Chapter 6
Most people wouldn’t be sitting in a swing on their front porch in the middle of a storm, but then Ryker McKay wasn’t most men—at least, he didn’t like to think so. Once he’d been a Pulitzer Prize-winning investigative journalist. He’d been reduced to the owner, publisher, editor-in-chief, photographer, and reporter for a small-town newspaper that had been in his family from the beginning days of the printing press.
Granted, as storms in Maine went, this one was pretty mild, but still there was a fair amount of wind and the sea was crashing against the rocks below his home. There was a full moon, but it seemed to be drifting in and out of the clouds like some fantastic pirate ship from long ago. Ryker held the heavy crystal TsukiGlass of Blanton’s Single Barrel Bourbon, swirling the amber liquid around much like a sommelier might swirl a fine wine. He inhaled the aroma of apple and cinnamon, combined with hints of vanilla and caramel. He took a sip, allowing the sweet flavor profile with notes of peaches, pears, and dried apricots to tickle over his tongue. He savored the sip as the flavors faded to cinnamon, warm baking spices, maple syrup and molasses.
A man whose family legacy was teetering on the brink of financial disaster probably shouldn’t be sipping stupidly expensive bourbon, but it was the one vice he refused to give up. The shrapnel in his knee from his last job as an ace freelance investigative reporter had forced him from the field. He’d been entertaining offers from several large newspapers—the New York Times, the Boston Globe, the Washington Post—when the call had come from his uncle that he was dying and needed Ryker to come home and ‘embrace his legacy.’ His uncle had failed to mention it wasn’t so much that the legacy needed his embrace as it did an infusion of cash to keep the paper from tangling around him like a fishing net and dragging him under.
Three things had led to Ryker’s return to Bleak Ridge: his uncle needed him, he couldn’t see himself sitting behind a desk hammering out stories he didn’t care about for one of the publishing monoliths, and the romance of a small-town newspaper. The romance had been short-lived; his uncle had put off contacting his estranged nephew until it was too late. By the time his uncle’s cable found him and Ryker could check out of his hotel and get to Bleak Ridge, his uncle was gone.
The two men had never been close. Ryker’s parents and his aunt had all died in a summer squall the year Ryker turned sixteen. His uncle had, for reasons known only to him, blamed Ryker’s father. His uncle had seemed to resent being expected to raise a grieving, unruly teenager. At seventeen Ryker had graduated early from high school, had himself declared an emancipated minor, and left for New York City. A scholarship to Columbia had trained him for his life’s work and he’d filed his first important story with the Associated Press shortly before graduating.
The life of a freelance investigative journalist had been every bit as intoxicating as the good bourbon he was now sipping while sitting on the porch of the house he’d also inherited from his uncle. It hadn’t taken long for the romance of owning and publishing the Bleak Ridge Sentinel to wear off in the face of hitting the rocks of financial ruin. His uncle might have left him with a mortgage-free home, but the paper was struggling, to say the least. It wasn’t so much in debt as it was not making money. And Ryker had chosen to sink an enormous sum of money into the struggling paper.
The internet and people’s almost immediate access to the twenty-four-hour news cycle had been the harbinger of death for most small-town newspapers, and yet Ryker couldn’t quite let go of the notion of newsprint and ink. Slowly but surely, he was beginning to convert the paper to offering one of two editions—an online edition and an actual, physical newspaper. Online subscriptions were growing more quickly, but there was a desire, at least for those who resided in Bleak Ridge, to have a physical newspaper they could hold in their hands and browse without the need for an electronic device.
And so he sat in a swing on his front porch, sipping expensive bourbon and ruminating about his troubles. He stared out to sea, trying to conceive of some angle that would allow him to purchase the last of the computer equipment needed to turn the Sentinel into a truly world-class online newspaper, but that was only half of the battle. The other half was finding stories people would spend their time reading. Bleak Ridge wasn’t Chicago or Boston or New York City. Hell, it wasn’t even Bangor or Portland.
The truth was, not much happened in Bleak Ridge, or in most of Maine for that matter. Part of its allure was its slow pace and laid-back way of life. Oh, there was the occasional scandal, murder, or other crime, but for the most part, life was lived around the cycles of the sea and tourism. Most towns and villages didn’t even have their own forensic unit or investigators capable of solving much of anything. Bleak Ridge’s only detective was George Middleton, who, as far as Ryker was concerned, couldn’t investigate his way out of a paper sack with the help of a map, a flashlight, and a sherpa.
Ryker had purchased a police scanner and routinely had it with him just in case something did happen. He didn’t always have it on, but he did listen to it routinely. Plus, he had a couple of friends in Maine’s Major Case Unit, but except for the bizarre murder that had happened earlier that year in Angel’s Rise, he didn’t see them much.
Oh, they occasionally met somewhere for dinner and drinks to reminisce about days gone by when Slade and Thorn had been with Special Ops and Ryker had been invited along to document some of their more daring deeds. Those dinners were becoming less and less frequent as both detectives had fallen for beautiful women, both of whom were successful authors.
Slade had gotten married in Paris, France. Ryker had missed the actual wedding but had met up with the couple a few days later to take pictures. He’d had a good time, but seeing Slade settling down and being so happy about it had made Ryker begin to question where he was going with his own life.
Maybe that was why he’d been so intrigued and looking forward to the writer’s conference that was taking place over the next few days at Bleak Ridge House here in town. He’d received an invitation and access to the event. Intrigued by the women in his friends’ lives, he especially wanted to interview Lori Sykes. She was a rising star in the book world. Known for her friendly and outgoing manner, her profile pictures on Amazon and Facebook showed a woman who was playful, sensual, and intelligent. Author was her second career; she’d begun her professional life as an award-winning high school teacher in one of Chicago’s inner-city schools. Like himself, her second career had begun because of a bequest from a relative.
Thinking he might find common ground with her because of their similar inheritances, he’d sought her out at the signing. He’d watched from afar as she interacted with her readers. Unlike some authors who were either too introverted or too arrogant, she engaged with people, happily signed books, and seemed able to make each individual feel like they were the only person she wanted to talk to.
When Antony Cobain had spotted him, he’d rushed to Lori’s table to try and avoid the man as well as to introduce himself. He’d been pleasantly surprised and flattered when Lori seemed to know who he was, and at least something of his past glories. There had been a connection—a spark—one that he’d never felt before and had begun to wonder if he ever would.
He continued to swing slowly and rhythmically, imagining what it might feel like to be doing so with someone, maybe even Lori, sitting by his side. In some ways they had a lot in common. Both were used to the big city, but according to Thorn, the beautiful, curvaceous woman with sable brown hair was thinking about relocating to Maine where she could be closer to her friends—the same friends with whom she’d formed the Mystery Writers’ Murder Club. He knew their investigations into cold cases and involvement in others that weren’t even slightly chilly had given Thorn and Slade nightmares. As far as Ryker could tell, the four women were pretty damned good at it. Maybe that was the angle to take with a story about Lori—a second career as a successful author and amateur sleuth.
From the time he’d seen her author headshot and then a picture of her with her friends, there’d been something about her that captured his interest. She was gorgeous, but there were a lot of beautiful women in the world; and she was intelligent, but again, there were a lot of smart women. It wasn’t until he’d seen her in person that her vivaciousness and kindness had drawn him like a moth to a flame. He groaned at the cliché. Cliché or not, those were rare qualities and sadly lacking in many of the women he’d dated. Had he ever really dated? He’d had relationships—maybe they couldn’t even be termed that. Mostly he’d had a string of affairs with women he managed to keep as friends. Perhaps tomorrow would bring something more.
Glancing at his watch, he remembered his meeting with Lori at seven. If he wanted time to get presentable, it might not do to stay up to watch the sunrise. Maybe that was something he and Lori could do sometime in the future. Downing the last of his bourbon, Ryker got up from the swing and headed indoors, locking the door more from force of habit than anything else. He washed the crystal glass and left it to dry in the dishrack.
The upstairs was a mishmash of rooms that his uncle had used for various things. Ryker had surveyed the mess, closed the door at the top of the stairs and vowed someday to do something with it. Someday had yet to arrive.
Stripping out of his clothes, he tossed them into his dirty clothes hamper and crawled into bed. Not surprisingly considering the amount of bourbon he’d consumed, he was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. The dream began almost immediately. Lori was kneeling on the rug beside his bed.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said with a wispy smile lifting the corners of her mouth.
“What for?” This was his dream and he knew what he wanted from her—to take his stiff cock between her pretty, full lips.
“If you have to ask, perhaps you’re not the man I’ve been looking for.”
So even in her dreams she was going to give him sass. That was good, as Ryker liked a woman who challenged him.
“I don’t have to ask, baby, I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page.”
She laughed. “We’re both naked, Ryker, and this is your dream.”
“You have a point.”
Fisting his cock slowly, he closed the distance between them.
“Allow me,” she said, reaching out to remove his hand and replace it with her own.
Wrapping her fist around his cock, she began to stroke it slowly as she sucked the head of his cock into her mouth, her eyes never leaving his. Ryker groaned as she began to take him deeper, seemingly unafraid that she might gag. She slid her mouth up and down his length, one hand gently squeezing him at the root, while the other moved to his balls, fondling them.
Giving up the entirety of his shaft to her mouth, her free hand slid up his body, tracing his washboard abs, as Ryker sank his fingers into her hair. Normally, at this point, Ryker wanted to take control and fuck her mouth until he could shoot his cum into her belly, but this was different. He found he wanted to savor this and enjoy it to the fullest.
Lori continued to suck him more vigorously until all he wanted was to see how deep she could take him. He fisted her hair, and she looked up at him. Ryker began to move his hips rhythmically, feeling the ache in his balls and the tingle at the base of his spine.
Just as he was about to come, his dream was interrupted by the sounds of his phone playing the bugle fanfare that signaled the start of a horse race.
“Arrgghh,” he groaned, pounding the mattress. The bugle sounded again. Trying to shake off the dregs of the dream, he answered “Hello?”
“Um, Ryker? This is Lori Sykes. Oh god, I didn’t realize how late it was. This can wait…”
“No, Lori. You sound upset; what’s up?”
“Antony Cobain is dead. Well, murdered, actually.”
The last vestiges of sleep were swept away both by the reporter in him and the man who was intrigued and fascinated by the woman herself.
“What? How do you know?” he asked, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice. Learning that a good story was almost as good as sex wasn’t something she needed to know at the moment.
“I kind of witnessed it.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine. I’m just a little bit afraid that the detective may think I had something to do with it.”
“George is a putz at best. I was just thinking tonight he couldn’t find his way with a sherpa, and those guys can find anything.”
Lori laughed. “Do you know that from personal experience?”
“Yes. Mostly because I found myself in need of a way out of a certain country where I had become persona non grata, and the way to the embassy was blocked.”
“I think there’s a story there I’d like to hear.”
“I’ll be happy to tell you about it, but it’s not nearly as exciting as it sounds. Do you need me to come to the hotel?”
“No. Actually just hearing your voice and not having you ask me if I did it, helps a lot.”
“Forgive me. A couple of reporter-type questions: did they find a body, do you have any idea how he was killed, and are you looking for help to figure it out? I understand from Slade and Thorn that the ladies of the Mystery Writers’ Murder Club are pretty good at solving crime.”
“You know Slade and Thorn? How do you know I’m part of the Mystery Writers’ Murder Club?”
“Well, we talked about it earlier and I know Slade and Thorn. I’ve known both of them since they were commandos, and I was the guy following them around trying to get the story no one else could. As for the Mystery Writers’ Murder Club—you guys are developing quite a reputation, especially in law enforcement and news reporting agencies. I love that you guys take on cold cases and solve them.”
His explanation seemed to allay any concerns she might have had about him or his question.
“They did find a body on the dock where I saw it happen. I was up on the seawall. I wasn’t sure if I should call the cops or see if I could help…”
“Of course, you went to help.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’m pretty good at sizing people up quickly. There’s no way you didn’t go down to find out if he was dead or if you could offer assistance.”
“Thanks. Anyway, when I got down there, he was dead, and he had what looked like a vintage typewriter ribbon wrapped around his throat. I didn’t get a close look so I don’t know if it was the cause of death, but it looked like he might have been strangled.”
“What happened to the person you saw kill him?”
“He or she—I couldn’t tell—jumped into a small boat and took off. As you pointed out, the detective didn’t inspire a lot of faith in his ability to solve this crime, but I suppose he’ll call the MCU.”
Ryker laughed. “Don’t count on it. Local cops in Maine either really appreciate the MCU and their expertise, or they resent the hell out of them. George is in the latter group. He’ll put off calling them until he has no other choice.”
“Maybe we can solve it before then? Or at least have something to give the guys when he does call them?”
“Looks like breakfast tomorrow is going to have an entirely different agenda.”
“Do you mind?”
“Not at all. And if anyone asks, we’ll just tell them I’m doing an in-depth piece about you. We can also tell them we have mutual friends, and so I don’t want to see you go through this alone. For the record I have no doubt you could handle it, but I know I’ll feel better if you let me help.”
“Thank you.”
“You sure you don’t want me to come over to the hotel?”
“I’m sure, but I feel better for having talked to you. Thanks, Ryker. See you in the morning.”
“Good night, Lori. Try and get some sleep. See you at seven.”
He ended the call and tried to keep the smile from forming; he failed. A murder and a gorgeous woman? The proverbial damsel in distress? His dream might have been a bust, but reality was definitely looking up.