Dan Sharp Mysteries 4-Book Bundle (10 page)

“What?” Bill's mouth was agape. “You mean your sperm has fathered a child?”

“That's right.”

“A real live daddy? Now I
really
want you inside me!” Bill exclaimed, gripping Dan's erection.

Dan slapped the hand aside and unpeeled the condom over his cock. “If you want this to happen, you'd better behave. And I need extra large next time.”

Bill gasped as Dan wedged himself in with no niceties. “Oh, yeah!” he exclaimed. “You wonderful beast!”

It was over the top, but at least Bill hadn't made him feel like a mercy fuck for being the victim of a radiation leak, the way others had. The sex always went fine, but usually that was the end of it. Dan could tell by the looks on their faces. The more satisfied they were during, the sooner they hoped he'd pack up and leave afterwards. Somehow, covering up his prizefighter's body always brought attention back to that face.

It's not that it was ugly, and it's not that it wasn't. In school, Dan had been taunted by the other kids. A cruel scrawl on a washroom wall claimed he'd been the victim of a nuclear attack, conjuring images of holocausts and radiation mutation. He had a brooding quality, an intensity that scared people. The eyes were what held you — grey-blue, ghostly. Like they'd seen too much. There were fine features — the broad cheekbones, sharp brow, and long lashes — but the overall effect didn't add up to a pretty picture. The broken nose and red scallop racing from his right cheek up to his eye told part of the story. It begged wariness on the viewer's part. So did the rough skin that bore the traces of a memorable battle with acne, the permanent outline of a beard and the jaw that was rugged at one angle but menacing at another. It was the face of a man you might enjoy being roughed up by — a well-aimed slap, a welt or two — and then escape before one or both of you took the fantasy too far. It was a face you might expect to see inset in the tabloid coverage of sex crimes, with an earnest police report warning area residents to lock their doors at night and to be on the lookout for any suspicious activity. It was a face your mother would tell you to stay away from.

Bill's mother must have been an exception.

Dan sat up and reached for his jeans. Bill lay against the pillows, running a hand over his belly. “Where are you going?”

“Home,” Dan said without looking over. “It's late. I'll let you get some rest.”

“Oh no, you're not!” Bill rolled over, wrapping his arms around Dan, his fingers toying with the cum-smeared, sweat-matted hair on his chest. “More, please,” he whispered, pulling Dan's face down for a kiss that was unexpectedly genuine.

Even more unexpectedly, Dan stayed.

Dan woke to a still house. He was sprawled in the living room chair next to the fireplace, his feet extended, an empty tumbler on the floor beside him. He dragged his tongue across his teeth and felt the resinous coating. He stumbled to the kitchen for a drink of water. It was five thirty. Ralph lay in the corner on his bed, a paw tucked over his eyes.

Ked's shoes were on the front mat. Obviously he'd returned at some point and gone off to bed without waking him. On the way back to the living room Dan saw the red flash.

“Hey, lover boy! Guess I missed you.” There were party noises in the background. “We'll figure out the driving thing, don't worry. I'll call you at work tomorrow.”

The time on the message was 4:43. It was Donny who'd suggested that Bill's almost inhuman ability to go without sleep was pharmaceutically related. Dan had never seen any trace of it other than the drugs Bill preferred to beer at parties, but it would be easy for a doctor to disguise such things.

The message ended. Dan stood and waited, as if expecting more. Ralph raised his head and whimpered a question. Dan played the tape a second time then pressed
erase
. He waited while the machine made its satisfied clicking noises as it ate up the recording before continuing up to bed.

They were surrounded by mist. The monochromatic outline of trees and barns drifted by like ghosts on either side of the road. Rain had dogged them all the way from Toronto, only now giving way to something finer, a damp chill that got right inside their clothing. Passing cars fanned plumy sprays across the windshield, making the wipers do double time.

“How much farther?” Bill said, staring out at the passing landscape.

“Not much.”

They were in Bill's car. Dan drove, despite a hangover. He'd barely made it through the morning at work. When Bill arrived to pick him up, he tossed his canvas bag into the trunk alongside Bill's leather ones, climbed into the driver's seat, and headed for the Don Valley Parkway. An hour out of Toronto, they left the 401 to join the stretch of coastal highway running south through Hillier and Bloomfield and on to Picton. The mist thinned momentarily as a forlorn strip of trees appeared on their right, water in front and behind it like a film backdrop, one-dimensional, floating in the middle of a never-ending lake.

“This is boring,” Bill declared. “Where are we?”

“We're in Prince Edward County on the Loyalist Parkway,” Dan said. “It's a considerable bit of Canadian history.”

“Do people actually live out here?”

Dan glanced over. “Not everyone wants to live in Forest Hill.”

Bill was looking worn. He had the beginnings of a bald patch, shadows beneath his eyes, and a paunch he self-consciously sucked in. Still, he had an undeniable charm, like a jock dad gone to seed. Despite his impatience and shifting moods, there was a boyish eagerness about him that held Dan. Even Bill's casual cruelties — like when he ignored Dan's calls for days — only sank the hook in deeper.

Other than an ecstasy habit and a fondness for dancing in dimly lit after-hours clubs, there was nothing noticeably gay about Bill. Dan suspected he was making up for a missed adolescence. He seemed overly fond of the kind of clubs where you climbed into darkened rooms via fire escapes or sat on rooftops while thrash music blared and incomprehensible films were projected on the walls of neighbouring buildings. Once, he brought them to a party that got shut down by axe-wielding police as guests escaped down back alleys or onto neighbouring balconies. Another had featured a live sex show. Dan watched as a black substance was poured over the participants, becoming more and more of an adherent as the bodies, both male and female, grappled and copulated in various permutations on a makeshift stage. Still, it was nothing as artful as a good porn flick, Dan thought as he went off to get a beer.

Bill twiddled with the FM dial as the mist closed over the shoreline again. Sounds faded in and out, white noise, the burps and farts of radio emissions. A ragged voice shot through for a second then disappeared in a snarl of static.

“Hey — that's Shaggy!” Bill exclaimed. “I love Shaggy.” His hands twisted frantically. “Gone,” he announced mournfully, as though Shaggy had vanished forever.

“We'll find you another one,” Dan said. “You want Shaggy, we'll get you Shaggy.”

“I love all kinds of music,” Bill said in a proprietary way.

Bill was proprietary about many things. His taste in clothes always seemed an advertisement for the latest trends, coming straight out of one catalogue or another — J.Crew, Harley-Davidson, Hugo Boss. He always had the newest CDs and DVDs. Style filled his cupboards — he could well afford it. It was Donny who'd pointed out Bill's pretensions as they left his rooftop patio one evening after a catered meal and some pricey wine shared by a gathering of Bill's overly loud, fawning friends.

“Ghetto fags,” Donny sniffed. “I've never seen them north of Bloor before.”

He was working out an irritation. There'd be no stopping him till he was done.

“Nice place, though,” Dan said.

“That man thinks he invented ‘cool,'” Donny said. “Did you catch the reference to ‘Coal Train'?”

Dan shook his head.

Donny rocked with barely suppressed laughter. “When Roger asked what music was playing, Bill said it was ‘Coal Train' by the Africa Brass.” Donny looked at him. “Ring any bells?”

“Not really.” Dan shook his head. “Wait! Not John Coltrane? Surely not!”

Donny rolled his eyes and laughed. “Yes! It was Coltrane's
Africa Brass Sessions
. He hadn't a clue what it was. The pretentious twat!”

“Hey! That's not fair — Bill's a brilliant surgeon. He can't know everything.”

Donny made a face. “Oh, right! Excuse me whilst I slag your current
amour
, since you don't have the good sense to do it yourself.”

At the time, Dan hadn't expected Bill to last beyond the summer, but here they were a year later driving Bill's car along the Loyalist Parkway. Picton swept past, a colonial town in miniature. Ten minutes later the highway came to an end, turning abruptly down to the Bay of Quinte. Apart from the brewery and a former gristmill that housed the current Ministry of Natural Resources, there was little to see.

“What's this place?” Bill grumbled.

“This is the Glenora ferry crossing. John A. Macdonald used to live here.”

“Who?”

“Our first prime minister? Sir John A. Macdonald?”

“Oh, him.” Bill grunted.

“You know, sometimes you worry me,” Dan said.

“I'm distracted,” Bill snarled. “I didn't sleep much.”

Dan reached over and squeezed his knee. “I was kidding. Don't worry.”

“I work hard, you know,” Bill said petulantly. “Thom better have champagne waiting for us when we get there.”

They joined the line of vehicles waiting to be transported across the tenuous link connecting the two counties. Bill craned his head to make out the far shore. It was draped in fog. “This place is eerie.”

“But beautiful,” Dan said. “I like the feeling of isolation….”

“I don't. It creeps me out. I don't like to be this far from the city.”

Dan cocked an eyebrow at him. “Aren't you the one who always wants to go camping?”

Bill snorted. “Sure — as long as I get to sleep in a five-star hotel.”

The line-up advanced, braking and inching forward again in little shimmy movements. The gate swung closed on a full load and the boat surged into the bay. Fifteen minutes later they rolled onto the opposite shore. The fog was denser, hanging in soft folds in the trees. Dan drove slowly, alert for road signs and wary of oncoming cars shooting out of the grey gauze in an anxious rush to catch the return ferry. He skidded past the arrow pointing down a country road, then reversed and headed for the north shore.

The house was visible from a distance where it sat framed by pines. Once the mist cleared, it promised a breathtaking view of the bay. A whimsical third-floor tower with curved glass windows and a wrap-around porch softened the otherwise sober exterior. Red creeper curled over grey stone. Flowerbeds surrounded the drive in fizzy, mist-muted bands of yellow and a late-season patch of bright azure blue. Dan turned up the cobblestone half-circle. The house seemed to be watching them. Its windows winked in and out of the fog.

“Leave the car here,” Bill commanded, craning his head to look at the upper stories.

“I can't leave it in the middle of the driveway.”

“Don't worry about it. Park it over there, then.” He waved to the side.

Dan hefted their bags from the trunk and turned to find Bill staring at him. “What? Am I dressed wrong for this set?” he joked, glancing down at his plaid jacket, navy T and khaki pants.

“Thom's going to love you,” Bill said apprehensively.

“What? How do you mean?”

Bill gave him a pained look. “I know Thom's type. And you're essentially it. I just hope he doesn't try to steal you from me.”

Dan made a face. “I thought he was getting married this weekend.”

“That wouldn't stop Thom.”

“Well, I'll stop him if he tries. I'm here with you.”

“You don't know Thom,” Bill said. “Besides, the rich make their own rules.”

“You're rich, aren't you?”

“Not that rich.”

A knocker resounded deep inside, as though the house went on for miles. After a few seconds, Bill grabbed the handle. The door opened onto a panelled foyer bright with flowers. A note awaited them on the hall table.

Welcome Billy and Daniel!

Your love nest is the first room on the left up the stairs. Make yourselves at home. (Food, drink, pool boys, etc.)

Seb and I will be back around 2.

XO Thom.

It was well past two now. Dan followed Bill up the stairs. Their room had an en suite bath and a fireplace. He set their bags down and looked around. A bay window overlooked a green swath that disappeared in mist before it reached the water. Dan walked over to the mantle and picked up a framed photo of a young man in a rowing scull. Big smile, bigger arms. The blond, blue-eyed looks of a matinee idol. Pretty enough for daytime soaps, though possibly not serious enough for prime time.

“That's Thom,” Bill said, almost reluctantly.

“He's rich
and
good looking?” Dan exclaimed. “How unfair!”

“He was an Olympic rower the year the team won a silver medal. Thom's got it all,” Bill said with what sounded like disdain. “In fact, he's even better looking in person.”

Dan thought it over. It wasn't disdain; it was resentment. He heard it clearly now.

Bill pulled a rose from a bud vase, sniffed it, then laid it aside on the runner. “Come on,” he said, turning. “I want a shower.”

In the bathroom, Bill yanked at Dan's T-shirt, then left off to unzip his fly. Fingers snaked inside his pants. “You have the most perfect cock.”

Dan slipped off his trousers and stepped into the shower. Bill knelt and looked up at him through the stream. “Who am I?” he demanded.

“You're a dirty little hitchhiker I picked up on the Trans-Canada,” Dan said. This was Bill's game, though for the most part Dan went along with it. “Who am I?”

“You're a big sweaty trucker and you're taking me to a place off the highway to make me suck your big dick.”

Dan ran a hand through Bill's hair.

“Oh yeah!” Bill exclaimed. “Hit me … slap me around.”

Dan tapped Bill gently on the cheek.

“Harder!”

Dan gave his hair a tug. “I told you — I don't mind make-believe, but I won't hit you for real.”

Bill leered up through the pouring water. “What if I deserve it?”

“Then you'll have to find someone else to give you what you deserve.”

“What if I told you I already have?”

Dan felt himself stiffen.

“You like the thought of someone else fucking me, don't you? It turns you on.”

“Shut up,” Dan said.

“Yeah! Call me names. Tell me what to do!”

Dan thrust until he heard Bill gag. He felt slightly used, the unwilling participant in a porn video aware the camera is on him but closing his eyes and thinking of the money he needs to buy medication for his infant son.

Bill milked him until he stopped throbbing. “Sweet! You are so fucking hot!”

“And you are a very bad doctor,” Dan said. He towelled off and returned to the bedroom to dress.

Bill followed him. “Got you going there, didn't I? It gets you hot to think about me getting off with other guys, doesn't it?”

“Does it?” Dan said, adjusting his shirt.

Bill stood beside him. He turned and regarded his reflection with a frown. “I'm getting fat.”

Dan wrapped his arms around Bill from behind. “More to love?”

Bill reached behind, impatiently tugging at Dan's zipper again. “More,” he commanded.

“Later,” Dan said, doing up his fly. “We have to be downstairs to meet your friends” — he checked his watch — “forty minutes ago.”

Bill made a disapproving face. “Friend,” he corrected. “I've never even met this other guy.” He stood. “All right, then. Mr. and Mrs. Thom Killingworth await.”

A picture window gave way onto an unbroken view of the harbour. Idyllic, grand. For a moment, the sun broke through the clouds like a promise of better things to come. The light reflecting on the waves lent the room a solemn stillness, mysterious and exotic, like something hidden in plain view, all the more startling when you finally notice it.

Bill looked around the empty room and shrugged. “Told you,” he said. “There was plenty of time. We could have done it again.”

Oil paintings hugged the walls. Even someone unversed in art would know it for a serious collection. The intricate filigrees and whorls of the frames spoke of cultured tastes and leisurely times when the art of woodcarving was a commonplace but necessary attribute. Still lifes predominated — apples and pears in bowls, flowers in vases, slabs of butter, and loaves of bread on tables. There were also landscapes — glowering forests, rugged mountains, stormy lakes, and open-throated skies — in cartoon-dreamy colours. There were no portraits. Impressionism favoured the inanimate.

“Thom's a collector,” Bill said, looking them over as though considering a purchase. “What do you think this room is worth?”

Dan glanced over the walls. “I have no idea. I don't know much about art, except that it's usually bought by rich collectors for a lot of money after the artists are dead.”

He recalled the impressive jade tiger dominating Bill's living room. On their second date, Bill had tossed a silk shirt over it as though it were a hitching post. The garment sizzled and slipped to the floor. Bill had left it lying there as he went for Dan's belt.

“Do you know anything about Canadian Impressionism?” Bill asked.

“Not really.”

“That's what this is. It's pretty pricey stuff. I'd say this room is worth at least three or four million.”