After the publicattion of HUNTER’S POINT in early May of 2015, several people mentioned their interest in one of the secondary characters, Thomas Fitzgerald. So I’ve begun a work which may turn out to be a novella … I’m not sure what direction it will take. But I also like Thomas and want to see the guy dig into something besides covert cop work and a lonely bachelor flat.
What you read here is definitely a first draft, subject to harsh revision.
~oOo~
BURNS TOO DEEP … the story of an Irish detective and a mysterious Scot. Two men meet on a stretch of highway between nowhere and Dundee, Scotland. What secret does each man hold? And what will happen if those truths are ever revealed? Both men have much to lose. And something very crucial to gain, if only they can stop running.
Thomas Fitzgerald tried to settle into the cloth seat of the Ford Focus, adjusting his long legs once again as he jabbed the cruise control. The cheap trousers kept riding up, biting his crotch, and his spine felt like a bloody pretzel. Police Scotland uniforms were not known for their dashing cut. And the bucket seat had been designed for someone with an arse ten centimeters wider.
He sighed and tried to shut out the discomfort. He supposed he was lucky. The A92 highway from Montrose to Dundee was almost a straight shot, under an hour ride. And fates be praised, Police Scotland had issued him a two-liter engine sedan, the ST model. Turbocharged, no less. A tip of the Inspector’s cap, maybe, to his recent status as Detective Sergeant, Criminal Investigation Department, working alone these days and loving it.
Normally he’d be in plain clothes. But ’Speck—Detective Inspector Ainsley—had suggested he blend into the woodwork at the Montrose Tayside Station where he’d been on loan the past few days. That small station couldn’t afford plainclothes cops, so he became another working stiff for a while alongside the local constabulary. His mouth turned up in a small twitch as he thought about all the possible meanings of “stiff,” starting with his back and working down to the fly in his pants.
He could hardly wait to slide into a pair of loose cotton trousers, to hell with a belt or suspenders, and screw jockey shorts. He’d already tucked the Glock, nestled in its holster, in the boot of the car. One less impediment to bite into his tired body.
He’d left the Tayside Station in Montrose around four p.m., in plenty of time to beat the sunset back to Dundee. Now, fifteen minutes later and a few klicks out of Arbroath, he was trying not to count the kilometers until he could draw a hot bath and dive in bed for a long sleep before showing up at the district office in the morning.
Thomas glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw no traffic behind him. What he saw was the flash of vivid blue eyes he wished were a few shades less noticeable. And yet—like having this turbo Focus to drive instead of his usual four-cylinder weenie—he counted himself lucky.
At least I have one physical “plus” that sometimes makes a lad’s dick stand up and take notice.
He’d decided long ago that his cobalt-blue eyes were a nuisance, a signpost. He preferred to remain in the background—the observer—until he judged it time to spring into action. So Thomas had a habit of watching the world go by from half-lowered lids, as long as he was in the presence of others…
His mind drifted.
Some of those “others,” men like Alex Dominguez and Rory Drummond, had recently taken the full brunt of his gaze. He’d worked with the two of them the last 48 hours on the “Scurdie Ness Mess,” so-called by the Montrose news outlets. He’d met both of them on another case back in December. Both those guys were attractive—hell, sexy to the max—but unfortunately sleeping together. He let a slow grin invade his face as he thought of the special constable Alex who was a cop’s cop, a cut above. And the over-sized laird Rory, a pain in the arse if he thought someone wanted to explore his partner’s tight Levi’s, but a damn fine warrior and reliable associate.
He sighed again and adjusted the inseam of his pants. I’d give a month’s pay for a bedmate half as hot as either of those guys. As long as I could say goodbye when I’m through and go about my business.
And he knew that was not about to happen. A man can’t just skid along on the fly, so to speak. Either he needed a steady boyfriend, or none at all. Right now, for a lot of reasons, he chose none at all.
The flat-out, unremarkable highway became a hypnotic blur. By all the fates, he was tired to the bone.
The police Airwave radio crackled into life.
“Thirty-three.”
“Aye. Thirty-three here.”
“How is it, pretty boy?”
He grinned. “Still here, Roddy. How about yours?”
“Can’t complain. We have a stranded motorist. Can you pull double duty?”
“Where?”
“Just outside of Arbroath. Headed south, into Dundee.”
“Hell, man, I passed there five minutes ago. Didn’t see a wreck, or anyone standing along the road.”
“Just happened, three or so minutes ago. Swing on back, laddie. ’Speck says to take tomorrow off anyway. For good behavior.”
Thomas heard a chuckle as the man laughed at his own lame jest. “I’ve been dicking around with fire and road safety in Arbroath. They’ll take care of his car. Just bring him back with you, check into the office Wednesday. The guy’s waiting for you.”
“Damn it, Roddy, why not just take him into Arbroath, get him settled there ’til his car’s fixed?”
“Bloke says he has connections in Dundee, doesn’t mind going there.”
“It makes no bloody sense, why a man would leave his broken car like that.”
Thomas began to look for a turn-around on the divided highway. “I’ll radio back when I pick him up.” Dicking around—that sounded about right for Roddy. A good dispatcher, but a one-way mind.
He heard white noise for a few seconds and inwardly cursed the crappy set, or the local radio wave interference. This equipment was good, but not great.
“…take care of it.”
He knew by his teasing tone that Rodney McCormack was referring to his precious dick, the one he refused to share at HQ or anywhere else. He grinned again and chose not to answer.
He flicked on the blue light on the roof of his black Focus and tore a U-turn through a fallow field, too impatient to wait for a legal place to hairpin back toward Arbroath. It took him just under three minutes to spot a dark-clad figure standing on the side of the road, a small travel bag slung over one shoulder. The trousers were tight, but fashionable. His ass might be worth a double take, but it was turned the other direction. Flashing his brights as a signal, he sped past and turned again, waited for one lone car to whizz past, then braked to a stop alongside the waiting man.
A silver bullet that looked like an Alfa MiTo sat on the shoulder a hundred meters from where he stood. Thomas shook his head, unbelieving.
“Going my way?” He issued a polite smile at the stranger’s face and tipped his black-brimmed cap over his eyes, hiding them and his blond hair both.
Without a flicker of gratitude, the stranger stared at him a moment before regarding his car with its white “Police Scotland” warning on the door and its thistle insignia under the front windows. Thomas was taken aback for a few seconds. The eyes were ash-gray, with a hint of—something else. He couldn’t be sure. Something between fire and ice.
“Funny.” The man’s mouth, cradled in a nest of “maybe I’ll shave tomorrow,” barely moved. He strode to the passenger door, opened it, and slid next to him. He tossed the bag on the back seat and, fastening the seat belt, glanced over before addressing the windshield. “Thanks. I’m not used to being coddled.”
Thomas couldn’t help a small smile. “Coddle you? No, lad. I’ll set your arse down where you tell me to set it, then let you go.”
“Good.”
Thomas took the time to radio back to the dispatcher. He turned off the blue light and peeled away from the shoulder, no longer in a hurry to get back to Dundee. He loved a good mystery, and one was sitting in the twin to his bucket seat.
“Why not Arbroath?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why not stay over, close to your car?”
“I’d rather be in the city. I can make more sophisticated arrangements in Dundee than I can in a fishing village.”
“What happened back there?”
“No bloody idea. One minute I was driving along, the next thing I knew the engine simply stopped. Dead cold stopped. Lucky I was driving fairly slowly…” He eyed Thomas’ uniform. “…as I always do, of course.”
Thomas caught the ironic tone. “Sounds like an electrical problem. Was that your Alfa Romeo?”
“Mine. Or the property of a random Arbroath fisherman.”
Without turning his head, Thomas glanced at his stone-jawed passenger through half-lidded eyes. He couldn’t help a grin.“Aye. Electrical.” To himself, he appended, Glorified Fiat.
“You’re perhaps a sports car expert?” The stranger’s tone was dry, detached. Not a scintilla of humor.
Now his own smile widened. “I’ve owned Italian cars before. Every guy wants to own a turbo-dick. Performance comes at a price.”
The man’s voice was cool, but it began to take on an edge of humor. “Speaking from bedroom experience, or from a car-owner’s knowledge? Hmmm?”
Thomas hit the brakes on his smile. He wasn’t comfortable sending out sexual vibes, especially to strangers. He was careful to change the subject.
“Where do you live?”
After a few beats, the man replied, still gazing out at the field-edged highway. “Not Dundee.”
Thomas allowed another five or so minutes to tick by before he ventured his next probe.
“Call me Fitzgerald.”
“All right.” His companion continued to study the unending pavement.
Thomas sighed. This man was not making it easy to be polite. “And you are …?”
“Burns. Sorry, but I’m a bit off my feed right now.”
“That’s understandable, Burns. If my baby was on the other end of a tow winch on the edge of the red cliffs of Arbroath, Scotland … I’d be a little grim-jawed myself.”
He shot another veiled glance at his passenger. The man actually smiled, or at least a small crease showed at the side of his mouth. “Nice to meet you, Fitzgerald. What’s an Irishman doing in Dundee?”
“Whatever he can to survive. And Burns … where does a Scot named Burns hang his kilt?”
“For now, lad, his sporran is loaded with wanderlust. So, no place in particular.”
Thomas rarely showed his thoughts, but he was tempted to laugh outright. Both of them were playing at cat and mouse. Neither man was willing to tell the other more than the time of day—if that. But for the first time in a million years, he was intrigued by a fellow human being.
~Burns~
Burns kept his eyes nailed to the same damn highway he’d just left, traveling back to the city he was trying to escape. But it wouldn’t be smart to tip his hand to a cop. Let the man think he was hell-bent for Dundee or Perth, in case anyone ever asked about him. Not that they would. For all the world knew, he was no more than a hapless traveler whose car had broken down.
Besides, hardly anyone ever questioned the motives of a man driving an expensive sports car. He was not invisible—but he was invincible. He mused a while on the idea. As soon as a seedy man donned a respectable jacket, he could claim to be a member of Parliament, and most would believe it.
He almost smiled, and then he remembered he was trapped in a Police Scotland patrol car with a breathtaking cop whose Nordic lake eyes seemed to look right through him. Any other time he’d be planning a dinner date and a sleepover. Right now he knew he’d better stay quiet and blend with the scenery.
~oOo~
If you want to read another chapter and another Burns interlude, please go here: http://bit.ly/1LV1J1J
Really enjoyed this! Hunter’s Point was a winner and this would be an ideal follow-up!
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Thanks to gay romance writer Charles Raines (Richard S Charles) for sharing this on his author page and on Twitter. Now I feel like I’m at gunpoint and damn well have to do a good job!
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