Page 34 of No Surrender
“Let go,” Simon whispered. “I want to take good care of you.”
Vic closed his eyes, wrapped in Simon’s arms and engulfed in the shower’s steam. He gave himself over completely to the feel of his boyfriend’s hand on his cock, slick and tight, building toward release.
He came with a shout, Simon’s name on his lips, as his climax barreled through him. For a few seconds, Vic thought he might sag to the floor if Simon hadn’t kept him on his feet.
“C’mon. Let’s get out of here before we prune.” Simon kissed Vic’s ear before shifting so that the water sluiced away the jizz, then turned off the shower and handed Vic a towel and took one for himself.
“Don’t know about you, but I’m going to sleep just fine after that,” Simon said with a chuckle.
Vic let his lover dry him off, then Simon stepped away to towel down before they both pulled on sleep shorts and hurried through getting ready for bed. Once they were under the covers, Vic drew Simon against him, taking comfort from proximity.
“We’re going to figure this out,” Vic said quietly before he pressed a kiss to Simon’s lips.
Simon snuggled closer. “I know we will,” he replied, pausing to yawn. “I believe in us.”
* * *
“…as the trial of William Fischer, the alleged ‘Strand Slitter,’ draws closer, Grand Strand mental health professionals warn that the publicity around the high-profile murder case has caused a spike in sleep disorders, panic attacks, and night terrors among adults—”
Ross muttered something under his breath and reached for the remote to mute the office TV.
“Hey! I was listening to that,” Vic protested.
Ross looked grumpy. “You don’t need a reporter to tell you people can’t sleep—including yours truly. The world’s going to hell in a handbasket. Not exactly front page, breaking news.”
“Simon thinks the sleep disorders might be related.”
“To the case? How?”
“Apparently, there are ‘entities’ that feed off fear, and when bad things happen, they show up like crabs to carrion,” Vic replied.
Ross stared at him. “You’re serious.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Shit. So some weird spook is a nightmare voyeur? Now I feel dirty.”
Vic checked the time. “Aren’t we due to see that retired detective? Better go now if we’re going to pick up Krispy Kremes on the way.”
“Bribery is illegal.”
“Not if it’s cops and donuts.”
Ross drove. Vic picked up coffee and two dozen “Hot Now” melt-in-your-mouth donuts—one box to eat in the car and the other to sweeten the disposition of the older man they were going to visit.
They pulled up in front of a modest house in a tidy Murrell’s Inlet neighborhood. The well-maintained home and yard boded well for the occupant.
“Detective John Gordon?” Vic said when a tall, silver-haired man with craggy features came to the door. “D’Amato and Hamilton—we called ahead to see you. And we brought donuts.” Vic flashed his badge while Ross handed over the Krispy Kremes.
“I’ve been expecting you. Come in.” John Gordon moved aside to let them enter.
Vic scanned the room out of habit. His cop senses told him Gordon was widowed, probably for several years. Photos suggested children and grandchildren, with a few of him and a woman Vic guessed had been Gordon’s wife. Books and DVDs were neatly shelved, except for a hardcover thriller next to an overstuffed armchair and the case for a classic action movie next to the big screen TV.
“Have a seat. Would you like a soda?”
“No, thank you,” Ross declined as he and Vic sat on the couch, and Gordon took his place in the chair.
“Now what’s all this about? You mentioned the disappearances back in the eighties. No one wanted to hear about them then. Why now?”
