Shit. I should have taken the woman up on her offer. At least she would have given me something else to think about tonight. Something else to focus on.
As soon as I get home, I strip off my suit and tie and hit the shower. My body is a live wire, charged, crackling with electricity. I need a release. I need something, anything to redirect my thoughts.
I lean into the cold tile wall and attempt to shut off my brain as I jerk myself off. My fist is relentless, as brutal as it is unforgiving. Punishing.
I stroke myself roughly, my grip firm, and try desperately to empty my mind. Before long, my balls draw up tight, and I feel the fire of an impending climax searing my spine. My mouth falls open as air billows in and out of my lungs.
Just as I’m about to come, I picture a stranger with green eyes and a lean, muscular body. Fuck! With a hoarse cry, I shoot my load into the spray of water, gritting my teeth as my body bucks hard into my orgasm.
Damn it! I sure as hell didn’t want to envision him.
No fucking way. It just can’t happen.
* * *
My phone rings at three in the morning. That’s nothing unusual for me. Chicago never sleeps, and if you’re going to kill someone, the middle of the night is a good time to do it. Murderers never take holidays, which means neither do I.
Blinking away sleep, I reach for my phone on the top of my nightstand and check the caller ID. “Jamison,” I say, my voice little more than a hoarse rasp. I maybe got three hours of sleep. I clear my throat. “Sorry, Captain. Go ahead.”
Captain Walker’s voice is clipped, matter-of-fact. “You’re needed down at the St. James Yacht Club, slip 43. Someone called in a dead body on a yacht. Uniforms are already on scene, and I’ve dispatched a forensics team.”
“Homicide?” It must be, or the captain wouldn’t be calling me. I sit up and swing my bare feet to the floor.
“Yes. And Tyler?”
“Yeah?”
“Heads up. The victim was strangled with a garrotte.”
“Shit.” That’s not what I want to hear. It’ll be the third such case in two weeks. Already I’m reaching for my trousers. “I’m on my way.”
Chapter 2
Ian Alexander, voluntarily unemployed
The cops are nice enough to give me a moment while I puke my guts into Lake Michigan. I’ve seen some pretty bad shit in my life, but never anything remotely like what I just saw.
A dead man, his throat sliced nearly clean through.
All that blood and such a horrific, gaping wound. I shudder. Poor Eric. Who could do something like that to a fellow human being? Who could hate another human being so much? Who could hate Eric? He and I both are used to dealing with haters, it comes with the territory, but this?
The officers talk quietly as I collect myself, wiping my mouth on the hem of my t-shirt. They’re waiting for a homicide detective to show up and take charge of the crime scene. I hear one of them mention a garrotte. Jesus! The killer must have used a wire for it to cut that deeply into Eric’s throat. If it was a wire, it means someone brought it onto the boat with him. And that means it was premeditated.
Who in the hell would want to kill Eric? He’s a harmless flamer. Promiscuous, yes, but harmless. And he’s my friend. Or, he was.
I’m shaking, but I don’t think it’s from the chilly late-night air. I think I’m in shock. Fuck. I sit down hard on a wooden crate, before I keel over, and lower my head between my knees, hoping that will help with the nausea.
One of the officers takes pity on me. “Slow down your breathing, buddy. Take deep breaths, or you’ll hyperventilate.”
At least I’m still breathing. I can’t say the same for poor Eric.
I can’t get the image of his dark, lifeless eyes out of my head. The shocked grimace on his face. Whoever did this overpowered him. Eric’s wiry and strong for his size, but it looks like he didn’t even get a chance to fight back.
It’s a quarter ’til four in the morning, and the night sky is pitch black. The only ambient light comes from the lamp posts spaced strategically along the pier. It’s eerily quiet this time of night—or rather this early in the morning. The dock rocks gently in the water as the waves slap against the boats’ hulls. The air is tainted with the faint stench of rotting vegetation and dead fish.
Off in the distance, a siren shatters the quiet.
My yacht, Carpe Diem, is moored right next to Eric’s on a dock that juts out perpendicular from the pier, at least fifty yards from shore. My boat rocks gently beside Eric’s, undulating in the dark, murky water.
My friend is dead.
Hanging my head, I fight against the nausea that just won’t let up. Shit, I feel numb.
“Here he comes,” says one of the officers.
“Thank God,” I mutter. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner I can escape to my boat and get drunk.
I hear his footsteps long before I see him. His heels strike the wooden boards, sharp and precise, as he approaches.
“Is this the guy who found the body?” says a male voice, deep and authoritative.
“Yes, sir,” an officer says. “His name’s Ian Alexander. His boat is moored next to the victim’s. He found the body about an hour ago.”
I find myself staring down at a pair of perfectly polished black loafers. I look up, and… damn! My heart slams into my chest. It’s him. It’s the guy from the bar earlier this evening. He’s looking a little worse for wear at the moment, his black hair tousled, as if they got him out of bed for this. He must have finger-combed it on his way over here.
He’s wearing the same black suit he had on earlier tonight, with a wrinkled white shirt and a black tie. There are faint shadows beneath his startling blue-green eyes. Even as rough as he looks, he still takes my breath away.
I see a momentary flash of awareness when we finally make eye contact. He looks away for a second, scrubbing his hand roughly across his trim, black beard. But just as quickly as it came, the moment passes, and he’s all business as he pulls a black leather wallet out of his jacket pocket and shows me a very shiny, very official looking badge.
This is surreal. I can’t believe it’s the same guy. “You’re a homicide detective,” I say. It’s not a question.
He nods. “Homicide Detective Tyler Jamison, Chicago PD.”
I laugh. “So, you drew the short straw.”
He ignores me as he pockets his badge. “Don’t go anywhere, Mr. Alexander,” he says. “After I see the body, I’ll need to ask you some questions.”
My pulse flutters as I nod. Hell, he can ask me all the questions he wants.
And then he walks away, his stride purposeful and strong, and all I can do is stare after him.
Once the detective disappears inside Eric’s boat, where the forensics team is already at work, I turn to the officers keeping me company. Honestly, I’m not sure if they’re guarding me or containing me. “Can I go sit on my boat?” I point to mine just a few yards away. “I’m about to fall over.”
Taking pity on me, one officer nods. “I’ll have to go with you, but sure.”
“Thanks.”
Officer Swanson, according to his name tag, follows me onto my boat. He steps onto the swim platform, right behind me, and we climb the few steps to the main deck.