Page 16 of The Sin Eater (Carnival of Mysteries #27)

Damon

D ick’s and dancing,” Ezra says.

“Yes, please.”

“Ha ha. I asked what you meant.”

He gives a sly little laugh. “It’s early enough to get a Dick’s burger and then go dancing.”

“I’m not really dressed for dancing.” Gay men in a nightclub have higher standards than your average Seattle crowd, and I’m in jeans and a hoodie.

Shifting in his seat, he gives me a bold once-over. “Your body is hot enough that nobody’s gonna worry about what you’re wearing.”

Talk about hot. My cheeks might just turn to flame. “Um... thanks?”

“You have got to know how good you look, Big D. I wouldn’t have come all the way out here to a damn carnival... “ His voice trails off, his expression closing down.

“It had its moments,” I say before things can get too awkward.

He settles back in his seat. “Sure did.”

Part of me wants to ask something that’ll help me figure out what the hell happened back there. Common sense, or something like it, says I should leave well enough alone. For now. The rain is coming down hard and there’s enough traffic on the freeway that I have an excuse for keeping quiet.

But geez, figuring out what the hell just happened seems to be a recurring theme with Ezra. It’s hard not to want to be that guy , the one who pries. It’d be so much easier if he’d just tell me what’s going on.

It’s not even seven o’clock, and, if we were to go to Dick’s Drive-In, we’d be done by eight. “That’s too early to go to a club.”

Ezra jumps like I’ve poked him. “What?”

“Your plan. Dick’s and dancing. We’d get to a club by like eight, which is too early.”

He chews on his bottom lip for a minute, his expression getting saucy. “Then you’re going to have to come up with another way for me to blow off some steam.”

A car in the lane to my left chooses that moment to send a cascade of water over my windshield, which is a problem because my dick is totally on board with Ezra’s plan. I manage to both keep us in our lane and control my breathing. “Got any ideas?”

“My apartment.” He pulls out his phone. “What are you hungry for?”

You . “Uh, a burger is fine.”

“I got this.”

He swipes the screen, mumbling to himself. We’re almost to the Seattle side of the 520 bridge when he announces that DoorDash will be bringing us dinner in twenty-seven minutes.

“Then you better give me the address.”

We manage to beat DoorDash by five minutes or so.

His apartment is in an older building, one I’ve walked past many times.

It’s brick, though the ornate white plaster trim framing the main entrance continues all the way to the top floor.

There’s an awning over the front door, so we’re out of the rain while Ezra fights with the lock. He wins and we get in.

The place smells old, a mix of must and lemon cleaner. We jog up the carpeted stairs, and Ezra has another debate with his front door.

“You need to get new keys,” I murmur. Or better technique . He ignores me.

He lets us into a space I never would have expected.

It’s a standard vintage apartment, one big room with two double-hung windows and a set of glass French doors that likely lead to the kitchen.

The whole place is a blur of color and fabric and the furnishings—a small sofa, a rocking chair, and a wooden table with two chairs—are all antiques.

A quilt is draped over the back of the sofa, small squares in shades of blue arranged in waves, with a heavy, deep purple blanket thrown over the rocking chair.

The two windows are framed with long drapes that pool on the floor, tied back with golden ropes.

At first, I just stand there, taking it all in. Framed art covers the walls, a reproduction Monet crammed between a Warhol and some anonymous Renaissance masterpiece, and fabric has been draped drape across the corners. “Wow,” I say, and then immediately regret it when Ezra starts to laugh.

“What?” I give him my best don’t mess with me scowl.

“Your face.”

“Sorry about that. I thought Dorinda was into decorating. She could take lessons from you.”

He slips off his puffy coat, revealing a tight black turtleneck that shows off his biceps and pecs. “Who’s Dorinda and why would she want to learn anything from me?”

“She’s my sister and I’m always giving her shit for getting fancy at our place, but damn. We’re pretty dull compared to this.”

“Yeah, well, it’s just me so I can do whatever I want.” He holds out his hand. “Give me your coat.”

I unzip my winter jacket and shrug out of it.

My hoodie leaves a lot more to the imagination than Ezra’s turtleneck, but my jeans fit well, I will say that.

His phone chirps and he nudges me with his elbow.

“That’ll be DoorDash. If you could grab a couple beers out of the fridge, I’ll go meet the driver. ”

I do as I’m told. The kitchen is barely large enough to hold the legal minimum for appliances; the rack of drying dishes near the sink makes it clear there’s no dishwasher.

The fridge is not quite as tall as I am and it’s surprisingly clean.

Okay, there’s not much in it besides beer.

There’s also no rotting to-go boxes or year-old vegetables, either.

Scanning the matching hand towels and copper jars holding flour and sugar it’s clear I didn’t expect all of this.

Yeah, I do know what I expected. Ezra’s spun so tight that if I spent any time imagining his home, I pictured a furnished apartment with no personal stuff anywhere and possibly a pile of dirty clothes fermenting in the corner.

He’s back before I can really process how I feel about the discrepancy between what I’d expected and what I’d found. If anything, it makes him a whole lot more attractive.

And he already has me going pretty good.

The bag he carries through the door brings with it a spicier smell than burgers should have. He sets it on the table with a small bow. “Dinner, good sir. Have a seat.”

Good sir? Whatever. I can’t decide if the dude has some secret personality he only reveals at home, or if he’s that nervous about having a stranger in what is obviously his inner sanctum.

Either way, I sit, landing hard on the wooden dining chair, glad there’s a cushion on the seat.

A saffron gold, velvet cushion. Who is this guy and what has he done with Ezra?

“I’ll get us plates.” He passes close to me and the spicy food scent is blotted out by fresh cigarettes. He must have had a smoke while he was downstairs. Utensils clink against china and while he’s busy, I open the bag and start taking out small boxes.

“These aren’t burgers,” I say loud enough for my voice to carry.

“Nope. I had a yen for Indian food.” He sets down two mismatched plates with a small pile of utensils and a damn pair of fabric napkins. “Hope that’s okay.”

The tension in his jaw has me coming down on the side of freaked out because of a stranger in his home , so I keep my smile easy. “Sure. As long as it’s not five stars, I’m good.”

Turns out he’s brought a big spoon for each of the boxes and in short order my plate is piled high with veggie pakoras, two different curries, and chicken biryani, all over a bed of rice. His plate is in a similar state and we both get to work.

It’s easier to eat than to talk.

While scooping up another spoonful of curry, he pauses and gives me a frank look. “Just out of curiosity, do you ever talk about baseball?”

I choke on a mouthful of beer, cough a couple times, and manage to gasp, “Not during the offseason.”

His answering grin tells me all I need to know.

Someone said something to somebody else— Lindy from HemeOnc?

— and now I’m going to have to explain why I’m working at St. Nowhere instead of playing in the major leagues.

I meet his grin with a fake one of my own.

Sometimes it’s easier just to show people.

Scooting away from the table, I grab the hem of my hoodie and the tee shirt underneath and drag them both off over my head.

When my line of sight is clear, Ezra’s sitting there with his tongue hanging out. “Close your mouth. You’ll catch flies.”

He does, but only so he can gulp. His obvious appreciation helps me feel less self-conscious.

“See this?” I point to my right shoulder, more specifically, to the thick scar that goes from about four inches above my nipple to the acromion, where my clavicle and scapula meet.

The scar is flanked by a pair of puncture wounds from the drains the surgeons left in.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

“Apparently my body likes to make scar tissue, and the injury was pretty severe to begin with. I’m not sure I could play center field for a neighborhood softball team these days.”

“Whatever.” He shrugs like he couldn’t care less about what position I play. “Do you like nipple play?”

“What?”

“I mean, you are all man , and it’s taking serious self-restraint not to crawl into your lap right now and go to town.”

Laughing, I grab my shirt from where I’ve tossed it on the floor. “We’ll get there, Ezra Morgue, after we finish our dinner.”

“What the fuck? Morgue ?”

“You’ve got your last name covered with tape.”

He raises his chin, like, a millimeter. “Huckaby, but not the same family as that evil governor.”

I move to pull my tee shirt on. “Don’t,” he says.

“Don’t put my shirt on?”

“Nah, I like you just like that.”

I leave the shirt draped over my knee. “Ezra Huckaby.” I savor the name. “I’ll remember that.”

“You better.” He stands and, moving like some kind of big cat, comes around the table. “Because I’ve been waiting quite a while to do this with you.”

My mouth goes dry. “Do what?”

He straddles my lap, gripping the posts in the chair’s back to bring us closer together. “This.”

Cupping his cheek, I close my eyes and inhale. Cigarettes and spice. Stubble rough against my palm. “There’s something about you, something I can’t shake, you know?”

“I’m the bad seed that keeps sprouting in your peaceful garden.”