Creative Process Page 3

  Dead people all look the same, Reese thought. They all look pale. Their eyes are glassy. They all look… dead. How do people not get bored of reading about it?

  “Looks like maybe she was strangled,” a smooth voice said behind him.

  “Mmm. Yes. It does look that way, but she wasn’t. Not strangled to death anyway.” Harris reached up with his handkerchief and pulled a Polaroid picture down from where it had been taped to the rearview mirror. He straightened up and handed the picture to the young detective at his side. His name was—

  His name was…. What? Reese was terrible at making up names. And what made it worse was that he was completely incapable of changing one once he was using it, so he had to make damn sure he chose the right name to begin with. Once a character had a name, then they got a face and clothing and a personality, and so it was impossible for him to make a George into a Samuel later on.

  “His name was….” Reese sighed and tapped his fingers on the desk. “His name was….”

  He grinned.

  His name was Benjamin Turner, and he was new to the precinct.

  He was also hot and blue-eyed and liked to read romance novels. Reese’s grin grew broader. Yes, it was Reese’s little secret, and no one had to know. He’d keep it to himself, just something to keep his interest, and no one would be the wiser.

  “Another one?”

  “He takes Polaroids of his victims just before he kills them, and then he leaves them for me to find. It’s a calling card. A challenge. He’s mocking me.”

  Harris paced away from the car and back again. “It’s personal.”

  Turner nodded. “I see,” the young officer said softly, dropping the Polaroid into an evidence bag. “The car is registered to Penelope Hart, but not at this address. I knocked on the door to see if anyone was home—I thought maybe someone inside could offer some insight, but—”

  “No one answered the door.”

  “Right. How did you know?”

  “Because I live here,” Harris said, squinting from the driveway to his front door. “This is my house.”

  “Dun dun duuuuuun,” Reese sang, imitating the tried and true something-shocking-just-happened music. “It’s on your front door step now, Mr. Harris. What are you going to do?”

  It wasn’t three thousand words yet. Reese still had a way to go. “Hm. What are you going to do, Harris? Go into the house and see if he left you someone’s liver in your kitchen sink? Eyeballs in the fridge? Maybe intestines in your bathtub…. Eeeeew. Hey, I know! Why don’t you take the young, hot, Detective Turner inside and examine the evidence?”

  Reese laughed and reached for the keyboard, trying to decide what Harris’s next move really would be.

  Although….

  Giving no thought whatsoever to the implications of what he was doing, Reese’s fingers began to fly. Uncensored.

  Turner’s back hit the wall hard, and then Harris was on him. Their mouths clashed and bit and sucked anything and anywhere they could reach. “Fuck,” Harris breathed, shoving a hand into Turner’s groin. “So hard.”

  “Yes, yes.” Turner spread his legs wider, giving Harris better access to his rock-hard cock. He reached out and yanked open the buttons of Harris’s shirt. “Come on.”

  Harris nodded and jerked open Turner’s belt with one hand before shoving the detective’s pants down over his hips. They landed around Turner’s feet.

  Reese didn’t stop to consider anything; he just kept typing. He hadn’t felt this inspired in ages. He’d been missing that rush of ideas that would come on so fast that his fingers could barely keep up. He’d missed the way characters just knew what they wanted to do next, that organic way of writing in which outlines and plot charts were practically unnecessary. He’d missed just writing to see where a story took him.

  However inappropriate to the plot, Reese liked where this one was going, and he wasn’t changing course right now for love or money.

  Or lust.

  Harris pushed Turner onto his bed and then yanked open his bedside drawer. He retrieved a foil package and tore it open while Turner unbuttoned his pants.

  “Harris….”

  “It’s Greg.” Harris waved the little packet in front of Turner’s eyes. “Benjamin.”

  “All right. Let me get that for you, Greg.”

  In his mind’s eye, Reese had a very clear picture of the scene unfolding for him. A lamp at one end of the room cast a warm glow across both men’s skin. A duvet spilled to the floor beside the large bed, one corner still clinging stubbornly to the footboard. Pillows were thrown aside or crushed underneath Benjamin’s shoulders, and clothing littered the floor. Harris braced most of his weight on one bent knee that was wedged between Benjamin’s thighs. His other foot was on the floor for balance.

  Benjamin’s legs hung off the edge of the bed and he was reaching for the condom, grasping at the air.

  “Would you give me that, please?” Benjamin demanded impatiently. Greg let the rubber slip from his fingers, and Benjamin let out a satisfied grunt. “Thank you.”

  Greg reached to the side and found the lube, groaning softly as Benjamin rolled the rubber slowly down the length of his cock. He slipped the tube into Benjamin’s palm. “While you’re at it.”

  “Mmm. My pleasure.”

  “Hurry it up, though.” Greg ached. He couldn’t remember the last time he just wanted to fuck someone. Not talk, no foreplay. At this moment, it didn’t matter to him if they ever saw each other again. That wasn’t what he was after. He just wanted, needed so badly. But Greg knew he would see Benjamin, often, at the precinct or at the next crime scene, and that suited him just fine.

  Reese pushed back from his desk again, but this time for an entirely different reason. He shifted in his chair, gaining a little more room in the crotch of his jeans. His cock was half-hard and starting to press up against his fly, and he could feel a warmth rising in his cheeks. He closed his eyes, and blue eyes stared back at him from the bed. Stared back at Harris. Harris. The scene was about Harris, dammit.

  Reese cleared his throat and put his fingers back on the keyboard.

  Slowly, Greg sank into Benjamin. He buried himself deeper and deeper until his thighs pressed tightly against Benjamin’s ass. Both men sighed, and Benjamin lifted his ass higher.

  “Want you,” Greg growled, holding back a moment longer—just long enough to hear Benjamin’s answer.

  “Fuck me,” Benjamin said softly. “Greg.”

  Greg took hold of Benjamin’s knees and pressed them open wider as he started to thrust. Benjamin cried out and arched his back, giving Greg better access.

  It was a long moment before Reese was completely aware of what was happening. He wasn’t typing anymore. His jeans were open and his cock was out, one hand pumping his erection powerfully. His ass was clenched, his hips lifted slightly out of his chair, and he was about to come. He blinked to clear his vision and took a deliberately deep breath, but there was no stopping it now.

  “Oh fuck. Fuck!” Reese groaned and arched in his chair. He had only enough presence of mind to swivel his chair at the last moment to avoid shooting all over his MacBook. He came hard with a shout. “Fuck, yes!”

  He rode out the longest, most intense climax he’d had in a very, very long time.

  Chapter V

  THE PHONE rang.

  The phone rang.

  The phone was ringing.

  Reese rolled onto his back and blinked at the ceiling. With one hand he swiped the drool at the corner of his mouth, and a second later, he recognized how gross that was.

  The phone. Landline.

  That was what had woken him up.

  “Go away!” he growled and rolled over again, but a little voice inside asked him what he was late for this time, and he sat bolt upright. “Shit. Shitshitshit!” He dove for the phone and picked it up just as it stopped ringing. “Fuck.”

  Seconds later, his cell was ringing. He hauled himself out of bed and hurried down the hall to his
desk. “What? Hello?” he shouted into the phone.

  “Whoa, settle down, Reese.” It was Chad.

  “What am I missing? How late am I? I just need a shower and—”

  “Nothing. Not late. Nothing’s going on. Sit down, honey.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  He sank into his desk chair. “Oh, thank God.”

  Chad snorted. “Better?”

  “Better. Wait. Why are you calling me at dawn on a Saturday, then?”

  “It’s noon, Reese.”

  “What?”

  “Noon? You know, little hand and big hand—”

  “Right. Fuck off.”

  Chad laughed softly. “Honey, are you hungover?”

  “No.”

  “Got company?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sick?”

  “No, Chad.” Reese was growing impatient. “Tell me what you want.”

  “So dominant. I love it. I’m calling because I want to invite you out tonight.”

  He sighed. About once a year or so, Chad would try to make a move on him again. Usually, though, it involved alcohol, not morning coffee. “Is this the annual hit?”

  “What? Hell no, honey. I’ve given up on your grumpy ass.”

  “That’s what you said last year.”

  There was a momentary pause, and Reese grinned. Chad was a good friend, a good colleague, and deserved a good man. Finally, Chad snorted and said, “Listen, do you want to go out with me tonight or not?”

  “Sure.” He needed to get out more, right? Right. “Where are we going?”

  “Dressy black-tie thing at Symphony Hall.”

  “Oh my, Chad. You’re going to put on a tux?” Reese spun around in his desk chair.

  “I do own one, you know.”

  “I know.” Reese picked up a pen and tapped it on the desk. “I just thought you saved it for money-making events like book release parties.”

  “So cynical, honey. No wonder you’re lonely.”

  Chad said things like that all the time, but lately for some reason, they stung more than they should. “Fuck off.” He’d meant that to sound more playful than it had.

  “Oh, honey, I was kidding you. You’ll find Mr. Right soon. For now, you have me!”

  Reese laughed. It was true enough; Chad was excellent company. “See you tonight, Chad. Pick you up at seven?”

  “Perfect.”

  REESE LOVED the feel of a tuxedo. He liked the way it was tailored just to him: the inseam was spot-on; the length of the sleeves of his jacket hit just right; the collar sat neat and flat around his neck and across his chest. He loved bow ties too and was a big fan of shiny, expensive shoes. He really did believe every man looked hot in a tux.

  In honor of the black-tie occasion, he decided to treat Chad and hired a limousine to drive them: a black sedan with tinted windows and lots of luxury inside. Chad was duly impressed and even more so when their car was ushered right up to the front entrance of the theater. A gentleman in a spiffy valet uniform opened the door and held it for them as they got out of the car. Reese gave the driver instructions, tipped the valet, and the car moved off, leaving them steps away from a red-carpeted entrance.

  “Well, this is quite the experience, isn’t it?” Reese commented as they stepped onto the carpet and headed through the main doors.

  Chad nodded. “I’m so glad you could come. I don’t know anyone else that would be into this, and… whoa.”

  Reese had to agree with Chad’s assessment. The recently renovated grand lobby was decorated with lush red draperies, marble flooring, ornate sculptures, and gold leaf accents. An enormous crystal chandelier hung overhead and a large, ornate clock stood directly across from the main doors. The entry level was raised several feet, and Chad and Reese made their way down a wide set of richly carpeted stairs before heading for the crowded bar. There were tuxedos everywhere, most of them fairly traditional, and an array of colorful and stylish gowns. Reese found himself standing a bit straighter and holding his chin a bit higher; something about the formality of the event was getting under his skin.

  Chad ordered drinks and handed Reese a scotch.

  “On the rocks?”

  “It’s the symphony, honey, not one of your corner bars.”

  Reese shrugged. Scotch was scotch. He took a taste and nodded approvingly.

  “So I probably should have asked you what we are going to hear,” Reese said, leaning against the pedestal of one of the sculptures. Whatever it was, it wasn’t naked. A shame.

  “Beethoven, Haydn, and um…. Strauss, I think?”

  “Oh.” Reese was glad that he was at least familiar with the composers. He really knew nothing about classical music. He went for enthusiastic. “I can’t wait.”

  “I thought you’d like that.”

  Reese was just finishing his drink when the lobby lights dimmed a couple of times, signaling everyone to take their seats. It took a bit to maneuver their way into the theater, but once inside, they found their seats easily. “Where did you get these tickets?” Reese asked. “They’re really good.”

  “They were a gift, actually.” Chad kept his eyes on the stage curtain as he continued. “From my mother.”

  “From your….” Reese turned and looked at Chad. “Mother?”

  Chad bristled at the look. “Shut up. She knows I like orchestral music.”

  “Your mother.” He laughed. “Did I miss your birthday?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Have you been a very good boy?”

  “Reese,” Chad snarled between clenched teeth.

  “Or did she make you buy them with your allowance?”

  Chad punched Reese in the arm gently. “I said shut up.”

  “Are you going to call her in the morning and tell her what a great time you had?” Reese grinned at Chad.

  “Yeah, I…. Shut. Up.”

  “You’re adorable.”

  Chad was saved from any further abuse by the opening of the overture.

  BY THE time the curtain call ended, Reese felt a little worn out. He enjoyed the performance well enough, he’d just forgotten how demanding listening to complicated concertos and the intricacies of a full orchestra could be. He and Chad wended their way through the crowd and headed for the entrance. Their car would be waiting for them, Reese knew, though it would be somewhere in a long line of other vehicles picking up the formally attired symphonygoers. They stepped outside to wait, and Reese was grateful for the fresh air. It would help perk him up.

  Chad got into a conversation with the couple standing next to them about the performance, and really that was just as well. Reese wasn’t at all knowledgeable about orchestra music; all he really knew was that he liked it. He was also appreciative of the obvious talent and the hours of training and rehearsal that the musicians clearly put in to achieve a performance such as he’d just seen. Reese smiled and nodded, listening and having no idea what Chad was on about, something about the Strauss waltzes. Chad’s enthusiasm made him smile.

  Chad had evolved over the past seven years from a hastily and reluctantly hired publicist to a trusted friend, and Reese counted on him to keep track of the more left-brained aspects of trying to sell his work. Reese hated self-promotion, and he hated the business aspect of being a published author. He just wanted to sit at his computer and let the demons out, in all their gory glory. If it weren’t for the pesky annoyance of needing to eat and pay rent, he might never have sought out a publicist at all.

  “Hey, do you know if there is somewhere else I can get a cab?”

  Reese was distracted by a voice off to his right and turned to look. Just a few feet away a cellist, judging by the size of the instrument case he was lugging around, was talking with one of the uniformed valets.

  “Good luck. You’d probably do better walking north a couple of blocks to pick one up. Or the subway is three blocks east.” The valet pointed in that direction.

  The cellist sighed and set his instrum
ent down on the ground. “Hm, maybe.” He looked up just then and right into Reese’s eyes. Mother of God, he was striking—rich brown eyes, delicate features, and warm, tawny-beige skin. He had lush, curly black hair that hung to just past his shoulders.

  “Kelsey! Mr. Kelsey?” Reese blinked and looked around.

  “Hey, Reese. That’s us,” Chad said and then turned back to say goodbye to the couple he’d been talking with.

  Reese looked back at the cellist, who had started to walk in the direction of the subway. “Hey,” Reese called out impulsively. “Um, excuse me?” He trotted a few steps and caught the musician by the elbow. “You need a ride? My car is here, and… well, there’s room.”

  “A… um, what?” The guy seemed startled and pulled his elbow away.

  “Sorry, I overheard you asking about a cab, and I just thought you might like a ride.”

  “Have we met?”

  Chad was already on the curb, and a valet was holding the door. “Reese!”

  Reese glanced over and held up a hand to hold Chad off. “Gotta run, are you coming?”

  The cellist hesitated a moment but apparently decided he’d take the chance. He picked up his instrument. “Well, if you don’t mind, why not?”

  Reese grinned and hurried over to the car. He opened the trunk, not waiting for the valet. The cellist shook his head with a smile and opened the front passenger side door. He and the driver maneuvered the instrument into the front seat, and then he and Reese climbed into the car.

  “Hard case never fits in the trunk.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, it’s a pain in the ass.”

  Chad raised an eyebrow at Reese, who had ended up in the middle seat, and then reached around him to extend a hand to their passenger. “Well, hello there. I’m Chad.”

  “Owen.” Owen shook Chad’s hand. “This is awesome.”

  “Do you two know—”

  “Reese,” Reese interrupted, also offering his hand. “Nice to meet you. The performance was fantastic.”

  Owen nodded. “Thanks. And thanks for the ride, Reese.”