Page 35 of The Sin Eater (Carnival of Mysteries #27)

Damon

I t’s arms day, so I have to be careful not to put too much pressure on my shoulder. Anything that has me lifting my arms overhead can be problematic. It’s got to be done, though it’s hard not to get frustrated.

Even after a couple days, some of Roger’s comments echo, particularly now while I’m trying to get through a set of simple overhead presses . I know blowing out your rotator cuff fucked you up, but that doesn’t mean you gotta spend the rest of your life taking what comes.

Is that what I’m doing? Taking what comes?

I center myself, sweat sticking my shirt to the small of my back.

The weight in my left hand is ten pounds heavier than the one in my right, and on an inhale, I raise them to my shoulders.

Feet spread, core tight, I press up, moving slow so my right shoulder has time to complain.

Exhale. Lower my arms to let the weights rest at my shoulders. Inhale. Press up. Exhale. Lower. I didn’t get here till after eight p.m., so most of the post-work crowd has gone home.There are a few people I recognize, gym rats like me, people who cram a workout in wherever they can.

Inhale. Up. I’m not sure whether I’m taking what comes, or if I’m suffering from inertia, like I’m afraid to commit to anything in case it blows up. Exhale. Lower. My phone pings, and for a second my gut jumps because maybe it’s Ezra.

It’s not Ezra. I finally sent that text, and he hasn’t responded, proving that he blocked me. Just another example of how I ruin the things I want. The deal with Ezra wasn’t on the same scale as my baseball career. With more time, though, maybe it could have been.

Stuffing those thoughts away, I make myself finish the set and wipe down the weights before I check my phone. It’s Mo, and they’ve got a story to tell.

I found her. Your girl, Sue Myhre, was born in Bozeman, Montana, in June 1964, and she moved to Seattle in ’85. Reported missing in ’88, but it doesn’t look like the cops tried very hard to find her.

I texted back a quick That’s not cool .

For real. I found one news article that said her family tried to find out what happened to her, but most people she knew in Seattle thought she’d moved back home .

That drags my mood down even further. James Smith got away with murder, and there’s nothing I can do for Sue Myhre or her family. I’m still avoiding McGraw, and I try to tell myself that if Mo could track her down, so could the cops.

If they even bothered to try. The whole thing really sucks.

I text back, thanking them for the info, then give myself permission to do another set of bicep curls rather than lat pull-downs. Somewhere between curl ten and twelve, I have an idea. A big, heavy, unexpected idea, the kind of thing that resonates in my bones.

I am already a security guard. Maybe I should look into becoming a cop.

“Dorinda’s gonna laugh her ass off,” I murmur, drawing a glance from the guy on the bench near me. I shrug and he goes back to his set of skull crushers.

Deciding I’ve had enough, I head for the showers. I don’t work again till Friday, which gives me a day for research.

How do I go about becoming a cop? More importantly, is that a realistic career goal for a bisexual former athlete who’s not a huge fan of guns? Or is there something cop-adjacent where I could help families find their missing loved ones without actually carrying a badge?

A private investigator?

That last one pings the loudest, and for the first time in years, I think I might have a direction, or at least something I want to explore. Dorinda probably has opinions—Dorinda always has opinions—but I want to work a couple things out before I approach her.

I’m on the light rail to the U District and home when I hear Mr. Bolden’s voice in my memory, as clear as if he is sitting next to me and not enjoying his retirement in Palm Springs.

Baseball is a game of losses. A batting average over four hundred is unreal, but that means you miss the ball almost sixty percent of the time.

A team with a win percentage much over five hundred stands a good chance of making the playoffs while losing over forty percent of their games.

One loss doesn’t make a season, or a career, or a life.

There’ll be another game tomorrow .

He’d given me that speech I don’t know how many times over the years, every time I flirted with quitting the whole damned thing, and if he were here, he’d say it again.

And he’d tell me it was time to get back in the game.

I spend the next day on my laptop, looking at options, putting together the beginnings of a plan. The UW has a criminal justice track and there are several Seattle-based private investigation firms that specialize in missing persons.

It’s a start, and it gives me something to do besides beat myself up over Ezra.

Was it a mistake to get involved with him? Probably. Would I do it again?

Also probably.

I shove those thoughts down and text Roger. He must have moved on because his reply is a photo of a lovely young woman standing in front of a mass of snow-covered evergreens. I text him back.

Later dude when ur not busy .

He does not respond, the asshole.

Friday, when I go back to work, things feel different. There’s space between me and the other guys, and for once I’m not secretly worried I’m going to grow old here at St. Nowhere. No shade to hospital security guards. It’s important work. I just want something different for my life.

I want the Sue Myhres of the world to have their stories told.

The morning is busy. There’s an ER Code Blue that results in a waiting room full of wailing relatives.

Not much for me to do beyond keep an eye on them and try not to get sucked into their pain.

Once they disperse, either going home or following the patient to the ICU waiting room, I tell the guy at the ER desk I need to make a run to the Brew.

Outside, a cold wind sends a shiver down the back of my neck and the sky is a flat layer of slate-grey clouds. Feels like snow. I’m glad the Brew is close.

It’s crowded, too, which makes me less happy.

I get in the line that’s at least half a dozen people long and bring out my phone.

There’s a headline about Seattle native Roger Bolden being the subject of contract offer rumors, which is either the truth or a story planted by his agent.

Before I can read more than the opening paragraph, someone says, “Damon? Hi. I wanted to talk to you.”

I glance up and everything freezes. The crowd noise fades and my awareness dims so that I only see him. Ezra Morgue. It’s been more than two weeks. Heart knocking against my sternum, I manage a weak “Wassup?”

He’s in jeans and his puffer coat, his long hair framing his face. He looks like he’s had more sleep than usual, and his cheeks are pink, either from cold or nerves or both. His eyes, though, telegraph a mix of determination and fear.

He smiles, a nervous twitch of his lips. “Uh, we need to talk.”

I do my best dumb jock imitation. “We do?”

“Hey, y’all? Everybody?” he shouts. The normal coffee shop chatter dies around us and yeah, people are staring. “I need your attention right over here for a minute.”

Someone, maybe Jett, whispers, “Hush your mouth so I can hear this.”

“See, I need y’all to know that I’m not a very good person—”

My cheeks hot enough to burn, I cut him off with a “You’re fine.”

“I know I’m fine , babe, but I’m also selfish and petty and pretty much afraid of my own shadow, but”—he takes my hand and interlaces our fingers—“I like you, and I want us to be together.”

I can’t do much more than blink. His fingers tighten around mine and I choke out a couple words. “You do?”

“I do, and, uh, I’m sorry.” A couple of women come through the door, their laughter loud in the quiet room. “Hey, lesbians,” Ezra says. “Shush. You can plan your home remodel later.”

They get in line, reading the room, their laughter fading.

“You don’t have to apologize,” I say quietly.

“I absolutely do. I should have told you more, and sooner, and I shouldn’t have disappeared without saying goodbye.”

I have to blink fast. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. You deserve someone reliable, and I’ve been anything but.”

“No, really, it’s—”

“Just shut your mouth, Big D. To start with, I want to buy you breakfast.” Ezra’s more confident now, which is good because my mind has gone pretty much blank.

I haven’t let go of his hand and I tug him closer, for the simple reason that I want him closer. “You don’t need to buy me anything.”

He comes, taking hold of my other hand. “And then we can talk.”

The emphasis he puts on talk heats something deep in the pit of my belly. “I’ll have to go back to work here in a few.”

“Then we’ll make a date for later.”

My grin is so broad it’s stretching my lips tight.

“Y’all are my witnesses, okay?” he says, raising his voice. “I’m going to make every effort to be the kind of guy Damon Clemens wants to be with, for as long as he’ll have me.”

He looks at me from under his lashes. “Is that okay?” he asks softly.

“Yeah.” My voice is husky and I pull him close enough to get my arms around him.

“Kiss already,” somebody in the crowd calls out, to a general round of laughter.

I lift his chin with one finger and bend down, stopping just shy of his lips. “I think we can work something out, baby.”

He rises on his toes that little bit extra and then we’re kissing in the middle of the Brew at like ten thirty in the morning on a Friday, and it’s the best I’ve felt in a while.

Scattered applause makes it clear that others approve of our actions.

Ezra tastes sugary sweet, like the last thing in his mouth was a cherry lollipop, and he smells more like lavender and less like cigarettes than usual.

His lips part, our tongues brushing, but I don’t want to go too far at this time and place.

He must have the same thought, because he breaks the kiss and leans against me, rubbing his cheek against my shoulder.

“Cat,” I murmur.

“Purr.”

The shriek of the steamer acts like a cue, interrupting our little moment, and the other customers return to their own worlds.

I shoot the dude at the ER desk a text, letting him know I’ll take my long break now, and to message me if he needs me back sooner.

As soon as I put my phone away, I take hold of Ezra’s hand again.

He doesn’t seem to mind.

We stand side-by-side in the line for Jett’s coffee. “You never texted me,” he says, and I give him a look.

“You mean after you blocked me?”

“I didn’t really block you.”

“How was I supposed to know? You didn’t respond when I texted you the other day.”

“Well, I mean, you waited like a week.”

I cover my grin with an open palm. Yeah, that tracks.

I’d ask him what brought all this on, if I wasn’t afraid whatever I say will send him running again.

Though if he means to run, he should at least wait until we’re not surrounded by the random strangers who witnessed his declaration of.

.. what? Interest? Attraction? I’m really not sure what they just witnessed, but I liked it.

Except if a simple question is going to chase him away, we don’t have much of a future anyway, so I should just go for it. Still, I start slow. “So where have you been?”

“Missing you mostly.”

His non-answer makes me grin. Rather than push, I wait to see if he’ll fill in any of the blanks.

“I needed some time to pull my head outa my own ass.” He swings our clasped hands. “Went out to the coast so I could hear the ocean and, uh, stuff.”

The people ahead of us step aside, bringing us to the front of the line. Jett’s smiling so hard they’re glowing. “That was beautiful,” they say, a little misty. “Order whatever you want. Today it’s on the house.”

Ezra and I share a glance. His eyes narrow, and he says, “You going to make me pick a card?”

I can see why he’d be suspicious. The last thing I need right now is to turn over a card that’s a harbinger of death or something. Jett laughs, though. “Nah, your fates are written in your auras.”

“Oh for... “ Ezra shakes his head and places his order and mine, too. While we’re waiting, my phone pings. Of course.

“Shit. It’s Zach. I gotta go back to work.”

“Can I see you tonight?” Ezra’s expression has a touch of uncertainty.

I run my thumb down his cheek. “Yeah. I’ll text you when I’m about to get off.”

“I’ll get you off, Big D.” He turns into my touch, brushing a kiss against my knuckle, and I have to quickly adjust myself.

“Damn. How am I supposed to think now?”

He laughs at that, a sound that’s full of promise. Jett brings us our beverages and waves off Ezra’s attempt to pay. We walk out together, and after one more brief kiss in the doorway, I force myself to go back to work.

Inside, though, I’m as pumped as if I’d just hit a grand slam. This thing between me and Ezra is weird, unconventional, and unlike any other relationship I’ve ever been in, and for the first time since I met him, I think we might be onto something good.