When the Dead Speak, Bailey Bradford [new ebook reader .TXT] 📗

“Who’s Conner Sutherland?”

No, it hadn’t seemed like a big deal at the time, but later, as Sev sat alone in his hotel room, the evidence of their climaxes drying on his skin, the desolation he felt served to remind him just how much of a fool he’d been.

* * * *

The smell of Severo’s cum mixed with his own haunted Laine on the drive back to his house. He’d barely parked the truck and got the door open before he dropped to his knees and threw up.

Who’s Conner Sutherland?

The question echoed repeatedly in Laine’s head, his body heaving and rocking with fear and adrenaline. Had the pesky ghost been the man Laine loved? It had to be. Severo wouldn’t have asked otherwise, would he? But how could he not have known, not have felt something…familiar about the presence? Conner had been dead for over three years, but Laine still thought of him, still missed him when he went to bed at night, lying awake and aching until his exhausted body finally shut down.

How could he not have known? Another violent shudder racked Laine’s body, the force of which set his teeth to chattering as his stomach clenched again. The wind kicked up and sent a bolt of panic through Laine until he realized there was nothing supernatural to it, just Mother Nature doing her thing. He forced himself to stand and felt his knees tremble when the image of Severo, looking completely debauched and sexy as sin, hit him. The expression on the man’s face when Laine had left him tore at Laine.

He would have sworn Severo had meant it when he’d said he was more of a fuck-and fun-type of guy, but when Severo had asked about Conner—and not just anyone named Conner, but Conner Sutherland, so there was no doubt—Laine had felt as though someone was ripping his heart out. He’d leaped from the bed and hauled ass out of there so fast, he’d been lucky to remember to tuck his dick back in and zip up. Laine had spared a seething glance at Severo, and the hurt he’d seen there was almost as bad as the pain Laine had felt when the other man had brought up Conner.

Letting the scene play out behind his eyes, something suddenly occurred to him. He hadn’t spoken a word, not one, after Severo had asked that question. He’d run off like a coward, not giving a second thought to the man lying on the bed covered with milky white spunk, tangy proof of their attraction.

Had Conner seen them? Been aware of what they had done?

“Oh God.” Laine dragged his hands down his face and headed to the front door. Too much, this is too freakin’ much for me to comprehend! His fingers trembled and he had to try several times before he got the key in the lock. Once inside, he made a quick call to Doreen and told her he was running late. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, Laine was startled by his appearance. He looked desolate and more than half wild, his eyes reminding himself of a hyped-up suspect, guilt and a frenetic look bordering on crazy clear in his gaze.

Laine understood both of those things. He’d felt a searing sense of desolation since Conner had been murdered, tied and tortured, in his bed. The things that had been done to Laine’s lover were unimaginable. Never in all of his years on the police force had Laine encountered a level of twisted viciousness such as he’d had to face when he’d found Conner. Seeing his lover cut open like that had killed something inside Laine as well, leaving him raw and hurting, anger and guilt riding him until, at times, he felt no different than a wild and wounded thing, ready and needing to strike out at any and everybody.

Conner’s death was compounded by the fact that neither of them had been out—it had made it impossible for Laine to grieve openly. Conner had deserved that grief, but instead, Laine had kept it tucked deep inside, where it festered with the guilt he felt, not only for not being able to protect Conner, but for not being brave enough, not loving the man enough to step out of the closet. Conner had been as deeply secretive about their affair as Laine had, but it didn’t matter. Laine was the one left behind.

What made it worse, so much more unbearable, was the fact that the sick fucker who’d murdered Conner hadn’t been caught. The police had never even had a suspect, and the knowledge that Conner’s death was still unsolved, his murderer unpunished, could put Laine in a black mood for days, even weeks. At times like that, Laine tried to seclude himself, but it wouldn’t be possible today.

He turned on the shower and stepped under the lukewarm water, trying to get his shit together. Severo’s wounded eyes kept haunting him, and he wondered if, were the spirit really Conner, what had happened between Laine and Severo had vanished Conner forever.

His thoughts of Conner combined with the cruelty Laine had inflected on Severo back in the hotel room was nearly enough to crush him. Somehow, he had to find a way to deal with it all. Conner deserved to rest in peace, his killer rotting away on death row and, though Laine wasn’t quite sure how he would manage to do it, there was a certain man who deserved an apology as well as an explanation.

Do what you know is right, in everything, Laine told himself. That was his grandmother’s advice, and Laine had tried to live by it every day. It was good advice, and he would continue to follow it. The doubts that niggled away at him about whether or not it was right to keep his sexuality a secret, he ignored. Laine shut off the shower and reached for a towel. He couldn’t let himself fall apart again. Laine dried himself