Read Online Infected: Shift by Andrea Speed - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Andrea Speed
Tags: Gay & Lesbian
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glanced at the clock, surprised that it was almost noon. Dylan was still sleeping hard, suggesting he really needed the rest. Seeing him sprawled on the bed on his stomach, the blankets pooled around the small of his back, Roan remembered what a lucky guy he was. Not just because he had a hot young guy, but because he had a hot young guy who actually cared about him. He was damn lucky he had anyone who cared about him at all because—to be brutally honest—he could be insufferable at times. (At times? Was he being generous?)
On the stairs, he heard the doorbell again, and Roan snapped, “Knock it off!” Dylan deserved the sleep. Besides, he still hadn’t figured out the whole Holden thing yet.
He opened the door to find Holden standing there with his hands on his hips, head cocked to the side, a slightly haughty look on his face. He was dressed very casually, in jeans, a blood-red T-shirt, and a black leather jacket, with his sunglasses already pushed up on his head. The only odd note was the fact that he was wearing hiking boots.
“Knock it off? Who’s a grumpy pants today?” Holden looked him up and down. “A grumpy pants in his underwear. Are those silk?”
“Satin. Get in here before someone snaps a photo of me.” He stood back, holding the door open, and Holden came in, now looking amused. He shoved the door shut and said, “Dylan’s sleeping, okay? I don’t want to wake him.”
“Ah. I thought you smelled like sex. Have you ever had a cycle this short? I was amazed. Think being in a coma helped?”
Roan sighed wearily, realizing he wasn’t up to Holden just yet. He walked to the kitchen and waved at the living room, hoping Holden would figure out for himself that was an invitation to sit. “I dunno. How’s the case going?”
“That’s what I came to see you about. I’m guessing you haven’t seen the paper today?”
He got a bottle of vanilla Frappuccino from the fridge, and felt weariness settle on his shoulders like a wet cloak. His detective spidey sense was telling him bad news was incoming. “Is someone dead?”
“No, but not for lack of trying.” When Roan came back into the living room, Holden was holding up part of the paper, folded over to highlight the section of interest. The headline screamed “Local Sports Star Involved In Drive-By Shooting.”
“Holy shit,” Roan exclaimed, snatching the paper out of his hand and quickly skimming the article. “Grey? How is he?”
“Absolutely fine. He was just lucky I was there, and I am very calm, having been shot at before.”
Roan plopped on the sofa to read it. “Since when were you shot at?”
“Okay, not shot at per se, but I’ve been in the area when drive-bys have gone down and a drug deal went bad. I think that counts.” Holden sat on the edge of the sofa and said, “Last time I was here, Dylan offered me tea.”
“You want tea? Go make it yourself. You know where the kitchen is.”
“You’re a sparkling host.”
“I’m a grumpy pants, remember?”
“A grumpy pants in awesome underwear. I take it, from the red foil lipstick print, it was a Valentine’s Day gift.”
“Score one for you, Sherlock.” Although Roan was reading the article, he couldn’t help but note, out of the corner of his eye, that Holden seemed to be staring at him. Or at least studying his chest. Did Dylan leave a hickey? He glanced down to see. “What are you looking at?”
“That scar,” he said, and didn’t clarify. Which one? “Is that from a bullet wound?”
Roan shrugged. “Yeah.” Well, two were, so it was a decent guess. But if Holden meant the scar near his collarbone or the one near his left hip, no. But he wasn’t getting into his scars with Holden. He had no idea why he considered that a form of intimacy, the true story behind most of his scars, but it was just something he didn’t like to discuss. You could get past and get over your
On the stairs, he heard the doorbell again, and Roan snapped, “Knock it off!” Dylan deserved the sleep. Besides, he still hadn’t figured out the whole Holden thing yet.
He opened the door to find Holden standing there with his hands on his hips, head cocked to the side, a slightly haughty look on his face. He was dressed very casually, in jeans, a blood-red T-shirt, and a black leather jacket, with his sunglasses already pushed up on his head. The only odd note was the fact that he was wearing hiking boots.
“Knock it off? Who’s a grumpy pants today?” Holden looked him up and down. “A grumpy pants in his underwear. Are those silk?”
“Satin. Get in here before someone snaps a photo of me.” He stood back, holding the door open, and Holden came in, now looking amused. He shoved the door shut and said, “Dylan’s sleeping, okay? I don’t want to wake him.”
“Ah. I thought you smelled like sex. Have you ever had a cycle this short? I was amazed. Think being in a coma helped?”
Roan sighed wearily, realizing he wasn’t up to Holden just yet. He walked to the kitchen and waved at the living room, hoping Holden would figure out for himself that was an invitation to sit. “I dunno. How’s the case going?”
“That’s what I came to see you about. I’m guessing you haven’t seen the paper today?”
He got a bottle of vanilla Frappuccino from the fridge, and felt weariness settle on his shoulders like a wet cloak. His detective spidey sense was telling him bad news was incoming. “Is someone dead?”
“No, but not for lack of trying.” When Roan came back into the living room, Holden was holding up part of the paper, folded over to highlight the section of interest. The headline screamed “Local Sports Star Involved In Drive-By Shooting.”
“Holy shit,” Roan exclaimed, snatching the paper out of his hand and quickly skimming the article. “Grey? How is he?”
“Absolutely fine. He was just lucky I was there, and I am very calm, having been shot at before.”
Roan plopped on the sofa to read it. “Since when were you shot at?”
“Okay, not shot at per se, but I’ve been in the area when drive-bys have gone down and a drug deal went bad. I think that counts.” Holden sat on the edge of the sofa and said, “Last time I was here, Dylan offered me tea.”
“You want tea? Go make it yourself. You know where the kitchen is.”
“You’re a sparkling host.”
“I’m a grumpy pants, remember?”
“A grumpy pants in awesome underwear. I take it, from the red foil lipstick print, it was a Valentine’s Day gift.”
“Score one for you, Sherlock.” Although Roan was reading the article, he couldn’t help but note, out of the corner of his eye, that Holden seemed to be staring at him. Or at least studying his chest. Did Dylan leave a hickey? He glanced down to see. “What are you looking at?”
“That scar,” he said, and didn’t clarify. Which one? “Is that from a bullet wound?”
Roan shrugged. “Yeah.” Well, two were, so it was a decent guess. But if Holden meant the scar near his collarbone or the one near his left hip, no. But he wasn’t getting into his scars with Holden. He had no idea why he considered that a form of intimacy, the true story behind most of his scars, but it was just something he didn’t like to discuss. You could get past and get over your
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