But the way he looked at me outside the men’s room that night—damn. I can still remember the blatant hunger in his eyes as we made eye contact. He made my body light up like fireworks. And I would have sworn he was feeling it too. He has to be at least bi.
That man is so tightly wired! I can’t imagine what it would be like to be on the receiving end of all that intensity. God, what I wouldn’t give to find out.
When I saw him that night at the bar, the Earth tilted beneath my feet. I know it sounds sappy as hell, but I felt it. My entire body vibrated with arousal.
I couldn’t figure him out that night, and I still can’t. The way he watched me tonight, his eyes roaming over my chest when I met him at the door in nothing but a towel. Of course, I did it on purpose. I wanted to see his reaction. And, wow, did I get a reaction! The way his eyes locked onto my body… he looked like he wanted to eat me alive. Damn! But I want more than just his gaze on me. I want those hands on me as well. And that sexy-as-sin mouth!
My thoughts turn to Eric, and I’m immediately flooded with guilt. He and I had grown apart the past few months as we saw less and less of each other. He’d gotten involved with someone who was into bondage and pain. I don’t mind a little rough sex, but no one is hog-tying me or sticking a ball gag in my mouth. No fucking way.
Tonight, I gave Tyler what he asked for: a list of the clubs Eric frequented, and when I think of a certain uptight homicide detective visiting those clubs, I can’t help smiling. I’d give anything to see the look on Detective Jamison’s face when he visits the more flamboyant clubs.
I scroll through my Instagram feed and watch some YouTube. Then, still feeling desperately horny, I jack off one more time, with Tyler’s face plastered across my mind. I imagine him here with me, in my bed. I imagine his hands on me, strong and fierce. Controlling. His mouth on me, his tongue teasing my nipple piercings. His cock sliding in deep. Fuck! Pushing, pounding into me, grazing my prostate, making my nerves sing. More pounding, deep inside, hard, harder! My back arches off the mattress, and I let out a strangled cry as my climax rushes through me.
Finally, after I’ve milked the last little bit of pleasure, I’m left shaking.
* * *
After showering and dressing the next morning, I make coffee and slather a toasted bagel with strawberry cream cheese. I’ve been under house arrest essentially for twenty-four hours now, and I’m ready to climb the walls. I cannot handle being cooped up.
I used to drive my parents crazy sneaking out of my bedroom at night. They’d find me sleeping on a sofa or crashed out on the floor of my baby sister’s room.
The best I can do right now is take my breakfast up to the roof of my townhouse and sit in the greenhouse so I can watch the boats skimming across Lake Michigan. I bought this townhouse because of its proximity to the lake. The lake is one of my escapes—my happy place. And the view from my rooftop is priceless.
I’ve always loved the water. My parents would take me out on their yacht, and I felt like Peter Pan and Tinker Bell rolled into one. I’d climb up to the highest point on the boat—up above the cockpit—and pretend I was a pirate. It was mind-blowing adventure on the open water. The perfect antidote for a kid with severe claustrophobia.
When I turned twenty-two, I bought my own yacht—the smallest one I could manage to operate on my own. When I’m on my boat, with the wind in my face and the sun on my skin, I’m free. I’m able to leave the shadows and the darkness of my past behind. No one’s ever locking me up again.
Up in my greenhouse, reclining on an old futon sofa and surrounded by lush ferns and potted trees, I make my daily phone call to my sister, Layla. My sister and I are tight. Maybe it’s because we’re both adopted, or maybe it’s because we both have issues and got rough starts in life.
I remember the day my parents brought her home. I remember staring at a baby with jet black hair and exotic dark eyes. She looked like a princess. Her birth parents, both teenagers in high school, relinquished their parental rights when she was diagnosed with juvenile diabetes. Layla was labeled ‘medically fragile,’ and her teenaged parents were ill-equipped to meet her needs.
It wasn’t until recently, when she hit twenty, that Layla’s mental health issues began to surface. She can be a challenge, but God I love her.
Now my sister is twenty-one and currently enrolled at University of Chicago, majoring in psychology. She has a full-time bodyguard, who is an asshole as far as I’m concerned. My parents have been reluctant to replace him as Layla doesn’t handle change well. If it was up to me, I’d have already fired him.
Layla and I are as close as any two siblings can be, probably because we have so much in common. We both came from bad situations, both of us abandoned by birth parents who were unable to care for us. I give the Alexanders a lot of credit for loving us no matter what. They helped make us into the people we are today.
“How’s it going, sis?” I ask her when she answers my call.
She turns down the music in the background. “Hey, Ian! I’m good. How’re you?”
“Peachy.” I’m not about to tell her about Eric’s murder or the police guarding my townhouse. She has enough to worry about without me adding to it. I know my parents won’t tell her. “How’s school?”
She sighs. “Final exams are coming up and then, thank God, it’s summer break.”
She tells me about her classes and the guy in her English lit class she likes. Then she tells me she has to get ready to leave for class. Before hanging up, I promise I’ll come by for a visit. I’d offer to take her out for lunch, but I can’t make any promises until this murder investigation is over. I won’t do anything to put my sister in danger.
We hang up, and I go back to staring longingly at the boats on the lake, wishing I was out there instead of in here. I head back downstairs to my work-out room on the lower level to run a few miles.
By now, my measly breakfast has worn off, and I’m sweaty and hungry. After a quick shower and some lunch, I watch a movie on the big screen TV in the living room, and then I surf the Internet for a while, just killing time until the sun sets.
Just knowing I’m house bound sets me on edge. It brings back bad memories that I’ve worked hard to bury. My dad calls me, just to say hi, but I wonder if there’s more to his call than that. I suspect he’s checking up on me, just making sure I’m doing okay.
Finally, when the sun has set, I head down to the basement and slip out of the house through an old access tunnel that leads underground to the carriage house in back, which serves as my garage. From there, it’s a piece of cake to slip through the back gate and down the alley, leaving my police protection detail none the wiser.
I hoof it over to Rush Street, where I hail a cab and head for Boystown. It’s here that Eric most often frequented gay clubs. Maybe I can ask around, find out who he was spending time with. I’m not about to sit home and do nothing when I can do something to help.
I’ll have a much better chance of finding out who might have wanted to hurt Eric than Tyler. He’d probably get hives just from stepping foot inside one of these clubs.
* * *
The taxi drops me off right in front of Diablo’s, one of the most popular gay clubs in the village. I go to the end of the line and wait my turn like a good little boy. If Bruno, the bouncer, saw me, he’d let me go right in. But I’m not looking for special treatment, and I don’t mind waiting.