Detective Channing Sharpe
Alibi’s Bar
Virginia Beach Oceanfront
Sharpe finished his fourth shot of Jim Beam, then motioned to the bartender for another bottle of Heineken.
It was pretty pathetic for him to be in such a cruddy dive on a Friday night by himself and already drunk before eight, but oh well, fuck it.
He’d been at the station day and night working on the Evan Scott and Thorn Blackwell case, until his captain had forced him to leave and decompress.
He didn’t think Thorn was a murderer, but something odd was happening, and as an investigator, he couldn’t stand missing pieces of a puzzle.
He was supposed to be home resting, but anytime Sharpe had a free moment to himself…his mind went to bad places.
Time to think and get lost in his head was his worst enemy. Not the bad guys on the streets or criminals eluding prosecution—it was his own fucking memories.
He was fearless in the line of duty and could survive almost anything…except his thoughts.
“Is it that bad, Detective?” the scantily dressed bartender, Shay, asked with an uninterested expression.
He was sure she didn’t give a damn how he was doing, but since Sharpe was the only loser drinking at the bar, she decided to break her boredom.
“It’s always bad, Shay.”
Sharpe scrubbed his hand over his rough jaw, then through his wild hair. He pulled his hand away and wiped his greasy fingertips on his pants leg, trying to remember when he’d last washed his hair.
“If you say so.”
She popped a loud bubble with the wad of pink gum and asked, “Want another shot?”
“Why the hell not? Make it a double.”
Shay grabbed the bottle of Jim while he slid off his barstool and made his way to the back of the dark bar toward the restrooms.
He did his business and stumbled out of the door, right into the arms of a tall, slim man who smelled all kinds of wrong to be in this place.
He smelled fuckin’ delicious. Like old-school Cool Water cologne and nicotine.
Sharpe swayed on his feet, his gaze cast down as he took in the expensive black biker boots and toned legs in designer jeans. He had a sinking feeling about who was standing in front of him, but he’d be damned if he wanted to raise his head and acknowledge him.
Lincoln .
“The fuck are you doing here?” Sharpe bit out as he ground his molars to keep from groaning his mortification.
This was his hole-in-the-wall dive. No one came into a place like this unless they were like him. Pitiful.
“It’s not a coincidence, I assure you,” Lincoln answered in a low, silky tone.
Fuck me. And fuck that voice.
“What do you want, Lincoln?”
“You,” he said in a way that brooked no argument. “Be at Belladonna tonight at nine. That is if you’re still interested in what’s going on behind our closed doors.”
“I never said I was interested,” Sharpe gritted.
“Oh, you’re more than interested, Detective,” Lincoln whispered darkly as he invaded every ounce of personal space he had.
If he really didn’t want Lincoln to be that close to him, drunk or not, Sharpe could’ve done something about it. But he didn’t.
He snapped his head up to meet Lincoln’s eyes, to give him his notorious scowl that scared the most hardened bastards, but the moment their gazes locked, Sharpe’s refusals, his insults, and his curses all died on his lips.
Lincoln glared at him with those dark, hooded eyes as if he were seeing right through all of his shit.
Maybe it was his inebriation, but none of his defenses were activating, leaving him vulnerable to Lincoln’s will.
“I don’t want—”
Uncalloused fingertips cupped his jaw, causing his protest to die unspoken.
“You like to wear masks, don’t you, Detective?”
“What?” he slurred.
“You were wearing one when we met, and you had it on at the station.”
Lincoln inched forward until their chests met, and Sharpe was sure he could feel his heart beating a drum solo behind his ribs.
“I almost didn’t notice it. You threw me way off my game, Sharpe.”
He locked his frown in place as Lincoln slowly pulled his hand away and slid a black business card into his inside jacket pocket, his knuckles brushing his right nipple.
“I’ll see you tonight, Detective.”
Lincoln’s whiskey-brown glare bore into him and filleted him where he stood.
“Come to me tonight, Channing.”
Lincoln left him there in the dark, pressed to the graffiti-riddled wall with a baffled look on his face, hard nipples, and a throbbing cock.
He waited until he heard the cowbell ding over the front door to the bar and a motorcycle engine roar to life before he slid down the wall and buried his head in his hands.
It took him a while, but he eventually pulled the card from his pocket and read the embossed gold lettering.
Belladonna Masquerade Ball.
If Sharpe got his ass up now and got moving, he’d have just enough time to sober up, take a shower, and get to that big-ass house by nine.
But he wasn’t going for Lincoln. He was going to snoop, investigate. He had an invitation now, and he wasn’t passing up the opportunity. That was what he told himself as he paid his tab, went outside, and waved down a cab.
This is all about police work. Nothing more. I don’t need anything Lincoln or Belladonna has to offer.