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Simon looked perplexed. “Wildebeests?”
“Or whatever.” Vic laughed. “You get my drift.”
Simon palmed Vic’s crotch, confirming and claiming but not trying to incite. “Oh, I do. And I’ll take you up on it when I can think straight.”
They showered together, continuing the affirmation of all-over touch as soap and shampoo washed away the prior day’s sweat and the clean smell lifted their spirits. Vic finished first, since his shorter hair needed less time to dry, and headed to the kitchen to fix them both something a bit more robust than their usual quick breakfasts.
“You didn’t need to bother.” Simon gestured to the table where plates with scrambled eggs, buttered toast, sliced apples, and steaming cups of fresh coffee were laid out.
“I can’t control how the rest of the day goes, but I can start us off right,” Vic replied, echoing something his mother often said. “Sit. Eat. There’s plenty of coffee. Enjoy.”
Simon pulled him in for a quick kiss before they both sat down and made quick work of their food, polishing off most of the pot of coffee as well. Vic avoided asking questions about Simon’s agenda, trying to preserve the fragile sense of security just a few minutes longer.
We’re not talking about the elephant in the room. Fuck the elephant. I just want to make Simon feel happy and loved.
“Be careful, and call me if you need me,” Vic told Simon after they finished their food and were getting ready to leave for the day. “And if you don’t feel safe or want an escort, I can meet you.”
Simon hugged him tight. “Thank you. I’ll make sure to have backup. You take care too. Don’t take any crazy chances.”
“No more than on other days,” Vic wisecracked, then grew serious. “I won’t. I promise.”
He sent Simon off with a kiss and hoped that all their precautions and supernatural protections would be enough to bring them both home safe that evening.
“Why do you want to dig up old ghosts?” James Donaldson asked when Vic met him in the sunny atrium of the Sunny Shores golf clubhouse.
Vic tried not to wince at the too-on-the-nose phrasing. “You know as well as I do, sometimes things aren’t as dead as they seem.”
Donaldson had retired right after Vic joined the force in Myrtle Beach after a long and vaunted career keeping the Grand Strand safe. He had been a street cop and a detective, covering everything from drug busts to murder investigations, and had been awarded honors for his role in helping defang the so-called “Dixie Mafia” back in the 1980s.
Vic had started his career in law enforcement in Pittsburgh, and the Northeast gave him an immersion course in organized crime. He had hoped that moving south would leave that behind, only to discover that criminal enterprises and networks operated much the same everywhere, regardless of what they called themselves.
The Dixie Mafia might not be the powerhouse it once was, and it lacked the deep structure and organization of the Chicago or New York Mob, but it retained the ruthlessness and closemouthed network that supported its varied crimes.
“Oh, and I didn’t forget.” Vic slid a fifth of good whiskey across the table, either payment or bribe.
“Thanks. This’ll help put down whatever memories you’re determined to dredge up.” Donaldson moved the bottle to the side. “Now, what’s going on?”
“You helped to break up a gambling ring at the Ocean Visions Hotel back in the day,” Vic said.
Donaldson’s head came up sharply. “Ocean Visions? God, that place is nothing but trouble.”
Vic privately agreed. “You heard about the big fire?”
Donaldson nodded. “Yeah. I was just disappointed it didn’t burn the whole cursed place to the ground. I’m not sure even fire could cleanse that.”
“The present owner seems to be a good guy trying to preserve a part of Myrtle Beach’s history. The arson squad and fire department are working the usual angles. I think there might be something less ordinary going on underneath it all. And if anyone knew about that sort of stuff with the Ocean Visions, it would be you.”
Donaldson sat back in his chair. His lined face showed the outcome of years of sun damage, and his cough was the legacy of chain smoking. He gave Vic an assessing look, and Vic could see the detective’s mind clicking into work mode.
“You trying to get a psych notice added to my medical chart?” Donaldson asked.
Vic shook his head. “No, sir. I think we both know there’s nothing crazy about the hotel, but there is plenty of supernatural crap that was completely real.”
Donaldson was quiet for a few moments. “Ah, fuck it. Might as well tell you what you want to know. It’s not like the truth will tarnish my reputation,” he added with a raspy, self-deprecating laugh.
“Please, tell me what you remember.” Vic waited.
“I didn’t believe in any of that paranormal shit when I got assigned to break up the gambling ring at the hotel and loosen the hold that the Dixie Mob had on it,” Donaldson recalled. “Thought all that stuff was a bunch of hooey.
