Not What it Seems by Nicky James

Seventeen

RiveR

“Come on. Where the hell are you?”

How was it that in the big old city of London, Ontario, I couldn’t find a single guy by the name of Justice Adams? Digging up the real estate information for the old address had been a waste of time. When I’d made some investigative phone calls and done some underhanded searching, none of the houses on that street had been previously owned by a Justice Adams. Either my mother had the wrong area or the man she’d been blackmailing for years, my father, wasn’t named Justice Adams.

It could so easily have been either of those reasons. My mother didn’t strike me as the sharpest crayon in the box.

“So, I’m potentially the proud owner of some man’s fake name he gives to hookers before he fucks them. Great. I’m so flattered.”

I gave some serious consideration to changing my name. With a snort, I glanced at Cyrus’s discarded jeans and T-shirt, the ones he’d been wearing before he’d changed into something more appropriate.

“How much would you hate me if I changed it to Craig?” I asked the dirty bundle of laundry.

I could imagine the vein at Cyrus’s temple pulsing with anger at the thought. Best I didn’t tease him about that. I had a feeling it wouldn’t go over well. He was sensitive to the whole fake name, one-night stand thing.

I sipped from a bottle of water, wishing it were something stronger. I should have asked Cyrus to stop at the liquor store. I’d had a hell of a day and would kill for a drink. Without a phone, I couldn’t text him. Without his number, I couldn’t call from the motel’s line either.

“Water it is.” I chugged until the bottle was empty.

Sighing, I scrubbed my face and stared at the Google search bar. I’d gone through all the social media platforms I could think of, and I’d done a directory search for London, Ontario. I’d googled my father’s name and as many variations as I could think of: Justin Adams, Adam Justice, Jason Adams… There was a Justice Armand, a Justin Adams, and a Justice Andrews in the London area, but they were all duds. One was in a wheelchair, one was ninety-three, and the last was an eleven-year-old boy.

With my fingers poised over the keyboard, ready to type, I clucked my tongue, thinking.

The door to the room burst open, and a flailing, frantic Cyrus tumbled inside without warning. I was half off the bed, dropping into a fighting stance, muscles coiled before I realized who it was.

He slammed the door and leaned against it, eyes wild.

My heart, meanwhile, was somewhere in my throat.

“What the fuck? You need to stop doing that.” I didn’t mean to yell. It was a response to the sudden fight or flight situation he’d thrown me into. “That’s two times in as many days that you’ve scared the piss out of me. I’m going to have a heart attack, and I’m only twenty-eight. Christ.”

“Turn on the TV. News. Now. Something happened.” Cyrus’s chest heaved. His hair was the most out of control I’d seen it. It looked like he’d run through a wind turbine to get to the motel.

Part of me thought I should try to bring him down a few degrees first. He was prone to panic. His internal coil seemed to be wound twice as tight as anyone else I knew.

My slow reaction made him growl. He shoved away from the door and grabbed the remote for the TV. As he turned it on, he tore his tie loose. “I can’t breathe.”

“Did you run here?”

“No. What? I drove. Shh.”

He’d found a local news station. A picture of a pretty blonde in the corner caught my eye. Text scrolled by at the bottom of the screen. It read, Police are looking for anyone who has information about twenty-one-year-old Bianca Rolland, who was found dead late last night in a park not far from her home.

I read the news flash, glanced at the young girl in the frame, then reread the words.

The pieces clicked. I understood Cyrus’s distress.

He sat heavily on the end of the bed, eyes glued to the screen. The anchor was a middle-aged white guy with salt-and-pepper hair. He referred to a stack of papers in his hand as he spoke. “This just in. Bianca Rolland underwent an autopsy early this morning. The findings have left the London Police with little doubt that the man responsible for Bianca’s death is twenty-eight-year-old River Jenkins of the London area. As you might know from our broadcast earlier this week, River Jenkins is the man suspected of having killed three young women at a local hotel. He is presently at large after escaping from the New Horizon Mental Health Facility in St. Thomas, Ontario…”

A picture of me filled the screen as the anchor continued to summarize the case. “The police are advising young women to take extra precautions. It is believed River Jenkins uses a dating app called Secret Admirer to connect with these young women and arrange dates. He may go by various aliases. New information has been brought forward since Bianca Rolland’s autopsy, and the police believe there may now be several other deaths connected to this man. Anyone with—”

Cyrus clicked the remote, and the TV went dark.

The hum of the air conditioner was the only sound between us.

I lowered myself onto the bed beside Cyrus, my legs no longer willing to support my weight. Another woman was dead. And they suspected me.

We spoke at the same time.

Cyrus said, “I have to make a phone call,” at the same time I said, “I don’t think Justice Adams is my father’s real name.”

Cyrus shifted to look at me. “I know. I don’t think so either. Bianca was at Destination last night looking for Justice Adams. They were supposed to meet up. He didn’t show, but the police have looked into him, and there is no record of him anywhere. He doesn’t exist.” He tugged his phone from his pocket and stared at the screen.

“Who are you calling?”

“The morgue.”

I waited for him to explain.

He pointed at the television with his phone. “They said since her autopsy, the police believe more deaths are connected to you.”

I gasped. “The homeless girls?”

“I think so. I drew attention to certain things when I was there. The chemical burns in their mouths. If this Bianca girl died the same way, Dr. Brady would have made the connection immediately and alerted the police. They might have insisted he perform their autopsies as well.”

“Would he have told them you were there? That could be bad.”

Cyrus shrugged. “I don’t know. I already called the police about them. I wanted them to look into it, and they didn’t. They brushed me off. If they see a connection now, my name will come up. I have no doubt. And if I’m right—”

“They have to know it wasn’t me who killed them. The time frame is all wrong. I was locked up when they died.”

“Exactly.”

Tremors ran through Cyrus’s body as he stared at his phone. I moved in behind him and rubbed his shoulders. They were tight. My motive was to help him relax, but before I could stop myself, I was kissing his temple, inhaling the scent of his cologne and shampoo.

After a minute, his tension came down several degrees, and he made the call.

“Is Dr. Brady available, please?”

I couldn’t hear the person on the other end of the line, so I focused on keeping Cyrus calm.

“Tell him it’s Dr. Irvine. I was there a few days ago.” A pause. “Thank you.”

While he waited, he dropped his chin to his chest and exhaled. “You’re good at that.”

I wrapped my arms around him and drew him against me, nuzzling his neck. “I’m good at a lot of stress-relieving activities.”

He chuckled. “Well, I would certainly wear you out since I’m a bundle of nerves ninety percent of the time.”

“You can never have enough sex, Doc.”

“Says you. Try being forty—”

He jolted and pulled from my arms, clearing his throat as he stood. “Dr. Brady. How are you today? It’s Cyrus Irvine. Do you have a minute to talk?”

The pacing commenced, back and forth as he tugged at the collar of his shirt. I was rewarded with bits and pieces of conversation but not enough to piece together meaning.

“I saw the news… yes… I see… No, I understand, but…”

He pulled at his collar again like it was choking him, his face strained. I stood, stopping him midpace, batting his hands away and undoing the top few buttons of his shirt. It earned me a soft smile.

“I was right!” He grabbed my arm, grinning. “Yes… What? But…”

He dropped his hold. The hair-tugging ritual began. I almost laughed. Cyrus was predictable with his anxiety-coping mechanisms. I took hold of the abusive hand and guided him back to the bed. He sat—reluctantly. Instead of a shoulder massage, I settled on a scalp massage, digging my fingers into his thick hair and applying decent pressure.

It might not have been a good idea, considering how responsive Cyrus was. He emitted a not-so-subtle groan into the phone.

I snorted when he got mad and tried to throw me off. He didn’t let me near his head after that.

“Thank you for your time, Dr. Brady… I will. Bye now.”

He threw his phone aside and spun on me. “What the hell are you doing? I was trying to have a serious and professional conversation.”

“You’re stressed. I’m trying to fix that. I was helping.”

“By turning me on and making me groan like a slut into the phone. Not helping. Do you know how embarrassing that was?”

I couldn’t fight the wicked grin. “You like scalp massages, huh?”

“I like it when you touch me. Anywhere. Everywhere. Full stop. It isn’t restricted to scalp massages. Jesus, I was—” Cyrus clamped his mouth shut, panic flashing through his powder-blue eyes.

I cocked a brow. “You like it when I touch you, huh? Anywhere? Everywhere?”

The shock turned to a scowl. “Don’t act so surprised. And stop looking at me like that. It’s nothing. I’m not going to… get the wrong impression. You can relax.”

I pushed to my knees and snagged his shirt, drawing him closer.

Quieter, I asked, “Do you like it when I touch you, Doc?”

His throat bobbed. “You know I do. But I’m not letting it go to my head like last time. I swear.”

“What does that mean?” I was pushing him. I knew exactly what it meant, but for whatever reason, the idea of him wanting or expecting more from me lit a fire in my core. All those confusing feelings Cyrus’s presence had caused back in May were resurfacing, but for whatever reason, I didn’t feel as inclined to shut them down and send him packing. I wanted to hear him say it.

“Don’t be like this. You know what I’m talking about.”

Slowly, I unbuttoned the rest of his shirt, letting it fall open.

“Do I?”

Cyrus was self-conscious about his body and tried to pull the sides together, but I batted his hands away, looking my fill. I liked his body. I wanted to see it. Touch it. Taste it.

He tried to cover himself again, but I took his wrists, preventing the action.

“I thought you liked it when I touched you.”

“I do, but I don’t know what you’re doing.”

Neither did I.

Releasing his wrists, I ran my hands over the flat plains of his stomach and abdomen, tracing a line along the waistband of his pants, stopping at the button. I peered up at Cyrus.

“We need to talk about the phone call.” He pointed at his phone.

“It can wait.”

“It’s vital. Important. We should… Gah.”

I sucked a nipple into my mouth, tonguing it and biting with enough pressure to cause a sting. Cyrus’s protests dissolved. He grabbed the back of my neck and held me in place.

I flicked the pebbled nub once before pulling off. “I love the noises you make.”

“I…” He shifted his gaze away and back.

“Spit it out.”

“I’m having trouble with this.” He waggled a finger between us.

Him and me both, but I couldn’t tell him that. I was still processing it all, unsure what was happening or what I was feeling. All I knew was, my heart was pounding wildly out of control.

I popped the button on his pants and dragged him closer for a kiss.

He didn’t pull away and moaned into my mouth.

“Undress and get on the bed,” I said against his lips.

“But—”

“Undress and get on the bed. We’ll talk about the phone call after.”

He nodded, simultaneously pulling his arms out of the sleeves of his shirt and kicking his shoes aside.

His cheeks flushed. His breathing changed. Of all the guys I’d brought back to my apartment over the years, no one was as eager or responsive as Cyrus. No one made me feel as alive. He brought out things in me I didn’t know existed. There was a wicked vulnerability that lived inside him. Some might think it was out of character for a man in his field, but I understood it more and more every day.

Because of it, I treaded carefully. Cyrus was honest and trusting. I adored his kindness and innocence, and I never wanted to see him harmed. There weren’t a whole lot of people like him in the world. He was special.

And the way he looked at me…  It stole my breath away.

Cyrus positioned himself in the middle of the bed, naked and on his back. His lips were parted and rosy, and he stared at me with an overabundance of wariness and uncertainty. I stripped, watching his eyes flare as I revealed more and more skin.

Naked, I crawled onto the bed with the intent of planting kisses over every inch of his body on my way to his mouth. Starting with his toes. I knew how much he liked mine, but I was curious if he enjoyed being the recipient of the attention as much as he enjoyed giving it.

When I swiped my tongue in a circle around his baby toe on one side and sucked it into my mouth, the moan he emitted told me I’d hit the jackpot. His cock went from half-mast to fully hard. I took my time, giving each little piggy some tongue-loving. Cyrus was going out of his mind. By the second foot, he was dripping a steady stream of precum onto his abdomen and vibrating.

I kissed my way up his legs, over his thighs—nuzzling the crease beside his cock—and licked a path up and around his navel. Then, paying attention to both nipples, I went higher until I reached his mouth.

The kiss we shared was brutal, ripe, and thrumming with need. Cyrus whimpered and clung, pulling me down against him until our bodies aligned. He writhed and groaned, hitching his hips off the bed and rutting our cocks together.

As things grew more intense, my heart swelled. It had been happening more and more over the past few days. For the first time in my life, I was in no rush to get to the fucking and was blissfully happy drawing out the intimacy for as long as we both could stand it.

Every noise Cyrus made had me buzzing and elated. I ached to hear more, to make him squirm and moan. I wanted to please him. I wanted him to beg and cry my name when he came.

Our heavy make-out session was short-lived after too much grinding. Cyrus was a blubbering mess, begging me to get inside him, whimpering for more. It made me curious if he’d ever topped. It was a question for another time. I was fine either way, but if that was what he needed, I’d happily oblige.

I found a condom and lube, then spent a bit of time between his legs, sending him out of his mind with my tongue and fingers taking turns in his ass. When he tried to touch himself, I smacked his hand away. “Wait.”

He whimpered more. “Please. I can’t… Please.”

When he was stretched and ready—and about ten seconds from blowing his load—I put on the condom and shoved a pillow under his ass to make him comfortable—another something I’d never worried about with lovers in the past.

When I entered him, I did it while looking into his eyes, his legs wrapped around me, our fingers entwined. I bottomed out and stilled. My breathing hitched, and I couldn’t calm the jitters in my belly. It was something I’d never experienced before.

Cyrus panted. Tiny gusts of air hit my chin as they passed through his bruised and parted lips. I moved one hand to his hair, touching the silky curls and tangling my fingers through it.

“You’re gorgeous,” I breathed. The words were out before I could stop them. But they were true.

Cyrus’s vulnerability was on the surface, and I knew my actions were fucking with his head, but I couldn’t stop myself. I couldn’t pull back. I wanted to tell him, but the words got stuck in my throat. I brushed my nose along his, still buried deep and not moving, savoring the connection.

“River?”

“Shh…” I didn’t want him to ask something I couldn’t explain.

“Move,” he breathed. “I need you to move.”

So I did.

Slowly, feeling every inch of him as I drew out of his body and pushed back inside. I went deep, but it wasn’t deep enough. I wanted to crawl inside him and never let go of the feeling. It was terrifying but euphoric.

We kissed again, the tempo we’d set not changing. There was no rush to the finish line. There was an unspoken understanding that this was a moment to savor and make last.

It was… something new. Something that scared me on a subsonic level, yet I couldn’t pull away or make it stop.

Maybe I was the vulnerable one.

I shut off my brain and went with it.

The bond we’d created was infinitely more intense than I could have ever imagined. I was in tune with every sound that left Cyrus’s lips, every shudder that rocked his body. I knew when I got the angle of my thrusts right. I knew when he was close. I knew when he couldn’t take it anymore and needed to come. And I wanted to send him soaring. When his orgasm hit, I swallowed his cries and held him tight until the waves of pleasure passed.

He rolled me to my back, removed the condom, and took me in his mouth, sending me to the stars before I could suck in a breath. I came hard, the world spinning off its axis, his name on my lips. When I could think straight, I tugged him off and pulled him up on top of me. I tucked him in my arms as we came down from the high.

My heart cantered out of control.

And deep down, I knew my feet might never touch the ground again.