Bastards and Pretty Boys Read online

  I ignored that part. It was too soon for her to draw any conclusions about us. “So what disappoints you?”

  “I’m not sure if you noticed or not, but there is or was a seriously hot guy in the place right next to yours.”

  A grin pushed my cheeks to my ears. “Oh?”

  “Yeah. When I saw him, I thought, Wow, he and Charlie would make a really striking couple. Too bad he’s probably straight, taken, and-or stupid.”

  “Well,” I said, “that’s life. Thanks, Carrie. You can go back to kissing barbecue sauce off Ira’s mustache now.”

  “What makes you think I’m doing that?” she asked with a chuckle. Gradually, the level of background noise increased.

  “Because you used to do it to me.”

  “You never had a mustache, Charlie. It was something else I licked food off of.” She blew out air, a disgruntled sound. “Jesus, how soon they forget.”

  Talking about Booker gave me a pang that had nothing to do with heartburn. Not the physical kind, anyway. After I tossed my cell on the nightstand, I grabbed the pillow next to mine. Hugging it, I inhaled. The pillow smelled of him. Very distinctly. It smelled of Booker’s hair and skin.

  I rolled onto my side, telling myself not to fall under the spell of this isolated, perfect world. I’d have to leave it soon and resign myself to seeing Booker on weekends—if, that is, neither of us started dating somebody else. The possibility actually made me feel a little ill. Even if we decided to keep our affair going, we couldn’t keep the summer going. Winter weather could easily prevent my coming up here on any regular basis.

  Turning off the light, I lay back down and closed my eyes. In spite of all my misgivings, a pleasant fantasy spun itself in my mind. Booker could live at Cloud Lake from, say, the end of April to the end of October. I could spend four or five days a week here and two or three in the city. Hell, my business virtually ran itself, thanks to my capable staff. Moreover, a potential buyer, a big one, had been sniffing around my thriving little pub. I wasn’t quite ready to let go of it yet, but selling was an option, too. If I ever got bored up here, I could always do volunteer work. Help out at the animal shelter or food pantry. Deliver meals to seniors. Then, come winter, Booker and I could move to my place in the city. He could set up a workshop in my full, largely unused basement.

  Yeah, it was doable. Smiling, I drifted off…

  Commotion outside jarred me awake. Blinking and breathing heavily, I bolted out of bed and out to my deck. The moon shone like a newly minted coin.

  I heard someone shout, “Stop!”

  A figure scrambled into a fishing boat tied to Booker’s pier. Another, taller figure ran down the yard’s low incline toward the docked boat.

  The running man was Booker. He was back. And he was chasing someone.

  I flew down my deck steps and across my own yard just as the boat’s outboard growled to life. I was about to cry out, “Booker, don’t!” because I saw what was coming. He may have seen it, too … but not in time. He’d already jumped for the boat.

  The man in it was ready for him.

  Just as I reached Booker’s frontage, I saw a shape rise up. Silhouetted against the sky for a terrifying moment, it made an even more terrifying, downward sweep.

  I heard the most sickening sound I’d ever heard in my life—the dull whack of an oar connecting with my lover’s skull. He tumbled limply into the water as the boat sped away.

  I’d seen plenty in the sheen of moonlight. It was Kenneth who manned the craft and who’d wielded that improvised weapon. I was sure of it.

  Chapter Twelve

  There are times when fear is a luxury.

  I denied myself that luxury as soon as I saw and heard Booker’s body make that lazy, crumpling arc and splash into the water. By the time I reached the shore alongside his dock, all I could make out was the gleaming bubble of his jacket on the lake’s surface.

  I half ran, half stumbled into the water, hating it for impeding my progress, wanting to fling every last drop out of the lake basin. It was my enemy in a different way now, for a different reason. And it kept getting deeper. Alarmingly deeper. Since I couldn’t swim worth a shit, I had to plow forward on the balls of my feet, using my arms to push against the water and help propel me.

  Just as I was in up to my chin, I made an awkward, Hail Mary leap toward Booker’s jacket and grabbed onto it. I tugged as hard as I could, praying I wouldn’t tear if off of him. His head popped out of the water, for he’d been floating face-down, and I heard a weak wheeze. He was straining to draw in air.

  I pulled him close enough so I could wrap an arm around his chest and start hauling him backward, toward the beach. Don’t lose your footing, I kept warning myself. Don’t you dare take him down, asshole. Just keep going. By the time the water was level with my chest, I could turn Booker enough to give him a couple of mouth-to-mouth rescue breaths, which helped him cough up some water. Satisfied he was at least breathing again, however labored it was, I concentrated on getting us to shore. Booker’s head lolled against my face, and I found myself kissing his drenched hair and muttering to him. “Come on, baby, I’ve got you. Hold on. We’re almost there. I’ll take care of you.”

  It felt like a miracle to hit the sand. As carefully as possible, I laid Booker on his stomach. He coughed up more dribbles of water, and those shallow, gasping breaths gradually gave way to more natural respiration. I knelt beside him and stroked the side of his face. My fingertips grazed something on the left side of his forehead, near the hairline. Leaning over, I delicately moved aside his plastered-down curls and peered at the spot, but the moonlight simply wasn’t bright enough to allow for inspection. We had to get indoors.

  “Let me know when you can walk, honey,” I said to him. “Don’t rush it, though. Just take your time.”

  Booker coughed again and sluggishly rose from the sand. I helped him into a sitting position. He tried saying something, but his voice was pinched tight. He coughed, cleared his throat, spat aside some gunk. Finally he croaked out, “I’m okay.”

  I got him to his feet, put his arm over my shoulders, and wrapped my arm around his waist. We shuffled back to his house. Once inside, I steered him to the couch.

  “Take your clothes off,” I said, standing over him.

  He gave me a crooked smile.

  I ignored him. This wasn’t the time for those kinds of thoughts, although it did occur to me that we hadn’t been naked and cozy since last night. Kneeling in front of the couch, I took off Booker’s boots and socks then got up and helped peel off his jacket, shirt and pants. I was sopping wet myself, but I hadn’t been clocked by an oar and I hadn’t inhaled part of Cloud Lake. My discomfort was insignificant.

  “Now get your ass in bed,” I said sternly. I could see he was about to protest, so I jumped in before he had a chance. “I’m not playing, Booker. I mean it. Get in bed and cover up. I’ll come right back and check you over.”

  Another grin as he sat there on display, arms flung out to the sides and legs parted. I forced my gaze to move up to his forehead. Yup, a goose egg. And a good sign. It meant he likely didn’t have a concussion.

  As I lifted his soaked clothing and carried it to the dryer in the kitchen, I felt a small stab of panic. Disengaging Booker’s shirt from the rest of the mass, I frantically felt its breast pocket. The camera wasn’t there.

  I charged back to the bedroom and told Booker, “I can’t find the camera. If that fucker’s at the bottom of the lake—”

  “It’s on the passenger seat of my truck.”

  His voice sounded closer to normal now. He wasn’t exhibiting any of the signs of a concussion, either. Sitting against the headboard, he’d covered himself from the chest down.

  I blew out a sigh. “Thank God. Hold on, I’ll be right back.”

  I retrieved the camera from Booker’s truck. Next I went to the bathroom to grab a couple of Tylenol from the medicine chest, then back to the kitchen to heap some ice cubes into a towel and pour a smal
l glass of water. I was running around like a contestant on one of those goofy Japanese game shows.

  Once I’d delivered the stuff to Booker, I looked more closely at the bump on his head before he held the ice to it. I had some savvy when it came to recognition and first-aid treatment of accident injuries. When I opened my business, I took a comprehensive course offered by the Red Cross. Looking after employees and customers on a daily basis wasn’t a responsibility I took lightly. Still, I didn’t want to put Booker in danger.

  “I should either call 911 or take you to the Emergency Room,” I said. “And call the cops, too.”

  “No.” Booker’s answer was emphatic. “I don’t need medical care and I sure as fuck don’t want to deal with any cops.”

  “Booker, you could have a concussion.”

  “I don’t. I’ve had one before, so I know the symptoms. I’m okay. All that bastard did was knock me into the lake. I wasn’t unconscious, just dazed. I must’ve reflexively inhaled when I hit the water.”

  He sounded alert enough. I figured I could leave him alone for a while. “Well, there’s something I need to do. It won’t take more than a half-hour or so. You just stay put. I’ll be back.”

  “Charlie,” Booker said as I was about to leave the room.

  I stepped up to the bed. “What?”

  “I’m really sorry for the way I acted earlier. I didn’t mean… I wasn’t trying to get rid of you. That’s the last thing I want.”

  My heart melted. “I’m glad you cleared that up.”

  “Come here. Please.” Booker grasped my shirt sleeve and pulled me toward him. “Thank you,” he whispered before he kissed me, before his lips pressed, cool but expressive, against mine. His hand rose to the back of my head and held it in place as our mouths opened to each other. I cradled Booker’s face in both hands and let myself fall into the kiss. Damn, I was crazy about him. And relieved beyond expression that he seemed fine.

  “You’re welcome,” I said, backing away.

  “My hero,” he said with a warm smile. “What you did was incredible, Charlie. I’m really proud of you. And grateful.”

  A blush heated my face. I shrugged. “It had to be done.” I touched his shoulder and tried to lighten things up. “You’re the only lay I’ve got right now. Please, just stay there and relax. I’ll be spending the night here to make sure you’re all right.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To find the prick who did this to you.”

  *

  I couldn’t figure out what the hell had possessed Kenneth to show up at Booker’s place, but I had a good idea how he got there. He’d probably rented Rick Pavlic’s cottage for the weekend. I didn’t know where on the lake it was. I did know, however, the direction to take in my search for it. The boat that had churned away from Booker’s dock had headed toward the southwest.

  Driving around the lake made no sense, so I immediately discarded that option. Most cottages weren’t visible from the road. Besides, I had no idea what Pavlic’s looked like. I could easily have identified Kenneth’s car, but he was too shrewd to park it where it could be seen.

  I had to take the paddleboat on a shore-hugging tour. That was my only recourse. After I went to my cottage to throw on some dry clothes, I grabbed an electric lantern from a kitchen cupboard. Combined with the moonlight, its beam should help me spot the boat Kenneth had used—and, especially, its motor. I’d caught a glimpse of the outboard’s sleek, dark mass at the back of the boat. More important, I’d clearly seen the white block letters of its manufacturer’s name: MERCURY.

  Shoving my light paddleboat from beach to lake entailed wading into the water. In the dark, and without either Booker or a crisis to spur me on, my nerves were strung so tight they seemed to vibrate beneath my skin. Their ends felt knotted together in my gut. As I guided my little craft away from the shore and climbed into it, I tried to focus on the task at hand—finding and confronting Kenneth.

  I wanted to kick some ass.

  I paddled into the still night, curving around the ends of docks. A pontoon boat here, a canoe there, then a little johnboat with a trolling motor. Not what I was looking for. Around the next bend, a thick blanket of lily pads forced me to circle farther into the lake than I felt comfortable going, but it was preferable to getting stuck. My heart thudded as the old fear gripped me. To overcome it, I envisioned that oar striking Booker and pitching him, injured, into the lake. A fresh draft of directed fury kept my feet pumping the pedals.

  Up ahead, a small boathouse caught my attention. I clicked on the lantern and swept it over the surface of the water. A swirling trail of rainbow iridescence led up to the structure. In front of it, the odor of gasoline exhaust, faint but unmistakable, tainted the air.

  Pavlic’s cottage, if it was his, sat on a small rise. It looked completely dark. I eased up to the dock. Just as I grabbed for one of its pilings, a pair of headlights blazed behind the cottage. They cut to one side as some vehicle apparently made a Y-turn and headed for the road.

  If that was Kenneth, he sure as shit wasn’t going out to party. He was making a getaway. I got as close to shore as I could, then stepped out of the paddleboat and pulled it onto the sand. Snatching out the lantern, I examined the boathouse. Its two doors, front and back, were closed and locked. There was a small, grimy, dockside window. Maybe…

  The window afforded me the glimpse I needed. There was a V-hull fishing boat, its motor tilted forward out of the water. Weeds hung from the propeller. The word Mercury glowed white in the light from my lantern.

  Most telling of all, an oar, out of its lock, spanned the boat’s benches.

  I didn’t do anything more. Couldn’t, really. I needed to get back to Booker, anyway, and begin my all-night watch.

  He was sleeping when I padded into the bedroom, his head turned to one side and lips slightly parted. Smiling, I knelt beside the bed. “Hosea,” I whispered.

  I’d never before studied Booker while he slept, since he always awoke before I did. Now I realized what I’d been missing. He looked like a fairy-tale prince, young and darkly handsome. And, I thought, so vigorous yet so vulnerable.

  My heart swelled. I lightly touched the soft curls that strayed over Booker’s cheek and forehead. My admiring gaze wandered over the lush fringes of his eyelashes, the strong, slightly crooked line of his nose, the relaxed contours of his lips.

  Although I didn’t want to disturb him, I had to, just to make sure he hadn’t lapsed into unconsciousness or, worse yet, a coma.

  I gently shook his shoulder. “Booker, wake up. Open your eyes.”

  Falteringly, his lids rose.

  “Look at me. Who am I? What’s my name?”

  His mouth moved into a drowsy smile. “Someone hit you in the head with an oar, Charlie? You got amnesia?”

  I sighed in relief. “Well, you seem to be in good shape. Does your head hurt?” The bump was big and ugly, with a glossy shine that further drew attention to it.

  “No worse than a toothache.” Booker yawned and pulled the covers up around his neck. His eyes closed. “Now leave me alone and let me sleep.”

  “I can’t. I’ll have to wake you again in a few hours.”

  “Maybe you should do it by blowing me.”

  “I’d love to,” I said, “but I don’t think it would be safe.”

  Booker cracked open his eyes to regard me. “Why?”

  “You have a head injury.”

  Shifting beneath the blanket, he broke into lazy laughter. “You think my skull is gonna collapse if you suck my dick? You give great head, darlin’, but you’re no goddamned Shop Vac.”

  I smiled in spite of myself. “To tell you the truth, I’m really exhausted.”

  Booker glided a hand over my face as his eyes again drifted closed. He slid to the other side of the small bed. “Then crawl in and hold me and sleep with me, Charlie lark. Just don’t ask me any more stupid questions.”

  I got undressed and slipped in beside him, molding the cool
, boneless length of my body to the hot, hard length of his. Nothing ever felt more right.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Keen arousal spangled my groin. I wasn’t quite sure how I’d reached that state, since the last thing I remembered doing was bobbing contentedly on the water with pretty birds flying around me. Booker was somewhere nearby, playing a guitar made out of beach junk and singing an old song. “All I need is the air that I breathe…” I liked the song but couldn’t concentrate on it, because I was about to come.

  My eyes opened as the tugging at my cock continued and my breath came out in quavering moans. Booker, wearing nothing, was hunched between my legs. I couldn’t see my cock—it was hidden within his mouth, lost beneath the tumble of his hair—but I could sure as hell feel it. I closed my eyes again and gripped the sheets as the first slap of orgasm lifted my hips. It was abrupt and powerful, the sharp throbs of pleasure zinging through my body like lightning strikes.

  Booker levered himself forward until his face was over mine. My lips were already parted, so I was ready to take what he bore on his tongue. Our mouths slid together in a delicious, sloppy cum-kiss, made all the more delectable by Booker’s excited breathing and the wet aggression of his mouth. He was reveling in it.

  “You taste a little like salty clover today,” he murmured against me.

  “Is that good?” I asked, since I didn’t know how Booker felt about salty clover.

  “Delicious,” he said, pushing himself off the bed. “You have spunk on your belly, by the way, so you might want to wipe if off before you get dressed. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  I smiled. Sometimes, when I was with him, I couldn’t seem to stop smiling.

  All I need is the air that I breathe and…

  And what? Damn it, now that tune and lyric would be stuck in my head all day. It bugged me that I couldn’t remember the song. I guessed I’d heard it on one of my parents’ records. They had an impressive collection of vinyl LPs.

  After I’d gone to the bathroom, cleaned up, and gotten dressed, I went to the kitchen to find Booker. He was dressed now, too, and ferrying food to the table—two plates of scrambled eggs, ham slices, and buttered toast with homemade blackberry jam. I thanked him; I felt ravenous.