Skeletons in the Closet, page 1
Skeletons in the Closet
Shadowy Solutions
Nicky James
Skeletons in the Closet (Shadowy Solutions #1)
Copyright © 2024 by Nicky James
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover Artist:
Natasha Snow Designs
Cover Model
Bryan Jordan
CJC Photography
Editing:
Keir Editing and Writing Service
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the author.
Contents
Note to Readers
1. Diem
2. Tallus
3. Diem
4. Tallus
5. Diem
6. Tallus
7. Diem
8. Tallus
9. Diem
10. Diem
11. Tallus
12. Diem
13. Tallus
14. Diem
15. Tallus
16. Diem
17. Tallus
18. Diem
19. Tallus
20. Tallus
21. Diem
22. Tallus
23. Tallus
24. Diem
25. Tallus
26. Diem
27. Tallus
28. Diem
29. Tallus
Dear Readers,
More Mysteries by Nicky James
Also By Nicky James
Note to Readers
For a complete list of trigger warnings for this or any of my books, please visit my website.
1
Diem
Inever should have fucked him.
I wouldn’t be in this predicament if I had left well enough alone. We would be practically strangers. As it should be. I would have no trouble approaching him and asking for help. It would be a business opportunity, cash in his pocket, and maybe I’d get some answers for my client.
If I hadn’t fucked him, I wouldn’t be sitting in the parking lot of his building for the third night in a row like a goddamn stalker, fumbling over words in my head, trying to compile a meaningful sentence without sounding like an aggressive or rude asshole. I wouldn’t be flooded with the memories of what he looked like when he came on my dick.
I wouldn’t be stuck in the Jeep, unable to move.
I wouldn’t be sweating.
A low growl resonated in my chest.
Who was I kidding?
It made no fucking difference. Approaching anyone for help was not in my skill set. Words were not in my skill set. Engaging in meaningful conversation was like speaking a foreign language I didn’t know. The few inside contacts I had were people I’d bribed or ones who managed to ignore my less than flowery demeanor.
But fucking him had added an extra layer of discomfort to this task. Hence, there I was, crossing the line into criminal harassment.
The subject left work at five thirty-seven, stopped at the liquor store, purchased a bottle of wine, and drove home, parking his fancy-schmancy Jetta in its designated spot at six twenty-three.
When the subject swaggered to the back door of the apartment complex—it was the only way to describe the purposeful walk—he was on the phone, laughing and chatting with whoever was on the other end. His obliviousness to his surroundings was concerning. If the idiot had an ounce of common sense, he would have noticed the Jeep parked a few car-lengths down. I wasn’t exactly hiding.
However, his perpetual distraction meant I could shamelessly take him in. His fitted trousers—molded to his ass—mauve dress shirt, and silver tie screamed suave and sophisticated. The tousled, just-been-fucked style of his auburn hair, and the sexy-as-sin dark-framed glasses spoke to his playful, flirty side. A side with which I was shamefully acquainted.
It wasn’t often a guy ticked all my boxes and turned me stupid. I adhered to strict rules when it came to bed partners, which included no names and no second helpings. Anonymity was the key to survival. But Tallus fucking Domingo, Toronto Police Department’s records clerk, had managed to hijack my system six months ago. Like a barb on a fishing hook, he’d snagged the reasoning center of my brain and given a good hard tug. I had found myself unable to resist crossing lines and mixing business with pleasure.
Which was why I was in this current predicament: uncomfortable, anxious, and toeing the line of creepy stalker behavior.
All I had to do was buzz his apartment and explain the situation. He would be willing to help, or he wouldn’t. End of story. Easy-peasy. Done and done.
But I couldn’t get out of the Jeep. I couldn’t organize the right series of words inside my brain that didn’t paint me in a negative light. Communication was my downfall. It was why I avoided it. It was why I said nothing most days. Most of the time, clients didn’t notice since they were too busy getting their stories out, more concerned I understood what they needed than what I was saying or not saying.
Minutes ticked by.
My mind spun.
I mentally broke down the case that had recently landed on my desk, listening to Faye’s account over and over, wishing I could find a workable loophole that didn’t involve asking Tallus Domingo for help. But there weren’t any. I’d been over it a thousand times. Logically, I could try to take the next step on my own, but I knew without a doubt I’d fuck it up. My social skills were nonexistent. My ability to act was embarrassing. Schmoozing and chatting with strangers made my skin crawl.
But Tallus had a flare for the dramatic. He could do it easily.
Twenty minutes.
Forty.
One hour passed.
I needed to go ask him. Enough was enough. But I still didn’t move.
I picked at my nails. I drummed a beat on the steering wheel to a song I didn’t know on the radio. I tugged a loose thread on my T-shirt until the seam unraveled—then I cursed because it was one of the few good shirts I owned, and I couldn’t sew for shit.
I needed something to do with my hands. Four months ago, I’d sworn to myself I’d smoked my last cigarette, but the cravings—especially in times of stress—were unbearable, so I’d caved a handful of times. Not for long, and I always managed to get back on track. But it happened more often than I liked.
The craving itched under my skin where I couldn’t scratch. It burned in places I couldn’t douse in cold water. It worsened my temper, which was the bigger issue since I’d spent years in therapy ensuring I didn’t turn into my father.
What a waste of fucking time. Who was I kidding?
Smoking helped me think. It relieved anxiety. It calmed my jumpy nerves. Some days, I wondered if I wasn’t better off risking lung cancer.
Checking the glove compartment for the third time, confirming I was fresh out of Nicorette, I sighed, making a mental note to stop at a store on the way home. My doctor had suggested a stupid kid’s toy, something called a fidget spinner, for when I was anxious, but I’d left it on my desk at the office. I hated to admit the damn thing helped, but it did.
When I used it.
“Go inside and talk to him or go the fuck home. Simple as that.”
I did neither.
Another hour passed as I stared at the back door to the building, envisioning myself entering the lobby and buzzing Tallus’s apartment, explaining over the intercom why I was suddenly showing up after six months of silence. The conversation in my head went about as well as I expected it might. Three hundred kilometers an hour into a brick wall.
But then I envisioned Tallus letting me in, riding the elevator to the seventh floor, and knocking on his door. From there, my thoughts spun wild, revisiting the first and only time I’d been inside his apartment. To the white robe he’d been wearing, to the playful look in his eyes, to the feel of his mouth on my cock before I buried myself in his ass, and to his obvious disappointment when it had been a less than satisfactory exchange.
Hello, brick wall. We meet again.
Growling, ejecting those miserable and embarrassing thoughts from my mind, I flicked through radio stations. Unable to find anything bearable, I turned it off. I scrolled Spark, the dating app I used when I needed to scratch an itch. Three messages awaited attention in my inbox. All three were big fat nos, so I deleted them. My size attracted too many daddy-seeking twinks, and the mere notion soured my gut.
For a short while, I browsed profiles, but no one stood out. Every single person was lacking in one way or another. I’d had the same issue six months ago when Tallus Domingo had preoccupied my every thought and fucked with my libido.
“And now look where you’re at. Way to fucking go, moron. You’re a no-good fucking idiot. Shit for brains. Good-for-nothing.”
Dr. Peterson’s face appeared inside my mind, and I curbed the self-recrimination.
I closed the dating app and tossed the phone on the passenger seat. Tipping my head back, I closed my eyes and tried formulating the sentences required to politely ask for Tallus’s help. No snarling. No grunting. No demanding. The embarrassing fuck we shared doesn’t matter. It’s in the past. He probably won’t remember it.
Ten minutes later, I was still in the Jeep.
Shortly after nine thirty—three days and three hours into my new habit of cr
I sat straighter, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. The air in my lungs solidified. But, once again, Tallus was too busy typing something on his phone to notice the Jeep not twenty feet away. He passed right by as clueless as earlier.
Gone were the fitted trousers and mauve dress shirt. Gone was the silky silver tie. He wore black designer jeans with pre-torn holes down each leg, shiny Doc Martens, and a flashy, silky, skin-tight buttoned shirt with a patterned design in various shades of bright purple, turquoise, pink, and black. The top three or four buttons were undone, exposing a great deal of his smooth chest. The balmy end-of-May weather meant he didn’t wear a coat, and I was not sad.
Every chiseled curve was on display, and I stared shamelessly. Goddamn. Not for the first time, I thought Tallus was in the wrong business. The guy was model material. If he had a calendar, I’d buy one for every wall of my shitty apartment and an extra to keep beside the bed because why the fuck not?
The only missing accessory was his dark-framed glasses, and I mourned their absence. Tallus’s glasses tipped him over the edge from seriously good-looking to knee-weakening, stomach-floppingly gorgeous.
He got into the Jetta and pulled out of the lot. Despite knowing how inappropriate my actions were, I followed—like I’d been doing for the past three days. At some point, I would get my head out of my ass and confront him.
But as it stood, I needed to know where he was going at almost ten o’clock at night.
The sun had set less than an hour ago—a bonus of the approaching summer. Not fully black, the sky had darkened to an inky cobalt, smearing indigo on the opposite horizon. In the city, it was rare to see many stars, and that night was no different. A hazy, muted glow from streetlights and illuminated storefront windows hung over the city, reflecting off a thin veil of low-hanging clouds. The sliver of a rising moon drifted in and out of sight.
Traffic was steadier than expected. Trailing four car-lengths behind, I had to pay attention so I wouldn’t lose Tallus as he weaved between cars, driving faster than the posted limit.
Only when he passed an overcrowded cinema did it register that it was Friday night.
No wonder it was busier on the road.
No wonder Tallus was heading out, dressed to the nines. Did he have a date?
What was I doing? I needed to turn around and quit this nonsense.
When he pulled into the parking lot of Toronto’s most prominent gay nightclub, Gasoline, I wasn’t surprised. What shocked me was the twist of irritation in my gut, knowing Tallus was likely on the hunt for some weekend fun. A bed partner.
I shouldn’t have cared. Tallus was young, attractive, and single—so far as I knew. Why shouldn’t he dance, drink, and invite some stranger home? If the mere idea of crowds and conversation didn’t make my skin crawl, I’d likely spend my Friday nights doing the same. As it stood, I was better off with a discreet app and a phone screen as a barrier while I decided what kind of encounter I was prepared to handle.
Tallus parked and got out of the car. I wanted to power down the window and call his name, distract him from his goal. I wanted to interrupt the flow of his night, so he didn’t head inside. So some other man didn’t get to touch him like I craved.
And maybe I would have taken action if a slim man with brown skin and stylish dark hair—dressed similarly to Tallus—hadn’t appeared out of nowhere, arms spread and grinning so wide his white teeth glowed under the parking lot lights. The two embraced and shared cheek kisses like they were British royalty. A quiet conversation followed, full of more smiles and familiarity.
Was this the date?
They turned and headed toward a crowd of other hot young gay men, pouring through the main doors of Gasoline after paying their Friday night fees to the bouncer.
The stone in my gut didn’t feel good, and no matter how I adjusted myself in the seat, it wouldn’t go away. So much for taking action. The event I needed Tallus for was Sunday afternoon. At this rate, I’d be doing it myself. When I failed, I’d call Faye, return her deposit, and take another bad review on my site. Great. Perfect.
Fuck my life.
This time, I was smart enough to leave. Sitting in the Jeep at Gasoline, stewing over unpleasant memories, was asking for trouble. The chance of being approached by interested horny drunks was too high, and I didn’t have the patience for other people, nor did I need an infraction on my record for public indecency.
On my way home, I stopped at the store and bought a frozen pizza, a case of beer, and a pack of Nicorette. I stared longingly at the cage covering the cigarettes behind the counter, but I bit my tongue and avoided asking the clerk to grab me a pack.
Fuck it. I didn’t need Tallus’s help.
I could figure out the case on my own.
2
Tallus
The night was a bust. Despite the hum of alcohol running through my veins and the sheen of sweat coating my body from hours of dancing, I hadn’t connected with anyone interesting enough to take home. It was a young crowd, which was becoming typical of Friday nights, and I wasn’t feeling it.
Memphis was doing okay. He’d snagged some nineteen-year-old college freshman in the first hour we’d been at the club, and they’d barely left the dance floor. With their tongues halfway down each other’s throats and their lower bodies grinding excessively, I wasn’t shocked when they vanished for a bit to the washrooms.
Maybe that was the problem. Colleges and universities were out for the summer, and it was more packed than usual, with kids barely out of high school exploring their freedom. The influx of guys my age or older seemed to have dwindled in the past two weeks like they knew something I didn’t.
Twenty-seven was creeping up on me. Most days, I didn’t feel old, but when surrounded by guys a half-dozen years younger, it was never more glaring that my youth was slowly vanishing into the mist. Unlike Memphis, I preferred older men. Experienced men. Men without acne and baby fat. Ones who lived on their own and not in Mommy and Daddy’s basement.
Guys in their thirties were fewer and farther between lately, and I couldn’t sort it out. Maybe they felt like me and didn’t want an atmosphere inundated by practical teenagers, so they had gone elsewhere to drink and dance.
I wish I’d gotten the memo.
I wish I knew where elsewhere was.
At least Memphis was having a good time.
“Another?” The bartender, a redheaded guy named Kyle, tinkled his fingernails against my empty glass.
I checked the time—quarter after one—and shook my head. “Thanks, man. I’ll pass.”
Kyle winked and offered a flirty smile before pouring and uncapping beers for other patrons. He’d been working at Gasoline for several years and was a seasoned pro. We had enjoyed a couple of sweaty nights together a while back, but since neither of us was interested in anything serious, it had come to a natural end.
The current song faded and was replaced by an equally bass-heavy pop rendition of a classic rock song. I wished they wouldn’t ruin my favorites like that. Wasn’t there enough new age stuff out there for us to dance to?
The strobing lights pulsed with the beat, flickering and shining off people’s shirts—those wearing them. Memphis appeared from nowhere, black hair sweaty and stuck to his forehead, cheeks flush from whatever he’d been doing in the bathrooms. He air-kissed my cheeks before leaning heavily against the bar, grinning wide. “You done?”
“Yeah, but don’t let me impede on your night. I’ll get an Uber.”
“Forget it. I’ve had my fill.” My best friend waved down Kyle and asked for a glass of water.
“What about your purple-haired rockstar?”
“We took a lengthy bathroom break. I don’t need more than that, sweetie. Besides, he’s moved on.”
I glanced at the dance floor, and sure enough, the guy he’d been schmoozing half the night was grinding on someone else. At some point—maybe during Memphis’s lengthy bathroom break—he’d lost his shirt.
Kyle delivered a sweaty glass of water, and Memphis guzzled it before taking my hand and guiding me toward the doors. “Come on. I need air. It’s sweltering in here. There are probably cabs lined up outside anyhow.”
