AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I don’t care if you’ve got private liquor. Personal possession’s not illegal, anyway.” Perry put a hand on the railing. Next to Patrick’s hip. In case of a sudden loss of balance. Which could happen.
Not because he cared. Not because he wanted to. Not because, despite himself, he liked freedom and blue eyes and a challenge.
“Yes, which is why this particular hotel has somehow managed to have everyone pretend that Mr. Bell just throws a large private party every night for all his friends.” Patrick scooted a hand over, balanced more precariously on the railing. His little finger brushed Perry’s, over wrought iron. The spiral of the stair fell away behind him. “So you’re doing reconnaissance, Marshal.”
“Something like that.”
“And I’m a suspect?”
Perry could feel every breath of air in his own lungs, every brush of wind at the nape of his neck. Every ripple of heat, where their fingers touched. Here on a rooftop, balancing amid possibilities. As Patrick Ellery, crime novelist, looked up at him. “Starting to think someone needs to keep an eye on you. Trying to lean over and fall down staircases, a secret whiskey stash, a famous author up here by yourself on a rooftop…”
“Don’t forget inviting dangerous men with guns back to my room.”
“Just the one gun, and you’re a menace to society.”
“So I’ve been told. It’s a very nice room, Marshal.”
“Is it?”
“Maybe afterward,” Patrick said cheerfully, “I can help you with reconnaissance, I’ve got lots of ideas about these stairs and those doorways and places where a gunman could hide,” and he was ridiculous and beautiful and clever and fearless, and he smiled when Perry closed a hand around his wrist and squeezed. Tightly. “Ah, you do want my help.”
“Maybe I do.” He ran his hand along Patrick’s arm, exploring, capturing. They remained alone up here, at the top of the spiral: the place where the world swirled and moved, up and down, from the rooftop to the ground and back. “You did say it was your birthday, didn’t you?”
“Yesterday. Are you offering to be my present?”
“Are you here alone?”
Patrick’s eyebrows went up, golden demon swoops. “I’m not really a suspect, am I?”
“No.” He was doing this wrong. It’d been too long. He did not know how to flirt, how to smile at, a sparkling young man. “I was just wondering why. When you’re…you.”
“Ah. Famous crime writer and all.” Patrick’s smile went more wry; a line or a pleat appeared in the sky of his gaze. “No, no lavish parties, none of that. I’d been trying to work on the next book, I told you. A getaway. Inspiration. In comfort, because I’m a shameless hedonist, but it’s just me and the words.”
And no family, Perry thought. No mention of that hotel-owning father, or any friends or family who might want to share a celebration. He said, “Well, if you and the words want company…” and let himself look, let himself indulge. Making it, yes, obvious.
Because he wanted this. Because he did want this, here and now, whatever it was.
Maybe, he thought when Patrick smiled, maybe he could have this. Maybe they both could, this day, this afternoon. A possibility. Something new.
Patrick moved, suddenly; Perry grabbed for him, and realized that Patrick hadn’t been falling, only turning more his way; but the end result was that no one tumbled down the staircase and Patrick ended up in his arms, both of them startled and willing, eyes meeting.
The wind tugged his coat around both their legs.
Patrick said, laughter in his voice, “So you’ve heroically rescued me from falling to my doom, Marshal Gardner…”
“Peregrin.” He took a deep breath. “Perry.”
“I like this story,” Patrick said. “My room’s right over there. And I’m definitely feeling inspired.” He even winked.
Perry, to his own surprise, laughed. And thought about ups and downs, stairs and secret doorways, perilous unknowns; thought about danger and temptation, and chance meetings, and the hopeful blue of Patrick’s eyes, and the way a single step could change the world.
“Go on, then,” he said. He had a hand on Patrick’s arm, learning how that felt, the bright slim shape of him. “Show me what you want. In our story.”
Alex and the Crime-Solving Werewolf
Alex Lyster was lying in a hospital bed, alternating between trying to sleep and not wanting to sleep and worrying about deadlines and wondering whether giving a main character appendicitis would be a good plot twist, given recent real-life experience, when his door slammed open and the werewolf burst in.
The werewolf had impressive shoulders and shaggy brown hair and angry eyebrows over ink-pool eyes; he was wearing a nicely fitted suit in a way that suggested he didn’t enjoy it, and he snapped, “Blake Forrest, FBI. What do you know about the cancellation of MysteriCon 2023, and why do you smell guilty?”
