Lost Souls Page 3
“Do you need a place to stay?” Gavin couldn’t imagine Matt would go back to that house, not tonight at any rate; it was still an active crime scene. Bud would have successfully removed Gavin (and probably Dom as well) from involvement; Gavin hadn’t gotten an update in hours.
Matt glanced at him then, eyes dark and shining. Gavin felt, fleetingly, like a sorry excuse for a human being, because when Matt looked at him like that, open and honest and real, for the first time in years... Well, it erased a whole hell of a lot, in Gavin’s mind, and all he wanted to do was cup his stubbled chin and pull him close, push all of the feelings he had bottled up for so long into Matt’s mouth.
Instead, he waited, silent.
Matt nodded. “Yeah,” he said, eyes falling to the seat between them. “Do you mind?”
Gavin tentatively laid a hand on his shoulder but Matt didn’t look up again. “No problem, Matt. You know that.”
Matt didn’t know that, couldn’t, but they were both far more than skilled at avoidance than admissions. Gavin appearing without question and Matt getting in the car was as close to a truce as they were likely to come. Matt nodded, once, leaning towards the door until Gavin’s hand fell from his shoulder.
Gavin put the car in gear and began to drive, thinking there was no getting around it; he was fucked. Hell, they were both fucked. It felt uneasy, a pattern repeating itself, the loop of his and Matt’s life, ground to a misguided halt a long time ago, but now winding up, stumbling forward, unsteady and unstable.
He hoped to God they were ready.
Matt stood in Gavin’s living room, trying to absorb the differences, and the similarities, to the apartment they had shared before. He spotted family photos and Gavin’s favorite recliner, but most of the furnishings were new, or at least new to him. Gavin returned with clean sheets and a pillow, a sheepish expression on his face.
“Sorry,” he said, smiling tentatively. “I don’t have a bed in the spare bedroom. I, uh,” he scratched the back of his neck self-consciously. “I never got around to buying one.” He gestured to the sofa. “We can make up the couch though.”
Matt took the folded pile from him, their fingers brushing in the transfer.
Gavin tried not to react and failed miserably, the hot tingle of contact forcing his hand to reach for more, grazing Matt’s wrist.
Matt pulled back abruptly, eyes shuttering. “Thanks, I can manage.”
Gavin took a step back. Then another. “Okay. I’ll just be in my room.” He paused at the living room door. “Call if you need anything.”
Matt was still holding the sheets, staring down at them, frozen.
“Matt?”
His eyes flew to Gavin’s. “I’ll manage, Gavin. Good night.”
Gavin hesitated by the door for another second, but when Matt began to efficiently make up his bedding, he continued down the hall. In the bedroom, he lay down after setting the alarm on his phone, sighing with the knowledge that he would probably not be falling asleep again tonight. Should make tomorrow really interesting.
In the living room, Matt stalled for as long as he could, until exhaustion forced him to climb between the sheets, a smell so heartbreakingly familiar surrounding him when he finally laid down his head.
Gavin had given him his pillow.
Chapter 4
Gavin must have dozed, because he was jerked awake by the buzz of his phone on the nightstand. He had set it to vibrate earlier, not wanting to wake Matt on the off chance the other man was actually able to sleep. It was a text message from Dom.
You by God better not be hungover.
Gavin smiled sleepily and rubbed his eyes with his fists. Not from booze, he thought, but he still wasn’t going to be firing on all pistons today. Wide awake and right as rain, Dominic, he answered.
Sorry I must have the wrong number.
Gavin huffed lightly and tossed the phone to the end of the bed, stretching his arm to the floor, feeling for his jeans. The air above the bedding was cold; he had forgotten to turn the heat on again. Matt was probably freezing in the living room.
That thought was enough to force him to his feet, hissing when his bare soles touched cold hardwood. He tugged his jeans into place, shivering while he dug a clean pair of socks and a black t-shirt from his dresser drawers. He padded down the hall as quietly as he could, peering into the living room.
Matt’s dark hair was the only thing visible in the shadowy room, the rest of his body huddled under the sheet and thin blanket Gavin had given him the night before. Gavin sighed. Stubborn bastard could have asked for more blankets. Or turned the heat on himself. Gavin left to retrieve the two uppermost covers from his bed and returned to the living room. He carefully floated them over Matt’s sleeping form, staring down at him thoughtfully.
He could visualize Matt’s face hidden under the worn cotton and wool, the way his brow would furrow deep, even at rest, when he was worried or angry; the way his lips parted with each breath, just enough space that the air would whistle softly, if you listened closely.
The way he would burrow deep under the blankets on cold winter mornings, cupping icy hands around Gavin’s waist in an effort to keep warm.
Gavin closed his eyes tiredly, forcibly pushing old memories back into the recesses of his mind. There were times he had wondered if it might not have been easier if he could just forget all of it, all of Matt. And there were times he had drunk himself into oblivion, seeking just that. But there were just as many counter moments when his brain had refused to let him, replaying tender moments, stolen kisses, the brief period when they were the happiest, and Gavin was thankful for it, even when it hurt.
Sometimes it felt like his entire life had revolved around Matt, and he had been living on pause for five long years.
He left the sleeping man and went to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. It was early, not quite six, and he yawned as he watched dark liquid drip into the clear carafe. As long as he was up, he might as well go in early, see what had been accomplished so far on Leanne’s case. Gavin was fine with someone else taking over as lead detective; neither Gavin nor Dom could have remained on the case from an ethical standpoint. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to make damn sure the whole thing was handled using the best police work available, or that he couldn’t assist behind the scenes. It would probably be Danny Burke. Burke was an all right guy; kind of a douchebag with a power complex, but he had a biting wit that Gavin appreciated, and his heart was usually in the right place.
Remembering that he’d left his phone on the end of the bed, and knowing Dom might appear on his doorstep any second if he couldn’t get Gavin to answer (and Dom was the last person Gavin wanted to explain his houseguest to, at least for now), Gavin walked quietly down the hall. He drew up short in the bedroom door. So much for his shrewd detective skills.
Matt lay in the center of his bed, burrowed under what looked like every blanket Gavin owned.
Gavin might have laughed if his heart wasn’t breaking.
He jumped when Matt threw the cover off his head.
“Answer your damn phone, it’s driving me fucking crazy.”
Gavin recovered quickly and crossed to the foot of the bed in three long strides, snatching his cell from the mattress. He had two missed calls and six text messages, all from Dom. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I thought you were on the couch.”
“Your couch sucks.”
Matt was staring at the crack in the ceiling when Gavin snuck another glance. The scowl he had imagined earlier was solidly in place. Gavin frowned as he scrolled through Dom’s last three messages, each more urgent than the last. “I’m going to have to go in. Sorry,” he added again, without thinking.
“Why do you keep apologizing? Go. Save the world.”
The words were cold, laced with sarcasm, and Gavin tensed. His nails bit into his palm where he gripped the phone tightly in his hand. He willed his voice to be unemotional, even. “There’s food in the fridge. Help yourself.”
“Gavin. ”
He stopped, closing his eyes and breathing deep. He could do this. When he turned back he realized without a doubt that no, actually. He couldn’t.
Matt was shirtless, skin deceptively pale in the early morning light, and his hair stood up in awkward tufts. His eyes were shadowed, sorrowful as he twisted the sheet in his hands.
“Yeah?” Gavin asked, steeling himself. Matt was the living, breathing depiction of early mornings lost but not forgotten. And it stung. His phone began to buzz insistently as Dom called again.
“Thank you,” Matt replied quietly. “And I didn’t mean that.”
Gavin nodded once and left, hurrying down the hall and out of the house, needing the safety that distance would provide. Except that as soon as he was in the Jeep and pulling onto his quiet street, dialing Dom with one hand, he wished fiercely that he was back in his house, in his bedroom, losing himself in blue eyes and dark hair and a mountain of warm blankets.
Matt listened to the rumble of the Jeep’s engine as it roared to life before trailing off down the street. It was familiar and nostalgic, and combined with the smell of Gavin in the blankets, and the multitude of button downs and worn denim peeking out of the closet, it was simply too much. He was drowning. Sleep was impossible, he knew, so he left the warm confines of the bed. Before he left the bedroom, he borrowed clean underwear and socks from Gavin’s drawer.
He ignored the box of condoms tucked in with the boxer shorts. Ribbed for her enjoyment.
Son of a bitch.
He showered, standing under the strong, pounding stream of hot water until he felt the muscles in his neck relax. Leave it to Gavin to never finish furnishing his small house, but to install a superior grade showerhead. The shower itself was extra roomy, too.
After, he found himself standing in front of Gavin’s closet, staring at the hangers, reaching out to pinch the smooth fibers between his fingers. He chose a simple, black button down and a pair of worn jeans, trying to ignore the sense of possessiveness he felt when he dressed in Gavin’s clothes.
In the living room, he flipped to a news program on the television, eating a piece of dry toast as he wandered aimlessly. He picked up a photo of Antonia, Angelo and the boys, remembering the day it was taken. It had been late spring, warm and sunny, and they had played baseball in the backyard while Angelo grilled hot dogs. Matt could have taken the photo himself, even. It was rare the childhood memory that didn’t include at least one member of the DeLuca clan.
There were other photos tucked into a bookcase, between the Micah Crichton and Vonnegut paperbacks. He scanned the other titles, but saw none of his own. Not that he expected to; he wrote true crime stories mostly, and Gavin lived in the world of true crime every day. He probably didn’t want to read books about it in his spare time, especially not ones written by his former friend. Lover?
In the end, they hadn’t had time to properly define their relationship, but Matt knew that was probably for the best.
It had been a nice juxtaposition of their earlier lives though, back when they were young, and probably in love, even when they weren’t admitting it yet. Matt had finished his rather useless liberal arts degree and Gavin had graduated from the police academy and been newly inducted into homicide. Matt had written his first book based on a rather famous case that Gavin worked early in his career.
He had dedicated that book to Gavin. But in his head, they were all for Gavin.
After the first one met with some commercial success, Matt had been pleased to discover there actually was some advantage to writing well and having what Gavin jokingly referred to as an altogether unholy interest in the research process. His next two books had sold well, and now he was able to pick his own projects. He was occasionally asked to consult on cold cases around the country, and he had become known as something of an expert on serial killer profiling.
The irony wasn’t lost on him. He wondered idly how long before the news broke that his wife was the victim of an incredibly violent crime. The press would have a field day, and his editor would be apoplectic (although probably in a perverse, excited manner, not the concerned, gracious mode of a true friend).
As he studied the shelves, a small, blurry photo caught his eye: it was of him and Gavin, arms slung around bare shoulders, smiling faces carefree in the too bright summer sun. His heart clenched tight in his chest. He popped the last bite of toast in his mouth and brushed his fingers clean on his leg. The small gold frame was set to the back of the shelf, nestled on top of a thin volume of poetry. He picked them both up, fanning through the pages of the book first. It fell open to an obviously oft-read page, marked with a folded square of wax paper, a preserved four-leaf clover visible through the haze. He read over the words, one verse partially underlined: So deep in love am I, And I will love thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry.
The photo had been taken the summer they went away to camp; a shaky ill-timed snapshot, Gavin’s mouth half-open in a laugh, the lake sparkling in the background behind them, the edges blurred. Matt tucked the frame back into place on the shelf, but kept the book, running a fingertip along the spine as he straightened.
He wasn’t prepared for the memories the photo threatened to dredge up, not yet. And he felt detached as he thought of the day that lay ahead; he would have to go to the funeral home, plan Leanne’s service, try to get back into the house to retrieve clothes and toiletries. Call his editor and let him know the research into his next book would be on hold for a while.
Find a place to live for the foreseeable future. He squeezed the bridge of his nose. He could smell Gavin’s soap on his skin.
His hand fell to his side and he set the book on the side table, by the phone. He should probably call the funeral home. Leanne had had no other family. He would have to make all of the funeral arrangements on his own, which was a blessing he supposed. He didn’t think he would have been capable of dealing with distraught relatives, not in his current frame of mind. He didn’t want to even consider what he would have to deal with at the police station, sooner rather than later if he had learned anything from living with a cop, albeit a few years removed.
The newscaster’s words broke into his thoughts: a nurse had been found in the hospital basement, stabbed to death. One of the bodies awaiting transportation to a local funeral home had been mutilated. “No further details are being released at this time.”
Matt’s blood ran cold.
April 6, 2005
“What the hell happened here?” Gavin’s voice was amused as he surveyed the tiny kitchen. It was a disaster. Flour dotted the cabinets and the floor, every pot and pan they owned was out, some filthy and in the sink and others stacked haphazardly on the counters. He sniffed; he thought he could detect pasta amongst the underlying odor of burnt.
“Fuck, what are you doing home so early?” Matt’s hair was standing on end, in even more disarray than normal. He had a thin towel tied at his waist, but it had done little to protect his shirt, which was covered in splotches of red sauce. He was currently running cold water over his hands in the sink.
Gavin chuckled and reached over to rub at the white flecks on Matt’s temple. “I’m not early. It’s after six.”
“What?” Matt’s eyes flew to the microwave clock. “Fuck fuck fuck. I lost track of time.” He smiled weakly, turning off the faucet. “Surprise!”
Gavin stepped closer, his movements cautious. They were new to this, being together together, and he still wasn’t sure what touches he was allowed. When Matt didn’t move away, he tucked himself against his back and dropped his chin to peer over his shoulder. “What did you do to yourself there, Chef Boyardee?”
Matt leaned back, sighing. “Burned my finger on the pasta pot,” he said, grinning. He rubbed his cheek against Gavin’s stubble. “Boiling wate
r is hot. Did you know?”
“Mmm,” Gavin murmured, kissing his jaw. “I’d heard a rumor.” He wrapped his arms around Matt’s waist and pressed his mouth to the pulse he could see fluttering against his neck. “So what’s the occasion?”
Matt had tilted his head to give Gavin more access to the bare skin of his throat, but he blinked, straightening so fast he almost knocked their heads together. “My book came.”
Gavin smiled broadly. “What? Where is it?” He reluctantly let go of Matt’s waist and gave him a push when he hesitated. “Don’t just stand there and let me suck hickeys on your neck, moron. Go get it.”
Matt’s cheeks were flushed and pink. “Maybe I like you sucking on my neck, hmmm? Did you ever think of that?” His fingers gripped the front of Gavin’s shirt and pulled him close again. He kissed him lingeringly until Gavin groaned.
“Nuh uh,” he said against Matt’s lips. “Stop distracting me and go get the damn book.”
While he waited, Gavin started stacking the dishes he could tell were clean on one end of the countertop, smiling at the mess. Matt was most definitely not the cook in this household, but fuck Gavin appreciated the effort. He grinned as he thought of ways he could thank him later.
“Okay, before you read it, just know that I probably suck, and it’s my first, and,” Matt stopped when Gavin pressed three fingers to his mouth.
“Matt. Shut up.” He kissed him quick, a hard press of lips, before taking the book from him. He held it in his hands, smiling down at it until Matt rolled his eyes, tapping the cover with a knuckle.
“Aren’t you going to open it?”
“I’m savoring it. Look, your name,” Gavin said fondly, running his fingers across the embossed letters. He flipped open the cover carefully, and then turned the first pages. He paused on the dedication.
To G, for all the tomorrows.
Gavin bit his lower lip. When his eyes met Matt’s they were serious and so full of emotion that Matt might have staggered if Gavin hadn’t been ready with a firm hand on his hip.