The Blind Spot by Homer Eon Flint and Austin Hall (ebook reader 8 inch .txt) 📕

“No kidding.” Casting her gaze around the floor for her nightgown, Tate scooted over to pick it up.

Clay divested himself of the condom, admiring the view of Tate’s backside as she leaned over the couch.

When he considered taking her again, just like that, he could only shake his head. More like the court jester.

He put the condom in his pocket.  It wouldn’t do to have a guest find it tomorrow.  Not to mention Tate’s mother.

Or Max, God forbid.

“Clay?”

He looked up.

“I could use another shower. Unless…” she let the word drag out.

“Unless what?”

“Unless you’re too not precisely drunk to try that standing up.”

His crown had been reinstated.  Clay decided it was good to be king.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“OW.  Shit.”

Bright morning light seared Clay’s eyes, lids scraping like sandpaper as he dragged them open. He slammed them shut, hoping his other senses kicked in so that he could discover the source of the incessant buzzing.  But when the bed revolved and his stomach dipped, he cautiously forced one back up.

And determined he’d gone colorblind overnight, because the room he was in was pink.

Fuchsia, he guessed you called it, screamed at him from the walls, while a lighter shade laughed amongst the white and yellow flowers rioting on the tangled sheets.  Confused, cautious, he sat up gingerly and held a hand to his head.

Which pounded like the entire Marine Corps band was using his brain as a bass drum.

When the buzzing started again he vaguely recognized it as his cell phone, probably still lodged in the pocket of his pants.

His pants – as with the rest of his clothes – appeared to be MIA.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, which caused the whole room to spin a slow circle, he peered down toward the floor, locating a pile of discarded clothing.  His pants were lying in a crumpled heap under a small pile of colored confetti.  The kind of confetti that came lubricated and ribbed.

Bringing memory flooding back in a rush.

Well.  At least he’d proven that he was capable of providing more than a scant minute’s worth of entertainment.

And Rogan – damn him – should be pleased to note they’d used protection.

Memories, both hot and lovely, drifted in and out of focus like an old reel of film.

Tate, in the shower, laughing as he took her against the tile.

Tate, moving beneath him, whispering words he didn’t deserve to hear.

Tate, warm against him, feeling like salvation in his arms, while the air went soft with dawn. Sometime very early this morning, he’d finally fallen asleep, and she must have slipped out to see to her responsibilities.

Speaking of which, he reached down to grab his phone.

“Copeland.”

“I take it your lazy butt is still in bed?”

“It’s in bed all right, but I can assure you it’s been anything but lazy.”

Spotting a glass of water on the nightstand, Clay snatched it up, trying to dispel the boll weevils that had knitted a fine new sweater for his tongue.  Tate – bless her – obviously predicted how he’d be feeling.  He popped the analgesics she’d left for him before attempting to read the clock.

There were several more digits than necessary, but he was pretty sure it read six forty-five.  When Kim had said first thing in the morning, she apparently hadn’t been kidding.

Through the silence on the other end of the line, Clay could practically hear the wheels turning.  “Think a little bit louder, Kim.   My supersonic auditory prowess is a little impaired this morning.”

Kim laughed, and he knew it was because he’d finally gotten into the swing of his vacation.  “Are you alone,” she asked saucily, “or do you need to call me back in a few minutes?”

“I’m good to talk,” he assured her, casting his gaze about in search of his shorts “as long as you do so in dulcet tones.”  Giving up on underwear, he pulled his pants up off the floor, wincing as the smell of alcohol hit him like a bare-knuckled punch.  “Your people are evil,” Clay informed her, thinking of Rogan and his insidious drink.  “It’s no wonder the Irish need so many patron saints.”

“I’m guessing that sometime last night you ran afoul of a bottle of whiskey.”

“At least.”  He pulled on his pants and tried to muster enough brain cells to focus on work.  There was an investigation that needed his full attention.  “But more to the point of your call, I’m thankful that you’re here.  We’re still awaiting positive ID on the vic uncovered yesterday, but after comparing my visual against the descriptions in the missing persons files, I’m thinking that it was possibly a fourteen-year-old by the name of Janie Collier.  I’ll go over her file with you at the station, but she was reportedly seen with a man loosely matching our perp’s description, aside from coloring – which we both know is easy to fake.”  He wandered into Tate’s bathroom and checked himself out in the mirror.

Ouch. Not a pretty sight. Red-rimmed, scruffy, a little gray beneath his tan, and a victim of hit and run bed-head.  He needed a shower, coffee, and a definite change of clothes before he could even think of meeting Kim at the station.  “After I get a look at the footage, if it looks like there’s a connection, you might want to talk to the agents at the Charleston RA and get them on board with the local investigation.  That stack of files I went through yesterday stem from a number of jurisdictions, so this will definitely be a cooperative effort.”

He pulled down one of his lower eyelids, studied the roadmap of crisscrossing blood vessels, and wondered absently if Tate owned any Visine.  Feeling a little bit like a snooper, he opened up the medicine cabinet to check.

Toothpaste.

Face cream.

Mouthwash.

Kim yapped in his ear, and he made the appropriate noises to show he was listening.  Something about a jerk at the local RA whom she’d had the displeasure of working with before.

He pushed