Page 37 of Dead Serious: Case 3 Mr Bruce Reyes
I watch as Sam slides back out of his chair and disappears through the doorway. Once he’s gone, Tris flops down into the chair next to me and, with a tired sigh, lays his head on my shoulder.
“You should be resting,” I say softly as I lay a kiss on his very wet and very curly mop of hair.
“Tell that to everyone else,” he mumbles. Ignoring the painful pull of my ribs, I wrap my arms around him, and a long sigh of contentment escapes his lips. “It’s like bloody Piccadilly Circus in here these days.”
I chuckle as I reach up and massage his neck gently. “You know, when this is all over and I get this cast off my leg, why don’t we go away for the weekend, anywhere you like, just the two of us?”
He groans loudly. “That sounds like absolute heaven.” He lets out another soft sigh as my fingers continue to rub along the back of his neck. “When did our lives get so weird?”
I huff in amusement. “Trust me, I’ve been asking the same question for days.”
“I think I’ll make myself a cup of tea and change into some dry clothes.” He lifts his head to look at me. “Do you want a coffee?”
“Let me get it, love. You go and get changed.” I shift my leg from where it’s propped up on the other chair and can’t help the hiss of pain that escapes.
“Don’t you dare move,” Tris admonishes. “You’re supposed to be resting that leg. I’ll get it.”
He leans forward to press a kiss to my lips, and I can’t help sliding my hand along his jaw to grip the back of his head gently and tilt it so our lips fit perfectly. He opens his mouth and I slide my tongue inside to rub against his. His kisses are so addictive—all warmth, contentment, and love, with a low hum of arousal. It’s been days since I’ve been inside him thanks to my accident and his flu, and I’m craving him in a way that defies words.
He moans and presses closer, curling his damp arms around my neck, and I can tell that, even wrapped up in our kiss, he’s being extra careful with me so as not to pull on my sore ribs too much.
I wish I could just tug him into my lap, strip him down, and fill my hands with his soft, warm skin. I want to cup that peachy bum of his and hold him close until he’s grinding against me, warm and flushed and desperate for me as I am for him.
“For Christ’s sake, you two,” a familiar voice interrupts and I pull back from Tristan to see Chan standing in front of us with an amused expression. “Hey, Sam, get back in here. There’s a live sex show about to start.”
I look across to see Sam’s head pop into the kitchen doorway. “What’d I miss?” he asks, looking first at Chan, then at me and Tris.
“Nothing.” I glare grumpily. “All I want is two minutes of privacy with my boyfriend. Is that too much to ask?”
“Yes, it is.” Chan grins. “Sorry, lovebirds, but we’ve got too much to do for you both to sit here groping each other.”
“Promise me,” Tristan mutters against my mouth before pecking a sweet kiss to my swollen lips, “that we’ll make sure our weekend is far, far away from all of them.”
“It’s a promise,” I sigh, my eyes narrowing on Chan.
It’s clearly not one of his drag days. I think it’s the first time I’ve seen him with no makeup on that I can tell. He’s wearing bright red-and-white checked loafers and super skinny jeans artfully ripped in tasteful places and so tight they look like they’ve been painted on. The dark grey t-shirt under his pinstripe blazer sports a picture of Dolly Parton and a slogan that readsIt takes a lot of money to look this cheap. In fact, the only marginally fem thing about him is the oversized Michael Kors bag hooked over his forearm.
Last time I saw him like this was Mrs Abernathy’s funeral and Tris had told me he was having a bad day. In the other hand, he grips several flat-packed moving boxes which he leans up against the cupboard.
“You’ll have to let these dry. They got rained on, didn’t fit under the umbrella,” Chan says briskly. “Harrison had to work today, but I thought I could help you get started on packing up any nonessential things in the flat.”
“Are you okay, Chan?” Tristan asks before I can.
“Yes, why?” He flicks his hair over his shoulder.
“It’s just,” he replies warily. “Um… I mean, last time you were looking so casual and wearing flats, Dusty said it was because you were really upset.”
“Oh, you sweet boy,” he coos at him. “I’m quite alright, thank you, but like I said I’m here to get you organised and start packing up your flat. Dresses and heels are not the appropriate attire. I don’t actually identify as a girl more genderfluid. I’m just in drag more often than not, plus I like fem things.”
That explains it, I think, and nod silently.
Chan purses his lips as he rummages in his bag. “Although you’ve still got a month left to go on your lease, the quicker we can get you out of this leaky hovel the better. All this dampness is not conducive to a quick recovery. Honestly, Tris, honey, every time you cough it sounds like you’re going to lose a lung.”
“Charming,” Tris replies, his voice faint.
“You know, the strangest thing happened to me this morning.” Chan pulls out a small compact and a tube of lip balm that sayssexy mother puckeron it. “I got up this morning and the entrance to my flat was covered in all these strange black blobs. They looked like really big bits of confetti, but when I got closer, I saw they were rose petals. Black ones.” He flips open the compact to access the mirror, then runs the balm over his lips. Once done, he blows himself a kiss and clicks the compact closed. “I didn’t think you could get black roses. Anyway, they were all over my doormat. Someone must have stuffed a load of them through the letterbox, I guess. It’s such an odd way to prank someone, isn’t it?” His brow furrows slightly as he tucks the compact and lip balm back into that large bag.
“Why would someone do that?” Tristan stares at Chan, completely bemused.