Текст книги "Cards on the Table"

Автор книги: Josh lanyon

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Murder at the Heartbreak Hotel

Chapter One

Peter looked down at the young man in his bed. «I don't allow myself this pleasure very often,» he admitted. Jacob's dark hair was tangled and damp against the white linen pillowcase, and Peter pushed it back, smoothed it down just so he could touch Jacob's face again. «And never before with someone who was my guest.» «I didn't come here for this, Peter. I promise you.»

Peter traced the lines of Jacob's chin, his jaw, ivory skin already dark with whiskers. He had an appealing little dent in his chin, and his mouth was full and smiling. What an unexpected blessing, to have a man looking at him with gentle, patient eyes, to have a man open and waiting underneath him.

Peter leaned over him, and Jacob smiled with his eyes wide open. Peter smiled, too, and kissed him. His mouth was sweet and Peter could feel Jacob's hands reaching for him, tugging him closer, arms moving around his neck, those long, slender fingers sliding into his hair, a tender touch on his scalp. Then he felt Jacob's hands moving down the long length of his back, Jacob's chest against his, the coarse black hair tickling his skin, and Peter held on to his hips, pulled him up, still kissing him, reached to the bedside table for a condom.

He knocked over the EMS radio he had turned off earlier, when he opened his bedroom door and invited this stranger inside. It hit the hardwood floor and the battery popped out, but he didn't stop to pick it up, not with urgent hands tugging him close, and Jacob's beautiful dark eyes inviting him in, saying, Take me, I'm yours. Tonight I'm yours. * * * * *

The crystal blue light of an Alaskan spring morning filled the bedroom. Jacob was sitting on the side of the bed, the delicate bones of his vertebrae making an elegant curve down his back. Peter could see the bruises more clearly now. Most of them were old, nearly faded, just a faint blush of pale yellow or lavender. But they were unmistakably bruises, the marks of a fist.

Jacob picked up the pieces of the radio and fit the battery back into the slot. «Is this right? Do you need it turned on?»

Peter shook his head. «The fire station can manage without me for a few more minutes. Anyway, half the people on the island are volunteer firefighters. Jacob, listen.» Peter reached for him, put his hand flat against Jacob's back, traced his fingers gently down the line of bruises. «I don't mean to pry…» He stopped, wondering if he was about to make a mistake. «Is there anything I can do? Do you need some help?»

Jacob set the radio down on the table and climbed back across the bed on his hands and knees, leaned over, and kissed Peter on the mouth.

Peter studied his face. Jacob's eyes were clear, relaxed and happy after a night of easy loving. His own face probably looked the same, and Peter didn't want to put any shadows back on Jacob's face with careless words.

Jacob touched a finger to Peter's mouth, as if he wanted to keep him from speaking. «I know you saw the bruises. I'm not trying to hide them. But I don't want you to worry, Peter. I'm not going back to California. I took a new job with a symphony in Montreal, and I'm going straight there where I leave here. Did I tell you I was a musician?»

«No, you didn't. Hmmm, let me think.» Peter traced Jacob's lips, then lifted one of his hands, studied the elegant long fingers. «I play the cymbals.»

Peter laughed and shook his head. «Now, that's the first thing you've said that I don't believe. Violinist. No, cello.»

«That would have been a very clever guess if I hadn't come to your hotel with a duffel bag and a cello, Peter. It's hard to sneak around with a cello. I'm a composer, as well. That's what I really love. I dream of…» He looked across the room, and the window painted his face in bright, clear sunlight. «Well. I have lots of dreams. I want to write beautiful music, music that's powerful, that can wrap around you and touch your soul. I want to make love with beautiful men, men with gentle hands. Like you, Peter. Men who know how to cook and fuck and laugh.» Jacob's dark eyes looked down into his, smiling, and he leaned over until he could touch his nose against Peter's in a butterfly kiss. «Men who can fuck, and then cook breakfast.»

Peter laughed and climbed out of bed. «Then I guess I better make you a breakfast you can dream about.» * * * * *

The kitchen smelled like heaven. Four loaves of bread baking in the oven, freshly ground coffee, bacon on the grill, a big ceramic bowl of fresh blueberries brought in by the gardener, Nelson. Peter had used a quarter pound of butter in the cinnamon bread alone.

The dining room adjoined the kitchen, and there were already a couple of hotel guests at the table. Some groups stayed in their rooms, or in the big, formal living room, where you could keep a lot of space around yourself. The men staying at the hotel now were dining room guys, passing sections of the newspaper to each other across the table and making drowsy morning conversation. Casper, the big retired Marine down for his fourth year, filled everyone's cup from the coffeepot on the buffet.

He looked up when Peter started bringing in the food and putting serving dishes in the warmers. «That smells good, Peter. Five more minutes I was gonna start twitching with hunger.»

Peter laughed and turned to him. «Uh-oh! The casseroles have five more minutes to cook. But I'll try to get something delicious out here before anyone starts to twitch. I feel like some music this morning, Casper. What would you like to listen to?» Casper shrugged. «You can choose.»

Jacob walked into the dining room, blowing across the top of a golden brown pottery mug of coffee. He was just out of the shower, his hair curling on his forehead, dressed in soft old jeans and a white T-shirt. «What would our musician like to hear?» Jacob smiled at him from across the room. «Let me take care of the music.»

Peter was back working in the kitchen when he heard the sweet, sorrowful sounds of Jacob's cello. The music sounded familiar, like a song he'd heard a long time ago, and forgotten. He leaned in the doorway to the dining room, drying his hands on the linen cup towel tucked into the waistband of his cords. Jacob was sitting in the corner, his cello between his knees, bare feet, and he was playing with his head bent over the instrument. His lashes were dark against his cheeks. Peter felt his heart do a slow stumble in his chest, at the beauty of the morning, the beauty of the music, happiness moving like a gentle wind through his hotel.

Travis, who worked the night shift and always stayed for breakfast, came in and pulled up a chair. Jacob looked up, smiled shyly at Peter, and then bent his head over the cello again.

Peter looked at Casper, who was at least his age, maybe a bit older – forty-five, if Peter had to guess. «That music,» he said, his voice quiet. «I almost recognize it, but I can't place it.» Casper put a hand over his chest. «Eric Clapton, man. 'River of Tears.'»

Travis had the slack weary face and red-rimmed eyes of a kid who had been up all night surfing the Net, trying to keep himself awake. His freshman psychology book lay untouched on the polished hardwood counter of the hotel's reception desk. Casper was keeping an eye on him. Maybe it was the eye of a retired Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant for a lonely young vet just back from the war and out of the Corps. Travis seemed lost, like he didn't know what to do now, and he wasn't sleeping well or eating right. His lanky frame was getting thinner, and he came to work wreathed in bourbon fumes a lot more often than Peter was happy with.

Peter wasn't sure if there was something more intimate starting up between Travis and Casper. He actually suspected young Travis wasn't gay. Peter got the feeling he was trying it on, looking for an identity that fit him better than Marine Corps green. How many times had someone called him a fag in high school, in boot camp, before he started to wonder if maybe they were right, and seeing something in him he couldn't see in himself?

Peter had told Travis's parents that he could come out to Alaska after he got out of the Marine Corps and work at the hotel while he started college. Peter had bought the hotel from them when Travis was just a kid, and they'd happily moved to Seattle. Travis had told him more than once that he'd hated living in Seattle, and that Alaska was his real home.

Maybe Travis was thinking it would somehow be more appropriate to be gay, to work at the Heartbreak? Peter had been trying to come up with a way to broach the delicate subject, to let Travis know that staff were not required to be any particular sexual orientation, that he could still work here no matter who he dated, but every time he tried to bring up the subject, his tongue twisted itself into knots and Travis looked desperate and managed to flee.

The rest of the guests were the Heartbreak's usual mix in this quiet spring season, lured by the hotel's name and a few well-placed ads on the gay travel network. Mike spent a lot of

time in his room, asleep or shoving his pain up his nose or trying to call someone who was not answering the phone. Jesse and Phillip were having exuberant make up sex that didn't hide how shaky they were feeling. Peter thought it must have been a close call, whatever happened that almost caused them to split. This was Casper's fourth year on the island, and Peter suspected he was thinking about staying. Casper would fit in well in Alaska. He was an enormous black guy with a shaved head, the scars of a professional warrior tattooed into his skin. Travis watched him with irritation and awe and lust, and Casper watched Travis with the tenderness and patience of a man who had spent years molding kids into men. They all looked up when Susan came walking into the dining room.

She was dressed for outdoor work in a dark green slicker and rain pants, Public Safety logo in gold on the back, and a fleece pullover and fleece hat with earflaps in bright yellow. Peter smiled at the hat. It made her look like there was a minor sun rising out of her dark hair. «Susan, come sit with us and have some breakfast. You haven't come on police business, have you? You're not about to take someone into custody?»

«I wouldn't do that until after breakfast was served, Peter.» She shrugged out of her jacket and pulled a chair up to the table. «I could probably eat a bite.» She looked the roomful of men over with the eye of a cop, and her gaze lingered on Jacob's dark head, still bent over the cello. Then she looked up at Casper. «It's good to see you back, Casper. You're early this year. Have you been out fishing yet?»

«Nope, but I'm going as soon as I can tear myself away. Between Peter's good food and Jacob's music, I'm gonna have a hard time getting out of my chair.» Jacob looked up at her and smiled. «Hello. I'm Jacob Klein.» «Hi, Jacob.»

Peter set a plate of sausage and egg casserole in front of her, then he moved back to the buffet and began filling a small bowl with blueberries.

«Thanks for the concert, Jacob,» Susan said. «This is a real treat for me. I live in a house full of boys, and they all like Big and Rich.»

Jacob laughed. «Hey, me, too! I can play 'Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy)' on the cello!»

«Don't do it, kid! I'll arrest you in a New York minute.» She slipped a book out of her pocket and set it next to her plate – Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love. «Thanks, Peter. This was really good. You got anything new and interesting from our friends at Amazon?»

Peter poured cream over the blueberries and set the bowl next to her plate. «Yes, they sent me a new tamale cookbook this week. But where am I going to find fresh masa in Alaska? I may have to grow my own corn and nixtamalate it.» Susan laughed and dug into the good food, and Peter looked over at Jacob. «What would you like, Jacob?»

Jacob smiled at him, and Peter felt the color rise in his face. «Was that real cream on those blueberries?» «Yes, it was.»

«I would love some blueberries and cream, Peter. I've never seen blueberries that were so fat and such a blue blue, if you know what I mean.» Jacob's cheeks flushed with color. «They're really beautiful, aren't they, swimming in a bowlful of cream?»

«Yes, they are. We have some blueberry bushes in the garden, though I have to fight the moose off. And the occasional bear.» «Bears? What do you do if there's a bear in the garden?»

«Nelson is supposed to run them off, but I usually call Susan. There isn't a black bear in Alaska with the balls to stand up to her.»

Peter went into the kitchen and got a blue-green pottery bowl from the cabinet that he thought Jacob might like. It was one of Sebastian's, a bowl with the wide-open shape of hands cupped together to catch the rain, a bowl made for Alaskan blueberries with a beautiful evergreen-colored matte glaze. Sebastian had told him once he was trying to make a glaze the same color as Peter's eyes, and this bowl was the closest he had ever come. Peter

carried it into the dining room, filled it and poured cream over the berries. «Do you want coffee or tea, Jacob?»

«Coffee,» he said, leaning the cello against the wall and pulling up a chair to the table. He ran a finger along the edge of the bowl. «Is this pottery? You know, pottery from a wheel?» Peter nodded. «My friend Sebastian made it.» «Sebastian?» Jacob's voice was teasing.

Peter smiled at him, but he could feel the color rise in his cheeks again. What could Jacob hear in his voice? «An old friend,» he said firmly. «Susan's his little sister.» And Jacob grinned back and tucked into his blueberries and cream.

«Tiny sent me, Peter,» Susan said. «He thought your radio was off, and he wanted to remind you about the contest tonight.»

«Oh, that's right! Thanks, I did forget, Susan.» He looked around the table. «I don't suppose any of you men are Elvis impersonators?» * * * * *

After breakfast Peter walked Susan outside to her truck. «Susan, have you heard from him?»

She shook her head. «That's really why I came by. The river started flowing up in Fort Yukon. It should get down to his camp in a week, maybe a little less. Supposed to be a lot of ice this year. You might try him on that fancy satellite phone you bought. Make sure he's okay. I don't know when he was planning to head down this way, but I suspect he's coming soon.» Peter wondered if he heard the faintest note of warning in Susan's voice.

When the Yukon River's ice broke up in the spring, and the river started flowing again, the great heavy chunks of river ice started flowing with it. Some years the ice compressed, piled up and flowed down over the land like a huge ice tsunami, ripping out homes and trees,

gouging deep divots of rich black earth from the river banks. Sebastian had a fish camp on the Yukon River, forty acres of wild land for himself and his dogs. He was a musher, a longdistance sled dog racer. The winter racing season was over, and Peter had heard through Susan that a couple of his best dogs were pregnant. Breeding and training sled dogs in Alaska made Sebastian enough money he could live alone in a cabin in the wilderness, alone with forty dogs and four hundred books and a tiny pottery studio. Peter and Sebastian had been lovers off and on for years. Lovers and housemates and partners and best friends, but they had a hard time living together. No, they had an impossible time trying to live together. And Peter was sick of it.

After Susan drove off, Peter looked over the garden. The garden paths were lined with black railroad ties and filled in with evergreen mulch, so they stayed dry and smelled good when you walked on them. The railroad ties edged the raised beds as well, making tidy green, geometric patterns that Peter loved. He'd wanted his kitchen garden to look like an Alaskan version of the pretty knot gardens he'd seen once in Williamsburg.

The herbs were already running riot. The heated beds he had put in last season were growing enough cilantro to make Mexican and Thai food for the entire island for a month. He pushed open the greenhouse door. It was like a rainforest in there, muggy and dripping hot. The tomato seedlings would never grow with this much humidity, but the eggplants were sprouting at a truly alarming rate. He cracked a window, walked back outside to see a moose calf chomping down on the blueberry bushes.

Where was the mother? Peter clapped his hands loudly, but the baby ignored him. Nelson came out of the woods that edged the garden, buttoning his pants. The gardener was always peeing in the woods. For some reason Peter found this faintly gross, but he supposed he should be happy Nelson wasn't peeing on the herbs. Urine was supposed to be a good nitrogen fertilizer or something, but Peter had explained fairly early on that he kept a no-pee garden, since they actually ate the food they were growing. Nelson had just listened with a wooden face. Lots of men in Alaska peed in the woods. Sebastian did it – something in the

nature of a brown bear marking his turf, Peter had always thought. Nelson was a hard worker, and kept an excellent garden, so Peter wasn't going to hold this outdoor urination against him.

When Nelson looked up Peter pointed to the moose, and Nelson picked up a rock and threw it at the calf. It hit him in the hindquarter, and the baby yelped and bayed, ran off along the edge of the woods. Peter could hear the mother's anxious bellow, the baby's cries. He spread his hands in a what was that? sort of gesture, but Nelson ignored him, turned away and went into the garden shed.

There were a lot of men in Alaska who were there because no place else would have them. Nelson was a good example, reading negative on the social skills chart. But Peter put up with him because he needed the help. There was nothing a good cook needed more than a lush and fertile kitchen garden. Nelson also didn't seem to mind doing all the shit jobs around the hotel. He took care of the landscaping, drove the guests to and from the airport, hauled supplies and fixed the boats and cranky outboard motors, and unclogged the temperamental plumbing.

The handyman before Nelson, Charlie – now he had been a drinker, a big drinker, and he had nearly burned down the hotel dropping a lit cigarette onto the rug by his bed. That's when Peter had built the tiny cottage at the back of the garden, so the various handymen wouldn't actually have to live inside the hotel. The one before Charlie was called Big D. Big D, also a big drinker though his initial stood for Dave, had driven a van full of guests off the road on the way to the airport. He was legally drunk at the time, blowing 0.22 on the Breathalyzer. Peter still, to this day, wondered how six adult men had managed to get into a van with an obviously drunk driver, and not a single one of them had taken his keys or even just gotten back out of the van and come into the hotel and told someone, like Peter. No, they just sat there like sheep being driven to the slaughterhouse. It had been a miracle no one was seriously injured, but Peter's liability insurance had more than doubled after that.

When Peter went back inside, Casper was leaning over the counter, talking to Travis, who had been off duty for two hours. He was back behind the reception desk, though, like he needed to keep a large, wooden barrier between Casper and himself.

«So sleep in the boat, kid. All I'm gonna do is throw a few lines in the water, hope the fish don't bite, then I'll read my book for awhile. Or I'll just sit there, let the boat rock me to sleep, let the sun shine, not think about anything. That's what you do when you go fishing.» Travis chewed on his bottom lip. «Yeah, okay.»

«Casper, would you like a cooler of soda and a lunch basket? How about an Italian sub?» «Peter, thanks. That would be great. Yeah, I love your subs.»

«I'll get the cooler.» Travis disappeared into the kitchen, and Casper watched him, a faint frown between his eyes. Peter started picking up the newspapers and letters on the front desk. «So, you think he's adjusting well, Casper? He's only been home four months. That's not very much time.»

«No, it's not. Early days.» Casper shrugged. «Doesn't seem like he's been sleeping like he needs to. I'm gonna try and talk to him. Make sure everything is working itself out.»

«Casper, anything you say to me will be held in confidence. Travis will always have a home here, for as long as he wants one. He never has to worry about that.»

Casper nodded and fitted his nylon fishing cap over his bald head. «Tell him I'm down at the boat dock, Peter.»

In the kitchen, Peter pulled out a couple of long, soft loaves of Italian bread and sliced them lengthwise. He poured olive oil over the bread, then started slicing tomatoes. Travis brought a cooler in, filled the bottom with ice. «Nothing's going on,» he announced. «I mean, like, if you were wondering about me and Casper.» «Okay.» «I mean, it's nothing like…»

Peter turned around. «Travis, you don't have to report to me. You're a grown man. But I'm always happy to listen if you want to talk.»

Travis ran both hands through his hair, rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes. «I don't know what I'm doing.»

«You're going fishing with a friend. Men do it all the time. It doesn't have to be a big deal.»

«I thought you might have some rule about fraternization. You know, like with guests.» Jacob stuck his head in the kitchen door. «Hey. Am I interrupting?»

Peter smiled at him. «Come on in. Travis, I think you should use your best judgment.»

When Travis left the kitchen, Jacob leaned against the food prep island for a moment, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, then he reached out for Peter, reached for his shirt and tugged him close, and Peter thought that his hands were so young and eager and beautiful he couldn't have resisted him. Jacob's cheeks were flushed with color, eyes dark, like the velvet night sky in the Alaskan wilderness, all the light from starshine.

«Peter, I know you're busy.» Jacob's arms were around his waist now, and he was trembling. Trembling and erect. Peter pulled him close, buried his face in Jacob's dark hair. It still had that fresh scent from his shampoo, like cool mint and strawberries. «Listen, I have to leave tonight. Remember? Can I… Do you have a little more time for me?»

Peter looked down into his face, traced his wide forehead, still clear and unlined, his sharp cheekbones and the curve of his jaw, ended with his fingers over Jacob's mouth, a mouth he had kissed just hours before. Jacob smiled up at him.

«Yes, Jacob. I have time for you. It's…» His tongue stuttered on the words, felt suddenly awkward and formal. «It is my great pleasure.»

Upstairs in his bedroom Peter let Jacob tug the shirttails out of his cords, unzip and slide them down with an eagerness that caused Peter to laugh a little, remembering what it felt like to be twenty-six. Jacob pushed him back into the armchair next to his bed, knelt

between his thighs and reached for his cock. He tugged the boxers down over Peter's hips, then slid those long fingers up Peter's thighs to cup his balls.

«Oh, God, Peter, you're so gorgeous. Lean back a little. Let me get in here.» His fingers tangled in Peter's pubic hair, gave it a little tug. «So this is what a natural blond looks like. Awesome.»

Peter laughed, then moaned at the sensation of Jacob's mouth on his cock, velvet soft, wet and hot. Jacob wrapped his tongue around the head in a slick little dance, and Peter gasped out loud, reached for Jacob's silky hair. «Oh, Jacob. The way you touch me, I don't know…»

Jacob slipped the head of Peter's cock out of his mouth, and his warm breath across his skin gave Peter a lightning jab of lust down into his belly. Jacob wrapped his fingers around him and squeezed gently. «Peter, I want you to come in my mouth. I want to taste you, and I promise I'm not just saying that.» His voice was wheedling, and he grinned up at Peter from between his legs. «I mean, I'm not just saying that to make you hot.»

«But you are getting me hot, aren't you?» His cock was enormous, iron-hard, straining toward Jacob's smiling mouth. He couldn't remember the last time he had been this turned on, his body waking up to sensation like a bear shaking off his winter's nap. Peter reached out, touched his face, and Jacob lowered his head, took Peter's cock in his mouth again. The delicate curve of his neck, and Jacob's fingers stroking him, stroking the base of his cock, stroking his balls, and something opened in Peter's chest, opened and tipped over, and he wondered if he might be falling in love. That would be good, to be in love again, to experience it all again, like the first time, all the excitement and tragedy and warmth and drama of being in love. And then he couldn't think anymore. His thoughts scattered like a flock of dark birds wheeling into a pale sky, sensation like bright lights behind his eyes, cello music, and he spilled into Jacob's mouth. His semen pumped out of him like yearning, or desire, and Jacob's hands clutched his hips, held them together as one.

They ended on his bed together, Jacob cradled in his arms. «Peter, do you travel much? Ever been to Montreal?»

«No, I'm very tied to the hotel. I've always been happy with that, to tell you the truth. I bought it nearly fifteen years ago now. I must have been just a bit older than you are now. I was lucky. I came into some money from a great-uncle. He left it to me because I was gay. And out.» «Really? Wow. It doesn't usually work that way, does it?»

«No, it doesn't. It's a funny old world. He said he wanted me to have the money because I had the courage to be myself. Luckily for me he didn't know me very well. I'm not brave. I just have no talent for acting.» «Why a hotel?»

«So charming young cellists can come and stay with me?» Jacob grinned and ran a hand up and down the inside of Peter's thigh. «This is one of the great careers for English majors. To tell you the truth, I think I'm a bit of a homebody. I like good company, and this way I can stay snug on my island, cook and read and talk to handsome men every day.»

«Sounds like a fine life. But it's a small island, Peter. You don't ever miss the city?»

«No, I'm happy here. In fact, my…my friend, Sebastian. This little town is too big for him. He needs to head off into the wilderness alone most every year. He makes me feel like a real big-city boy.» Jacob was quiet, his hand stroking Peter's chest. «Jacob, that music you played earlier.»

«You mean the Clapton song? 'River of Tears'? I saw your face while you were listening to it. Does that song mean something to you, Peter?»

«I don't know.» His hands traced a line down Jacob's back, a gentle touch over the healing bruises. «The music was so evocative, it reminded me of something, but I don't know what. Sorrow, or loss.»

«It feels like that to me, too, Peter. Sorrow and loss, but also a way out. Not so much like a man running away, but like a man walking away, walking away strong. Saving himself.» Jacob sighed, his breath blowing warm across Peter's chest. «I like that song. I played that for myself. I'm gonna write some music for you one day, Peter. Music that feels the way I feel right now, while I'm wrapped around you all warm and sexy and happy and safe.» «Can you write music like that, Jacob?» «Yeah, I can. I've got extemporaneous written all over me.»

Peter laughed. «You've got extemporaneous written all over you? Okay, close your eyes and spell it. I bet you can't.»

«Sure I can! I was the Pacific Heights Elementary Spelling Bee champ. I spelled 'Albuquerque' to win. Wait, I'll show you.» Jacob scrambled off the bed and pulled his jeans on, no underwear. «The music, I mean. I don't have my spelling bee trophy hidden in my cello case. Don't move. I'll be right back.»

Peter laughed a few minutes later when Jacob wrestled his cello in through the bedroom door. He pulled it out of the case, set the case in the corner, fitted the instrument between his knees. «Peter's song,» he said, closing his eyes, and the room filled with mellow rich notes, as dark as red wine, as rich and silky smooth as Jacob's hair. Peter lay across his bed, his body warm and liquid-happy, listening to Jacob play for him.

He only heard the notes that one time, but the music stayed in his memory for the rest of his life. He would hear it sometimes, echoes of notes in his dreams, when he dreamed of Jacob.