23. Tallus

23

Tallus

B y the time Diem returned, I had accumulated limited information. I still had three calls to make, but it wasn’t looking good. Two family members had hung up on me, and two more hadn’t answered their phones.

“Otherwise, I spoke with the mother of Mr. Withdrawal and our diabetic neuropathy patient’s son. Which do you want to hear first?”

Diem unpacked the Mexican food onto the coffee table. The mixture of spices smelled divine, and my stomach growled loud enough to draw attention.

“Eat first. I didn’t know what you liked, so I got everything.”

He wasn’t kidding. The stack of food was enough to feed an army. I wasn’t complaining, especially when he surprised me with a bonus treat in the form of a carefully wrapped peanut butter cookie.

“It’s for dessert. No latte because I didn’t know how much caffeine you’ve had today, and I don’t want you to get a migraine.”

“You’re so thoughtful, D.”

“Shut up. It’s a fucking cookie.”

When I peeked inside the paper bag, Diem snatched it from my hand and pointed at the spread on the coffee table. “Food first.”

“Yeah, I know. For the record, you’re the best nonboyfriend ever.”

I chuckled when Diem growled under his breath, “It’s a stupid fucking cookie, not a proposal. Why do you do that?”

“Because it’s sweet.”

“I’m never buying you one again.”

“You lie.”

He set the cookie on his opposite side, far out of reach.

But seriously, the guy was too much. He had gone out of his way to stop at a fancy bakery, knowing my weakness for sugary treats. Didn’t he know actions like that canceled all his attempts to push me away?

I stole a glance at the surly man as he filled a plate, wondering how a smile might change his countenance. Did the guy know how to smile? When was the last time it had happened? When Diem looked in the mirror, what did he see? Somehow, I got the sense that he didn’t see the same person I saw, which was sad. The troubled, softhearted man who lived beneath the scars interested me most, but gaining access to Diem’s heart would not be easy.

In fact, I was starting to wonder if it was downright impossible.

When Diem caught me staring and scowled, I grabbed a plate and loaded it with some of everything. Satiated by a few bites, I dragged my notes closer to explain what I’d discovered while he was gone.

“Ezra Berlusconi. Twenty-two-years-old. He was one of our overdose victims. According to the Hilty/Rowena file, he became his/her/their patient/client four months ago. He was struggling with withdrawal symptoms and didn’t want to land back in rehab, so he decided to try attending the Academy of Magic Treehouse Nutcases instead.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I’m having fun with this. Smile for once, and don’t interrupt.”

Diem glowered.

“Close, sweetie, but your lips should turn the other way. Like this.” I demonstrated with a cheeky grin.

He scowled harder.

Chuckling, I blew him an air-kiss. “We’ll get there.”

Diem shifted his attention to his food as color raced up his neck.

“Can I keep going?”

He mumbled a noise that sounded like “yes.”

“I spoke with Ezra’s mother, and she shared that her son had spent a lot of time at a place called Bellwood, an addiction treatment center in central Toronto, because of his dependency on oxy. She claims his addiction started when he got tangled with the wrong crowd back in high school.”

“Eat,” Diem commanded with a snarl, tapping his fork against my plate.

“I am.”

“No, you’re yapping, and it’s getting cold. Eat.”

I stuffed rice and a huge bite of a carne asada burrito into my mouth, chewing and swallowing before continuing. “Ezra’s mother said he died of an accidental overdose, definitely not suicide, but here’s the kicker. It wasn’t oxy that killed him.”

I allowed that information to sink in as I mixed some beans with my rice and scooped a heaping spoonful into my mouth.

Diem stopped eating, a forkful of tamale halfway to his mouth as he waited for me to explain.

I leaned over and stole the bite off his fork, grinning as I chewed. With my mouth full, I said, “Gonna ask?”

Diem narrowed his eyes, shifting his gaze from me to the empty fork. “That was mine.”

“It was delicious.”

“You have sauce on your chin.”

“Wanna lick it off?”

He hesitated, growled, “no,” and resumed eating. “Talk, for fuck’s sake.”

I dramatically licked my lips—for Diem’s benefit—and wiped at my chin with a napkin before concluding, “Ezra died of diphenhydramine poisoning.”

Diem frowned. “Antihistamine?”

“Yes. He OD’d on antihistamines. It was explained to Ezra’s mother that it’s rare for a person to die of an antihistamine overdose, but the doctor believed Ezra’s other addictions might have compromised and weakened his system. Antihistamines can cause serious heart rhythm disturbances. Had Ezra not been an addict, he might have survived.”

Diem removed the notepad from my hand and studied it while I made headway with my food, eating three mini fish tacos and over half my carne asada burrito before he spoke.

“Amber had antihistamines in her system too.”

“I remembered that, but your guy said they weren’t what killed her.”

“No.” Diem set the paper aside. “But the coroner would have been under the assumption she killed herself.”

“You think it’s a factor?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think we have a possible connection?”

“I don’t know.” His frustration bled through in his tone. “Tell me about the other one.”

I grabbed the notepad back and flipped the page. “Peggy Andrews. Fifty-four. She was one of our unknowns. Peggy has a long list of medical problems, so buckle up. It’s a bumpy ride. I spoke with her son, and he shared that his mother was an uncontrolled type one diabetic who suffered from obesity, high blood pressure, and poor circulation. She’d had two strokes in the year and a half before her death. She had diabetic retinopathy, neuropathy in her feet, and was ten seconds away from needing dialysis due to advanced kidney disease.”

Diem offered me a bowl of chips and guac. I helped myself to a handful, loading them with dip and eating two before continuing. “When I asked Peggy’s son why she took a magic carpet ride to Kooksterville and visited Dr. Hilty, he explained that his mother had always struggled to control her diabetes. She ate to excess and never met a dessert she could turn down. At the same time, she was a symptom treater, not a symptom preventer. So it took her sugars to swing too high or too low before she would act, hence the long list of health problems. Peggy was hoping Dr. Hilty could hypnotize her and subconsciously alter her brain so she could create new, healthier habits and correct her lax discipline.”

I turned down more chips when Diem held them out and set my nearly empty plate aside, wiping my fingers on a napkin.

Diem helped himself to another tamale.

“Here’s the interesting stuff. According to her son, Peggy died from complications due to diabetes. Specifically, her body gave up the fight. Too many things were wrong on the inside, and it was game over. Her death did not come as a surprise to the family. It was not a suicide or an overdose.

“When I asked if she had been acting strange in the period leading up to her death, he said it was hard to tell. His mother had mood swings regularly due to her uncontrolled sugars. When I asked if she had been prescribed herbal medications by Dr. Hilty or if he knew if she’d been seeing a woman named Madame Rowena, he said he didn’t know. His sister, Peggy’s daughter, was the one who cleaned out their mother’s apartment after her death. The son said he would call her and see if she found any nonprescription herbal-esque drugs in her cabinet and get back to me. However, he also claimed it wouldn’t surprise him if she had been taking supplements because his mother was always looking for an easy answer.

“And that’s a wrap.” I dropped the notepad on the coffee table beside the dwindling spread of food and waited for Diem to respond.

He finished the tamale, attention focused on his phone where his email was pulled up. He scowled and muttered, “Waste of fucking money. Goddammit.”

“What’s wrong?”

He indicated the screen. “Got a financial background done on Hilty and Rowena. Nothing out of the ordinary, but the psychic bitch is clearly doing well for herself. I thought… Fuck it. Doesn’t matter.” He tossed the device aside and focused on the chips and guac.

“What do you think about my research?” I asked, fearing he hadn’t been listening.

Diem chewed slowly as he seemed to roll the information around his head. After one last bite, he set his plate aside and cautiously met my eyes. His voice was unnaturally soft when he said, “You did good.”

I tilted my head to the side, grinning. “Guuuuns… why all the flattery today? You’re being so… nice. It’s… contrary to your personality.”

Diem scowled and returned his attention to the plate he’d abandoned, looking like he wanted to pick it up and refill it, if only for a distraction. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. You’ve been…” I laughed. “I don’t know… acting like I’m… your partner or something.”

“You’re not.”

“Oh, I know. You’ve made that abundantly clear. Nonpartners for life. I understand, but you’ve been fluffing my feathers pretty hard today. If you’re not careful, it might go to my head. I can feel my ego expanding. It’s dangerous.”

Diem grumbled indecipherably.

“Annnd there goes your ability to talk. What was that, sweetie?” I cupped an ear.

“Don’t call me that.” He scrubbed a hand over his chin and made a fist, dropping it on his lap. “What time are we meeting Doyle tomorrow?”

“Clumsy diversion.”

“It wasn’t a diversion. It was a question.”

“Seven in the evening. He needed time to talk to the pathology department and didn’t want us slinking around midday in case people asked questions. You’re welcome.”

Diem hated having anything to do with the department, so traipsing through homicide in the middle of the day, despite it being a weekend, would have been humiliating.

He grunted in acknowledgment, seeming pleased with the answer.

Dinner was over, and I’d shared all the information I’d gathered. I had more calls to make but decided they could wait. Before Diem could slink away or start tidying the leftovers, I made a move, giving him a quick warning so he was ready.

“At ease, soldier. Incoming nonviolent assault to your person. Prepare thyself.”

Diem whipped his head up, eyes wide as I closed our distance and straddled his lap. Staying on my knees, I used leverage to press down on his ropey, instantly tense shoulders, preventing him from instinctively jumping up.

His intent to escape was evident, but a moment later, he rewarded me with resignation and submission. He didn’t relax, per se, but he stopped fighting the urge to flee. Like every other time I’d gone inside Diem’s bubble, he stilled. Primed. Alert. Ready for anything.

He warily met my gaze, so many questions on the surface. I chuckled. “One of these days, my touching you won’t kick in your fight-or-flight reaction.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t—” He winced.

“Is this okay, Guns?” I squeezed his shoulders, ensuring he wasn’t going anywhere, and lowered myself to sit on his lap.

Face-to-face, I studied Diem. His expression went through several emotions, then settled on something neutral yet strained.

“I can move if this isn’t okay.”

“No… You’re… You’re fine.”

I snagged the paper bag with my cookie from where he’d put it out of reach and opened it. “Share with me.”

It wasn’t a question, and when I broke off a piece and held it to Diem’s mouth, his features conveyed confusion.

But he let me feed him the morsel.

His hands balled into tight fists and rested on the couch beside his thighs. He wouldn’t touch me, and I was beginning to understand why. Touch for Diem had never been kind or loving. Touch was aggressive and punitive. Touch resulted in pain and injury. Touch was used to show domination and hatred. To enforce rules. To expel anger or frustration. After a childhood of knowing no other kind of touch, Diem had learned the same. He’d used his fists and had hurt a lot of people as a teen and young adult. He recognized his faults. He’d grown and done all he could to better himself, but in the end, no one had shown him that touch could be positive. Touch could be good.

Now, as a grown adult in his thirties, he was too afraid to take a chance because the last thing in the world he wanted to do was hurt me. Diem was convinced he was going to screw up. No thanks to his father, he didn’t have faith he could grow and learn to be better.

I broke another piece of cookie and ate it before motioning to his rigid hands. Instead of demanding he touch me, I asked, “Can you do it?”

Diem didn’t need me to elaborate. Lips in a firm line, he glanced at his balled fists then back to me. Slowly, cautiously, he unfurled his fingers and moved his hands to my waist. The contact was light and hesitant, but it was something.

I fed him more of the cookie, letting him get used to the experience and closeness. We didn’t talk about what was happening. We didn’t rehash his stories of the past or discuss the future. I let him sit with his emotions and feel them.

Get used to them.

I didn’t have to be a mind reader to know Diem’s brain was a hurricane, and my actions had overloaded his processing center. When the cookie was gone, I brushed a thumb over his bottom lip, wiping away crumbs.

Eye contact had vanished several minutes ago. Diem kept his gaze lowered. His taut muscles and stilted breathing were my only indications of how he was faring: Not great, but no worse than when I started down this road.

I leaned closer, intent on whispering something in his ear, but Diem shrugged away from the connection and shook his head.

“I want to say something.”

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Please.”

“Don’t what? Talk?”

“No.” He squirmed. “Don’t… Not that ear.”

Without realizing it, it was the disfigured ear I’d leaned toward. For as outwardly gruff and indifferent as the man could seem, he was sensitive about his appearance. He was aware of what others saw. The scars. The damage. The sizzling anger under his skin.

But most people were superficial and refused to look deeper.

“What happened?” It was stupid to ask. Diem’s secrets ran deep. Be it his tattoos, scars, or other damage to his body, he didn’t like to discuss it.

Pain crumpled his features. “Tallus—”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. You don’t have to tell me.”

Diem shifted his weight, jostling me on his lap. He seemed to want to escape, but then he settled. Quietly, he said, “Frostbite. I was eight.”

Frostbite? Not what I’d expected. I’d considered every possibility of violence, but not something caused by nature. I was about to make a comment. Something stupid, no doubt, about how it was an unfortunate fact of living in a cold climate and how children don’t always understand the risks of not wearing a hat when it’s cold, but then, without prompting, Diem elaborated.

“My father locked me out of the house when I didn’t hang up my winter gear after school one day. He said I must not value what his hard-earned money bought, and the next time he got paid, he would spend it on himself and not me since I was an ungrateful bastard. He made me sit outside in the backyard for five hours after dinner that night in minus eighteen degree weather without a coat, hat, boots, or mitts. It was to teach me a lesson in appreciation. I almost lost two toes as well, but the doctors managed to save them.”

“Jesus.”

Diem shrugged. “I learned to hang my stuff up when I got home. I had a lot of pain in that ear for years. Anytime it got even remotely chilly, it ached. Still does sometimes. Dad used to flick it every time he walked by me and call me an ugly sonofabitch. A one-eared freak. So I don’t like people touching it. It’s… triggering.”

“I’ll respect your wishes, Diem. Thank you for telling me.”

His gaze met mine briefly, and the gratitude reflected in his stormy gray eyes was soul-deep.

“Do you want me to get off your lap?”

It took another ponderous second before Diem shook his head.

So I remained.

I ran my fingers over his shorn hair, massaging his scalp. It was one thing I knew Diem enjoyed, and quickly, the uncomfortable moment evaporated. Diem relaxed about as much as he was able, which, for him, wasn’t a lot.

After a few minutes, I earned fleeting eye contact.

Questions stared back at me.

His uncertain hands on my waist grew more confident, until Diem was more than resting them against my sides and was instead holding on, occasionally teasing the hem of my shirt with a finger like he wanted to feel my skin but didn’t know how to go about it.

“Do you want to take my shirt off?” I asked.

When his hands stilled, I thought he might say no. The wariness on his face was absolute. But slowly, he nodded.

“Go for it, D. I want you to.”

He fumbled, tugging it over my head and dropping it on the floor. His attention remained fixed on my chest and collarbones like he was burning the image into his retinas.

His lips parted, and his chest rose and fell in rapid succession.

Bracing on his shoulders, I rose to my knees again, bringing my lower body higher and closer. “Shorts. Do you want them off?”

He nodded.

Stormy oceans flickered with light and energy. Diem’s hands trembled as he undid the button and zipper. But then, he seemed lost and uncertain.

I slid from his lap and the cargo shorts fell to the floor. I stepped out of them. In underwear, I planted my hands on my hips and swayed, letting him look his fill. Letting him see.

“You’re gorgeous,” he croaked.

“How do you want me?”

He didn’t answer. His throat moved with a thick swallow. Anguish surfaced, and although he couldn’t take his eyes off what he’d unveiled, he said, “Tallus… I can’t keep doing this. I can’t…”

I hooked a finger under his chin so he would look at me. “Stop. This right here? It’s just sex, Diem. Nothing more. Nothing less. No pressure. No strings. No conditions. No expectations.”

He huffed.

“I’m serious. No. Expectations,” I firmly repeated. “The rest of it…” I shrugged. “That’s up to you. If you want more from me, I won’t say no. If you don’t. That’s fine too. But for the record, just because you were dealt a shitty hand doesn’t mean you don’t deserve good things. Our past does not define us. We are in charge of the present. And I truly believe you are a better person than you give yourself credit for.”

His lips formed a protest, but I pressed a finger to them, hushing the words before they came out.

“You are.”

Swirling vortexes of indecision made tiny tsunamis on the surface of his eyes. For a long time, he simply stared as though he’d never seen anyone like me before. And maybe he hadn’t. Maybe this was a first for Diem.

“Should I get dressed and go?”

“No.”

“Then keep undressing me, D. Or do I need to help?”

A pause ensued before, with stilted movements, Diem reached out and removed my underwear.

My cock sprang free, and he stared at it like a man half-starved.

“May I?” he asked, his voice raw.

“Yes.”

He shifted to the edge of the couch and without preamble, took me down his throat. I closed my eyes and enjoyed all he had to give. Every effort with Diem was a gift.

Instead of touching me, Diem shoved his own pants down his legs a few inches and jerked himself. For a guy who struggled to be physical, he wasn’t inept when it came to blow jobs.

I got lost in the sensations, savoring the warm, silky glide of his tongue up and down my shaft. Humming as pleasure seeded in my lower belly and bloomed through my veins. When he grated his teeth over the tender underside of my cock, I gasped and secured a hold on his head, digging my fingers into his scalp.

“Jesus. Fuck me.” The mixture of pleasure and pain was intense but insanely erotic.

He did it again, and my knees quivered.

“Why the fuck does that feel so fucking good?”

Diem growled and ramped up his game. Licking. Sucking. Grating his teeth every third or fourth time he made a pass. When I quivered near the edge of insanity, ready to blow my load at any second, Diem pulled off and leaned back, spreading his thighs as he continued to work himself.

I was surprised he’d lost his pants altogether. He wasn’t one to willingly get naked, but they were gone. The wolf and the compass were on display, as were the trauma they covered.

He caught me looking and growled, “Sit,” as he motioned to his lap.

The only demands Diem had ever made during sex were always the impersonal kind. Ordering me to get on the couch—always facing away—so he could fuck me senseless in the most detached way possible.

Inviting me onto his lap was new.

“Condom?” I asked, motioning to the partitioned bedroom area.

Diem growled and repeated through clenched teeth. “No. Sit.”

I didn’t fuck without condoms, and even if I did, there was no way in hell I could take Diem without lube.

Unsure of what he was asking but trusting him, I straddled his lap. It took me a second to catch up to what he wasn’t asking. He didn’t want me to ride him. He wanted to jerk us together, only he didn’t have the words to say it.

Once I understood, I moved closer, lining up our cocks so he could take them both in his oversized hand.

I chuckled as he wrapped his fingers around our lengths. “Fuck, Guns. This isn’t fair. I have never a day in my life been self-conscious about my size, but you make me look small.”

A choked-off strangled noise left his mouth. If it was a laugh, he smothered it quickly and offered a Diem-intense growl instead. I knew he was telling me to shut the fuck up, so I did.

I tried to read his cues, ensuring I didn’t cross any invisible lines, but Diem was lost in pleasure. His walls, although not completely dismantled, were less guarded.

He tipped his head against the back of the loveseat, the long stretch of his neck exposed, eyes closed as he worked us. I rarely saw him this relaxed and took advantage, licking a path over the stubbled arch of his Adam’s apple and along his jaw.

He groaned and quivered, hand moving faster. I panted next to his uninjured ear, breathing hot gusts of air over the sensitive skin, telling him “yes” and “oh god, D” and “it’s good. So fucking good.”

“Tallus.” His voice was barely audible. Strained. A whisper. A prayer.

A question?

“What do you need? What can I do?”

He didn’t answer, but I read the yearning in every line of his body.

“Tallus,” he rasped again a few minutes later, turning his head and nudging my cheek. Pleading for something he couldn’t articulate.

“Say it, D.”

He didn’t. But I felt the power of the words he couldn’t use in my core. A lifetime of suffering kept them suppressed.

I found his mouth and kissed him. At first, he went still, his hand faltering. Uncertainty reigned. I lifted my mouth a fraction. “You can do better than that, Guns. Kissing isn’t rocket science.”

His wary gaze met mine. There was a pause. A hesitance. A heartbeat of time when I was certain he would tell me I was wrong, but he didn’t. Our lips brushed together, and there he was, the dormant Diem I knew lived in the shadows. The man who wanted this as much as I did.

Instead of the tentative way he’d done the few times in the past, Diem kissed me back, his want, desire, and need unhidden.

In a few more strokes, I came, crying out with pleasure as I broke the kiss and buried my face in Diem’s neck. He followed almost immediately, grunting with the force. The warmth of his release splashed my belly, his fortress of a body earthquaking under me.

When the thrill of the orgasm dwindled, I lay against Diem’s chest, listening to his heart thunder beneath my ear, feeling every tremble as it radiated through him. He wasn’t okay.

“Hold me, Diem.”

“Tallus—”

“Please. I need it.” And he did too.

I didn’t think he would, but after a full two minutes of what was probably maximum turmoil, Diem’s arms circled my back, and he held me.