Fair Game (22 page)

Game, set, match.

That was Elliot’s impression, anyway. He had landed on his bad arm and it was hard to see past the flashes of blinding white light. From what he could tell, Corian wasn’t getting up. Elliot didn’t blame him, himself hanging on for dear life as the world went spinning away. He dropped back in the sand and closed his eyes. The emergency lights overhead brightened, blurred.

Somewhere a cell phone was ringing.

The lights went out.

*  *  *

“Once upon a time Friday night meant dinner and movie,” Tucker said, climbing into bed.

“That might be fun too sometime.” Elliot glanced at the clock on Tucker’s nightstand. “I don’t know why you’re bothering. You just have to get up again in two hours.”

“Because this is where you are. How’s the arm?”

“Don’t ask.” Elliot stared in resignation at the fresh cast covering most of his right arm. Despite his exhaustion and some heavy duty painkillers, he seriously doubted he would be getting much sleep. But there was always a bright side. The good news being that, despite the stress and strains of the evening, his knee felt fine. Relatively fine.

The mattress dipped as Tucker leaned over him. “Did I ever tell you, you do a really nice wounded hero?”

“I’ve had a lot of practice.”

Tucker huffed a laugh. For all his teasing, the series of tiny kisses he delivered, his lips lingering on Elliot’s stubbled chin, his lower lip, the corner of his mouth, the bridge of his nose, his brow bone, were meltingly sweet.

Elliot closed his eyes. There had been more than a moment this evening when he had believed he would never have this again—never see Tucker again. It had mattered. A lot. It still did.

Tucker seemed to read his mind because he raised his head and, as Elliot opened his eyes again, said, “You know you just missed Corian’s femoral artery.”

“Gee, what a shame.” Elliot left it to Tucker to figure out what the shame was: nearly killing Corian or failing to kill him. If he never heard the words
Andrew Corian
again it would be too soon. And too much to hope for. They were going to be eating, drinking, sleeping this horror of a murder case for the next months. And it would be worse once they went to trial.

The search warrant had turned up a gruesome but not entirely unexpected discovery. A graveyard of headless corpses in the cellar of Corian’s secluded, peaceful English Tudor style cottage. Where the heads of his victims were hidden was currently unknown. Corian’s house sat on twelve heavily forested acres, and he was no longer volunteering any information although he’d had no hesitation explaining his “artistic process” to the cops and feds when he’d first regained consciousness.

Now there was an illustration of the inherent unfairness of life. Corian’d had a rock wall fall on him and he’d recovered his senses within five minutes. In fact, he’d been carted off with nothing more than an assortment of cuts, scrapes and bruises. Well, not counting that stab wound in his thigh.

Elliot, on the other hand, had a transverse fracture and several months of recuperation to look forward to.

And Tucker. He had Tucker to look forward to. He wasn’t going to forget that very brief moment when he’d regained consciousness to find Tucker leaning over him—his face bone white beneath the freckles and blue eyes wet and glittering with ferocious emotion.

“If you even
try
to die, I’ll kill you myself,” Tucker had said in a choky voice.

He needed to work on his romantic technique. Elliot planned to help him with that. He smiled to himself, remembering, and said, “For the record, I’m not living in Seattle. No way.”

“I already worked that out. That’s fine. I like your island fortress, if that’s what you want.” Tucker’s mouth covered his in a warm, moist kiss. “Whatever you want.”

Elliot gave a half laugh. This uncharacteristic acquiescence wasn’t going to last, but he would enjoy it while it did.

Tucker raised his head and said, “You know, you’re the one who really cracked this thing wide open. If you did want to rethink that desk job—”

Elliot shook his head. “No. I’ve come to terms with it.” He brushed his freshly retaped bad knee with his fingertips. “That part of my life is over.”

Tomorrow he had to tell Zahra Lyle that Gordie’s body had been the most recent addition to Corian’s boneyard. Officially they were still waiting for fingerprint results, but until his lawyer had showed up, Corian had been happy to discuss his “work.” Tucker had been right about that. Nine victims turned out to be just the tip of the iceberg. Corian had begun his search for “models” in Seattle ten years earlier.

“Don’t worry,” Tucker reassured, seeming to follow Elliot’s thoughts. “He’s not going to cop an insanity plea. Corian knew exactly what he was doing. He just happens to believe he had a right to do it.”

Very few serial killers were technically insane. In that sense, Corian was pretty much run of the mill. But the long ranging effects of his actions would be anything but ordinary for the families of his victims.

“I have to face Zahra Lyle tomorrow.”

“No, you don’t,” Tucker said. “I can handle it. This is why they pay me the big bucks.”

Elliot eyed him thoughtfully. That wasn’t a random comment. Tucker knew Elliot had been struggling to come to terms with their changed roles and that how well he succeeded was going to determine whether they had any kind of a future together.

He said, “I think I owe it to Zahra to be the one to break the news to her. But from here on out we’re a one superhero family.”

Tucker was watching him alertly—and with that unexpected tenderness.

“I’m okay with it,” Elliot assured him. “The truth is, I like teaching.”

“And you’re okay with me…?”

“I’m okay with you.” Elliot’s smile was wry. “If you’re okay with me.”

“I’m okay, you’re okay,” Tucker said lightly. Less lightly, he added, “I love you.”

It was difficult to look away from Tucker’s gaze. Elliot found he didn’t want to. He managed at last, “There’s a lot of that going around right now.”

Tucker’s face was transformed by his grin. He said quite mildly, “So when are you bringing me home to meet your father? Just once I’d like to face him when he wasn’t snarling at me for doing you harm.”

Elliot had missed most of the festivities in the underground parking lot and then later at the hospital. Duty had ensured that Tucker hadn’t been able to stay long, and Roland had been the one who had eventually driven Elliot back to Tucker’s apartment. He had not been flattering on the subject of Tucker Lance.

“You have to swear you won’t talk politics.”

“I swear. Anyway,
we
don’t talk politics.”

“True.”

“Besides, there’s one thing your father and I agree on.”

“What’s that?”

Tucker leaned forward. His breath warm against Elliot’s face, his lips a kiss away, he whispered, “Make love, not war.”

Where no great story goes untold.

The variety you want to read, the stories authors have always wanted to write.

With new releases every week, your next great read is just a download away!

Keep in touch with Carina Press:

Read our blog: www.CarinaPress.com/blog

Follow us on Twitter: www.twitter.com/CarinaPress

Become a fan on Facebook: www.facebook.com/CarinaPress