The Mystery of Nevermore (12 page)

I liked spending them with Neil.

Or, I had. Because that was over. Right?

I walked across the floor with the string of lights and garland and stooped to plug in the end. I started to wrap the too-bright lights around the support beam beside the outlet.

Even if it wasn’t over by some miracle and Neil came home, what had happened with Calvin? I had been trying to process our rushed, er—I’d been trying to process it all night. For me it was just pent-up nerves coupled with a crush on a really hot guy. That was it. Totally it.

But what the hell had been going through Calvin’s mind?

I had to dump a mental bucket of ice-cold water over myself when the image of his mouth on me came back. That had been, without a doubt, the hottest and greatest blowjob I had ever received. And I didn’t even get to finish.

I ended up right back at what had been gnawing at my gut all night. Had I cheated? Yes. I think so. Maybe. I had warned Neil if he walked out… but a threat to change the locks—which I hadn’t done—was pretty far from just saying,
we’re breaking up if you walk out
. What if Neil was just cooling down and didn’t understand?

What if he came home? Apologized?

I could not tell him what happened. I was pretty sure Calvin wouldn’t say a word either. Then I could go back to a happier relationship with Neil, and that would be that. Everything would be okay.

“Come on,” I grumbled, tugging the strand of garland up with me as I climbed a ladder. It got tangled around the legs, and I cursed at length before managing it free.

Everything was not okay. The fact that I hadn’t been able to sleep was enough.

What had happened with Calvin wasn’t just fueled by a hot body and a hotter mouth. He believed me, knew I hadn’t hurt anyone, despite what his growing pile of evidence said. He supported me when Neil hadn’t. He told me himself, against all reason.

I believe you, baby.

Call it a hunch, but I was pretty certain he didn’t make it a habit of calling his persons of interest
baby
. So—what? Did he like me? Should I pass him a note during class?

Do u like me? Circle Y or N.

One thing was certain. Calvin made me feel safe. Not only in regards to this case, but his presence was just so unbelievably comforting. Soothing, in a sense. It always felt like he had full control and would leave no man behind.

I tacked the garland in place at the top of the beam and started the long process of draping it around the shop overhead. I got past the counter and register and reached my collection of photos and maps when I had a curious thought about Calvin.

I knew nothing about him.

Good God, I’d let basically a stranger suck my dick.

All right, not a complete stranger. I knew his name was Calvin Winter, and he had fiery red hair. He was a homicide detective with NYPD and looked
so fine
in a suit. In comparison, he knew my boyfriend, my father, my assistant, where I banked, where I lived, and that I preferred boxer briefs. I could stand to learn a thing or two about him. Pretty much anything you want to research can be found on the Internet these days.

I wasn’t climbing down from the ladder and going into my office to be a creep, of course.

I powered up the desktop computer and signed in.

He had that authoritative presence that intrigued me. If I had never met him in my life and just saw him standing in a crowded room, I’d have imagined him to be in charge. He gave off a natural aura of authority.

I liked it. It piqued my interest.

Besides, wasn’t it fair to know basic information about one of the cops investigating you?

I typed “Calvin Winter NYPD” into Google and let it fly. The search brought up a ton of links to articles and several military sites. After glancing through a few, I realized exactly why Calvin was the way he was.

Twelve-year Army veteran. Four tours, three in Iraq and one in Afghanistan. Retired with the rank of major before returning to NYPD as a detective in major cases. Recently promoted to homicide.

I scrolled through an article listing Calvin’s extensive achievements while in service before I came to a paragraph that covered his awards, and my jaw hit the desk.

Medal of Honor. Silver Star. Purple Heart.

At first, admittedly, I thought perhaps it was a different Calvin Winter, because what would a Medal of Honor recipient be doing in a stressful, shit job like homicide? What would he be doing with me? But there was a photo of Calvin in full military uniform. His hair was shorter and he looked a few years younger, but it was him.

His story was included in another article that covered recent recipients of the Medal of Honor. Apparently his patrol, while in Iraq, had been ambushed and outnumbered. Calvin had run from cover into the open to rescue his fallen comrades, all of them living because of his efforts. He was shot by insurgents while hauling the wounded soldiers to safety, but kept going and kept fighting with his own weapon and throwing back live grenades as they were lobbed at him.

Holy fucking hell.

This couldn’t be—but no, this was real.

Calvin was a real-life hero.

A few of his fellow soldiers had been quoted in the article, saying they owed their lives to Calvin. One said every day that he looks at his daughter’s face, he has Calvin to thank for it.

My chest got tight as I read.

His other awards had included saving civilians in Afghanistan who were being used as human shields. He had rescued one man, three women, and three children, then had been shot again and apparently was unable to save an elderly man and his grandson because of it.

I was at a loss for words.

His whole
walk into the room and immediately be given respect
thing made sense. Twelve years of military service.
Twelve
. And most of it not pretty. Active and dangerous combat, and a lot of it.

What I found interesting was that his authority didn’t go to his head, at least not around me. He was in command, for sure, and even when he had been with his partner, he had been shown respect, but he never seemed to power trip. He was unreasonably quiet, actually. But maybe people knew. Maybe he didn’t have to bark orders or throw around his rank because he had already earned everyone’s respect.

I wondered why he had decided to leave the military, but I couldn’t find anything about it. There weren’t any interviews with him regarding his various awards, just a few photos of when he was given the Medal of Honor by the President of the United States.

Despite being loaded up with information on Calvin’s last decade, he was more of a mystery to me than before, and as proven so far, I had a thing for mysteries.

As I sat in the quiet, reflecting on the retired major—now detective—the alarm system went off.

IT WASN’T
my alarm.

I jerked my head up and ran out of the office, looking around.

Next door, Good Books’ security alarm was blaring. Our shops were connected around the back side. It looked like two separate buildings because of the small alleyway between us, but it was actually one large structure, and so if something was happening in Beth’s store, chances were someone could run through the back door and into my shop.

It was too early for Beth to be at work, and the gate had been shut on the front of the store when I walked by. I ran through the Emporium and out the back. The alleyway was freezing, my breath visible in the chilled air. Wrapping my arms around myself, I walked down to the back entrance of Good Books.

I reached for the doorknob, ready to find it locked, but instead the door swung open.

I froze for a moment.

What was I doing? Someone broke in. They might still be in there, stealing what besides gay paperbacks, I had no idea, but I should get the hell out of Dodge.

I never listen to myself.

Instead, I got angry. I got really angry, because deep down, I just knew the same sick fuck who had killed that poor woman had killed Mike. That the same person broke into my shop, and now they were breaking into Beth’s. Feeling invincible and ready for a battle of my own, I stormed inside.

The alarm was wailing and the shop phone was ringing—most likely the security company trying to get a hold of Beth. I put my hands to my ears, trying to gather my wits as the siren drilled into my brain.

Then the lights turned on and everything went white.

The sudden brightness, compared to the comfortable dim lighting of my shop and the darkness of the covered alley, was so intense, it nearly made me cry. It was like staring right at the sun. Unbearable and painful. Without my protective lenses, I was blinded.

Suddenly I was not so invincible.

My senses were completely overwhelmed, and for a minute, I just stood there in a panic. With my eyes shut, I could feel myself starting to walk toward the security panel by the door. I knew Beth’s code—she’d given it to me a while back—and I could think of nothing else but getting that wailing alarm under control. I didn’t get far, though, because someone hit me over the head.

At least it got quiet.

SOMEONE WAS
holding my hand. It was warm and a little rough and nice.

“Neil?”

The hand loosened but remained.

“It’s too bright,” I whispered. My mouth felt thick and weird, like I was trying to talk around cotton balls. Even with my eyes closed, I could feel bright lights on me, penetrating my eyelids, making the throbbing in my head worse.

The hand left me suddenly, and I said… something, but then the room was dark and the hand returned and it was okay.

When I woke up for a second time, I was a little more aware of the world.

For one, I was lying down. It was not my bed because it felt too high and was definitely not as comfortable as a pillow-top mattress. Secondly, I was wearing significantly less clothing than how I had begun the day, which I found strange.

A wave of nausea hit me next, and I swallowed the sour taste and kept my eyes firmly shut. Something was wrong.

Where had Neil gone?

“Neil?” I asked, my own voice sounding far away.

“You awake, kiddo?”

“Dad?” I cracked open one eye. The room was dark and extremely fuzzy. I reached up to my face, but I wasn’t wearing glasses. “Oh shit.” I heard myself laugh dryly. “Help, I’m blind.”

I could make out the blob shape of my father approaching the bed. He took my hand and patted it, but it wasn’t the same as before. “You’re all right, Sebastian,” he said firmly. “Everything’s all right.”

“Where’s Neil?” I asked again.

My father hesitated, but I had closed my eyes again and didn’t know why. “He’s not here.”

“Where’d he go?”

“He hasn’t been here, Sebastian.”

“He was holding my hand.”

Dad paused again, then just patted my arm once more.

“Do you think you can answer some questions, Sebastian?” another person asked.

“Whoa,” I said quietly. “I know that voice. It’s Mr. Medal of Honor.”

“What?” That was Pop.

I opened my eyes again and raised my other hand slightly, pointing at the out-of-focus, standing figure. “Calvin is a hero.” What the fuck was I talking about? I heard myself laugh again. “My head really hurts. What did I do?”

Calvin stepped closer to the bed and took a seat in the nearby chair. “What do you remember?”

That seemed an easy enough question.

“Let’s see,” I said slowly, licking my lips. “Garland….”

“Why were you at the Emporium so early?” His tone was calm and soothing. It made my head hurt less.

“Christmas,” I muttered. “I didn’t want to be a Grinch….”

“You were putting up decorations?” he asked, but sounded like he already knew that.

I started to nod and then winced and shut my eyes again.

“Then what?” he quietly pressed.

“I thought about you.”

“Why?” he asked.

“I think you’re hot,” I answered, and even as I heard myself say it, I didn’t censor myself. Was I on drugs? “I googled you.”

Again, he asked, “Why?”

“Medal of Honor,” I muttered. “Silver Star, Purple Heart….” I moved my hand to pat my dad’s. “Army, Dad.”

“So it seems,” Pop answered.

I opened my eyes and glanced at my dad, but I think he was staring across the bed at Calvin. Shock? Impressed? I know, so was I. He was an action-movie hero, without the movie part.

Calvin cleared his throat. “Sebastian? Why were you next door?”

“Which next door?”

“Good Books.”

“Oh shit, the security alarm,” I muttered.

“It’s taken care of,” Calvin insisted.

“I heard it. I thought—Oh boy, it’s sort of hard to remember.”

“Try,” he pressed.

“I went over there because I was angry. I wanted to kick that punk’s ass, but then it got bright.”

“I think he means someone turned the lights on,” Dad said. “It’s like whitewash to him. He can’t see anything.”

“It hurt,” I added. “But my head hurts more. What happened?”

“Someone knocked you out,” Calvin said.

“Whoa.” I slowly turned my head to look at him. “Who?”

“Good question.”

“Why are you here?” I asked next.

“You called me.”

“Shut up.”

He sounded slightly amused when he said, “You did.”

“I don’t remember.”

“You weren’t making much sense,” he agreed quietly. “But I heard the alarm going off, and your speech was slurred. I knew something was wrong, so I got over there before the security company had a patrol stop by.”

“You should get another medal.”

Calvin was quiet for a beat. “I have enough,” he finally said.

“Do I have a concussion?”

“Yes,” Calvin answered. “Your doctor wants to keep you overnight for observation.”

“I have to go home,” I replied.

“You’re staying, kiddo,” my dad said.

“But I have to work.”

“Work can wait,” Pop said sternly. “I already called Max. If you want him to run the shop, let me know, but otherwise the Emporium can stay dark for a day.” He stepped away from the bed. “I’m going to get your doctor now that you’re awake. Detective Winter, could you stay for another moment and watch him?”