Come Unto These Yellow Sands (22 page)

“Did you ever catch the guy who did this?”

Max smiled that slow, dangerous grin. “Yep. Sure did.”

From beyond the foot of the bed where Max had tossed his jeans, his cell phone rang. Swift groaned.

“You’re telling me.” Max went to retrieve his phone, clicking it on. “This better be important.”

He listened, frowning. The frown grew deeper. His eyes met Swift’s. He expelled a long breath.

“Hell.” Swift stared moodily back.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Max clicked off. He shook his head at Swift. “Sorry. I have to go. Judge Vecchio’s daughter just got caught breaking into the computer room at Sarah Orne Jewett Elementary.”

Swift sighed. “And they say poets keep lousy hours.”

“Do they?” Max dressed hurriedly and leaned over the bed. “I shall return. And I’m taking as much of tomorrow off as I can get away with, so plan on sleeping in.”

“Sleeping?”

“Whatever.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

They kissed, warm mouths lingering, and then Max was gone, his footsteps disappearing down the staircase.

Actually what they said was poets were mostly interested in death and commas.

Swift grimaced at the thought and absently watched the painted dolphin swimming through the painted ruins of the mural on the far wall.

The dolphin smiled at him with gentle mischief.

Swift sighed. Safe to say he was going to have to amuse himself for the next couple of hours. He sat up and reached for his own jeans.

Downstairs, he turned the light on in his office and gazed at the stacks of books and papers and file folders. No need to worry about Mrs. Ord’s efforts to reorganize his office now. That was too bad. Good help really was hard to find.

Swift sat at his desk and opened the drawer, staring down at the box nestled within.

He lifted the box out. For a time he studied the laminated images of leaves and clouds. It was just a box after all. A pretty box with some scraps of paper in it.

How could something so pretty contain so much fear?

Had he picked it? He didn’t remember. Probably not, but it looked like something he’d have liked at one time. Those dancing red and gold leaves against hard, cold blue sky reminded him of illustrations from a favorite childhood book. He didn’t remember the book, but he remembered the graceful, muted drawings of nature and the seasons. He remembered his father reading from that book, remembered his father’s strong arms around him, his deep, smiling voice reading the words to a beloved child.

He remembered his mother explaining what each leaf was, the slim, smooth hands of a young woman tracing the delicate lines.

He would never hear his father’s voice again, and he hadn’t seen or spoken to his mother in nearly a decade.

Swift gently stroked the lid of the box. The poems inside might be anything. Might be drug-fueled gibberish. Might be the best thing he’d ever written. Opening this box might be a new beginning. Might as easily be another ending.

He recalled a quote from Butler.
Youth is like spring, an over-praised season more remarkable for biting winds than genial breezes. Autumn is the mellower season, and what we lose in flowers we more than gain in fruits.

Either way…it was time. He pushed the box aside and reached for the phone, dialing the familiar number.

The phone trilled once, twice…it was late to be calling. How late was it there? Swift was calculating when the receiver lifted. A woman’s voice answered from across the miles.

He cleared his throat. “Hi, Mom,” said Swift.

About the Author

A distinct voice in GLBT fiction, multi-award winning author Josh Lanyon has written numerous novels, novellas and short stories. He is the author of the critically praised Adrien English mystery series as well as the new Holmes and Moriarity series. Josh is an Eppie Award winner and a three-time Lambda Literary Award finalist.

To learn more about Josh, please visit
www.joshlanyon.com
or join his mailing list at
groups.yahoo.com/group/JoshLanyon
.

Look for these titles by Josh Lanyon

Now Available:

Mexican Heat (co-written with Laura Baumbach)

The Dickens with Love

The Dark Farewell

Strange Fortune

Holmes & Moriarity

Somebody Killed His Editor

All She Wrote

Coming Soon:

Mummy Dearest

Giving screwball mystery a whole deadly new meaning.

All She Wrote

© 2010 Josh Lanyon

Holmes & Moriarity, Book 2

A murderous fall down icy stairs is nearly the death of Anna Hitchcock, the much-beloved “American Agatha Christie” and Christopher Holmes’s former mentor. Anna’s plea for him to host her annual winter writing retreat touches all Kit’s sore spots—traveling, teaching writing classes, and separation from his new lover, J.X. Moriarity.

For J.X., Kit’s cancellation of yet another romantic weekend is the death knell of a relationship that has been limping along for months. But that’s just as well, right? Kit isn’t ready for anything serious and besides, Kit owes Anna far too much to refuse.

Faster than you can say “Miss Marple wears boxer shorts”, Kit is snooping around Anna’s elegant, snowbound mansion in the Berkshires for clues as to who’s trying to kill her. A tough task with six amateur sleuths underfoot. Six budding writers with a tangled web of dark undercurrents running among them.

Slowly, Kit gets the uneasy feeling that the secret may lie between the pages of someone’s fictional past. Unfortunately, a clever killer is one step ahead. And it may be too late for J.X. to ride to the rescue.

Warning: Contains one irascible, forty-year-old mystery writer who desperately needs to get laid, one exasperated thirty-something ex-cop only too happy to oblige, an isolated country manor that needs the thermostat cranked up, various assorted aspiring and perspiring authors, and a merciless killer who may have read one too many mystery novels.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
All She Wrote:

I want to fuck you, Kit.

I raised my head, cleared my throat. “Come again?”

J.X. smiled at me, a lazy smile. His eyes were dark and tender. “And again and again and again.” His voice was soft. It seemed to raise every hair on my body, like the drifting ripple of static electricity.

“Oh.” I lowered my head to my arm, looked into the serious regard centimeters from my own. Well, good luck avoiding him at
that
distance. I redirected my gaze to his mouth. It was soft and moist and his lips were faintly pink as they shaped his words.

“You never let me before. Is it a problem?”

“Uh…no.”

“You don’t sound sure.”

I wasn’t sure. That is…the idea turned me on, no denying it. The idea of J.X. taking me, all that warmth and strength burying itself in me and making me his own—
bizarre
thought and yet…definitely a turn-on. Which was kind of weird because I’d never liked being fucked. Never enjoyed it. Found it uncomfortable, a little painful, and too much like subjugation. And David had felt the same way. So we’d taken turns with it, because that was the fair thing to do, but there had always been that niggling knowledge that both of us were never truly enjoying sex at the same time. That it was always a concession on someone’s part.

J.X. and I hadn’t really fucked since we’d got together. I wasn’t sure what his feelings were now days. When we’d first hooked up all those years ago, he’d let me fuck him and he’d accepted without demur my refusal to reciprocate.

I mean, I’d tried to put it in more diplomatic terms than that, but the bottom line was…for me there was a bottom line. And I hadn’t planned to cross it. Not for him and not for anyone else. Not ever again. I suppose it was all tied up with my feelings for what had happened with David.

Maybe it was still tied up with that.

Although, the truth was, I never
had
liked it. But recently I’d found the idea not merely acceptable, more and more I’d found myself truly excited by it. Which, frankly, made me sort of uneasy.

“Talk to me,” J.X. said. My eyes were probably starting to spin—black and white swirls while my brain overheated.

I said, “I know it’s only fair that we…trade off.”

His brows drew together. “So you
don’t
like the idea?”

“No. It’s not that.”

“Come on, Kit. Tell me what you think.” Not impatient. Coaxing. I think I’d have preferred exasperation. Then I could have worked myself into a snit and we could have sidestepped the issue for the time being.

I rolled onto my back. “I don’t know. It’s never been good for me like that.”

“Did someone hurt you?”

Startled, I turned my head. J.X.’s nostrils had a pinched look, his mouth a straight line. I realized he was angry on my behalf. Angry at the idea of this imaginary lover who had hurt me with his careless, selfish ways. J.X. not realizing that I had probably been as careless and selfish as any of my lovers. Not that there had been so many of them, though I’d indulged in the usual youthful experimentation before settling down with David.

“It’s not like that,” I said quickly, and I reached over to stroke his hair back from his serious face. The strands felt like silk—short, cool, black silk—and they clung to my fingers. “I mean it does hurt—”

“It shouldn’t.”

“But that’s not really it. I don’t mind a little discomfort if the payoff is worth—” I stopped in time.

Not really in time, though.

“But the payoff isn’t worth it?” His tone was absolutely neutral.

I held his gaze with my own. “I think it would be with you, which is why, for probably the first time in my life, I’m starting to fantasize about it.”

His face softened. “I think I could make it good for you, Kit. I’d make sure nothing hurt you. I’d take care of you every step of the way.” His voice went dark and husky, and he put his hand to my crotch, feeling me up through my jeans with an expert, even possessive hand.

I heard myself make a sound in the back of my throat, and I closed my eyes, focusing on that touch.

“I love you,” he said, and his mouth covered mine.

There was a lump in my throat. I wasn’t used to someone…caring so much. It got to me in a way I’d never have expected. I made another of those freaky sounds—uncomfortably close to a whimper—and thrust against him.

J.X.’s tongue slipped into my mouth, wet, hot, intrusive. Another thing I’d never been crazy about. What can I say? There’s a reason I chose to write about an elderly spinster and her cat. It wasn’t just the, um, hygiene factor—although supposedly dogs’ mouths are cleaner than humans—it was so
personal
having someone push his tongue into your mouth. Hard to think of other things when a guy’s checking out your back molars.

J.X., however, French kissed me with delicacy and skill, and need bloomed like fever in my bloodstream.

“I do want it,” I panted. “I want you to fuck me.”

He groaned like I’d granted some amazing, impossible wish—which, frankly, was all the more exciting.

He kissed me again, broke the kiss with seeming reluctance. “Hang on. We need something…”

“Condoms. Hell. It’s been years since I’ve had to—”

“No, not condoms. I mean, yes, condoms, but I’ve got condoms. I mean something we can use as lube.”

I was still dealing with the fact that he evidently carried condoms everywhere like he was still nineteen, when the significance of the word lube hit me. I gave a shiver that was half excitement and half alarm.

Jesus, we were going to do this. I was going to let him push that long, thick cock right up my tight little asshole.

Wide-eyed, I watched him disappear into the bathroom and reappear a few seconds later with a bottle of Fekkai glossing conditioner.

I was still clumsily trying to peel off my clothes as he took his place beside me on the bed. Together we helped each other undress, warm hands lingering in unconscious caress, accommodating each other. My heart was going a million miles an hour as I leaned back against the pillows he’d propped up for me. I watched his face, so grave and absorbed as he squirted the pale, shimmering liquid onto his fingers.

The scent of sex mingled with that of sunflower and olive oil and citrus. Very California. Very us.

He leaned forward to kiss me again. As our mouths brushed, a thought occurred to me. “Not on this bedspread!”

He laughed against me, drew back. We did some frantic shoving and rearranging of bed linens.

“Anything else?” His eyes were crinkling at the corners, and the knowledge that he would deal patiently with any further minor uproars went a long way to relaxing me. What was the big deal after all? It wasn’t like I’d never done this.

“Be my guest,” I said.

He grinned, reached forward to stroke me, cupping my balls lightly in his hand. “And what a wonderful host you are.”

I spluttered a laugh, let my legs fall wide, making a cradle for him as he lowered his lean, muscular length onto me.

“Am I hurting your arm?”

“It’s not my arm I’m worried about.”

I said it without thinking. His face was instantly serious. “We’re not going to do anything you don’t want to.”

“I know. Don’t listen to me.”

He appeared to consider this. “Sometimes I think the words get in the way with you and me, but I always listen to you. I always will.”

I nodded. “You’re better at this than I am. I’m trying to learn by example.”

He looked touched. “That’s one of the nicest things you’ve said to me.”

“I need to say more nice things to you.”

I proceeded to turn over a new leaf. That led to some nuzzling and nibbling and other forms of unspoken communication. As J.X.’s clever fingers tweaked one of my nipples, I arched up. He watched me, his eyes dark and hooded, his mouth pink from kisses and love bites.