn me for making everything so fucking dramatic.
“Can it be here in Harrisburg? I’m not sure I can function if you’re not here at my side. We’ve been together since we were kids. I remember toddling around the Maine mansion with you, running outside with Nanny trying to keep up, making mud pies then serving them to my parents when they dropped in. Oh! And that time we snuck out when we were ten to go see that horror movie. We slept together for four months afterwards. Stupid fucking shaky-headed demon women still freak me out.”
I smiled, a reedy smile yes, but it was a smile. “I remember all of that, and I treasure each of those memories. Well, not the shaky-head demon woman, I still can’t do those, but everything else. I’m just lost, I guess. I’ve built my life around you and now you don’t need me.” I gasped. “I sound like Mama!”
Adler chuckled, pulled me tight to his chest, and then pecked my hair affectionately. “You really do, but I get it. We’ll work on making you happy again. I can’t have my little brother unhappy. Would you like a new car?”
“Stop,” I said on a weak laugh, my nose pressed into his shoulder.
“A boat? Boats make people happy. You can float a boat.”
“Stop.”
“Oh! How about the entire Madonna musical collection? Oh wait, you already own that.”
“Stop. What I want can’t be bought.” I squeezed his middle then broke free, wiping at my face as I stepped back. “I’m not sure what it is I do want, but it’s deeper than presents and expensive gifts. I want…” I threw up my hands in exasperation.
Adler gave me a sad smile. “We’ll figure out what it is you want and when we do I’ll move heaven and earth to give it to you. Mi hermano.”
My brother. I choked up again then waved him out of my kitchen so I could clean up the mess I’d made out of myself and supper. The pan would need soaking but it’d survive, just a bit more scarred than it had been before. There was some sort of life metaphor or something in that last thought.
“Be the pan, Apollo,” I whispered to the empty room. Great, now I was patterning my life after bakeware. I really did need to figure out who I was and where the hell I was going. I’d not be able to focus well on an empty stomach or without the queen of pop, though. I’d think better after more Madonna and some chocolate-marshmallow ice cream. Obvs.
The next morning was a bleak one in Harrisburg. The March sky had been dark gray when I woke up, threatening winter fury. As the three of us were eating breakfast, the fury arrived in the form of freezing rain that crippled the city in an hour. Schools were cancelled, office and government workers given the day off, and the Railers morning skate had been scrapped. The game tonight— one of a back-to-back— was still on as far as we knew. It was an in-state game with Philadelphia, so maybe with the bad weather Trent’s Lola would stay home. We all loved the figure skater’s grandmother but she was brutal at times. Talk about a rabid fan.
Layton and Adler lounged around in bed after breakfast. I cleaned up, ran the vacuum, and then sat at the desk by the window and stared out at the icy landscape of Harrisburg, my light therapy box on and shining on my face. For several years the box had worked pretty well, keeping me off meds for the seasonal funk I’d always fallen into. This year though…
Rain hit the windows and froze. My mind wandered aimlessly. Winter weather sucked, it truly did. It was depressing the shit out of me. I snuggled into my thick sweater, wishing I were somewhere warm and sunny. Tucking my legs up under me, I sat there until someone lobbed a stuffed lobster at me. It missed, hit the icy window, and fell to the desk where it tipped over a cup filled with pens.
I didn’t even have to look to know who was responsible.
“Sorry, that was supposed to hit you in the head then I was going to yell something incredibly funny like, ‘Is that a lobster on your head or are you just happy to see me?’ but I missed and the whole joke is shot in the ass. So, hey, what are you doing?” Adler bounded over to the desk and gathered up his stuffed lobster, which he held to his bare chest. At least he had pulled on lounge pants. Sometimes he didn’t.
“Watching the world freeze.”
“Man, your SAD is really bad this year.” He took the back of the chair in his hands then rolled me from the window to the living room where he parked me then sat on the sofa. His ginger hair was knotted from sleep or sex, probably both given that I’d not seen Layton since we’d had breakfast. Adler had more than likely loved his man back to sleep. I so wasn’t envious of the two of them. Okay, yes, I was, and I hated that I was. “So, I was checking in on how Henry is doing.”
“How is he?”
“Doing okay. The leg is slow and his vision is still not where it should be, but they’re all hopeful. Anyway, I’m letting him stay at my new property in Tucson. He’s being released tomorrow and he’s on his own. He’ll be looking for someone to move in and take care of him. Clean, cook, drive him to his rehab and doctor’s appointments.”
“So they’re looking for someone to provide home care. I’m not a nurse.” I wasn’t sure what I was. Adler Lockhart’s… what exactly? Personal assistant? Yes, that had always fit when people asked what I did. Add baby-sitter, errand boy, keeper of important facts, chief cook and bottlewasher, and shoulder to cry on and this was a fair idea of my job/ life. It revolved around Adler and always had. I loved him but was that good? I didn’t have a clue about anything aside from having chilly feet. My toes were icy cold as they peeked out from under my funky, retro bell-bottom jeans. I needed to find my slippers.
“No, he has a nurse coming in twice a week. He needs someone to live there with him on a temporary basis. A companion. I told his brother Dan that I’d ask you.”
My gaze flew from my cold tan toes— I needed a pedicure badly as my bright pink polish was chipped to shit— to Adler. He was the picture of earnest affection. Layton liked to say he reminded him of an Irish Setter— all red and pretty and exuberant and overeager to please. That comparison fit perfectly.
“Me? But I have a job as your handler.”
He snorted in amusement but the humor quickly faded. “Yeah, a job that you’re not happy with anymore.” He looked down at the stuffed lobster, a memento he’d brought home from a cruise he and Layton had taken last summer. The summer I’d been seeing that rat bastard Jean-Claude. I spit on his memory in my mind. “You don’t have to even think about it if you don’t want to. I’d be super happy if you stayed here but you’re just so damn sad, and I feel like shit for ignoring you to be with Layton.”
“Adler…”
“I just thought that maybe this might be a solution. Get away from the cold weather which I know you hate, visit your Aunt Sofía, hang out with Henry, who’s a nice guy who also had a disastrous relationship with a real dick-bag shithead. Work on your tan, cook food for someone who will be there to eat it, maybe make some new friends and go out, fall in love. I want you to be happy even if it kills me to see you leave.”
I gave my head a shake. No. This wasn’t what I wanted. “I don’t want to leave you here alone.”
“But that’s just it, I won’t be alone. I have Layton.” He reached out to place his hand on my exposed toes. “Your toes are like ice. Dude, find your slippers then have a think, okay? It’s not for ever, just until Henry is back to his normal life. Maybe three months or so? I’m sure I can manage on my own for three months.” My right eyebrow climbed up my brow. “I totally can be a grown-up if I have to be.”
“Do you want me to go?”
His warm hand on my cold toes felt so good. He squeezed my smallest toe playfully then gave it a tug. “No, Apollo, I don’t want you to go. I want you to be here to take care of all the shitty things about life that I like to ignore. But that’s not fair to you when you’re obviously unhappy with your life now.”
“You’ve been talking to Layton about this, haven’t you?” I adored Adler but his upbringing made him a little blind to those around him at times. Being so rich and so spoiled, he tended to only see the brightest star in the sky, which was him. Adler was the sun and we were just little piddle planets caught in his gravitational pull.
“No, actually, I haven’t. Well, not about the thing with Henry. That was all me. He just suggested I try to look past my wants and needs to focus on yours, for a change.” He gave me that Adler Lockhart look. The one that said he knew he could be self-centered at times but he didn’t mean to be, which he didn’t. Adler would buy anyone anything they asked for. Sometimes, though, what a person needed couldn’t be purchased. “It was just a thought. Why don’t you think about it. I’m going back to bed. You can keep Rocky.”
He stood then handed me the plush red lobster. “Rocky for the B-52’ s song?”
His goofy smile lit up his face. “You know me too well.”
Off he went to his lover. Using one foot, I rolled back to the desk, over a few pens that needed to be picked up, Rocky tucked under my arm, and resumed my moment of reflection. The rain was mixed with snow now. The charcoal sky was throwing everything it had at Harrisburg. The March storm was a sound kick in the balls for those of us who lived for summer. Spring had been so close, just a few weeks away, hiding in April.
It’s warm in Arizona, Apollo, and sunny. There’s someone who needs you out there too. Someone who’s been broken by love just like you. Someone who’s struggling to find himself just like you.
The soft sound of male laughter floated over me. Maybe it was time to seek out the sun. God knows living in the shadows wasn’t for me and my brilliantly queer Latino light.
Without a Trace by RJ Scott
One
Drew
“Who killed my brother, Sawyer? Who killed Casey?” Adrenaline had gotten me through this door to ask that first question, but grief gripped my chest, and I bent at the waist, unable to find my breath. I thought I’d dealt with the brutal slam of pain, but chaos rushed through my thoughts, and when someone came close, I moved away, protecting myself.
“Drew, I’m so sorry,” Sawyer talked over the noise, reached for me, but I didn’t want to be touched. I didn’t want pity or meaningless words.
“He’s in shock!” The words were snapped out, staccato sharp, but it wasn’t Sawyer who spoke them.
Was I in shock? Was this what it felt like? My brother was dead. Really dead, not living a life and having a family…
Someone gripped my shoulders. “Breathe, soldier,” they said, but they didn’t shake me. They held me absolutely still and then encouraged me to stand. “That’s it. In. Out.”
“Do we need to call a paramedic?” Sawyer asked, caring, comforting Sawyer with his pretty words and thoughtful support.
“Last thing he needs,” the other person said, and I unbent myself, stood upright. “Steady, soldier.”
I blinked as I met green eyes then scanned the room. Sawyer was close, a man next to him had his hand on Sawyer’s arm. And now there was a third person, the one who’d called me soldier and held me up.
“Get off me,” I managed and wriggled free.
This new arrival stepped back and away, holding his hands up. I glanced at his name badge: Hennessy.
“Drew?” I caught Sawyer’s pained gaze, waiting for him to say something. Anything.
“Tell me,” I pleaded and hated the weakness in my tone.
Sawyer pushed past Hennessy and pulled me in for a hard hug, and for a brief moment, I sank into his hold, letting the grief overtake me. Then reality kicked me in the ass, and I fought the hold to step back and put some distance between us. Fuck if I was going to lose my shit again.
Sawyer glanced at who’d been holding his arm. He was dressed like a college student in board shorts and a T-shirt covered in diamanté.
“This is Chris, my partner,” he explained as if it mattered.
“I’m so sorry for your loss…” Chris extended a hand.
I didn’t take it. I didn’t care who he was or what he was doing here because I didn’t have the mental capacity for manners. I waited for Sawyer to tell him to leave, only Chris shuffled closer to Sawyer, and their hands brushed in an unconscious show of support, which made my heart hurt. The cop, Hennessy, stepped back and beyond my peripheral vision. I reacted automatically to move to the wall so I could see everyone. You can’t fight what you can’t see.
“We need to talk. They need to go.”
Sawyer stared at me. Then he bumped arms with Chris. “It’s okay. I’ll call you,” Sawyer murmured, and Chris sidestepped Hennessy to leave the room.
Chris spoke again as he left, but I was dizzy with questions, and I rubbed my chest to ease the hurt.
“Logan, you can leave us,” Sawyer added.
Next to me, Hennessy stiffened. This guy, all tall and muscled, wasn’t moving, and I immediately categorized him as dangerous. There was stubborn determination in the steady focus of his green-eyed gaze and the tilt of his chin. Finally, after he gave me a shit ton of nonverbal indications that he didn’t want me causing shit, including a narrowing of his eyes and a frown, he left.
“Does no one shut fucking doors around here?” I knocked the wood with one of my mud-covered boots until the handle clicked and we had privacy. “What happened?” No point in hanging around. I wanted to know who’d killed my brother and why.
“Would you like coffee? A cold drink?” Sawyer gestured to a chair this side of a wide desk.
I shook my head. “Just tell me.” Sitting was not an option. I had way too much nervous energy spiking in my system.
He nodded, and I saw him swallow and knew instinctively that this was going to be the worst kind of news. “Part of the investigation into remains found under Kissing Bridge led us to investigate the cave system, down the largest of the sinkholes.”
“Which one? Do you mean Hell’s Gate?” We’d called it that as kids, after a fire-and-brimstone sermon from Pastor Bill, given so that any Lancaster Falls kid would stay away from the dangers of disintegrating ground and sudden drops.
“Yes, that was where we found him.”
“And he’s been there all this time?” I coughed to clear the awful mix of pain and grief in my voice.
Sawyer hesitated and side-eyed the big board full of pictures and names and, curiously, several sheets of blank paper. He moved between me and the board as if he could stop me from seeing what I’d already observed and partially summarized in my head.
I’m black ops for a reason.
“Drew, you should sit down.” Sawyer wasn’t asking, but I couldn’t move. “In circumstances like these—”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m a stranger, Sawyer. I can handle whatever you have to say to me.” I was lying, but then, I’d gotten very good at that.
He hesitated a moment. “A lot of it is confidential—”
“But I’m his next of kin.”
“No, your mom—”
“Don’t bullshit me.”
“You have to trust me when I say that we’re doing our job—”
My temper flared then. “Since when have the cops in this town ever done their fucking jobs?” I waited for him to shout back after provoking him, and I wanted him to yell at me, but all he did was shake his head.
“I’m in charge here now.” Abruptly he sounded tired. “And you have to trust me,” he added, but there was caution in his words.
“Fuck’s sake, who put Casey in Hell’s Gate? Who are your suspects? What are the forensics telling you? Where do we start with this?”
“There’s nothing you can do. Nothing any of us can do. We’re waiting on extensive forensics, and hell, Drew, I wish I had more to tell you.”
“You should be out there interviewing people, interrogating those who saw him last, making arrests, so what the hell are you actually doing?” I knew the question had hit its mark when the nerve by Sawyer’s left eye twitched.
“I’ve talked to everyone. It’s ongoing, and there’s nothing else I can add.”
And there it was, stubborn-as-fuck Sawyer Wiseman, up in my face in Captain Sandoval’s old office as if doing that was going to make me back down. He was walking the line between compassionate friend and cop, and right now, I needed to talk to the cop because the other was of no use to me. There were no remnants of our teenage friendship. We were standing there as adults. Ten or more years had passed, and we all had different lives now.
“Show me what you’ve got so far,” I issued the ultimatum and waited. “Crime scene photos, autopsy information, witness statements, photographs.”
“We don’t have the full forensic analysis back yet—”
“Crime scene photos, then.”
“No. Shit, Drew. I can’t… you don’t want to see.”
“Let me see.” So I know this is true.
He sidestepped a little, revealing the top left corner of the board and Casey’s smiling face. “I can’t have it up there,” he explained, then reached for a folder on his desk and clutched it to his chest. “I shouldn’t show you any of this. Please don’t do this,” he begged.
“I need to see,” I lied. I didn’t need to see anything, but I had to know Casey being gone was real.
He pulled out a black-and-white photo and handed it to me. The inside of the cave, marks and numbers on the floor, and on a shallow shelf were the remains of a person, held together with scraps of fabric. Bile burned my throat, but I carefully passed the photo back to Sawyer.
“It’s definitely Casey?”
“Your mom… there were tests… and a watch. Yes, it’s Casey for sure.”
“And where’s… the body… his remains… where’s Casey now?”
Sawyer wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Still with the coroner. His body hasn’t been released for burial.” I didn’t need him hesitating and thinking things through right now. I needed him to talk with passion and truth and to tell me what he thought had happened to Casey.
Grief welled up again. Casey is dead. Casey is gone.
“He’s my brother.” I lowered my voice and gestured to the boards on Sawyer’s wall. I’d already seen way too much, but it hit me that there wasn’t much pinned up there about Casey aside from that photo of him smiling, the one they’d used in the newspapers and the missing person notices. Slightly blurred, it had been cut from a photo of him and me, and if I checked close enough, I could see the tip of my shoulder next to his. I’d read what I could on my phone whenever I had Wi-Fi and knew he’d been found in the vicinity of a heap of bones, but if a novice examined the board, it would’ve seemed that the main focus was on the unidentified remains of whomever was there with him.
“I know he’s your brother.” Sawyer’s tone was gentle, but I couldn’t let his sympathy unseat me.
“How did he end up in the sinkhole?”
“We don’t know.”
“But you have a working theory, right?” He winced again, and I pressed ahead. “How did he die?”
“As I said, we haven’t had the full forensics—”
“Was he shot? Knifed? Beaten?” Or worse, so much worse.
“We’re not in a position to speculate,” he evaded. “We’ll have to wait until we get the reports back.”
“Then what do you know?”
“Shit, Drew.” He appeared to be struggling with something, and I stopped talking for a moment to hear what he had to say. “There were abrasions and broken bones.” He cleared his throat. “Injuries that the coroner said, off the record, were consistent with blunt force trauma.” “Did he commit suicide?” My breath hitched.
“Did he jump into Hell’s Gate?”
“He said they could be caused by a fall but that the distance of the fall wouldn’t support the extensive injuries. That was the extent of it, but no, I don’t think he jumped.”
I pressed a hand to my chest, willing my heart to keep beating. “If he didn’t die from the fall, then what else could have caused his death?”
“Maybe a car?" He said this as if it wasn’t one of his working theories and was just some random thing he’d thought of.
“Wait! Casey was hit by a car?”
“We don’t know that for sure—”
“It makes sense. The Kirklands saw him on the road—”
“They didn’t see anything but him leaving town. I wish I had more to tell you, Drew.” He sighed and glanced at the board. “There’s nothing you don’t already see here. It’s the same people on our lists that the PD interviewed when he first disappeared. We’re following procedure.”
I closed my eyes for a moment. “People back then were asked questions about a young guy who’d left town of his own accord, not about a man whose body was dumped into a sinkhole. You need to talk to all of them again.”
He leaned forward, his eyes glinting. “You have to trust me—”
“No, I don’t. The cops in this town do nothing for the likes of us, and you’re probably no better.”
“I know my job—”
“And what about his friends? Have you talked to them as well?”
“Of course we have. That was the first thing on my list.”
“And what did they say?”
His jaw tightened. “As I said, I’m working my way down the list—”
“Fuck you and fuck this town,” I snapped. “Fuck you all for not giving a shit about Casey—”
He rounded on me, standing toe to toe. It seemed as if compassion had vanished enough for him to distance himself.
“Get some air, Drew, and then visit with your mom.” He was talking to me as if I was a child.
Also, seeing Mom was the very last thing I wanted to do right now. “I’ll get cleaned up and be back in an hour.”
“Don’t come back today. I don’t want you here until you’ve calmed down.”
“I’m not sitting on my ass, doing nothing.”
He massaged his temples, actively attempting to rein in his reactions. “Are you staying with your mom?”
“No.”
“Okay, get a room at Josh’s hotel.”
“Yeah, that would go down well,” I snapped.
Compassion flashed in his eyes, but however hard he looked, he would only ever see anger in mine. “He’s been trying to get hold of you for a long time to talk to you about what happened. It was a different world then, and you were just as messed up as he was. Maybe you should think about him and realize you owe Josh time to—”
“I don’t owe anyone anything!” I shoved him. He crashed back against the desk. Years of pain overrode any friendship. He shoved me back, but I was convinced he’d never back down, and I was ready for him. I gripped his arm and shook him. “This is Casey’s body, and I need to know—”
The rest of my words were lost as the door flew open, and someone grabbed me from behind and face-planted me on the desk, twisting one of my arms behind my back. I tensed and tried to flip him off, but not even the moves I’d perfected over the years could shift whomever had me locked and pressed to the wood.
“Captain?” Hennessy snapped. “You okay?”
This Hennessy guy was clearly as strong as he looked. I kicked back at him but couldn’t find purchase.
“Get the fuck off me.” Hell, I wouldn’t have hurt Sawyer however much of an asshole of a cop he was, and something in my tone must have signaled I wouldn’t fight because Logan eased his hold. Rookie mistake. I was up in seconds and pushed Hennessy against the evidence board, my hand on his throat.
I was face-to-face with a soldier; it took one to know one. He was solid muscle under my hands, albeit lean, his green eyes glittering dangerously. He managed to land a blow to my stomach, and it stole my breath, but I didn’t let it stop me until he twisted in such a way that he had the upper hand once more, his thigh holding me in place. Another shove from me and I had him against the wall again, and this time his composure slipped, and temper edged into his expression.
“Logan! Fuck, Drew, stop! Enough!” Sawyer shouted and pushed his way between us, but not before this Logan guy, this emerald-eyed small-town cop, had evaded my hold with a sharp action that had me convinced I was right about him being trained. Sawyer separated us and held a hand to each of our chests. “Logan, back off. It’s okay.” He faced me head on. “Not like this, Drew. Come back when you’ve cooled down.”
Temper burned inside me. “This is some fucking bullshit.” My voice cracked with emotion. Sawyer’s eyes widened, and I swore the Logan guy growled. I held my hands up. “I’m done here,” I snapped before he saw through the anger to the acid that ate at me every day. I strode past the soldier-cop and headed through a maze of desks, passing the still openmouthed administrator, and finally reached the wall of oppressive heat outside. I tried to inhale fresh air, but there wasn’t anything like that out here. It felt as if a storm was brewing. The air was thick with electricity. It was sticky, hot, intense and endless pressure, and I didn’t want to be here.
I sensed someone was following me and assumed it was Sawyer and I reluctantly turned to face my childhood friend. Only it wasn’t him but Hennessy who’d followed me out. Him with the model looks and the lean muscles and the stance of a man who knew how to handle himself.
“What!” I demanded because if this asshole didn’t get out of my face, then I couldn’t be held responsible for what I did next.
“We both get how you’re feeling, okay?” he said evenly.
I wanted to punch him right there in the street, so much pent-up guilt, grief, and aggression spiraling inside me. “You have no fucking idea—”
“Sawyer knows. I know,” he repeated.
I stared at him, dumbfounded. No one shared the pain I had right now. No one could understand the temper that warred with the grief in a battle so hard that I felt drained.
I stepped toward him, but he didn’t flinch. In a last-minute change of mind, I turned away from him, stalked around the station and to the park, the weight of his gaze following me. I knew he couldn’t have spent the first twenty years of his life in this town. He’d arrived after I’d left, so what did he know about the real Lancaster Falls? Or me? Or Casey? Or the friendship that Sawyer and I had once had? He couldn’t know any of it and it was one more thing that didn’t fit with the brightly covered awnings on Main or the fragile ironwork around the park. What car could have hit my brother? How had he ended up in the sinkhole? Who’d put him there? Had he been in an accident and wandered into the trees?
No, the sinkhole is a long way from the road.
I dodged every person I saw, thankful for the heat that was keeping people indoors. Still, I bet word had already begun to spread. God knew where I was heading. Not to my mom’s, not to my old friends, just back to the car.
He’s back.
There was always something off with Drew McGuire, the way he left town like that.
His mom was heartbroken at losing both her sons.
And much worse than any character summary was the unspoken question every person in this damn town held inside.
Is it just me who thinks that it was all Drew’s fault?
Do you think he killed his brother?
Body and Soul by Jordan Castillo Price
"Uncle Jacob? Did you get to shoot anybody since last summer?"
Jacob’s nephew, Clayton, asked this with the eagerness and joy of a kid who’d just learned that school was cancelled. Clayton was in fifth grade. I have no idea how old that would make him.
"You shot someone last summer?" I muttered, smoothing my napkin on my lap to the point where I probably looked like I was playing with myself. Not exactly the impression I’d wanted to make on Jacob’s family on our first Thanksgiving together.
The muttering? Not usually my style, but I was feeling uncharacteristically mouthy. It seemed like the moment I had a thought, it made its way through my vocal cords and out my mouth before I had a chance to pat it down and make sure it wasn’t going to jab anyone. I’d been this way since I’d stopped taking Auracel and Seconal over a month ago. Here I thought I’d been mellowing all these years, when really, it had just been the drugs.
"No," Jacob answered patiently. "I try to avoid shooting people." And then he looked at me. "Carolyn and I walked in on an armed robbery in progress at the convenience store on California and Irving. It was a clean shot to the leg."
Departmental policy allows us cops to decide whether to go for a lethal or a non-lethal shot when a criminal’s got an unarmed civilian at gunpoint. If Jacob had shot someone’s leg, I had no doubt it was exactly where he’d been aiming. Jacob is a Stiff, the non-psychic half of a PsyCop team, and not only are Stiffs impossible to influence by sixth-sensory means and impervious to possession, but they’re usually crack shots. The Stiffs who I know, anyway.
I’m the other half of a PsyCop team, the Psych half. Not Jacob’s team; Carolyn Brinkman was Jacob’s better half, on the job at least. I didn’t currently have a Stiff of my very own. Maurice, my first partner, retired, although I still lean on him way too much. Lisa, my second partner, was kicked off the force when they discovered that she was as psychic as Jean Dixon. She’s off being trained for the psy end of the whole PsyCop business now, out in California. Technically she's just a phone call away, and yet sometimes it feels like she’s on an entirely different planet. Even when she gets back, I won’t get to partner with her, since they only pair up Psychs with Stiffs.
And then there was my third partner, Roger. The bastard kidnapped me for some under-the-table drug testing, and I’d been so gullible I’d practically given him a key to my apartment. Roger was rotting in a jail cell, last I’d heard. The whole affair was pretty hush-hush. Maybe I could’ve gleaned a few more details, if I was the type to obsess about the little things, like where one’s arch-enemy is incarcerated, and whether or not he’s shown up for roll call recently. But, frankly, I’ve never found details very comforting. I think about them, and I just get overwhelmed. Roger went bye-bye, and I came out of our encounter intact. That’s all I really need to know.
Six weeks later and I was still on medical leave. I felt fine, probably due to the amount of actual blood cells coursing through my system in lieu of the drug cocktail I was accustomed to.
"Did you ever shoot anyone?" Clayton asked me, eyes sparkling.
"Sure."
"Wow. Did you kill ‘em?"
Clayton had Jacob’s phenomenal dark eyes. Or Jacob’s younger sister Barbara’s eyes. Which were Jacob’s father’s eyes, as well as the eyes of the wizened old lady at the head of the table who was about a hundred and five. She’d been giving me a look that could probably kill an elephant ever since we’d gotten there and Jacob had introduced me as his boyfriend.
I think he’d primed his family over the phone. But still. He had to go and say it out loud and rub it in. Because that’s the way Jacob is. Not that he’d be bringing a man home for Thanksgiving for any other reason. But that’s beside the point.
"Clayton Joseph," snapped Barbara. She might have had Jacob’s eyes, but she certainly couldn’t hold a candle to his cool composure. "That is not an appropriate question for the dinner table."
Grandma Marks glowered at me from the head of the table, her dark eyes, half-hidden in folds of wrinkled skin, threatening to pierce me right through. I’d figured she hated me because I was doing the nasty with her grandson. Maybe she had a thing against psychics. Hell, maybe both. I’m usually just lucky that way.
"Bob Martinez retired down at the mill," Jacob’s father, Jerry, announced in a blatant attempt to change the subject. If we’d been in Chicago, where I grew up, Jerry would have been talking about a steel mill. But we were in Wisconsin, an alien land of rolling hills and cows with signs advertising something called "fresh cheese curds" every few miles. I gathered that the mills made paper in this alien, wholesome land where Jacob had been born and bred.
"And when are you going to think about retiring, dad?" Barbara asked. She had a trace of an accent that sounded Minnesotan to my untrained ear. I wondered if Jacob had ever had that same funny lilt. Probably once, but it’d been erased by him living over half his life in Chicago.
"Your father’s got another ten years in him, at least," said Jacob’s mom, Shirley. Shirley wore her hair in a white, poofy halo. I suspected she’d been a blonde in her younger days. "What’s he going to do around here but get in my way?"
"Your mother plays Euchre on Tuesdays and Thursdays," said Jerry, as if his retirement hinged around a card game.
"You have hobbies," said Barbara. "You could fix up your woodshop and actually finish a few things."
"Ah, I’d rather earn an honest wage than stay home and make birdhouses."
"And you could teach Clayton all about woodworking."
"He’s too young," said Jerry. "He’d cut his finger off."
"Wood is stupid," Clayton added.
I wondered if calling wood stupid was heresy in this land of trees and paper. But Grandma didn’t fall out of her chair clutching her heart, so I figured that kids were allowed to say the first thing that popped into their minds these days. Or maybe they always had been. I must have been on my third foster home by the time I was Clayton’s age. I was probably in fourth grade, held back for being thick, stubborn, and socially retarded. But that would’ve put me at just about the age where I’d learned that my opinion was neither desired nor appreciated.
Jingle bells announced the opening of the front door -- that and a massive blast of arctic air, complete with a whorl of snowflakes.
"Uncle Leon!" Clayton leapt up from the table and thundered toward the door.
I looked at the empty place setting across from me and heaved an inward sigh of relief. I’d been hoping that an actual person would fill it, that it wasn’t left open as a tribute to Grandpa Marks, or some other long lost family member.
Leon rounded the corner of the dining room and Shirley stood up to greet him. I glanced around at the rest of the table to see if I was supposed to stand up, too. But Jacob and Jerry were still sitting. Jerry was even packing away mashed potatoes like he was trying to beat everyone else to the punch.
Uncle Leon was in his mid to late sixties and had the same white hair and rounded snub nose as Jacob’s mom. Shirley kissed him on the cheek and unbuttoned his thick corduroy jacket. "Jacob brought his friend with him," she said, gesturing toward me. "This is Victor."
She peeled Leon’s coat off him and whisked away with it just as Leon turned to shake my hand. He led with his left hand, which confused me. His bare right arm flapped at his side, with his right sleeve rolled up to his shoulder.
I shook his left hand in a daze.
Leon nodded his head toward his right shoulder. "Lost it at the mill in seventy-eight. Damn thing still hurts."
I blinked. Leon’s right sleeve wasn’t rolled up. It was pinned to the shoulder of his shirt. He didn’t have a right arm -- not one made out of real flesh and blood, anyway. And I could still see his missing arm. The party’d finally gotten started. Hooray.
"Oh," I said. "That sucks."
"Shirley tells me you’re a PsyCop."
I nodded. "Yeah."
"That’s some kind of program they got going on down there," he said. His ghost arm joined his corporeal arm in pulling out the chair across from mine. "What kind of talent you got?"
I sank back into my seat and swallowed a mouthful of dryish turkey meat I’d been talking around for the last several minutes. "Medium."
"No shit?"
Grandma frowned harder, but Leon didn’t seem to notice. "Can I get you anything to drink?" Shirley asked me, but I mumbled that I was okay.
"That girl Jacob works with, she’s a telepath, isn’t she? Wow, a medium. How ‘bout that?" Leon’s ghost hand caressed the silverware as he spoke. I wondered if I looked like a freak for staring at his salad fork while he talked to me. "So how strong are they, your impressions?"
I drained my glass of soda to wash down the turkey and wished I’d taken Shirley up on her offer of a refill. "Pretty strong."
"What, do you hear ‘em talking to you? In their own words?"
"Uh huh."
"Holy cow, now that’s what you call a psychic. We got ourselves a Marie Saint Savon right here at the table."
Good old Marie had died right around the time I’d been shoehorned into the police academy. She’d been the world’s most powerful medium, and no one could touch her talent. Not that I could figure why anyone would want to. I was surprised that Leon actually knew her name. Maybe it was a generational thing. She’d been big news maybe fifteen years ago, and then was quickly forgotten by almost everyone but the psychic community.
"That’s got to make your police work a little easier," said Leon. "Huh?"
I nodded and swallowed some mashed potatoes. They were salty enough to stimulate my flagging salivary glands. A little.
"Only if you work homicide," Jerry piped in. The whole family had been skirting around my psychic ability, but since Leon had started the ball rolling and I didn’t seem too tender about the topic, it’d become fair game.
"I do."
"Holy shit. I didn’t know they used mediums in homicide."
Grandma glared at Leon.
"You mean medium, like a psychic medium?" Clayton asked.
"Uh huh."
"Wow, you see dead people?"
"That’s just in the movies," Barbara said. "Like the telekinetics who can shoot bullets with their minds." Metal was incredibly resistant to telekinesis, but I’d trained with one guy who could fling a mean stone. He got these splitting headaches afterward, though, so he was never one to show off with party tricks.
"I can see them," I said.
The table went quiet. "Whoa," said Clayton. "Like, right now?"
I avoided looking at the spot where Leon’s arm was flopping around on the table. "There aren’t any spirits here for Victor to see," Jacob explained. We knew that to be the case because we’d called Lisa Gutierrez in Santa Barbara and asked her if there were any ghosts in Jerry and Shirley’s house, and she’d said no. Lisa’s precognitive, and if she says no, the answer is unequivocally no.
I guess she couldn’t have known about Leon’s arm. Not without us asking specifically.
"And when you see ‘em," Clayton went on, "are they all scary and gross?"
"Sometimes."
Everyone at the table seemed to lean forward just a little. Even Jacob.
"Can you see right through them?"
"Sometimes. Or sometimes they look like regular people."
Leon’s facial expression was open and eager, but his phantom limb was clenching and unclenching its fist, and bright red droplets had appeared all over it as if it was sweating blood. I buried my face in my glass, tilting a final droplet of soda onto my tongue.
"Can you touch ‘em?" Clayton asked, his voice dropping down into a reverential whisper.
I swallowed around a hunk of turkey that’d lodged in my esophagus. Jacob slid his glass over to me, and I took it and drank it down. He’d been drinking milk. I just barely kept myself from gagging.
"You don’t want to touch ghosts," I said.
The house around us, the very air, went quiet. Everyone strained forward to catch whatever crumbs of information I might care to scatter. Because we’re a nation that grew up on Lovecraft and Sleepy Hollow and Friday the Thirteenth, and people are dying to know if all that shit’s really real.
"They’re creepy," I added. And I swallowed some more milk.
"Why don’t you tell Uncle Jacob and Uncle Leon about the report you did on salamanders?" Barbara suggested to Clayton.
"Creepy how?" Clayton asked.
"Clayton got an A minus," said Barbara.
"Creepy how?"
"I don’t know," I said. I’d started spreading my food around my plate, mixing my corn and my potatoes, ruining both. "The way they look in scary movies? Pretty much like that."
"How can you say that?" Barbara demanded, suddenly so vehement that I wondered how I’d ever pegged her as a sheepish single mom in her pale yellow cardigan and perfectly creased khaki pants. "When people die, they go to heaven."
Oh. Christian. Or had Jacob said Catholic -- or was that the same difference? I didn’t remember, must not have been paying close enough attention when Jacob had tried to prepare me.
"Barbara," said Jerry. Her father didn’t have a follow up ready. Just her name, sounding like a warning.
"If he says he sees spirits, then he does," Leon said, hopping to my defense despite the fact that he made me squirm in my seat. Or, more accurately, his right arm did. "They have tests." He looked to me for affirmation. "Don’t they have tests?"
"All kinds of tests," I said, burying the last of my corn.
"And being able to see them, you’re what, a level three? Four?"
"Five," I said. Level five was a couple of steps down from good old Marie. But Marie was only a step lower than God. Or maybe Satan.
The table went quiet again.
"Are you a millionaire?" asked Clayton.
"It is not polite to ask people how much money they make," said Barbara. She was the same age as me, thirty-eight. She had Jacob’s flashing dark eyes and high cheekbones, but she looked just as worn out as I always felt. Even more so, now that we were attempting civil dinner conversation.
"It’s okay," I said. "No, I’m not a millionaire. I make more money than a regular detective, but not as much as my supervisor."
"And you spend as much money as someone who’s lived through the Great Depression," Jacob added, sotto voice.
Clayton scrunched his face up. I saw mashed potatoes lurking behind his teeth. "You should find Al Capone and make him tell you where his vault is."
Jerry and Leon laughed, but the way they kept their eyes trained on me, I could tell they were hoping that maybe I’d think that dredging up Al Capone was a grand idea. And I just so happened to need a couple of assistants over the age of sixty-five.
"He’s probably not around," I said. "He’d be a little old by now."
Everyone chuckled, except for Barbara, who evidently thought I was a devil-worshipper. And Grandma, who was possibly giving me the evil eye. And Clayton, who couldn’t make sense out of my lack of financial savvy.
Leon smacked the table with his left hand as he laughed. His spectral right hand followed suit, only it pummeled the table with much greater force than its counterpart. Spectral blood flew, spattering the white tablecloth covered in cross-stitched cornucopia, doe-eyed pilgrims, and smiling Indians.
I closed my eyes and tried to imagine a protective white bubble around Leon’s arm.
"Are you warm, honey?" asked Shirley. "You want me to open a window?"
I was about to tell her not to bother, when I realized that I felt the prickle of sweat along the back of my neck. "Yeah, okay," I said, as I shrugged out of my flannel shirt and let it bunch on the seat of my chair. I was glad I’d taken the time to find a T-shirt without any holes or stains on it.
I took a deep breath and looked at Leon’s ghost hand. It quivered like it was hooked up to an electrical wire. Like that frog in the biology class whose legs kick when you give it a shock. No, I hadn’t been absent that day. And yeah, I’d puked. Me and Janet Neiderman.
"I’ll be right back," I said, knocking my chair into Jacob’s as I scrambled to make my way toward the upstairs bathroom. There was a half-bath on the first floor, but I figured that everyone at the dinner table really didn’t need to hear me retching if I couldn’t bring my gag reflex under control.
Why did I have to go and think of that goddamn frog?
I dodged past Jacob’s old bedroom--now Shirley’s very own sewing room--and nearly skateboarded down the upstairs hallway on a pink and blue rag rug. Darting into the bathroom, I slammed the door shut behind me. It had a hook and eye lock on it, which might keep Grandma out, or maybe Clayton, if he didn’t lean on the door too hard.
I breathed, and I looked around. It was a normal enough bathroom, more colorful than mine, with blue and yellow sunflowers on the shower curtain that kind of matched a border going around the top of the painted walls, but not quite. I pulled open the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet in hopes of finding a nice bottle of cold medicine, or maybe some valium. Neither one would make Leon’s nasty ghost arm go away completely, but they’d sure make me care about it a whole lot less.
The right side of the cabinet was filled entirely with old lady perfume, facial cream, nail polish, and hair mousse. The left held cheap plastic razors like I use, aspirin, foot spray, a stick of green deodorant, cotton swabs, and antihistamines.
Of every drug that had ever been invented, Jacob’s parents owned the only two types that affected my talent less than antibiotics.
I pawed through their drawers in hopes of finding a stray muscle relaxant or even an expired tube of motion-sickness pills. I found a bunch of washcloths and some sunblock. Sunblock. In a small rural Wisconsin town on the border of Minnesota that saw the sun maybe two hours each winter if it peered closely enough between the snowflakes.
I looked underneath the sink and found a pair of rubber gloves and a bunch of cleaning supplies. Damn it.
I tore the medicine cabinet doors open again, hoping to find something that I’d missed before. And then my eyes fell on the nail polish remover.
I turned the bottle around and read the back. Acetone was the first ingredient. And the seminar I’d attended fourteen years ago called Inhalants, the Silent Killer was as fresh in my mind as if I’d just taken it yesterday.
And here I thought I hadn’t gotten much out of the Police Academy.
I wasn’t a habitual huffer, not like the anorexic girl at the Cook County Mental Health Center -- the institution that’d housed me from seventeen to twenty-three -- who’d shown me how to get the most bang for my buck with a can of cooking spray or a plastic baggie and a jar of rubber cement. No, I didn’t enjoy killing my brain cells randomly, but I was a pragmatist. The arm wasn’t going to go away all by itself. And I really needed it to stop waving at me if I wanted to make it through dinner.
I could saturate a wad of toilet paper and hold it over my mouth and nose, but acetone’s a stinky chemical, and I’d end up reeking of it. Instead, I set the bottle on the rim of the sink and plugged one of my nostrils, sniffing it carefully in hopes of zapping the specific neurons that enabled me to see Leon’s damn spastic missing arm without leaving me stinking like a Chinese nail salon.
I felt a little floaty and had developed a sharp headache over the top of my skull by the time anyone came to check on me.
Luckily, it was Jacob.
Since he didn’t need to know I was huffing his mother’s nail polish remover, I put it away and washed my face before I answered the door.
He leaned in the doorjamb, looking incredibly sexy in a long-sleeved, chocolate brown silk knit that clung to every muscle like it’d been painted on him. He crossed his arms and gave me his most earnest you-can-trust-me face, pouty and a little doe-eyed.
"Everything all right?"
"It’s...um. I dunno."
"You went a little pale at the table."
It wasn’t so surprising that Jacob noticed it when I saw something. Maurice Taylor, my first partner, used to tell me sometimes that I’d disappear if I got any whiter, and he hadn’t been joking about my ethnicity.
My eyes stung from the acetone I’d just sniffed, and I pressed my fingertips into my tear ducts to try to relieve the itch. If I knuckled my eyes like I really wanted to, they’d get all red and I’d look totally high. "Your uncle Leon seems like a cool guy."
"He is."
"But...I can see his arm."
Jacob stepped into the bathroom and locked the door behind him. He sat down on the rim of the tub and took one of my hands between both of his, and he waited.
I avoided his eyes and stared at a tile on the floor that was set a little crooked. "I’m trying really hard to be a decent boyfriend," I said. "But I think I might not be cut out for it."
"Stop it."
"No, it’s true. I don’t know how to have a family. And evidently, I can’t function without having a buzz on."
"What are we talking about?" Jacob asked. "Are you breaking up with me or telling me you want to start going to Narcotics Anonymous?"
My heartbeat, already racing a little from the acetone, did an unpleasant stutter when Jacob said the words "breaking up" aloud.
"I mean, you know. Come on."
"No, I don’t. What’s going on?"
God damn. I’d started hugging myself without realizing I was doing it. Ugly habit. Ugly, ugly habit. I forced myself to try to stand normally, but I felt like my arms and legs weren’t screwed on right. "I just wanted to...you know...be with you and your family for the holiday."
Jacob nodded slowly. "Okay. And that’s what we’re doing. If you need to leave, I’m trusting you to tell me so."
"I don’t want to leave in the middle of dinner." I stared up into a painted-on sunflower. "I thought the house was clean," I said.
"And I had no idea that Leon’s arm would qualify as a ghost. If you don’t want to go, we can move you, say that you need to sit by the window."
"I’d rather sit across from Leon than Barbara, arm or no arm."
Jacob smirked. "Can’t say I blame you."
I thought about that damn bloody limb performing acrobatics that were totally out of synch with what Leon’s face and body language were telling me. "This is gonna sound stupid," I said. Which I can pretty much use to preface anything that comes out of my mouth. "But I wonder if it knew I could see it and it was showing off."
Stupid or not, Jacob considered the idea. "Maybe it’s got a spiritual equivalent to a cellular intelligence. Who knows? But if amputated limbs can be present in the spirit world, it explains why they still cause pain for some people and not others just as much as the idea of a bunch of neurons misfiring."
Could people have their phantom limbs exorcised? It was possible -- or at least they could have them scrambled with electrical interference, once the technology of Psych science caught up with the psychology and biology of it.
"If I just had some Auracel, everything would be okay." I take prescription Auracel to block out the visions. Or I used to take it...until I stopped. Which was fine, inside my apartment. I guess I’d conveniently forgotten about the real world outside it. Only certain pharmacies in big metropolitan areas carried the drug, so even if I could call The Clinic and have them fax a prescription, chances were we’d have to go to Minneapolis to have it filled.
Jacob stood and pulled a little paper cup from a cutesy holder mounted on the wall beside the medicine cabinet, and filled it with tap water. "How many?"
"How many what?"
"How many Auracel?"
I realized he was digging in his pocket, and it was as if the clouds broke open and a beam of sunshine landed right on him.
"You have some?"
He smiled at me. He’s got a special grin that’s all mine. It somehow manages to be reassuring and to promise that he’ll fuck me halfway through the mattress later, all at once. "I’ve got to tell you: I’m relieved this is only about Auracel." He handed me the paper cup.
"How many do you have?"
"Ten."
"Wow. You’re prepared."
"I was a boy scout."
"That’s creepy. And hot. At the same time."
Jacob pressed a tablet of Auracel into my mouth, running his thumb back and forth over my lips after he did. I turned away to swallow some water. In fifteen minutes or so, the pill would start kicking in. My relief was greater than my disappointment, but just barely. "I really wanted to do this without the meds."
"Which was your idea, not mine."
That was so not fair. My life was perfectly fine until suddenly I had this live-in boyfriend who wanted to interact with me, and I realized that I was almost always high. Maybe it had been my idea to go cold turkey, but I’d done it because of Jacob.
"Talk to me," Jacob said.
"You’re gonna decide I’m too much trouble, someday."
"Uh huh," he said with absolutely zero conviction, flipping my hand over to press a kiss into my clammy palm. His goatee tickled at the base of my thumb.
I felt the first effects of the Auracel kicking in, a little dryness to my tongue, and a tingle in my fingertips that was only intensified by the feeling of Jacob’s hot mouth grazing my skin.
"Stop it," I said. "I’m not going back downstairs with a hard-on."
I felt Jacob grinning into my hand, and then his tongue traced my life line.
"I mean it."
"So you want me to suck you off in my parents’ bathroom?"
Dirty. Dirty, dirty, dirty. Jacob talks dirty so well, and I always love it. My cock stirred a little. The promise of the Auracel high made me sluggish, though, and I had enough self-control, even with a sexy hunk of manmeat going down on my thumb, to save it for later. "After dinner."
Jacob let go of my hand and pulled my T-shirt up over my stomach. He pressed a kiss into my solar plexus. "Dessert," he said, breathing the word against my bare skin and pulling a long shiver up my spine. "I’m looking forward to it."
And here I’d been expecting pumpkin pie.
Jacob went downstairs first, promising to tell his family that I reacted to my medications sometimes. Which was technically true. He wasn’t saying that I’d had such a reaction at the table, after all. Jacob knows all about being technically truthful. His partner, Carolyn, is a telepathic lie detector.
All eyes landed on me as I tried to low-key it back to the table. Jacob refilled my glass with orange soda and his mother pulled my plate out of the microwave and set it back down in front of me. "Everything all right?" asked Jerry.
"It’s fine," I said. "I’m good."
"Nothing wrong with taking a pill when you need one. Y’know, I need to take pain pills for this arm," said Leon. "Crazy, isn’t it? Arm’s not even there, and it hurts."
"You never told me that," said Shirley.
"It’s true." Leon dug a capsule out of his pocket with his corporeal hand, while his ghostly hand twitched on the tablecloth. "Arm’s acting up today," he said. "I think I’ll take one right now."
"You don’t need to do that to make me feel better," I said.
The ghost arm waved a "pshaw" at me.
"Bob down the street lost a foot in Korea," said Jerry. "He still feels it, too."
"What about skeletons?" Clayton asked me. Do you see skeletons?"
"Skeletons are nothing supernatural," Barbara told him. "They’re inside everyone’s body. Everybody has one."
"But I seen this movie."
"Saw," Barbara corrected him.
"Or zombies," said Clayton, ignoring her. "Are zombies real?"
"No," I said. "When bodies die, they’re dead."
"But what about in the hospital, when they take that electrical shock thing with the paddles, and they yell, ‘Clear!’ and they shock you...." he jumped in his seat as if he’d been hit with a thousand volts. "And you were a flatline, and then your heart starts beating again?"
I thought about it. Not that I was worried about giving a fifth-grader a scientifically accurate answer; I was thinking about electricity, and how the most knowledgeable paranormal expert I knew said that ghosts were made of electrons. "I don’t know," I said. "Maybe those people aren’t all the way dead, and the machines aren’t accurate enough to tell."
"You should see how it works the next time you’re at a hospital," said Clayton. "Then you’d know."
"I don’t go to hospitals," I said.
"Never? What if someone shot you while you were being a cop? Then where would you go?"
"I have a special...um, doctor."
Everyone had craned to the edges of their seats again. You could hear a pin drop.
I sighed to myself and decided I might as well talk about it, since everyone seemed so eager to know. Even Grandma. "Actually, now I see this panel of two doctors and a psychiatrist, and they all have to be in the room at the same time to make sure that nobody’s doing anything they shouldn’t be doing...."
Jacob’s nephew, Clayton, asked this with the eagerness and joy of a kid who’d just learned that school was cancelled. Clayton was in fifth grade. I have no idea how old that would make him.
"You shot someone last summer?" I muttered, smoothing my napkin on my lap to the point where I probably looked like I was playing with myself. Not exactly the impression I’d wanted to make on Jacob’s family on our first Thanksgiving together.
The muttering? Not usually my style, but I was feeling uncharacteristically mouthy. It seemed like the moment I had a thought, it made its way through my vocal cords and out my mouth before I had a chance to pat it down and make sure it wasn’t going to jab anyone. I’d been this way since I’d stopped taking Auracel and Seconal over a month ago. Here I thought I’d been mellowing all these years, when really, it had just been the drugs.
"No," Jacob answered patiently. "I try to avoid shooting people." And then he looked at me. "Carolyn and I walked in on an armed robbery in progress at the convenience store on California and Irving. It was a clean shot to the leg."
Departmental policy allows us cops to decide whether to go for a lethal or a non-lethal shot when a criminal’s got an unarmed civilian at gunpoint. If Jacob had shot someone’s leg, I had no doubt it was exactly where he’d been aiming. Jacob is a Stiff, the non-psychic half of a PsyCop team, and not only are Stiffs impossible to influence by sixth-sensory means and impervious to possession, but they’re usually crack shots. The Stiffs who I know, anyway.
I’m the other half of a PsyCop team, the Psych half. Not Jacob’s team; Carolyn Brinkman was Jacob’s better half, on the job at least. I didn’t currently have a Stiff of my very own. Maurice, my first partner, retired, although I still lean on him way too much. Lisa, my second partner, was kicked off the force when they discovered that she was as psychic as Jean Dixon. She’s off being trained for the psy end of the whole PsyCop business now, out in California. Technically she's just a phone call away, and yet sometimes it feels like she’s on an entirely different planet. Even when she gets back, I won’t get to partner with her, since they only pair up Psychs with Stiffs.
And then there was my third partner, Roger. The bastard kidnapped me for some under-the-table drug testing, and I’d been so gullible I’d practically given him a key to my apartment. Roger was rotting in a jail cell, last I’d heard. The whole affair was pretty hush-hush. Maybe I could’ve gleaned a few more details, if I was the type to obsess about the little things, like where one’s arch-enemy is incarcerated, and whether or not he’s shown up for roll call recently. But, frankly, I’ve never found details very comforting. I think about them, and I just get overwhelmed. Roger went bye-bye, and I came out of our encounter intact. That’s all I really need to know.
Six weeks later and I was still on medical leave. I felt fine, probably due to the amount of actual blood cells coursing through my system in lieu of the drug cocktail I was accustomed to.
"Did you ever shoot anyone?" Clayton asked me, eyes sparkling.
"Sure."
"Wow. Did you kill ‘em?"
Clayton had Jacob’s phenomenal dark eyes. Or Jacob’s younger sister Barbara’s eyes. Which were Jacob’s father’s eyes, as well as the eyes of the wizened old lady at the head of the table who was about a hundred and five. She’d been giving me a look that could probably kill an elephant ever since we’d gotten there and Jacob had introduced me as his boyfriend.
I think he’d primed his family over the phone. But still. He had to go and say it out loud and rub it in. Because that’s the way Jacob is. Not that he’d be bringing a man home for Thanksgiving for any other reason. But that’s beside the point.
"Clayton Joseph," snapped Barbara. She might have had Jacob’s eyes, but she certainly couldn’t hold a candle to his cool composure. "That is not an appropriate question for the dinner table."
Grandma Marks glowered at me from the head of the table, her dark eyes, half-hidden in folds of wrinkled skin, threatening to pierce me right through. I’d figured she hated me because I was doing the nasty with her grandson. Maybe she had a thing against psychics. Hell, maybe both. I’m usually just lucky that way.
"Bob Martinez retired down at the mill," Jacob’s father, Jerry, announced in a blatant attempt to change the subject. If we’d been in Chicago, where I grew up, Jerry would have been talking about a steel mill. But we were in Wisconsin, an alien land of rolling hills and cows with signs advertising something called "fresh cheese curds" every few miles. I gathered that the mills made paper in this alien, wholesome land where Jacob had been born and bred.
"And when are you going to think about retiring, dad?" Barbara asked. She had a trace of an accent that sounded Minnesotan to my untrained ear. I wondered if Jacob had ever had that same funny lilt. Probably once, but it’d been erased by him living over half his life in Chicago.
"Your father’s got another ten years in him, at least," said Jacob’s mom, Shirley. Shirley wore her hair in a white, poofy halo. I suspected she’d been a blonde in her younger days. "What’s he going to do around here but get in my way?"
"Your mother plays Euchre on Tuesdays and Thursdays," said Jerry, as if his retirement hinged around a card game.
"You have hobbies," said Barbara. "You could fix up your woodshop and actually finish a few things."
"Ah, I’d rather earn an honest wage than stay home and make birdhouses."
"And you could teach Clayton all about woodworking."
"He’s too young," said Jerry. "He’d cut his finger off."
"Wood is stupid," Clayton added.
I wondered if calling wood stupid was heresy in this land of trees and paper. But Grandma didn’t fall out of her chair clutching her heart, so I figured that kids were allowed to say the first thing that popped into their minds these days. Or maybe they always had been. I must have been on my third foster home by the time I was Clayton’s age. I was probably in fourth grade, held back for being thick, stubborn, and socially retarded. But that would’ve put me at just about the age where I’d learned that my opinion was neither desired nor appreciated.
Jingle bells announced the opening of the front door -- that and a massive blast of arctic air, complete with a whorl of snowflakes.
"Uncle Leon!" Clayton leapt up from the table and thundered toward the door.
I looked at the empty place setting across from me and heaved an inward sigh of relief. I’d been hoping that an actual person would fill it, that it wasn’t left open as a tribute to Grandpa Marks, or some other long lost family member.
Leon rounded the corner of the dining room and Shirley stood up to greet him. I glanced around at the rest of the table to see if I was supposed to stand up, too. But Jacob and Jerry were still sitting. Jerry was even packing away mashed potatoes like he was trying to beat everyone else to the punch.
Uncle Leon was in his mid to late sixties and had the same white hair and rounded snub nose as Jacob’s mom. Shirley kissed him on the cheek and unbuttoned his thick corduroy jacket. "Jacob brought his friend with him," she said, gesturing toward me. "This is Victor."
She peeled Leon’s coat off him and whisked away with it just as Leon turned to shake my hand. He led with his left hand, which confused me. His bare right arm flapped at his side, with his right sleeve rolled up to his shoulder.
I shook his left hand in a daze.
Leon nodded his head toward his right shoulder. "Lost it at the mill in seventy-eight. Damn thing still hurts."
I blinked. Leon’s right sleeve wasn’t rolled up. It was pinned to the shoulder of his shirt. He didn’t have a right arm -- not one made out of real flesh and blood, anyway. And I could still see his missing arm. The party’d finally gotten started. Hooray.
"Oh," I said. "That sucks."
"Shirley tells me you’re a PsyCop."
I nodded. "Yeah."
"That’s some kind of program they got going on down there," he said. His ghost arm joined his corporeal arm in pulling out the chair across from mine. "What kind of talent you got?"
I sank back into my seat and swallowed a mouthful of dryish turkey meat I’d been talking around for the last several minutes. "Medium."
"No shit?"
Grandma frowned harder, but Leon didn’t seem to notice. "Can I get you anything to drink?" Shirley asked me, but I mumbled that I was okay.
"That girl Jacob works with, she’s a telepath, isn’t she? Wow, a medium. How ‘bout that?" Leon’s ghost hand caressed the silverware as he spoke. I wondered if I looked like a freak for staring at his salad fork while he talked to me. "So how strong are they, your impressions?"
I drained my glass of soda to wash down the turkey and wished I’d taken Shirley up on her offer of a refill. "Pretty strong."
"What, do you hear ‘em talking to you? In their own words?"
"Uh huh."
"Holy cow, now that’s what you call a psychic. We got ourselves a Marie Saint Savon right here at the table."
Good old Marie had died right around the time I’d been shoehorned into the police academy. She’d been the world’s most powerful medium, and no one could touch her talent. Not that I could figure why anyone would want to. I was surprised that Leon actually knew her name. Maybe it was a generational thing. She’d been big news maybe fifteen years ago, and then was quickly forgotten by almost everyone but the psychic community.
"That’s got to make your police work a little easier," said Leon. "Huh?"
I nodded and swallowed some mashed potatoes. They were salty enough to stimulate my flagging salivary glands. A little.
"Only if you work homicide," Jerry piped in. The whole family had been skirting around my psychic ability, but since Leon had started the ball rolling and I didn’t seem too tender about the topic, it’d become fair game.
"I do."
"Holy shit. I didn’t know they used mediums in homicide."
Grandma glared at Leon.
"You mean medium, like a psychic medium?" Clayton asked.
"Uh huh."
"Wow, you see dead people?"
"That’s just in the movies," Barbara said. "Like the telekinetics who can shoot bullets with their minds." Metal was incredibly resistant to telekinesis, but I’d trained with one guy who could fling a mean stone. He got these splitting headaches afterward, though, so he was never one to show off with party tricks.
"I can see them," I said.
The table went quiet. "Whoa," said Clayton. "Like, right now?"
I avoided looking at the spot where Leon’s arm was flopping around on the table. "There aren’t any spirits here for Victor to see," Jacob explained. We knew that to be the case because we’d called Lisa Gutierrez in Santa Barbara and asked her if there were any ghosts in Jerry and Shirley’s house, and she’d said no. Lisa’s precognitive, and if she says no, the answer is unequivocally no.
I guess she couldn’t have known about Leon’s arm. Not without us asking specifically.
"And when you see ‘em," Clayton went on, "are they all scary and gross?"
"Sometimes."
Everyone at the table seemed to lean forward just a little. Even Jacob.
"Can you see right through them?"
"Sometimes. Or sometimes they look like regular people."
Leon’s facial expression was open and eager, but his phantom limb was clenching and unclenching its fist, and bright red droplets had appeared all over it as if it was sweating blood. I buried my face in my glass, tilting a final droplet of soda onto my tongue.
"Can you touch ‘em?" Clayton asked, his voice dropping down into a reverential whisper.
I swallowed around a hunk of turkey that’d lodged in my esophagus. Jacob slid his glass over to me, and I took it and drank it down. He’d been drinking milk. I just barely kept myself from gagging.
"You don’t want to touch ghosts," I said.
The house around us, the very air, went quiet. Everyone strained forward to catch whatever crumbs of information I might care to scatter. Because we’re a nation that grew up on Lovecraft and Sleepy Hollow and Friday the Thirteenth, and people are dying to know if all that shit’s really real.
"They’re creepy," I added. And I swallowed some more milk.
"Why don’t you tell Uncle Jacob and Uncle Leon about the report you did on salamanders?" Barbara suggested to Clayton.
"Creepy how?" Clayton asked.
"Clayton got an A minus," said Barbara.
"Creepy how?"
"I don’t know," I said. I’d started spreading my food around my plate, mixing my corn and my potatoes, ruining both. "The way they look in scary movies? Pretty much like that."
"How can you say that?" Barbara demanded, suddenly so vehement that I wondered how I’d ever pegged her as a sheepish single mom in her pale yellow cardigan and perfectly creased khaki pants. "When people die, they go to heaven."
Oh. Christian. Or had Jacob said Catholic -- or was that the same difference? I didn’t remember, must not have been paying close enough attention when Jacob had tried to prepare me.
"Barbara," said Jerry. Her father didn’t have a follow up ready. Just her name, sounding like a warning.
"If he says he sees spirits, then he does," Leon said, hopping to my defense despite the fact that he made me squirm in my seat. Or, more accurately, his right arm did. "They have tests." He looked to me for affirmation. "Don’t they have tests?"
"All kinds of tests," I said, burying the last of my corn.
"And being able to see them, you’re what, a level three? Four?"
"Five," I said. Level five was a couple of steps down from good old Marie. But Marie was only a step lower than God. Or maybe Satan.
The table went quiet again.
"Are you a millionaire?" asked Clayton.
"It is not polite to ask people how much money they make," said Barbara. She was the same age as me, thirty-eight. She had Jacob’s flashing dark eyes and high cheekbones, but she looked just as worn out as I always felt. Even more so, now that we were attempting civil dinner conversation.
"It’s okay," I said. "No, I’m not a millionaire. I make more money than a regular detective, but not as much as my supervisor."
"And you spend as much money as someone who’s lived through the Great Depression," Jacob added, sotto voice.
Clayton scrunched his face up. I saw mashed potatoes lurking behind his teeth. "You should find Al Capone and make him tell you where his vault is."
Jerry and Leon laughed, but the way they kept their eyes trained on me, I could tell they were hoping that maybe I’d think that dredging up Al Capone was a grand idea. And I just so happened to need a couple of assistants over the age of sixty-five.
"He’s probably not around," I said. "He’d be a little old by now."
Everyone chuckled, except for Barbara, who evidently thought I was a devil-worshipper. And Grandma, who was possibly giving me the evil eye. And Clayton, who couldn’t make sense out of my lack of financial savvy.
Leon smacked the table with his left hand as he laughed. His spectral right hand followed suit, only it pummeled the table with much greater force than its counterpart. Spectral blood flew, spattering the white tablecloth covered in cross-stitched cornucopia, doe-eyed pilgrims, and smiling Indians.
I closed my eyes and tried to imagine a protective white bubble around Leon’s arm.
"Are you warm, honey?" asked Shirley. "You want me to open a window?"
I was about to tell her not to bother, when I realized that I felt the prickle of sweat along the back of my neck. "Yeah, okay," I said, as I shrugged out of my flannel shirt and let it bunch on the seat of my chair. I was glad I’d taken the time to find a T-shirt without any holes or stains on it.
I took a deep breath and looked at Leon’s ghost hand. It quivered like it was hooked up to an electrical wire. Like that frog in the biology class whose legs kick when you give it a shock. No, I hadn’t been absent that day. And yeah, I’d puked. Me and Janet Neiderman.
"I’ll be right back," I said, knocking my chair into Jacob’s as I scrambled to make my way toward the upstairs bathroom. There was a half-bath on the first floor, but I figured that everyone at the dinner table really didn’t need to hear me retching if I couldn’t bring my gag reflex under control.
Why did I have to go and think of that goddamn frog?
I dodged past Jacob’s old bedroom--now Shirley’s very own sewing room--and nearly skateboarded down the upstairs hallway on a pink and blue rag rug. Darting into the bathroom, I slammed the door shut behind me. It had a hook and eye lock on it, which might keep Grandma out, or maybe Clayton, if he didn’t lean on the door too hard.
I breathed, and I looked around. It was a normal enough bathroom, more colorful than mine, with blue and yellow sunflowers on the shower curtain that kind of matched a border going around the top of the painted walls, but not quite. I pulled open the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet in hopes of finding a nice bottle of cold medicine, or maybe some valium. Neither one would make Leon’s nasty ghost arm go away completely, but they’d sure make me care about it a whole lot less.
The right side of the cabinet was filled entirely with old lady perfume, facial cream, nail polish, and hair mousse. The left held cheap plastic razors like I use, aspirin, foot spray, a stick of green deodorant, cotton swabs, and antihistamines.
Of every drug that had ever been invented, Jacob’s parents owned the only two types that affected my talent less than antibiotics.
I pawed through their drawers in hopes of finding a stray muscle relaxant or even an expired tube of motion-sickness pills. I found a bunch of washcloths and some sunblock. Sunblock. In a small rural Wisconsin town on the border of Minnesota that saw the sun maybe two hours each winter if it peered closely enough between the snowflakes.
I looked underneath the sink and found a pair of rubber gloves and a bunch of cleaning supplies. Damn it.
I tore the medicine cabinet doors open again, hoping to find something that I’d missed before. And then my eyes fell on the nail polish remover.
I turned the bottle around and read the back. Acetone was the first ingredient. And the seminar I’d attended fourteen years ago called Inhalants, the Silent Killer was as fresh in my mind as if I’d just taken it yesterday.
And here I thought I hadn’t gotten much out of the Police Academy.
I wasn’t a habitual huffer, not like the anorexic girl at the Cook County Mental Health Center -- the institution that’d housed me from seventeen to twenty-three -- who’d shown me how to get the most bang for my buck with a can of cooking spray or a plastic baggie and a jar of rubber cement. No, I didn’t enjoy killing my brain cells randomly, but I was a pragmatist. The arm wasn’t going to go away all by itself. And I really needed it to stop waving at me if I wanted to make it through dinner.
I could saturate a wad of toilet paper and hold it over my mouth and nose, but acetone’s a stinky chemical, and I’d end up reeking of it. Instead, I set the bottle on the rim of the sink and plugged one of my nostrils, sniffing it carefully in hopes of zapping the specific neurons that enabled me to see Leon’s damn spastic missing arm without leaving me stinking like a Chinese nail salon.
I felt a little floaty and had developed a sharp headache over the top of my skull by the time anyone came to check on me.
Luckily, it was Jacob.
Since he didn’t need to know I was huffing his mother’s nail polish remover, I put it away and washed my face before I answered the door.
He leaned in the doorjamb, looking incredibly sexy in a long-sleeved, chocolate brown silk knit that clung to every muscle like it’d been painted on him. He crossed his arms and gave me his most earnest you-can-trust-me face, pouty and a little doe-eyed.
"Everything all right?"
"It’s...um. I dunno."
"You went a little pale at the table."
It wasn’t so surprising that Jacob noticed it when I saw something. Maurice Taylor, my first partner, used to tell me sometimes that I’d disappear if I got any whiter, and he hadn’t been joking about my ethnicity.
My eyes stung from the acetone I’d just sniffed, and I pressed my fingertips into my tear ducts to try to relieve the itch. If I knuckled my eyes like I really wanted to, they’d get all red and I’d look totally high. "Your uncle Leon seems like a cool guy."
"He is."
"But...I can see his arm."
Jacob stepped into the bathroom and locked the door behind him. He sat down on the rim of the tub and took one of my hands between both of his, and he waited.
I avoided his eyes and stared at a tile on the floor that was set a little crooked. "I’m trying really hard to be a decent boyfriend," I said. "But I think I might not be cut out for it."
"Stop it."
"No, it’s true. I don’t know how to have a family. And evidently, I can’t function without having a buzz on."
"What are we talking about?" Jacob asked. "Are you breaking up with me or telling me you want to start going to Narcotics Anonymous?"
My heartbeat, already racing a little from the acetone, did an unpleasant stutter when Jacob said the words "breaking up" aloud.
"I mean, you know. Come on."
"No, I don’t. What’s going on?"
God damn. I’d started hugging myself without realizing I was doing it. Ugly habit. Ugly, ugly habit. I forced myself to try to stand normally, but I felt like my arms and legs weren’t screwed on right. "I just wanted to...you know...be with you and your family for the holiday."
Jacob nodded slowly. "Okay. And that’s what we’re doing. If you need to leave, I’m trusting you to tell me so."
"I don’t want to leave in the middle of dinner." I stared up into a painted-on sunflower. "I thought the house was clean," I said.
"And I had no idea that Leon’s arm would qualify as a ghost. If you don’t want to go, we can move you, say that you need to sit by the window."
"I’d rather sit across from Leon than Barbara, arm or no arm."
Jacob smirked. "Can’t say I blame you."
I thought about that damn bloody limb performing acrobatics that were totally out of synch with what Leon’s face and body language were telling me. "This is gonna sound stupid," I said. Which I can pretty much use to preface anything that comes out of my mouth. "But I wonder if it knew I could see it and it was showing off."
Stupid or not, Jacob considered the idea. "Maybe it’s got a spiritual equivalent to a cellular intelligence. Who knows? But if amputated limbs can be present in the spirit world, it explains why they still cause pain for some people and not others just as much as the idea of a bunch of neurons misfiring."
Could people have their phantom limbs exorcised? It was possible -- or at least they could have them scrambled with electrical interference, once the technology of Psych science caught up with the psychology and biology of it.
"If I just had some Auracel, everything would be okay." I take prescription Auracel to block out the visions. Or I used to take it...until I stopped. Which was fine, inside my apartment. I guess I’d conveniently forgotten about the real world outside it. Only certain pharmacies in big metropolitan areas carried the drug, so even if I could call The Clinic and have them fax a prescription, chances were we’d have to go to Minneapolis to have it filled.
Jacob stood and pulled a little paper cup from a cutesy holder mounted on the wall beside the medicine cabinet, and filled it with tap water. "How many?"
"How many what?"
"How many Auracel?"
I realized he was digging in his pocket, and it was as if the clouds broke open and a beam of sunshine landed right on him.
"You have some?"
He smiled at me. He’s got a special grin that’s all mine. It somehow manages to be reassuring and to promise that he’ll fuck me halfway through the mattress later, all at once. "I’ve got to tell you: I’m relieved this is only about Auracel." He handed me the paper cup.
"How many do you have?"
"Ten."
"Wow. You’re prepared."
"I was a boy scout."
"That’s creepy. And hot. At the same time."
Jacob pressed a tablet of Auracel into my mouth, running his thumb back and forth over my lips after he did. I turned away to swallow some water. In fifteen minutes or so, the pill would start kicking in. My relief was greater than my disappointment, but just barely. "I really wanted to do this without the meds."
"Which was your idea, not mine."
That was so not fair. My life was perfectly fine until suddenly I had this live-in boyfriend who wanted to interact with me, and I realized that I was almost always high. Maybe it had been my idea to go cold turkey, but I’d done it because of Jacob.
"Talk to me," Jacob said.
"You’re gonna decide I’m too much trouble, someday."
"Uh huh," he said with absolutely zero conviction, flipping my hand over to press a kiss into my clammy palm. His goatee tickled at the base of my thumb.
I felt the first effects of the Auracel kicking in, a little dryness to my tongue, and a tingle in my fingertips that was only intensified by the feeling of Jacob’s hot mouth grazing my skin.
"Stop it," I said. "I’m not going back downstairs with a hard-on."
I felt Jacob grinning into my hand, and then his tongue traced my life line.
"I mean it."
"So you want me to suck you off in my parents’ bathroom?"
Dirty. Dirty, dirty, dirty. Jacob talks dirty so well, and I always love it. My cock stirred a little. The promise of the Auracel high made me sluggish, though, and I had enough self-control, even with a sexy hunk of manmeat going down on my thumb, to save it for later. "After dinner."
Jacob let go of my hand and pulled my T-shirt up over my stomach. He pressed a kiss into my solar plexus. "Dessert," he said, breathing the word against my bare skin and pulling a long shiver up my spine. "I’m looking forward to it."
And here I’d been expecting pumpkin pie.
Jacob went downstairs first, promising to tell his family that I reacted to my medications sometimes. Which was technically true. He wasn’t saying that I’d had such a reaction at the table, after all. Jacob knows all about being technically truthful. His partner, Carolyn, is a telepathic lie detector.
All eyes landed on me as I tried to low-key it back to the table. Jacob refilled my glass with orange soda and his mother pulled my plate out of the microwave and set it back down in front of me. "Everything all right?" asked Jerry.
"It’s fine," I said. "I’m good."
"Nothing wrong with taking a pill when you need one. Y’know, I need to take pain pills for this arm," said Leon. "Crazy, isn’t it? Arm’s not even there, and it hurts."
"You never told me that," said Shirley.
"It’s true." Leon dug a capsule out of his pocket with his corporeal hand, while his ghostly hand twitched on the tablecloth. "Arm’s acting up today," he said. "I think I’ll take one right now."
"You don’t need to do that to make me feel better," I said.
The ghost arm waved a "pshaw" at me.
"Bob down the street lost a foot in Korea," said Jerry. "He still feels it, too."
"What about skeletons?" Clayton asked me. Do you see skeletons?"
"Skeletons are nothing supernatural," Barbara told him. "They’re inside everyone’s body. Everybody has one."
"But I seen this movie."
"Saw," Barbara corrected him.
"Or zombies," said Clayton, ignoring her. "Are zombies real?"
"No," I said. "When bodies die, they’re dead."
"But what about in the hospital, when they take that electrical shock thing with the paddles, and they yell, ‘Clear!’ and they shock you...." he jumped in his seat as if he’d been hit with a thousand volts. "And you were a flatline, and then your heart starts beating again?"
I thought about it. Not that I was worried about giving a fifth-grader a scientifically accurate answer; I was thinking about electricity, and how the most knowledgeable paranormal expert I knew said that ghosts were made of electrons. "I don’t know," I said. "Maybe those people aren’t all the way dead, and the machines aren’t accurate enough to tell."
"You should see how it works the next time you’re at a hospital," said Clayton. "Then you’d know."
"I don’t go to hospitals," I said.
"Never? What if someone shot you while you were being a cop? Then where would you go?"
"I have a special...um, doctor."
Everyone had craned to the edges of their seats again. You could hear a pin drop.
I sighed to myself and decided I might as well talk about it, since everyone seemed so eager to know. Even Grandma. "Actually, now I see this panel of two doctors and a psychiatrist, and they all have to be in the room at the same time to make sure that nobody’s doing anything they shouldn’t be doing...."
Last but Not Lease by Jordan Castillo Price
1
Dixon
“Yuri? Do they have beaches in Russia? I mean, obviously, they must. If not on an ocean, some other body of water. A sea, maybe? At the very least, there must be a lake or two. Russia’s a pretty big place, after all. Cold, though… so, there’s always the possibility the water’s frozen over. But frozen or not, there’d be a beach under all that snow. Right?”
Yuri flipped down the visor where the sun cut into his eyes, then glanced at me as if he wasn’t sure whether or not my question was rhetorical. Traffic was sparse on this side of Pinyin Bay, out toward the waterfront by the off-season campground he called home, so he could spare a glance from the road. I offered him my most encouraging smile.
“There are beaches.”
“See? I knew it. There’s just nothing like a day at the shore! I’m sure Pinyin Bay— the actual bay, not the city— might not be the most inviting body of water around, what with the bacteria count and the eels. But, the memories….”
Oh, the memories.
When I was twelve and my cousin Sabina was almost ten, I was so giddy with excitement over the annual Penn family picnic, I don’t think I got a wink of sleep for at least three days. I always loved it when the whole clan was together— this was back when Papa Tobar was still with us— especially if the shindig happened at the beach, even if this meant some truly irritating grains of sand crept all up into my business.
I was particularly eager to embark on a new water game I’d invented, a test of prowess and will that I stood some chance of winning, since it didn’t involve any actual swimming. It hadn’t occurred to me that I wasn’t so hot at standing still, either. But luckily for me, neither was my cousin.
While my dad and Uncle Fonzo wrestled with the flimsy sun shelter that kept trying to blow away and my mother chased everyone around with a can of aerosol sunscreen, Sabina and I braved the water.
It was still early in the season, and though Pinyin Bay isn’t very deep, it can be well into the spring before it’s finally warm enough to disguise the fact that someone just peed. (Though if you’re convincing, you can pass it off as a wayward current.)
The water was cool, but not too cold for a couple of intrepid young souls like us. I was probably lit from inside by the sheer eagerness of my anticipation. And Sabina was always compelled to prove that despite being three years younger, she could do anything I could do, and more.
This probably explains the sheer length of time we spent in the water.
What kid isn’t up for a good game of chicken? And in the version I’d dreamt up, the rules were simple. First one out of the water loses. It wasn’t the cold we were competing against, though. It was the fish.
The aquatic ecosystem of Pinyin Bay isn’t exactly noteworthy. There’s carp and minnows, catfish and bass, and even the occasional eel. And perch, of course, but only in the deeper parts you can only reach by boat. Seagulls own the shore, though Spellcrafters who haven’t been quilled yet steer clear of them, since their feathers would make for some incredibly small writing implements.
I’m not sure what it was that nibbled on you if you stood still for any length of time. But whatever it was, there sure were a lot of them.
Sabina and I faced off several yards from shore, me up to my chest in murky green water, her up to her shoulders. Her mom had raked her dark hair into a ponytail on the top of her head, and not a very careful one at that. It canted sideways like a jaunty, avant garde hat, while Sabina narrowed her eyes and watched me closely, daring me to move.
We stood there for what seemed like ages. In reality, it was more like half an hour, each of us watching as the other tried not to flinch while the fish accosted us with their curious nibbles. Who knows how long it might’ve gone on, had Mom not called for us to come get our hot dogs before the seagulls did.
Our game of bay-chicken ended in a draw, which we both acknowledged with a solemn nod as we turned to slog toward the shore.
That’s when we figured out about the leeches.
But, hey. How many people can actually claim their first-ever hickey wasn’t from a fellow human being?
I snuggled up to Yuri once he turned down Campground Lane. The posted speed limit is only 15 miles per hour on the rutted dirt road, and given that all the connective tissue beneath his truck is suffering from corrosion, he usually takes it even slower than that.
So many memories on Pinyin Beach. And not all of them as G-rated as Leech Day.
“Yuri?” I said. “Your cabin… is it anything like Russia?”
For a few seconds, he was so quiet I almost thought he didn’t hear me. But of course, he’d heard me. I’d spoken loud and clear and the radio was busted. Even so, I was just on the verge of repeating myself when he said, “Pinyin Bay is nothing like Russia.”
Was that a good thing? A bad thing? A thing that was just so different it was difficult to assign a value judgement? Before I had to come right out and ask, he said, “St. Petersburg is a historic city. Palaces, cathedrals, museums. That’s the part the tourists all see… but that’s nothing like the parts we lived in. Square. Plain. Gray. All the buildings were Soviet-built to be solid and unpretentious. But there was no place for creativity. No artistry. No joy.”
I watched Yuri’s intimidating profile as he scowled through the glass with his eyes fixed on the road ahead. While he was certainly capable of doing joy, you really had to know him to spot it.
We emerged from the tree-lined road, its canopy budding with fresh green leaves, and turned down the track to Yuri’s tiny vacation cabin. The place was a steal— apparently the campground owner was extremely grateful when Yuri saved him from a particularly tenacious elk that was trying to romance the guy’s bicycle. Since it was off-season and the property wasn’t generating any income anyway, he let Yuri move in. And yet, when Yuri looked all wistful and soft like he did just now, gazing through the windshield with that faraway look in his eyes, I suspected frugality wasn’t the only reason he lived where he did.
The attic was pretty crowded now that Uncle Fonzo was home, so I slept at the cabin more often than not. Come Memorial Day, Yuri would need to find himself a new place. But until then, it was just him, and me, the smell of cedar and the hypnotic sound of the surf….
And the sheet of paper posted on the cabin door.
Yuri cut the engine and approached the cabin with long, purposeful strides. I scampered along behind him. “What is it?” I asked. “Did the Avon lady drop by? Usually she just leaves a catalog hanging off our doorknob, but sometimes there’s a sample of shampoo or lip balm inside. Or glitter hand lotion that smells like candy canes… although it doesn’t taste nearly much like peppermint as you might imagine—”
Yuri snatched down the paper and scowled at it hard. “It is not hand lotion. It’s an eviction notice.”
The Clockwork Nightingale's Song by Amy Rae Durreson
NIGHTINGALE NO. 48 had stopped singing.
Its brass head should have been raised, not hanging low, and its jewelled wings were meant to whir. Instead, it stood atop its marble pillar (not real marble, of course, any more than the paste jewels were real, but wood painted well enough to fool the eye by gaslight) in the most secluded glade of the Vauxhall Flying Gardens. None of the thousands of visitors who flocked to the pleasure gardens every night had yet stumbled across it. Give it an hour, Shem thought dourly, once the ladies of the ton went home and the strumpets came out to play, and this would be a far more popular spot.
Better do something before then. This was the third time this month Shem had needed to repair this nightingale. Time for it to be taken apart for a proper look at its clockwork innards.
“What should we do, Mr. Holloway?” the boy asked.
“Put a cage over the top until morning,” Shem said. “Stop the guests from interfering with it. Young gentlemen don’t have much respect for property.”
“The gentlemen, Mr. Holloway?” the boy protested, his eyes going wide. “But they’re brought up proper.”
“Properly,” Shem corrected sharply. No apprentice under his charge was going to wander around the Gardens with a gutter accent. “Higher they’re born, further they fall with a drink in them. You steer clear of gentlemen, boy.”
“Yes, Mr. Holloway,” the boy said, but he still looked puzzled.
Shem sighed. He liked to take new apprentices with him on the late shift until he was convinced they’d learned some common sense (at which point it was safe to assume they were staying, and he would deign to learn their names). This one had him worried. He was hardworking, no doubt, and the masters at the training orphanage had been right when they said he was bright. Unfortunately, he was too eager to please, and pretty besides, all coltish limbs, pink lips, and slim hips.
It wasn’t just the mechanical devices the young gentlemen liked to interfere with. Some of them had a taste for mechanics. Shem kept a fatherly eye on his apprentices, for all they were only ten years younger than him. It was going to be a job to keep this one safe from wandering hands.
Shem unlocked the gate that connected the concealed path to the grove. It took an army of mechanics, gardeners, and servants to keep the Gardens running efficiently, and keeping everyone hidden maintained the illusion of magic.
“Always lock these gates behind you,” Shem instructed the boy, who nodded earnestly. It was bad enough the whores of London plied their trade in the quiet groves and dark walks. Give them access to the secret paths, and the place would be a brothel within a week and shut down within two, putting all the staff out of work. Shem had grown up poor; he had no desire to be jobless.
The cage clicked into place over the silent nightingale, and Shem showed the boy how to lock it shut. He’d come back for it once the Gardens closed, but for now the nightingale was safe.
He and the boy continued on their rounds as the Gardens grew rowdier around them. Dining was over, and the supper boxes in the central grove were overspilling, lewd and drunken chatter drowning out the wheezy music of the steam orchestra. Some young blood, likely straight down from one of the better universities, had managed to get a foothold on Atlas’s brass globe, and was being hoisted toward the smoggy heavens as his friends cheered. Neptune’s water fountain had got clogged and was spewing bubbles sideways, an urgent repair that made Shem glad to have an apprentice to send wading into the foam to clear the pump.
He paused at the end of the Grand Walk as the horns mounted in the trees suddenly blew in perfect synchrony. Nudging the boy round, Shem watched his amazed face as the fireworks began. Vauxhall was unique, and he loved knowing the whole of London looked up at them every night, watching the lights blazing in the garden in the sky.
Only once did they encounter trouble, when a ruddy-cheeked gentleman came stumbling toward them, winking at the boy. Luckily, all Shem needed to do was tap his wrench meaningfully against his thigh, and the hopeful lecher hurriedly found business elsewhere. Even when he’d been a piston boy, running coal through the tunnels below the Gardens to feed the great burners that kept them afloat, Shem had never been waifish. These days his shoulders were too wide for the tunnels, and he carried the muscle to match them. Being a senior mechanic was no light duty. Only a brave man would risk his ire.
When the trumpets sounded for closing, long after midnight, he sent the yawning boy back through the hidden paths to wait in the staff canteen until the Gardens returned to earth. Shem himself retraced his steps toward Nightingale No. 48, the Gardens going quiet around him. He could now hear the distant clang of the last airship undocking from the quay, the wind sighing softly through the treetops, and the night birds, ones that weren’t formed of gears and metal.
The ground surged beneath his feet as the first heated air was released from the floats, and the Gardens began to slide steadily back toward the earth, guided into place by chains and pulleys. A waft of steam floated across the stars, scenting the night with ash and hot metal.
As he stepped into the grove, a real nightingale began to sing, its voice rising in loose, breathy notes. And inside its cage, for the first time that night, the brass nightingale lifted its head with a soft whir and began to sing in reply, its mechanical melody just as yearning.
Its brass head should have been raised, not hanging low, and its jewelled wings were meant to whir. Instead, it stood atop its marble pillar (not real marble, of course, any more than the paste jewels were real, but wood painted well enough to fool the eye by gaslight) in the most secluded glade of the Vauxhall Flying Gardens. None of the thousands of visitors who flocked to the pleasure gardens every night had yet stumbled across it. Give it an hour, Shem thought dourly, once the ladies of the ton went home and the strumpets came out to play, and this would be a far more popular spot.
Better do something before then. This was the third time this month Shem had needed to repair this nightingale. Time for it to be taken apart for a proper look at its clockwork innards.
“What should we do, Mr. Holloway?” the boy asked.
“Put a cage over the top until morning,” Shem said. “Stop the guests from interfering with it. Young gentlemen don’t have much respect for property.”
“The gentlemen, Mr. Holloway?” the boy protested, his eyes going wide. “But they’re brought up proper.”
“Properly,” Shem corrected sharply. No apprentice under his charge was going to wander around the Gardens with a gutter accent. “Higher they’re born, further they fall with a drink in them. You steer clear of gentlemen, boy.”
“Yes, Mr. Holloway,” the boy said, but he still looked puzzled.
Shem sighed. He liked to take new apprentices with him on the late shift until he was convinced they’d learned some common sense (at which point it was safe to assume they were staying, and he would deign to learn their names). This one had him worried. He was hardworking, no doubt, and the masters at the training orphanage had been right when they said he was bright. Unfortunately, he was too eager to please, and pretty besides, all coltish limbs, pink lips, and slim hips.
It wasn’t just the mechanical devices the young gentlemen liked to interfere with. Some of them had a taste for mechanics. Shem kept a fatherly eye on his apprentices, for all they were only ten years younger than him. It was going to be a job to keep this one safe from wandering hands.
Shem unlocked the gate that connected the concealed path to the grove. It took an army of mechanics, gardeners, and servants to keep the Gardens running efficiently, and keeping everyone hidden maintained the illusion of magic.
“Always lock these gates behind you,” Shem instructed the boy, who nodded earnestly. It was bad enough the whores of London plied their trade in the quiet groves and dark walks. Give them access to the secret paths, and the place would be a brothel within a week and shut down within two, putting all the staff out of work. Shem had grown up poor; he had no desire to be jobless.
The cage clicked into place over the silent nightingale, and Shem showed the boy how to lock it shut. He’d come back for it once the Gardens closed, but for now the nightingale was safe.
He and the boy continued on their rounds as the Gardens grew rowdier around them. Dining was over, and the supper boxes in the central grove were overspilling, lewd and drunken chatter drowning out the wheezy music of the steam orchestra. Some young blood, likely straight down from one of the better universities, had managed to get a foothold on Atlas’s brass globe, and was being hoisted toward the smoggy heavens as his friends cheered. Neptune’s water fountain had got clogged and was spewing bubbles sideways, an urgent repair that made Shem glad to have an apprentice to send wading into the foam to clear the pump.
He paused at the end of the Grand Walk as the horns mounted in the trees suddenly blew in perfect synchrony. Nudging the boy round, Shem watched his amazed face as the fireworks began. Vauxhall was unique, and he loved knowing the whole of London looked up at them every night, watching the lights blazing in the garden in the sky.
Only once did they encounter trouble, when a ruddy-cheeked gentleman came stumbling toward them, winking at the boy. Luckily, all Shem needed to do was tap his wrench meaningfully against his thigh, and the hopeful lecher hurriedly found business elsewhere. Even when he’d been a piston boy, running coal through the tunnels below the Gardens to feed the great burners that kept them afloat, Shem had never been waifish. These days his shoulders were too wide for the tunnels, and he carried the muscle to match them. Being a senior mechanic was no light duty. Only a brave man would risk his ire.
When the trumpets sounded for closing, long after midnight, he sent the yawning boy back through the hidden paths to wait in the staff canteen until the Gardens returned to earth. Shem himself retraced his steps toward Nightingale No. 48, the Gardens going quiet around him. He could now hear the distant clang of the last airship undocking from the quay, the wind sighing softly through the treetops, and the night birds, ones that weren’t formed of gears and metal.
The ground surged beneath his feet as the first heated air was released from the floats, and the Gardens began to slide steadily back toward the earth, guided into place by chains and pulleys. A waft of steam floated across the stars, scenting the night with ash and hot metal.
As he stepped into the grove, a real nightingale began to sing, its voice rising in loose, breathy notes. And inside its cage, for the first time that night, the brass nightingale lifted its head with a soft whir and began to sing in reply, its mechanical melody just as yearning.
Loving Layne by VL Locey
Chapter One
There were only so many games to play within the confines of a Chevy Sprint during a thirteen plus hour drive. I was pretty sure Dillon and I had covered them all. My bicep still ached from the last game of punch buggy. Who knew there were so many damn VW bugs on the road from New Jersey to Illinois?
“What’s wrong with your face?” Dillon asked, breaking into the forbidden path in my head.
I reached up to tip my grandfather’s Fedora up a few inches. “It’s the nose. Not so bad from the front but from the side it screams Fran Bernstein’s boy.”
“No, not your nose, the stink that must be in it. You always wrinkle your face up.”
“Oh.” Yeah, I did tend to wrinkle when deep in thought. Another Bernstein trait. There wasn’t much I’d gotten from my dad other than his last name and all his father’s cool as shit hats. Men wearing hats was going to make a fashion comeback, and Roman Kennedy was going to be a torchbearer for the retro look. A semi flew past us, rocking the tiny red car gently. “I was just thinking. Not about you, this super-secret trip, or why we had to rocket out of Trenton like the mob was on your ass.” I paused then studied him closely. “The mob isn’t on your ass, is it?”
Now it was time for him to wrinkle his nose. His was much cuter and smaller than mine. Also, he didn’t need a hat to help keep his wild brown kinky frizz under control. Dillon North was all kinds of pretty with black hair and deep blue eyes. His genetics followed his creep of a dad who’d ditched him and his mom before Dillon was even born. Mrs. North was a natural blonde with pale blue eyes and a slim frame. Dillon was a big guy, athletic, a runner for the track team in high school and now for our alma mater William B. Ogden University in Trenton. Go Snapping Turtles! Yeah, our mascot did not fit our track team at all.
“No, of course not. What? You think I borrowed money from a loan shark to get into a better food plan or something?”
“Anything’s possible. Remember that kid last year who took out a questionable loan to pay off his gambling habits and got his kneecaps kicked in?”
“First of all, he fell down the steps outside the English department and broke his kneecap. Secondly, he owed like fifty bucks to his frat brothers for some online challenge he didn’t do, and thirdly, your hats are too tight.”
He swatted the gray Fedora off my head, and it flew into the back. My hair expanded instantly.
“Asshole,” I grumbled, slipping free from the seatbelt to find my hat. “My hats fit fine. The problem is…oh gross. Whose underwear is this?”
“Heathers. Just leave it there, it’s a memento.”
“And people say gays are gross.” I shoved the pink panties under the backseat, snagged my hat with a crooked finger, then sat down with a huff. “It’s up to investigative journalists to be inquisitive. You business majors wouldn’t understand the drive we reporters have to ferret out the truth. Like say, for instance, the need to make this trip and your mother’s obvious distress when you left. Also, why did she want me to come along?”
He threw me a dark look as I tucked some frizz back under my hat. “Drop it.”
His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. I bit back several more questions. I’d met Dillon three years ago when we’d both moved into the same dorm room as freshmen. Once we got over a few bumps—him being a slob and me not being able to sleep with any doors open—we became bosom buddies, closer than brothers, and generally unable to keep secrets from the other. Which made this mad sprint to Chicago under a cloak of secrecy that much more confusing and tempting. Secrets were like tight abs to me. I couldn’t resist them. Some called it fucking nosy, but I called it first amendment rights so back off and let me rummage in the dean’s trash, okay?
“But this whole thing is just so—”
“Roman, drop it. I mean it.” His tone brooked no further discussion. I nodded, pulled my hat down over my head, and let my mind spin fanciful yarns. Maybe Dillon was making a drug run for his mother. No, that was stupid. She worked at a grocery store in Paramus, which was, oddly enough, not far from where I’d been born and raised in East Orange. “There are just some things that need to be played close to the vest.”
I bit my tongue. “Sure, I get that.” I really didn’t but I said I did so he didn’t glower at me for the next six hours.
“Thanks.” He cranked up the radio, effectively ending any conversation for another hour.
By the time we crawled into Chicago at ten that night, I was too tired to even try to come up with ways to sniff out a clue or two. My fuzzy mind did snap to attention a bit when we got out of the car and a valet raced around the rusty, dented car. The man in the blue vest blinked at the ’87 Chevy sitting there under the porte-cochere of The Windward Way Hotel looking like something that had tumbled off a passing junkyard rollback.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” I asked, tipping my head back to admire the white marble and stonework façade of what was obviously a highly expensive hotel.
“Yeah, this is the place.” Dillon tossed his keys to the valet while I gawked.
“I’m not sure I can afford this.” I hoisted my old JYEP duffel bag higher on my shoulder. “I assumed when you said hotel you meant like something a little less…” My gaze roamed the front of the hotel again as I searched for words. “…grandiose. Like the places we stayed in when we were in Wildwood last summer.”
Dillon padded up to me, his face set in stone. “That was a motel that my uncle owned so we got the family rate of twenty bucks a night.”
“And that was too much,” I mumbled under my breath as I followed Dillon into a lobby that made my mouth fall open. “Holy shit,” I whispered, my gaze moving over chandeliers, twin grand staircases, a fountain, sofas and chairs of cool blue and gold, and a concierge desk with ten people behind it, all in dark blue vests. “Okay, there is no way we can afford to stay here. Dillon, we can’t even afford a soda in the guest lounge.”
“The room is paid for.” He was all manner of business now, eyes straight ahead, shoulders stiff. I followed along behind him, darting out of the way of bellhops with luggage trolleys, women with tiny dogs on skinny leads, and men in suits that were cut to perfection.
Okay, this so did not compute. Dillon was as poor if not poorer than I was. In all honesty, he was much poorer. He came from a single parent home where I at least had two working parents. We weren’t rich by any means, hell, we barely clawed our way into low middle class. But this? This hotel was so far removed from our way of life that it could have been situated on Mars. How did a poor kid from New Jersey afford a weekend at a place like this? Maybe Dillon had begun working for Billy ‘Bent Nose’ Berkowitz, the resident bookie/barber from back home. No, not even running numbers for Billy Bent Nose would cover the charge for three nights in a place like this.
I tapped at my lower lip with a pen. My fingers curled around the small notepad I kept in my front pocket at all times. The lobby was warm. I wanted to shed my winter coat, but I’d worn old jeans—or as fashionable folks called them “distressed”—and a hoodie that my folks had given me for Hanukkah last year that read Journalism is Literature in a Hurry. It had coffee stains on it from a late night camped out behind the science building to see if they were really dumping radioactive waste into the chicken gravy in Dewey Hall as students had reported. They’d not been but I did get a kiss from Reggie Parkman so the night wasn’t a total waste.
Check-in went smoothly. No one called security to come remove the waifs from the front desk. I tapped the brim of my hat at the friendly young lady who handed us our key cards. Dillon stalked off, his bag bouncing off his ass, his attention on the far end of the lobby and the four elevators. I pounded along after him, hand on my hat, and hustled into the elevator just before the doors silently closed.
“Which floor?” I spun to face the man who pushed the elevator buttons. My mind was officially blown. An elevator operator. Could the super-rich not push a button?
“Twelth,” Dillon replied as I gawped at the smiling older gent. With the tap of his white-gloved finger, the elevator lifted off. I gave my buddy a long, long look. He ignored me, his dark blue eyes on the scarlet numbers ticking off rapidly.
“Here we are gentlemen. I hope your stay at The Windward Way is a good one.” I dug into my pocket and pulled out a crumpled dollar bill that I passed to the elevator operator. Dillon had thundered off down the richly appointed corridor.
“Great job making the elevator…elevate.” I smiled then ran off to catch up with Dillon. “Dude, what the hell are we doing here? Whoa, is that a Monet?” My brakes locked up in front of an oil placed above a small table with a French-style phone. “Is that Water Lilies and Japanese Bridge?” I asked on a reverent whisper. I touched the painting and sighed in relief. Okay, no, not a real Monet but a damn good replica. I snorted at my foolishness. “That was stupid of me. As if a real Monet would be in some Chicago hotel hallway.” I snorted at myself, turned from the replication, and stared down a lonely and empty hall of doors. “Dillon?”
No reply. What a dick. I dug my key card out of my front pocket, checked the room number on it, and then stamped down and into our room, wishing I could slam the door behind me but that would be rude and disruptive to the other guests. Instead, I threw my hat at him. My hair shouted in joy at the freedom it was now experiencing.
“Wow, thanks for waiting for me in the hallway.” I bitched then fell into stunned silence as the beauty of our suite slapped me right in the face. Rose and gold were everywhere, from the carpets to the thick draperies to the loveseats and wingback chairs to the peek at the bedding in the other room. “I don’t think we’re in East Orange anymore, Toto.”
Dillon made a soft sort of amused sound, kicked off his ratty sneakers then fell into a pink and gold brocade chair that nearly swallowed him whole. A smile appeared on his face, the first glimpse of a real smile I’d seen on him for days now.
“Nope, we’re far from our shitty run-down neighborhoods now, Roman. This is how we could have been living…” His voice drifted off right before I lost the old Dillon and this new tense, angry one reappeared. “I’m going to shower and go to bed.”
“Okay.” What else could I say? He moved around me, grabbed his sneakers, and slid into the bedroom, closing the door softly in my face. I walked over to where he’d been seated, picked up Grandpa Frank’s hat, and then plopped into the chair. Staring out at the bright lights of Chicago through the wall of glass that led to a snowy patio, I let out the sad sigh inside me. Something was definitely wrong with my best friend. I vowed that I would not rest until I got to the bottom of this mystery. First thing tomorrow.
RJ Scott
RJ Scott is a USA TODAY bestselling author of over 140 romance and suspense novels. From bodyguards to hockey stars, princes to millionaires, cowboys to military heroes to every-day heroes, she believes that love is love and every man deserves a happy ending.
USA Today Bestselling Author V.L. Locey – Penning LGBT hockey romance that skates into sinful pleasures.
V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, yoga, belly laughs, walking, reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, Torchwood and Dr. Who, the New York Rangers, comic books, and coffee. (Not necessarily in that order.) She shares her life with her husband, her daughter, one dog, two cats, a pair of geese, far too many chickens, and two steers.
When not writing spicy romances, she enjoys spending her day with her menagerie in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania with a cup of fresh java in one hand and a steamy romance novel in the other.
Jordan Castillo PriceAuthor and artist Jordan Castillo Price is the owner of JCP Books LLC. Her paranormal thrillers are colored by her time in the midwest, from inner city Chicago, to small town Wisconsin, to liberal Madison.
Jordan is best known as the author of the PsyCop series, an unfolding tale of paranormal mystery and suspense starring Victor Bayne, a gay medium who's plagued by ghostly visitations. Also check out her new series, Mnevermind, where memories are made...one client at a time.
With her education in fine arts and practical experience as a graphic designer, Jordan set out to create high quality ebooks with lavish cover art, quality editing and gripping content. The result is JCP Books, offering stories you'll want to read again and again.
Amy Rae Durreson is a quiet Brit with a degree in early English literature, which she blames for her somewhat medieval approach to spelling, and at various times has been fluent in Latin, Old English, Ancient Greek, and Old Icelandic, though these days she mostly uses this knowledge to bore her students. Amy started her first novel a quarter of a century ago and has been scribbling away ever since. Despite these long years of experience, she has yet to master the arcane art of the semicolon. She was a winner in the 2017 Rainbow Awards.
RJ Scott
BOOKBUB / KOBO / SMASHWORDS
EMAIL: rj@rjscott.co.uk
VL Locey
Jordan Castillo Price
WEBSITE / NEWSLETTER / KOBO
SMASHWORDS / LIVEJOURNAL / B&N
EMAILS: jordan@psycop.com
jcp.heat@gmail.com
Amy Rae Durreson
B&N / SMASHWORDS / KOBO
Without a Trace by RJ Scott
Body and Soul by Jordan Castillo Price
Last but Not Lease by Jordan Castillo Price
The Clockwork Nightingale's Song by Amy Rae Durreson
Loving Layne by VL Locey
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