AllFreeNovel
Share Us
CHAPTER 6
RYKER
Most people wouldn’t be sitting in a swing on their front porch in the middle of a storm, but then Ryker McKay wasn’t most men—at least, he didn’t like to think so. Once he’d been a Pulitzer Prize-winning investigative journalist. He’d been reduced to the owner, publisher, editor-in-chief, photographer, and reporter for a small-town newspaper that had been in his family from the beginning days of the printing press.
Granted, as storms in Maine went, this one was pretty mild, but still there was a fair amount of wind and the sea was crashing against the rocks below his home. There was a full moon, but it seemed to be drifting in and out of the clouds like some fantastic pirate ship from long ago. Ryker held the heavy crystal TsukiGlass of Blanton’s Single Barrel Bourbon, swirling the amber liquid around much like a sommelier might swirl a fine wine. He inhaled the aroma of apple and cinnamon, combined with hints of vanilla and caramel. He took a sip, allowing the sweet flavor profile with notes of peaches, pears, and dried apricots to tickle over his tongue. He savored the sip as the flavors faded to cinnamon, warm baking spices, maple syrup and molasses.
A man whose family legacy was teetering on the brink of financial disaster probably shouldn’t be sipping stupidly expensive bourbon, but it was the one vice he refused to give up. The shrapnel in his knee from his last job as an ace freelance investigative reporter had forced him from the field. He’d been entertaining offers from several large newspapers—the New York Times, the Boston Globe, the Washington Post—when the call had come from his uncle that he was dying and needed Ryker to come home and ‘embrace his legacy.’ His uncle had failed to mention it wasn’t so much that the legacy needed his embrace as it did an infusion of cash to keep the paper from tangling around him like a fishing net and dragging him under.
Three things had led to Ryker’s return to Bleak Ridge: his uncle needed him, he couldn’t see himself sitting behind a desk hammering out stories he didn’t care about for one of the publishing monoliths, and the romance of a small-town newspaper. The romance had been short-lived; his uncle had put off contacting his estranged nephew until it was too late. By the time his uncle’s cable found him and Ryker could check out of his hotel and get to Bleak Ridge, his uncle was gone.
The two men had never been close. Ryker’s parents and his aunt had all died in a summer squall the year Ryker turned sixteen. His uncle had, for reasons known only to him, blamed Ryker’s father. His uncle had seemed to resent being expected to raise a grieving, unruly teenager. At seventeen Ryker had graduated early from high school, had himself declared an emancipated minor, and left for New York City. A scholarship to Columbia had trained him for his life’s work and he’d filed his first important story with the Associated Press shortly before graduating.
The life of a freelance investigative journalist had been every bit as intoxicating as the good bourbon he was now sipping while sitting on the porch of the house he’d also inherited from his uncle. It hadn’t taken long for the romance of owning and publishing the Bleak Ridge Sentinel to wear off in the face of hitting the rocks of financial ruin. His uncle might have left him with a mortgage-free home, but the paper was struggling, to say the least. It wasn’t so much in debt as it was not making money. And Ryker had chosen to sink an enormous sum of money into the struggling paper.
The internet and people’s almost immediate access to the twenty-four-hour news cycle had been the harbinger of death for most small-town newspapers, and yet Ryker couldn’t quite let go of the notion of newsprint and ink. Slowly but surely, he was beginning to convert the paper to offering one of two editions—an online edition and an actual, physical newspaper. Online subscriptions were growing more quickly, but there was a desire, at least for those who resided in Bleak Ridge, to have a physical newspaper they could hold in their hands and browse without the need for an electronic device.
And so he sat in a swing on his front porch, sipping expensive bourbon and ruminating about his troubles. He stared out to sea, trying to conceive of some angle that would allow him to purchase the last of the computer equipment needed to turn the Sentinel into a truly world-class online newspaper, but that was only half of the battle. The other half was finding stories people would spend their time reading. Bleak Ridge wasn’t Chicago or Boston or New York City. Hell, it wasn’t even Bangor or Portland.
The truth was, not much happened in Bleak Ridge, or in most of Maine for that matter. Part of its allure was its slow pace and laid-back way of life. Oh, there was the occasional scandal, murder, or other crime, but for the most part, life was lived around the cycles of the sea and tourism. Most towns and villages didn’t even have their own forensic unit or investigators capable of solving much of anything. Bleak Ridge’s only detective was George Middleton, who, as far as Ryker was concerned, couldn’t investigate his way out of a paper sack with the help of a map, a flashlight, and a sherpa.
Ryker had purchased a police scanner and routinely had it with him just in case something did happen. He didn’t always have it on, but he did listen to it routinely. Plus, he had a couple of friends in Maine’s Major Case Unit, but except for the bizarre murder that had happened earlier that year in Angel’s Rise, he didn’t see them much.
Oh, they occasionally met somewhere for dinner and drinks to reminisce about days gone by when Slade and Thorn had been with Special Ops and Ryker had been invited along to document some of their more daring deeds. Those dinners were becoming less and less frequent as both detectives had fallen for beautiful women, both of whom were successful authors.
Slade had gotten married in Paris, France. Ryker had missed the actual wedding but had met up with the couple a few days later to take pictures. He’d had a good time, but seeing Slade settling down and being so happy about it had made Ryker begin to question where he was going with his own life.
Maybe that was why he’d been so intrigued and looking forward to the writer’s conference that was taking place over the next few days at Bleak Ridge House here in town. He’d received an invitation and access to the event. Intrigued by the women in his friends’ lives, he especially wanted to interview Lori Sykes. She was a rising star in the book world. Known for her friendly and outgoing manner, her profile pictures on Amazon and Facebook showed a woman who was playful, sensual, and intelligent. Author was her second career; she’d begun her professional life as an award-winning high school teacher in one of Chicago’s inner-city schools. Like himself, her second career had begun because of a bequest from a relative.
Thinking he might find common ground with her because of their similar inheritances, he’d sought her out at the signing. He’d watched from afar as she interacted with her readers. Unlike some authors who were either too introverted or too arrogant, she engaged with people, happily signed books, and seemed able to make each individual feel like they were the only person she wanted to talk to.
When Antony Cobain had spotted him, he’d rushed to Lori’s table to try and avoid the man as well as to introduce himself. He’d been pleasantly surprised and flattered when Lori seemed to know who he was, and at least something of his past glories. There had been a connection—a spark—one that he’d never felt before and had begun to wonder if he ever would.
He continued to swing slowly and rhythmically, imagining what it might feel like to be doing so with someone, maybe even Lori, sitting by his side. In some ways they had a lot in common. Both were used to the big city, but according to Thorn, the beautiful, curvaceous woman with sable brown hair was thinking about relocating to Maine where she could be closer to her friends—the same friends with whom she’d formed the Mystery Writers’ Murder Club. He knew their investigations into cold cases and involvement in others that weren’t even slightly chilly had given Thorn and Slade nightmares. As far as Ryker could tell, the four women were pretty damned good at it. Maybe that was the angle to take with a story about Lori—a second career as a successful author and amateur sleuth.
From the time he’d seen her author headshot and then a picture of her with her friends, there’d been something about her that captured his interest. She was gorgeous, but there were a lot of beautiful women in the world; and she was intelligent, but again, there were a lot of smart women. It wasn’t until he’d seen her in person that her vivaciousness and kindness had drawn him like a moth to a flame. He groaned at the cliché. Cliché or not, those were rare qualities and sadly lacking in many of the women he’d dated. Had he ever really dated? He’d had relationships—maybe they couldn’t even be termed that. Mostly he’d had a string of affairs with women he managed to keep as friends. Perhaps tomorrow would bring something more.
Glancing at his watch, he remembered his meeting with Lori at seven. If he wanted time to get presentable, it might not do to stay up to watch the sunrise. Maybe that was something he and Lori could do sometime in the future. Downing the last of his bourbon, Ryker got up from the swing and headed indoors, locking the door more from force of habit than anything else. He washed the crystal glass and left it to dry in the dishrack.
The upstairs was a mishmash of rooms that his uncle had used for various things. Ryker had surveyed the mess, closed the door at the top of the stairs and vowed someday to do something with it. Someday had yet to arrive.
Stripping out of his clothes, he tossed them into his dirty clothes hamper and crawled into bed. Not surprisingly considering the amount of bourbon he’d consumed, he was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. The dream began almost immediately. Lori was kneeling on the rug beside his bed.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said with a wispy smile lifting the corners of her mouth.
“What for?” This was his dream and he knew what he wanted from her—to take his stiff cock between her pretty, full lips.
“If you have to ask, perhaps you’re not the man I’ve been looking for.”
So even in her dreams she was going to give him sass. That was good, as Ryker liked a woman who challenged him.
“I don’t have to ask, baby, I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page.”
She laughed. “We’re both naked, Ryker, and this is your dream.”
“You have a point.”
Fisting his cock slowly, he closed the distance between them.
