Page 22 of The Sin Eater (Carnival of Mysteries #27)

Damon

N eighbors doesn’t look like much from the outside; a low building in the middle of the block on Broadway, with a relatively subdued neon sign over the door.

This late, everyone who waited in line is already inside, so I walk right in.

There’s a huge dance floor with a bar on one end, a stage on the other, tables along the walls, and an elevated booth for the DJ.

The whole thing is lit with rainbow floodlights, and there are a couple of raised platforms at the center of the floor.

Ezra’s on the platform on the right, just high enough for his head and shoulders to be seen over the people on the dance floor. I can’t take my eyes off him yet somehow I make it to the bar without tripping over anybody or anything, which is a damn miracle.

I want that to be my hand so bad I have to close my eyes. I start to sweat, and it’s not just because the club’s a good thirty degrees warmer than it was outside.

By the time the bartender gets to me, I can barely remember how to talk. I blink at him until my brain comes back online, then order a beer of some kind, and by the time I turn back around, the Black man is dancing by himself.

Ezra’s about six feet away from me and he’s moving fast. “Well, look at you.”

I open my mouth like I’m going to say something intelligent. Shockingly, nothing comes out.

“I gotta say there is no world where I pictured you in a buttery leather jacket and jeans that made your thighs look like... that . Thick, baby. Oh dear lord, wrap them around me, please and thank you, sir.”

The connection between my brain and my mouth must be broken—I’m a jock, not a poet—so I simply reach for him, tugging on his silky shirt to bring him closer.

“We can’t have sex,” he says while rubbing his belly against mine.

“Someone in line ahead of me?”

He squints at me. “Who? Mondo? He wishes.”

I decide for my own peace of mind that Mondo is the guy on the platform and let the whole thing go. It helps that Ezra’s bare ribs are warm under my palms. I lean close enough to catch a hint of lavender and whiskey. No cigarettes tonight, which strikes me as odd. “Buy you a drink?”

“Nah, I’m still drunk from earlier.” He scoots his belt around to reveal a small purse hanging from it. Unzips. Pulls out a damn lollipop. This one is pink and there’s a small ribbon around the base. He holds it out, like I might want it.

“I’m good.” I raise my beer. “But knock yourself out.”

We’ve managed this much conversation by basically screaming in each other’s ears.

I’d like to talk to him, to figure out the psychic thing if nothing else.

I have trouble imagining Ezra Morgue telling anybody he can’t have sex for any reason—dude doesn’t give off the abstinence vibe at all—and I want to dig into that, too.

I’m busy perseverating when he grabs my hand. “C’mon.” We cross an empty-ish corner of the dance floor to an open space along the wall. “There.” He positions us so I’m leaning against the wall and he’s leaning against me.

I give in to something like jealousy and spread my hand over his belly the way that guy had it on the dance floor.

He grabs my pinky and moves it, which makes me take my hand away, a little annoyed.

Laughing, he grabs me and puts my hand back maybe an inch higher from where it was,.

Tipping his head against my shoulder, he shouts, “No sex.”

“Whatever.” I probably didn’t say it loud enough for him to hear.

Whatever. I like having him this close, my chin resting on the top of his head, the floral scent of his product mixed with sweat.

I survey the crowd without seeing anyone I recognize.

Not that it matters. I was pretty much out as bi during my playing days, at least to the other guys on the team.

Most of them were cool with it, except for one homophobic asshole who couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

I made it a point to flirt with that dude’s girlfriend every chance I got.

The music’s so loud the bass vibrates against my sternum, and the rhythm shifts from one song to the next. “Do you want to dance?”

Ezra relaxes against me. “We should.”

Neither of us moves. I take the opportunity to finish my beer.

It doesn’t really matter to me whether we dance or not. Ezra’s the reason I’m here, and at this point I’m willing to go along with whatever he wants.

When the music changes again, he takes my hand. “This one.”

On the way to the dance floor, I set my beer bottle on an empty table. We face each other, and he starts to move.

If he was pretty before, now he’s beautiful.

For a guy who had a reputation as an athlete, on the dance floor I stick with a white boy bop.

With Ezra Morgue as inspiration, though, I manage to raise my game.

He’s got his arms in the air, his hips caught by the beat.

His shirt’s unbuttoned and his skin is perfectly smooth, with a sheen like he’s used some subtle glitter cream.

His whole presence is so full of light, so graceful.

As late as it is, I’m glad we’re here. I’m glad I get to see this.

I do my best to follow him, or at least not look like a lump he’s dancing around. Whatever song the DJ is playing must be popular. Other dancers crowd us, and Ezra moves closer.

The music shifts to something I sorta recognize and he gets close enough to run his hands over my coat sleeves. His lips are glossier than the dear Lord made them; pinker, too. Makes me want to kiss him.

Another song, another move closer.

By the time the next song starts, he’s got one thigh between mine and I’ve got my hands around his waist. We’re rocking in rhythm, and he grabs my shirt and pulls. “No sex,” he yells, right in my ear.

I gotta laugh at that. It’s good manners to check with someone before getting physical but he’s the one who closed the gap between us and stuck his leg between mine. I’m still wearing my leather coat, so I’m sweating for all kinds of reasons. “Let’s go someplace cooler, then.”

He twirls away from me, though not very far, and stops with his hands on his hips. His grin is natural, relaxed, so different from the jacked-up guy who showed up at my apartment. He tilts his head, his expression curious. “Walk me home?”

“I could do that.” If we get to a place where we can talk, I’m damned sure going to ask him about the no sex thing, and a late-night stroll seems like a better bet than standing in the middle of a crowded club.

He takes my hand and leads me off the dance floor.

Near the club entrance, he asks me to wait and disappears down a darkened hallway.

He’s back a couple minutes later, wrapped in an oversized, faux fur coat.

In the flashing, multicolored disco lights, it’s hard to tell the color besides dark.

The flipped-up collar hides most of his face and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes make it obvious he’s grinning hard.

Again, he takes my hand, and we head out into the night.

We get lucky and it’s not raining. His apartment’s only a couple blocks away, so any conversation is going to have to happen quickly.

I check my phone to confirm the time—0145—and notice I got a text.

I open it and laugh. Roger. One photo, a beautiful tropical sunset with a willowy young woman silhouetted against it.

I show my phone to Ezra. “My buddy just sent me this.”

“Pretty.”

“I’m going to guess he’s on Maui or maybe Kauai.”

“Why is he sending you pictures of women?”

We’re waiting at the light to cross Broadway. Traffic is light enough for us to jaywalk, but I want to prolong things. “He and I played ball together in high school and now that he’s a big MLB star, he sends me pics all the time. I think they’re somewhere between a reminder and an invitation.”

The light changes and we walk on. Ezra peers at me over the fur collar. “Like, he’s inviting you to Maui?”

“More or less. Given the chance, he’d arrange for my tickets and a place to stay.”

His eyes get big. “Do it, dude.”

There aren’t too many other people walking, and while I don’t really want to talk about baseball, I see a way of making a point.

“I can’t. Not really. See, Patty—that’s my mother—wasn’t great.

When Dorinda and I were kids, we pretty much lived with our grandmother, and to be honest, I barely had a pair of tennis shoes, let alone cleats like the other kids had.

Gram made sure I played Little League, though, and that’s where I met Roger. ”

We stop at the next light even though foot and car traffic is pretty much nonexistent.

Like good Seattleites, we wait for the light to change.

Ezra’s gaze shows more understanding than sympathy, which I appreciate.

“Anyway, Roger’s dad has deep pockets, and he pretty much adopted me and made sure I had what I needed to play.

He sponsored me for Select, made sure I had good quality equipment, and after my grandmother passed, he gave me a place to live.

” I laugh without much humor. “D-Clem only existed because of Mr. Bolden.”

“D-Clem. That’s right. Kinda funny that cop knew who you were.”

“Doesn’t happen nearly as often as it used to.

” I drape an arm over his shoulders and guide him into the intersection.

“I was really lucky.” So lucky that if I dig deep enough, I’ll discover a layer of shame that I haven’t done more with all the benefits Mr. Bolden offered me.

One blown shoulder shouldn’t have limited me to this extent, not really.

That’s a wormhole I try to avoid at all costs. Fortunately, Ezra redirects the conversation before I can get too far down.

“Well, I think you should go to Maui.”

Chuckling, I hug him closer. He feels good against my body. “Gotta work, my dude.”

Easily, without being too obvious, he slides away from me. “I meant what I said. No sexy times tonight.”

Score. This is the opening I need. “Why not?”

He stops in the middle of the sidewalk. “I can’t, Big D, and I won’t tell you why, either.”

His hair has flopped forward, giving me only one storm-cloud eye to look at. I brush it back so I can see him better. “I’m not an asshole, Ezra. I’m not going to pressure you into doing something you don’t want to do. I just want to know why.”

“I’m not contagious or anything.” His gaze tracks something over my shoulder. “But there are some things I can’t tell you.”

“Yeah? Well, there were some things Patty wouldn’t tell me, back in the day. Had a hard time with it then. Have a hard time with it now.”

“Patty?” He murmurs. “Oh, yeah, your mother. Look, Damon, I need you to trust me. I’m not like her. Yes, I’m weird and difficult, and yes, this looks crazy as fuck.” He grabs my hand, hard.

I shift our grip to interlace our fingers, and he keeps talking, his voice heavy with sincerity. “I swear on a bunch of holy stuff that I’m not going to screw you over. I promise.”

I promise . Not sure what to do with that, if for no other reason than how sincerity and Ezra are an awkward fit. Maybe it’s just that I want to believe him. Maybe he’ll be more open when he trusts me more. And maybe he’s too much work .

Inhaling deeply, I let the breath—and some of my frustration—go. Some of it, not all. The frustration, I mean. I want to like this guy. Hell, I do like this guy. But damn... “Whatever. Let’s get you home.”

We don’t have much to say until we get to Ezra’s apartment building. Don’t let go of his hand, either until he steps away so he and his key can fight with the front door of his building. When he gets it open, he surprises me. He turns to face me and says, “Kiss me goodnight?”

Despite everything, I want to. I cup his cheek, rubbing my thumb over his lower lip. “Baby, you are the single most complicated individual I have ever met. Keep your secrets.” I press my lips against his and taste cherries. “For now.”

I leave him like that, eyes wide, lips parted. It’s raining, chips of ice flung from the sky, so I start to jog.

The train makes me wait ten minutes surrounded by a scattering of partiers and late-night restaurant workers, and that gives me time to think.

I’m not much for analyzing my feelings. I’ve always been better at taking them out on a baseball, sweating them out in the weight room, or running them into the ground.

I guess I’m older now, so instead of closing my eyes to shut out the harsh fluorescent lighting, I try to parse what just happened.

Tonight was a lot, I’m not going to lie. I’m not sure I have anything in life to compare Ezra to.

Patty doesn’t count, though she sure as hell brought the drama. Dorinda and I started calling our mother Patty when we were old enough to recognize how shitty she was. She didn’t have secrets; she just made promises she had no intention of keeping. Drugs’ll do that to you.

My exes kept secrets, though—sure, cool, embezzle money from the law firm where you work, and no, I won’t wait till you get out of prison—but their big reveals were always too late and fairly stupid.

Ezra’s different. There’s a sincerity to the way he says he can’t tell me what’s really going on, a desperation in how he asks me to trust him.

That’s the hard part.

Experience has taught me that only Dorinda and Roger are worth trusting. Do I want to believe Ezra’s got some big, climactic, capital-T Thing that’s keeping him from being honest with me? Sure, although I’m having trouble imagining what’s more dramatic than I see dead people .

Is it more likely some petty bullshit we could solve with a conversation?

Pretty much.

So, do I trust him?

I don’t know. I haven’t decided not to trust him yet, so maybe...