Choked Up Page 4

  Wasn't that just the epitome of his bar-trolling days now dead and behind him? Even when he jerked off, he still fantasized about the one man who lived with him.

  "It's true," Mark continued. "You've been really patient with me, and I know we haven't had sex as often as either of us would like. I hope to change that going forward."

  Pearce squeezed his hand. "Me, too. And I appreciate the sentimental thoughts, but it's not enough to get you to Detroit with me."

  Mark shook his head and sighed. "Fine. I get it. You have a job to do there and having me around would be a distraction. But please, for my peace of mind, be careful and check in at least twice a day if you can? Okay? Even just a quick text is fine, just to let me know you're all right."

  Pearce leaned over and kissed him. "I promise." He smirked and waggled his eyebrows. "Might get a couple pics of my cock if I get any downtime in the hotel room."

  Mark laughed, and the sound of it made Pearce feel even better.

  "I can hardly wait," Mark said, and leaned in to kiss him again.

  5

  The following morning, after Pearce left the apartment with his carry-on bag and an intense expression, Mark busied himself with some chores. He cleared the sink of dishes, wiped down the counters, emptied all the waste baskets, then cleaned out old leftovers and expired food items from the refrigerator. When he took a moment to sit on the couch, Mark was surprised to find it wasn't even ten in the morning.

  These next days without Aaron were going to be long, indeed. But the apartment might be cleaner than it had been since Pearce moved into it.

  He emptied the clothes hamper and carried a basket piled high to the elevator, riding down to the basement. It was a Wednesday, and most residents were off at work being productive, the laundry room was empty. A pang of guilt bored into Mark's gut and took up residence with the familiar anxiety about being on his own in the basement. The slightly damp feel to the air and the echoing drip from one of the industrial sinks was achingly similar to the boat he had escaped from back on Barbados.

  Anxiety prickled along the surface of his skin as it tried to find a way to get under and inside him. He thumped the laundry basket down on top of a long table that ran down the middle of the room and gripped the handles tight, anchoring himself to the present. Eyes closed, he took deep breaths and pushed aside memories of Barbados. He was safe, strong, and here in his own apartment building in Washington, DC; nothing could harm him. He mentally repeated his calming mantra: You're safe, you're well, and they cannot harm you.

  His nerves settled a bit, and he opened his eyes and got busy, splitting up the laundry between machines. When his fingers snagged the jockstrap Pearce had worn during his workout the night before, Mark paused. The pouch was made of camouflage material, and he knew it would still be damp with Pearce's sweat. He hesitated, looked around to make sure he was alone, then stuffed the jock into his pocket. His cock hardened, and a pleasant tremble started low in his belly, the same feeling he'd had as a teenager when sneaking a gay porn magazine past his parents into his bedroom.

  Mark finished sorting the clothes, plugged quarters into the machines, and headed back up in the elevator. As the lift rose, he held the empty basket in one hand and kept the other stuffed into his pocket, fingers gripping the jockstrap. He wasn't quite sure why he wanted it. He was just going with his instincts, like his therapist had told him for the past weeks. He wasn't sure Dr. Kelcher had been referring to a secret sweaty-jock fetish, but what the hell.

  Once inside the apartment, Mark double locked the door behind him, then set the oven timer to remind him about the laundry downstairs. He walked down the hall to the bedroom where he stripped nude and lay across the bed, beads of precum already leaking onto his belly. He held the jockstrap up to his nose in his left hand and breathed in the musky smell of Pearce's sweat, groaning as he stroked himself. He had never admitted as much, but those times Pearce came home from the gym without showering after his workout, Mark enjoyed the smell of him before he washed it all away. Pearce's sweat smelled masculine and clean to Mark, arousing, not rank and dirty.

  He came quickly, grunting as bursts of semen splattered across his torso. When he caught his breath, Mark rolled his head to the side and saw it was only 11:16 in the morning. Pearce hadn't been gone four hours, and Mark was already fantasizing about him. Yeah, this separation was going to feel much longer than it would actually be.

  After cleaning up in the bathroom, Mark tucked Pearce's jockstrap in the drawer of the nightstand on his side of the bed before heading out to the living room. A stack of DVDs and Blu-ray discs had cluttered up the entertainment center, so he pulled open the drawer where they stored their movies and filed them away again. One of the titles along the spine of a DVD case caught his eye, and he pulled it out, sitting back on his heels as he looked at the cover.

  It was an exercise DVD, one of those that mixed boxing and kickboxing, and the sight of it caused a swirl of emotions to surge within him. After they had returned home from Barbados, Pearce had been patient with Mark at first, allowing him to remain cooped up in the apartment. Weeks later, however, Pearce's patience had worn away, and he had nagged and cajoled Mark into finally leaving the building. First, it was to accompany Pearce to the corner store, which expanded to a Thai restaurant they frequented a few blocks away. Each trip they ventured farther from the apartment, on foot at first, then in the car, and even public transportation. Once Mark had become more comfortable, Pearce had signed them both up for a local self-defense class.

  Mark never knew if it was the act of working out or the feeling that he could now defend himself, but at some point during the six weeks the course met, Pearce had caught Mark humming as he cooked dinner. After the self-defense class ended, Pearce had picked up the DVDs at a resale shop, and they had taken to working out together in the living room. Mark smiled as he recalled the teasing Pearce had delivered as they mimicked the instructor's motions, and the stimulating scent of Pearce's sweat. Most of the time, they wore T-shirts and sweat shorts during the workout, but a few times Pearce suggested they wear just jockstraps, which unfailingly led to some pretty intense sex afterward.

  "This might be the ticket," Mark said to himself as he smiled down at the exercise DVD. He pulled three other similar DVDs from the drawer and set them on top of the TV just as the oven timer sounded.

  He turned off the timer, grabbed the laundry basket and his apartment key, and headed for the elevator. Maybe he could make even more progress and surprise Pearce when he returned from Detroit. Pearce wouldn't be gone long enough for Mark to have found a job, but Mark could get his resume together and send out a few copies in that time at least.

  As he rode the elevator down, Mark thought back on his last job. It had been at Filibuster Catering, before the crazy showdown that had happened at a party hosted by the Speaker of the House. After Filibuster Catering owner Audra had been shot, the business had shut down, and Pearce had been placed on suspension for interfering in another agent's case. That was when Mark had suggested they take advantage of their shared time off work and travel to Barbados.

  The rest, as they say, was history.

  Several times over the last few months, Mark had feared he would never be able to work again. The night terrors were coming on less frequently, but there were mornings he still startled awake, heart pounding and a scream wedged right behind his lips. Those were the times the fading dream seemed more real than the feel of the bed beneath him and the bright morning sunlight that filled the room. Pearce was usually already gone, leaving Mark deeply asleep as he headed out for another day of chasing bad guys, as he put it.

  And now Pearce was off chasing Robert Morgan, one of the worst men they'd both known.

  The elevator doors opened, and Mark stepped out into the basement hallway, proud of himself for not hesitating this time. The urge to follow after Pearce to Detroit reared up within Mark, strong and obstinate, fighting against the staunch protests Pearce had presented to h
im the night before. But then Mark considered the bustle of the airport, the thousands of people all moving with a purpose, and his desire to go after Pearce shriveled. He was better, but he didn't think he was ready to face a crowded airport. Especially not on his own.

  As he transferred clothes to the dryers, doubt nibbled away at his confidence, like tiny fish eating something dead at the bottom of a lake. He feared he would never again be able to hold down a job. Just when he thought he was doing great, something happened, like the elderly woman dropping the pickles at the store, and tension seemed to explode within him. Could he ever again be productive?

  Mark added quarters to the dryers and stepped back, watching the clothes tumble together behind the glass. His image was reflected back at him, and he gave himself a firm nod. He would get past this trauma, and he would rejoin the work force once again. He owed it not just to Pearce, but himself as well.

  It was time to move on from the events on Barbados. It was time to reclaim his life.

  6

  Pearce stood a few feet back from the wall and slowly moved his gaze over the information, trying not to focus on just one item. Photos had been grouped by victim, standard operating procedure for an investigation like this, and a map of the area had been hung nearby, marked with flagged pins showing places the victims had last been seen alive as well as residences and dump sites. The notes that were left in the right hand of each victim had been photocopied and pinned up with the corresponding grouping of photos. The scarves that were used to strangle each man had received a similar treatment, and from the photos, Pearce now saw that the scarves were all a deep shade of red.

  Each victim was represented by two photos: one of them while they had still been living—three of the four appeared to be selfies taken from their own phones—and the other a shot of how they were found in the woods. The first victim, Stuart Behnke, had been found in mid-April, when there had still been snow on the ground. Mark had already moved into Pearce's apartment in DC by that time, both of them oblivious to the death being dispensed here in Detroit.

  And, Pearce knew, it was all because of him. The lives of these four men had ended much too soon as a way to summon him back to the city, back to finish things between himself and Robert Morgan once and for all. Pearce gritted his teeth. Well, by God, bring it on.

  Anger burned through him, and Pearce could feel its heat burn in his cheeks. He clenched his jaw as he looked over the board, his gaze jumping from the photos to the location pins to the notes to the pictures of the scarves and back. There had to be some kind of pattern, some way to figure out where Morgan was hiding so Pearce could take the battle right to him and keep other innocent men from dying.

  "It gets to you, doesn't it?"

  The voice startled him, and he turned to look at the man leaning in the doorway. He was a few inches shorter than Pearce and handsome, with dark hair and eyes. His arms were crossed, biceps bulging against the material of his white dress shirt. There must have been some residual anger left over in Pearce's expression, because the man held a hand palm out.

  "I didn't mean to scare you."

  Pearce frowned and turned his attention back to the board, forcing his jaw to unclench so he could say in a gruff tone, "You didn't scare me."

  "Sorry, scare was probably a poor choice of words." The man stepped into the room, hand extended. "Jake Perrin. I'm the SAC of this case."

  "You're the Special Agent in Charge?" Pearce asked, hearing the sharpness of his tone as he ignored Jake's hand.

  Jake dropped his hand and rocked back on his heels, eyes narrowed as he stared at Pearce. "I heard you were like this."

  "Like what?"

  "Kind of a dick." Jake turned his back, and Pearce had a sudden urge to punch him in the back of the head.

  "Funny," Pearce shot back. "I haven't heard anything about you. Does that mean you haven't made an impression yet?"

  Jake turned and raised his eyebrows. "Nice one. I was hoping you'd be good with snappy replies since we're going to be partners." He curled up one corner of his mouth in a sneer. "I really hate getting stuck with a boring partner, don't you?"

  Pearce cocked his head and moved a step closer to Jake. "Sorry, what did you say?"

  "Which part?" Jake asked. "You being quick with snappy replies?"

  "No, the part about us being partners."

  "Uh-oh." Jake turned his mouth down in an overexaggerated frown. "Do you not play well with others?"

  "Look, asshole," Pearce started, finger pointed in Jake's face.

  "I see you two have met."

  Pearce pulled himself up short as Agent Bata entered the room with his quick, precise stride. He set a thick folder on the small conference table and turned to look at them.

  "Sometimes you need to bring together two combustible materials to break down a wall." He fixed his dark-eyed gaze on Pearce. "Will you have a problem working with Agent Perrin?"

  "Not if he stays out of my way," Pearce said, and turned to glare at Jake when the man laughed.

  "Wow, he is a piece of work," Jake said to Bata.

  "Remind you of anyone, Agent Perrin?" Bata asked.

  Pearce slid a sideways glance at Jake. "Sounds like someone's been sent to the principal's office a time or two."

  Jake stared blankly at Pearce. "I'm thinking you might have me beat in that contest."

  "Enough!" Bata snapped. He brushed past both Pearce and Jake to point at the image of the man smiling in the topmost photo. "This is Stuart Behnke. He was planning to start law school next year. Instead, he was found strangled to death in mid-April. His family and friends buried him two months before his twenty-third birthday."

  Pearce dropped his gaze as his cheeks burned with shame.

  Bata moved to the next group of photos. "Thomas Dougherty. He was twenty-six and had just been promoted at his job as a software engineer for a start-up technology company. He was found in early June, also strangled. His sister called him her hero when she eulogized him."

  "We get it," Jake said in a quiet voice.

  "I don't think it's really sunk in yet," Bata snapped back. He stepped farther along the wall to point to another grouping of photos. "Ethan Cohen. He was twenty-five and had taken a semester off college to figure out if he really wanted to continue with English or change to something more marketable. He was an only child who lost his father to a heart attack two years ago. In late August, he was found strangled like Stuart and Thomas before him. Now his mother is alone."

  Pearce's stomach knotted, and he worried he might get sick. "Bata, you don't have to go through this. We've read the files."

  "But I do have to do this, Agent Pearce. I have to make sure you understand the significance of each of these victims. They are not faceless names on paper. They were sons and brothers and coworkers and friends." Bata moved to the final group of pictures. "Erik Hamill. He was twenty-four and enjoyed video games. He'd just started a group for gay and lesbian video game players at a local LGBT community center. He was found strangled at the beginning of this month."

  Pearce took a breath, then another. He had been clenching his jaw so hard it ached. He looked at Jake and asked, "Where were they last seen?"

  "Different places. One at a downtown bar, another after dropping a friend off at home. There's no pattern to their abductions."

  "Are we sure they were abducted?" Pearce looked between Jake and Bata. "Could they have gone willingly?"

  Jake looked surprised at the suggestion, but Bata gave a single nod. "It is a good question, however there were signs of restraint and struggle."

  "How long were they missing before they were found?" Pearce asked.

  "Three days," Jake replied. "Except for Eric Hamill who was only kept for one."

  "And he's the only one who doesn't match the same physical profile," Pearce said.

  "Correct," Jake said. "He's got dark red hair and blue eyes, and the other three victims had dark hair and dark eyes." He looked to Bata. "I've already talked to the fri
ends and family of each victim about who they might have been dating, but we could pay another visit."

  "Or ask about the bars they frequented and talk to the staff," Pearce suggested. "Some guys might not tell their friends about going home with a trick. And most likely they wouldn't tell their families."

  Jake nodded. "Yep. That too."

  Bata looked between them for a long moment in silence, then he said, "I seem to have gotten through to both of you. Good. This case is your top priority. No distractions, no altercations. The media has caught onto this case, and we need results, not arguments. We owe that to the families of these victims."

  Pearce felt as if Bata directed the words right at his heart, each one a barbed harpoon that pulled a line of guilt behind it. He owed the families his best, because their sons were dead because of him.

  "Understood, sir," Pearce said.

  "Same here," Jake added.

  Bata nodded. "Good. Agent Pearce, a word outside if you will."

  Pearce followed Bata out of the conference room and a short ways down the hall to his tiny windowless office. Bata closed the door behind them and turned to face him.

  "I have told SAC Perrin about Robert Morgan, but I have not revealed your personal history. I wanted to leave that decision up to you."

  Pearce nodded. "Thank you, Agent Bata. I appreciate it."

  "To make it clear, SAC Perrin knows that you are gay, but he does not know about your previous involvement with our prime suspect, Robert Morgan."

  "Seems I have a reputation," Pearce grumbled.

  "It would seem that way, wouldn't it? It's difficult to keep details of the case you broke quiet, especially when a relationship developed between yourself and the key witness." Bata gave a single nod. "Now get to work."