Restoration 01 - Getting It Right Page 6

  Was this the moment when their friendship died?

  “Nate?”

  Nathan turned his head, and only his head. “Truth or dare?”

  James shook his head to clear out the sudden influx of memories. Of a game of Truth or Dare played at a college party that led to a sixty-second kiss he’d fantasized about more than once over the years.

  “Truth or dare?” Nathan repeated.

  “Truth.”

  “Did you have sex with Elliott last night?”

  So not the question James expected. “Of course not.” And why did Nathan care if he had?

  “Did you want to?”

  “That’s two truths.” Childish response, but it was a childish game, and if this was how Nathan wanted to talk, they’d do it by the childish rules. “So does that mean it’s my turn to ask you truth or dare?”

  “Dare.”

  Fine, he wants to play it cute. “I dare you to tell me why you kissed me back on Thursday night.”

  Nathan narrowed his eyes, clearly not happy at being outsmarted at his own game. “Why do you think I kissed you back?”

  “No way, Nate. The dare was for you to tell me, and if you chicken out and take a truth, the question won’t change.”

  He straightened and turned, crossing his arms. Defensive. “Fine. I kissed you back because you were in my arms, and you smelled good, and it felt right, and maybe the shots helped in the courage department, but it was like we were back in college and that first kiss was happening all over again. All of those same feelings were coming back, and I forgot who we were for a moment. It’s been two whole days and those feelings are still there, Jay. I keep trying to put them back where they came from, but they won’t go.”

  Nathan looked absolutely terrified, as if he’d confessed to a horrible crime—or to something utterly life-changing. Those same feelings.

  Oh my fucking God.

  James saw Nathan in that moment. Really saw him. Heart on his sleeve, admitting to something that could forever change the balance of their friendship, as well as change how James saw Nathan himself. And by other people, and James didn’t know what to do with that. He didn’t know what to do with the fear and hope swimming in Nathan’s dark, dark eyes. Or the way the hands clutching his elbows were shaking. So subtle. So important.

  Nathan had had feelings about their kiss back in college, only he’d bottled them up, pushed them aside, and then in a state of drunken weakness, James had gone and stirred them back up. Reminded Nathan about something he hadn’t mentioned in fifteen years.

  “Your turn,” Nathan said in a hoarse whisper. “Truth or dare?”

  I’ve got the ball. Do I throw it back, or take it and run?

  Fuck the sports analogies. I’ve wanted him for years.

  But he hasn’t wanted me for years. Has he? What if it’s a temporary thing, or a reaction to me being upset on Thursday, and not really what he wants? It’s been fifteen years. He’s slept with dozens of women. No one becomes gay overnight. I can’t trust this.

  “Truth.”

  Nathan swallowed. Hard. “What are you thinking right now? The absolute truth, Jay, please.”

  “That this isn’t going to happen.” A knife speared him through the chest, and the surprise on Nathan’s face drove it deeper. “You’re my best friend in the world, Nate, but that’s all. I’m not attracted to you.” Big fat fucking liar. “I was wasted that night, and I wanted to feel good and you were there. The kiss happened, and I can’t change that, but it won’t happen again. It can’t.”

  Surprise melted into red-faced shame. Nathan took a step back, hands falling to his sides.

  “Oh.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For what? Being honest?” Nathan’s eyes glittered, and he stepped back again, almost into the fender of a parked car. “That’s what this is, right? Us getting things out in the open. You getting your answers. You got them, so I’m going to go.”

  I am an absolute shit. “Nate—”

  “It’s okay. I have to do some work tonight, so I’ll call you tomorrow or something. See how Elliott is doing.”

  James sagged against the guardrail, unable to do anything except watch his best friend walk away like a kicked puppy. And he’d done all the kicking, goddammit. He’d always been fine with lusting after Nathan from a distance, but he didn’t want Nathan to want him, and now Nathan was saying he did want him.

  Was Nathan gay? Bi? Gay for James and only James?

  Labels don’t matter. He says he wants you, you want him back, and you fucking pushed him away as if he was diseased. Good going, douche bag.

  “What the fuck is wrong with me?” he asked the open sky.

  Neither he nor the sky had an answer.

  Chapter Six

  Nate hadn’t planned on heading back to work after leaving the hospital, but being around his colleagues on a Saturday evening was better than going home alone and letting his new wound fester. He’d never expected to receive such a blistering wound from James, of all people, especially after laying it all on the line.

  Okay, maybe he hadn’t totally laid everything on the line, but he’d given James the bullet points. College moment that created feelings. Feelings he’d pushed aside and eventually learned how to ignore. Feelings that came crashing back Thursday night during a kiss that James had initiated. He’d verbalized things he hadn’t given conscious thought to in over a decade and what did James do?

  James had thrown it back in his face, very bluntly telling him they’d never be more than friends because James didn’t see him that way. Nate had embarrassed himself beyond belief, but at least the secret was out. They’d have to dance around it for a while, until Nate worked through his damned feelings and the kiss became something they joked about, instead of a lingering weirdness.

  He wanted to fast-forward to that time, like, now. He wanted those feelings to go the hell away.

  Life didn’t work that way, so he lost himself in case files, poring over evidence and notes until his eyes burned with fatigue. No breakthroughs, but he needed the distraction from the disaster he’d made of his personal life.

  Around eight, Officer Pfieffer appeared by his desk with an envelope in his hands. “Sorry to interrupt, Detective.”

  “It’s fine.” Nate yawned, then stretched his neck. “What can I do for you?”

  “Dr. Weston asked me to bring this up. She said you were waiting for it.”

  Nate perked up. “The report on Mitchell Spokes?”

  “Yes, sir.” He handed it off.

  “Thank you, I was waiting for this.” When Pfieffer didn’t leave, he added, “I’ll let you know if I need anything else.”

  “Oh, right. Good luck.”

  Pfieffer wandered off, and Nate resisted rolling his eyes. The young cop was taking the case personally, which suggested this was his first dead body. If he stayed on the force, it likely wouldn’t be his last.

  Nate ripped into the medical examiner’s report, searching for a few specific notes. Time of death between one and two o’clock Friday morning. Cause of death was verified as trauma to the brain, due to sharp object puncture to the ear. Shape of puncture was inconsistent, which ruled out a tube-shaped or round device. Wound was slightly ragged, too, which suggested a rough exterior.

  Ideas swirled in Nate’s brain, and he let the new information marinate there while he moved on.

  Bruises on wrists consistent with restraints. Too even to be fingers, too smooth for rope, so likely a soft material of some kind. Bruising on the kneecaps consistent with hard kneeling.

  Semen traces found in the mouth, stomach and anal cavity. No tearing or obvious injuries to the anus or genitals, but that didn’t necessarily rule out rape, considering how the guy ended up.

  Fingernail scrapings found nothing. No fingerprints or DNA on the body.

  The killer was careful and thorough.

  He pored over the other details of the report, memorizing the important things. By ten thirty and
with a lot of research on Google, he was pretty certain the murder weapon was a hand tool called a mini needle file. They came in a variety of lengths and shapes, some steel and some diamond coated. He printed out photos to show the coroner.

  Even if he was right, there was no real way to trace the purchase of the tool. They were sold in hobby shops, online, on eBay. Without a suspect, finding the weapon was next to impossible. He couldn’t very well interview every hobbyist in Wilmington and get their alibi for Thursday night.

  The shift change at eleven clued him in to how late it had gotten. Nate stared at the clock on the wall, waiting for fatigue to set in. Nothing. He was still wired, on edge, not ready to go home and give in to his swirling thoughts. He’d been accused of being a workaholic in the past, especially when a case unsettled him, but today had set a new personal record.

  He wasn’t going to learn anything new tonight, so he went home. The moment he walked in the front door, he made tracks for his bedroom closet. He didn’t own a large collection of clubbing clothes. Most of them he’d tossed after he passed thirty and realized he’d rather spend a rare night off staring at the television than bouncing around a dance floor. He didn’t know how James still had the energy.

  Nope. He was not thinking about James tonight. He wasn’t letting himself wonder if James was alone, or if he’d gone out. He definitely wasn’t thinking about that damned kiss.

  Except he was, damn it.

  A few things were still tucked in the back of his closet. Nate rummaged around until he found a pair of holey, too-tight jeans and a white T-shirt he’d accidentally shrunk in the wash and planned to cut up into dust rags.

  The outfit wasn’t bad, especially with his hair combed out and slicked back. His tiny bit of Nanticoke blood meant his beard grew incredibly slowly, and the four days’ worth of stubble lingering on his cheeks and chin was barely visible. The combination worked, though. He looked more like an aging rent boy than a cop.

  Time to head down to the working boys’ side of the city and see if anyone remembered a dead guy named Mitchell Spokes.

  Pot O Gold wasn’t the place James most wanted to go after lying to his best friend’s face, but it was there or sit home and stew. He wasn’t much for stewing. An overabundance of bad emotions had sent him out in search of some kind of physical release. Dancing would do for now, but he wouldn’t turn down a good offer for more. The problem, he realized the instant he walked into the thrumming bass of the club, was no one in that bar fit the bill.

  The person he most wanted to be with thought he wasn’t attracted to him.

  For the umpteenth time tonight, he cursed himself for a fucking fool.

  He slipped through the crowds, watching, sometimes dancing, sipping at one peach mojito. A few times, he swore that one of the bartenders was giving him dirty looks. He didn’t know Donner well—great ass, nice cock, more alpha than the black eyeliner he wore at the Pot let on—so he wasn’t sure why the guy had him on his shit list. They’d fucked once, ages ago, and James remembered them both having a pretty good time, so he chalked it up to indigestion and ignored him.

  He finished his beer and considered giving up for the night—until a flash of white-blond captured his attention. Ezra Kelley was bobbing through the crowd toward a booth, three drinks in his hands. He sat down with a pair of guys James had seen burning up the dance floor a few times, and whose names he’d never caught.

  Maybe he was too much of a chickenshit to tell his best friend the truth, but he could man up and apologize to Ezra.

  He waited until Ezra’s friends had cleared out of the booth, then eased his way over. Ezra looked up, surprise widening eyes that were currently a vividly fake green. He did seem to love his contact lenses.

  “Hey, sorry about the other night.” James had to lean in to be heard without shouting.

  “Forget it,” Ezra replied. The tension in his jaw betrayed his lack of sincerity.

  James didn’t deserve forgiveness, but he had to get this out. “No, seriously, Ezra. I drank too much and I should have asked before anything happened. I don’t usually do that kind of shit.”

  “You mean shove people up against walls?”

  His face got hot. I am a certified douche bag. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

  Ezra shrugged. “My fault too. I knew better.”

  Nothing about that night had been Ezra’s fault. “So we’re cool?”

  He hesitated. Nodded. “Yeah, we’re cool.”

  “Great.” James didn’t really feel his smile, and politeness required him to ask, “Buy you a drink?”

  “No thanks. I buy my own drinks.”

  “Right. See you around, then.”

  “Yeah.”

  He didn’t breathe normally again until he was on the other side of the room. His skin prickled with awareness, and damn it all, Donner had been glaring at him. He watched Donner’s attention shift toward Ezra’s booth. The expression changed. Became hotter. Expectant.

  Interesting.

  His phone buzzed with a text message.

  Boxer: Rusty Nail toasting Doug. Stop by if free.

  Nothing was shaking out for him at the Pot, so James texted back that he was on his way.

  The walk to his car in the brisk spring night woke him up after the sweaty heat of the club.

  Toasting Doug wasn’t actually high on his priorities list, considering what the dead bastard had done to Elliott. He was going in order to be with his friends.

  His phone buzzed again as he hit unlock on his key fob. An insistent buzz. Phone call.

  Kate Alden’s name lit up the screen. A social worker calling on a Saturday night meant bad news for a kid.

  Good thing I only had one drink.

  “Hey, Kate,” he said.

  “James, good, I’m glad you answered.” She was out of breath, not her usual collected self. Noise in the background suggested a public place.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Your friend Nathan’s here in the ER.”

  “What?” A chill spread from his heart throughout his chest, pressing hard. “What’s he doing in the ER? A case?” Nathan had a bad habit of working too much, so he could be in the hospital for a lot of reasons. It didn’t explain why Kate was calling him about it.

  “No, not a case. At least I don’t think so. I was at the nurse’s station conferring about a new assignment of mine when someone was brought in via ambulance. I didn’t get a good look at the guy’s face because of the bandages, but he’s about Nathan’s size with black hair, and when the on-call doc asked for a name, the EMT said Nathan Wolf. I mean, it might not be your Nathan but—”

  “How many black-haired Nathan Wolfs can live in Wilmington? Fuck.” Nathan brought in on a gurney. Nathan hurt. Bandages on his face. He yanked open his car door and all but fell inside. “What hospital?”

  “Saint Francis.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  James ended the call. His thumb hovered over the button to call Nathan because Nathan was his go-to when he was scared. But Nathan wasn’t going to answer his phone because he was in the fucking hospital, and James didn’t know why. He tossed his phone onto the passenger seat and stabbed his key into the ignition. The key missed and slipped, and he almost stabbed himself in the leg.

  Calm down, asshole.

  He inhaled a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. It did nothing to calm his racing heart or to steady his trembling hands. He got the key in, nearly clipped another car backing out of the jam-packed public lot, and drove back to the hospital he’d hoped to avoid for a while.

  Images of Doug, brain-dead and wasting away, flashed in his mind. Bile scorched the back of his throat. Nope. He couldn’t think like that. He had to stay positive. There were a thousand reasons for someone to be brought to the ER via ambulance.

  And very few of them were good reasons.

  Somehow he made it to the parking garage without a single accident or speeding ticket, and from there he ran. He’d been in and out of the ER eno
ugh times during his career that he didn’t have to hunt through the hallways for the right direction. Kate sprang from a chair in the waiting room, her skirt and blouse wrinkled, a worn leather briefcase clutched to her chest.

  “Have you heard anything?” he asked. “Why’s he here?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to ask yet,” Kate replied. “I just finished up with the case I was here for, and I had to make a phone call.”

  He made a beeline for the nurse at the check-in desk. “Was Nathan Wolf brought in a little while ago?” he asked.

  The nurse typed something into her computer. “Yes, he was brought in by ambulance.”

  “What room? He’s family.”

  “One moment.” She frowned, still typing. “He’s no longer in the ER.”

  “What? Was he released already?”

  “No, he was moved up to the surgical floor.”

  James grabbed the edge of the desk, his vision blurring. “Why?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t have that information. Do you know—?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Kate trailed him to the elevators, and once inside he stabbed the button for the fourth floor. He didn’t expect her to go with him. They didn’t have a personal relationship to speak of, and most of their conversations revolved around hurt and abused children. The support meant everything.

  He found the nurse’s station outside the surgical waiting room. Before he could accost one of the nurses, he heard his name.

  Detective Wallace Carey strode toward him. He didn’t know the silver-haired detective very well, but their paths had crossed a few times in the name of justice for children. He knew that Nathan respected the hell out of the senior detective. Jeans and a sweatshirt hinted that Carey hadn’t been on the clock when he got the call.

  “What happened to Nate?” James demanded, his patience stretched beyond his ability to be polite. He needed information right the hell now.

  “I don’t have a lot of details because I didn’t get the call,” Carey replied, “but I do know he was assaulted.”

  “What?” His insides curled up tight, squeezing the air out of him. Assaulted could mean a lot of things, all of them bad. “Where? Who did it?”