Chapter Five
RAVEN
I woke up before the crack of dawn. There were still hours before Miguel and I had to go into the office to start figuring out what was going on with the stolen pigeon’s blood ruby. I had a feeling things weren’t exactly going to be easy with this case, even though it seemed very straightforward. It wasn’t like we weren’t good at what we did. The reason I hadn’t slept, had a lot more to do with John Sutter’s reappearance in Miguel’s life, somehow back from the dead, showing up at a place where we’d gone to meet a new client and her lawyer.
I hadn’t said anything to Miguel, but the timing of Sutter showing up at the restaurant at exactly the same time as we were starting out a new case, was off. Several things weren’t tracking for me. Obviously, he’d always known Miguel and his team had come out of the desert alive. Miguel hadn’t told me where everyone was in his unit lived or even if they were still in the military. Maybe he didn’t keep close tabs on them, but I doubted it, considering he thought of them as brothers. He’d named off six men on his original team including himself and Sutter which meant there weren’t a hell of a lot of guys to track down. If Miguel, Vonne, and Sutter were here in L.A., Pete in Iowa, that meant the other two could be anywhere.
Thoughts plagued me as I’d lain awake staring at the ceiling in the wee hours of the morning. How had Sutter gotten out of the desert and why hadn’t he contacted anyone in the unit to let them know he’d survived? I petted Stanley’s fur when he’d snuck into our room and crawled up between us around two a.m. If Miguel was in the dark, maybe it meant all the other guys were too. I didn’t think Miguel had talked to Vonne since we’d gotten home from Sagebrush, even when I was busy putting Nana to bed. I might be wrong. He might have been texting him while he was busy burning our garlic toast last night. If so, he hadn’t said anything about it. I had to wonder now whether Sutter had contacted any of them. It really bugged me not to have all these details at hand.
Maybe Sutter had been captured by the enemy. Maybe he’d been held and tortured and had somehow gotten away. Surely, he couldn’t have gotten back into the country if he hadn’t gone back to the Marines for help. If that was the case, I was pretty sure Miguel would’ve heard about it. My thoughts got darker the longer I thought about it. What if he’d been with the enemy so long that he’d been brainwashed. Could a Spec Ops guy be brainwashed? Didn’t elite troops have some sort of specialized training on how to survive if they fell into enemy hands? Could he have been rescued by some elite government agency who’d found him out in the desert and had him on a secret mission for the last eleven years. Maybe I was watching too much Jack Bauer on 24. Maybe I was just an idiot.
I rolled away from Miguel, easing out of bed to go to my bookcase, using the flashlight on my phone to choose a book I’d read but hadn’t had the time to review yet. There were at least four waiting for Nightcrawler’s brilliant words of wisdom…or warning. I laughed at my own stupidity. I really needed to keep up with my reviews better than I had been doing, but I’d become addicted to Miguel’s body which had kept me busy in recent months. Bestreads was no longer my priority in my off hours, and my Nightcrawler bio no longer rang true. I’d found the man of my dreams, and we were living a storybook romance.
For a hot minute, I’d considered giving up my review blog because it was rare that I took the time to read anymore. But when I realized that Miguel missed Nightcrawler, I made sure I tried to fit reading and reviewing into my Saturday or Sunday routine. Since we both worked and lived together, we’d made the decision that the two of us should stay out of each other’s pockets on the weekends to do our own thing. It was important for couples to find hobbies to indulge in, even if they were solitary ones like reading. Neither of us wanted to become bored with each other…even though it was early in our relationship to think that way.
It was something we’d sat down and talked about at length after deciding to go into business together. We’d decided that living in each other’s space seven days a week would be a sure-fire way to burn out the relationship if we didn’t make time for our own interests. We had to give it time to get onto solid ground. It wasn’t that we ever strayed very far from each other, even on a lazy Saturday or Sunday, but we did have singular pursuits.
For some godforsaken reason I was still at a loss to understand, Miguel liked to do laundry. I chalked it up to his Marine Corps training and I had to admit really loving the way he folded my skivvies and rolled my socks. He was too fucking neat. He even folded the towels lengthwise so that I could take one out of the cupboard, hold the corners of one end, and watch it unfurl exactly the right way to hang it neatly over the towel rack in the bathroom. I’d learned that there were ways to fold T-shirts that didn’t leave lines at all and there was something about the way everything smelled and felt so Downy soft, that I could practically sing the jingle every time I opened a drawer. So, I usually handed him my basket and let him have his way with my dirty underwear while I read, wrote, or cooked.
I liked to cook, so I did the week’s shopping, hung out with my Nana, took her for walks in the back garden, and cooked, trying out inventive meals on Miguel. After all, if he was to become my soulmate, I wanted to make sure I prepared what he liked. The rare roast beef, Texas chili, and Hungarian goulash had gone over well, but then again, everything with meat in it usually did. I still made him eat his fair share of vegetables including the dreaded brussels sprouts he swore he hated until I tried roasting them with garlic to “take the funk out” as he’d laughingly described my attempts one day.
I even fixed him various incarnations of tofu, making him try those, as if he were a toddler. Every time I set it down in front of him with various sauces to make it palatable to him, it was fun to see him screw up his face. I’d ordered him to eat his tofu like a good Marine, and he’d gotten better at finishing it after rewarding his attempt by blowing him in the kitchen while he dried dishes. Miguel swore that my obsession with stinky vegetables and soybeans meant I had a sadistic streak. But he tolerated my attempts to make him live longer, possibly because he knew I loved him, but more likely, because he enjoyed seeing how far I’d push him.
I pulled out a book, glancing at the title on the spine, before eyeing him snoozing peacefully in bed. I pulled on a robe and slipped into my moccasins before leaving the room, headed for the kitchen, book and tablet in hand. I heard Stanley pounding down the floor behind me, so I stopped midway through the living room a split second before he cut me off, zooming in front of me like an obnoxious driver. I chuckled as I continued on my way, flicking on the light, and squinting as my eyes got accustomed to it. The kitten was standing in the kitchen waiting for me.
Stanley wound himself between my legs as I reached for the coffee and started preparing a single cup for myself. When he didn’t get instant satisfaction from his human, and possibly growing annoyed that I wasn’t feeding him, he zoomed back out. The second the coffeepot beeped, Stanley ran back in, skidding to a halt at my ankles. When I looked down, his huge orange eyes blinked up at me.
“Someone has the zoomies this morning.” He instantly turned and charged back out of the kitchen, running all the way down the hall and back several times as I poured half and half into my cup. By the time he finally came to a stop at my ankles again, the little fucker wasn’t even out of breath. I reached for the cat food and the second he saw the bag, he began howling as if starved. The kitten had more than doubled his weight since moving in with us three months ago, so seeing him so tortured had no effect on me. I poured some kibble into a bowl and then reached for the wet food, plating it while his nose was buried in the dish. The second I set it down, he moved over and began gobbling it. I leaned back on the sink, ankles crossed as I sipped my coffee, marveling how Stan sounded exactly like a sow at the trough.
Coffee in hand, cat duties done, I took the paperback and my tablet to the living room, switched on a light, and curled up on the sofa to write my review. I leafed through the book, familiarizing myself with it, and then set it aside to begin writing.
Book title: The Sliders
Author: S.E. Hint
Publisher: Self-published
Genre: Action/Adventure
Review/rating by Nightcrawler: 2 Stars
Synopsis:
An enduring work of fiction with an age-old trope…the clash that occurs between two vastly different groups when rich and privileged meets poor and downtrodden.
My Review:
When I chose this novel and read the blurb, I didn’t know what to expect. Perhaps my definition of an enduring work of fiction was different than the author’s. Early on, I became concerned that the similarities between it and another timeless classic, had this book by S.E. Hint, bordering almost on plagiarism, something you know is off limits with Nightcrawler. Regular readers know that any book even hinting of copyright infringement will earn the author a scathing review and as many negative stars as I can give. Furthermore, when the author mentioned the name of one of the groups depicted in this novel, I got very concerned.
Apparently, though, “Greasers” isn’t a slang pejorative for a gang, it’s just meat.
That’s right, dear readers, this novel about varying ways restaurants prepare burgers made me recheck the category under which the book was listed. Instead of being an action and adventure book, it would have been better slotted in as a fictional cookbook, if such a ludicrous bookshelf listing could exist. I admit to my failure at understanding the category listed, though. Perhaps I’m being cynical but, in my opinion, unless your definition of adventure is the varying ways grease can run out of a bun, I’m right. I should stop and mention here that there are many not so subtle undertones to the way the book is written. In fact, the author’s very description of the preparation of the “Greasers” makes me want to suggest my own category. M/M Romance comes to mind.
Here's an excerpt, you can get the full “flavor.” See if you agree:
“The one takeaway I appreciated when hoping to enjoy a good, thick greaser, was the fact that you could watch as your meat was being prepped. The buns might be mere tops and bottoms, but it’s the filling itself which stands the test of chefs everywhere. The meat’s glistening, smooth, dark tones slid through the grinder, making my mouth water. The way it flopped out with a thickness so heavy, it took two hands to fully wrap its girth. I had high hopes that it would live up to the promised fulfillment at the end. But it was the way the meat oozed deliciously, that made me swallow it all down. I couldn’t wait until the taste exploded on my tongue. I leave this review of Greasers brazenly, shuddering desperately, and trying simply to come away from the meal with any sense of decency.”
If reading the book purely from the action and adventure category, I’d deduct five stars. But if I were to read it as a M/M Romance, I’d give it a wholehearted, if not highly-lubricated two for the prosaic metaphors alone.
I chuckled as I posted my review and then set my tablet aside, relieved to have one more in the bag.
“What’s funny?”
My head shot up, hand over my heart since I’d been so focused on what I was doing, I hadn’t heard Miguel pad down the hall in stockinged feet. He smirked at me and I smiled back sweetly, rising from the couch. He looked damned good in loose sleeping pants and a white tank that showed off his toned body. The muscles of his arms were as sculpted as the rest of him, but it was the black ink on the left bicep which always drew my eye. The eagle, globe, and anchor tattoo emblazoned there, never ceased to make my breath catch in my throat.
“Holy shit, you scared me to death,” I whispered, keeping my voice low so I wouldn’t wake up my nana. It was still an hour before Dolly was due to arrive. Miguel grinned and pulled me down on the couch before taking my hand and tugging me close, kissing me on the lips. I turned into him, loving the way his lips felt as they brushed over mine. When he pulled away, he looked just as sexy as ever.
“What are you doing up so early?”
I tilted my head to the side and smiled at him. “I couldn’t sleep so I got up to write a review.”
His lips quirked. “And that’s what you were laughing at? Yourself?”
I felt myself blush. “I can be funny when I want to.”
“Nightcrawler can be funny when he wants to,” he replied. We both turned toward the sound of padding paws as Stanley came running into the living room from the kitchen where I’d heard him crunching away on the food I’d given him. “There’s my little love,” Miguel said as Stan jumped up onto the couch, ran over to him, and began crawling up his chest. The wince on his face as Stanley used his needle-sharp claws to make his way up Miguel’s body made me hide another smile behind my hand. “Christ! Leave me some skin.”
I stood as Miguel plucked him off his shoulder, kissed him hard, and gave him several cuddles before setting him down. Stanley curled against the side of his leg, narrowing his orange eyes as he no doubt tried to decide if he should try to climb the mountain of his owner’s chest again or not. When he opted for a lunge, I laughed as Miguel caught him.
“He won’t be denied, much like me.” I leaned in and kissed his lips again as Miguel cuddled the cat between our bodies. Miguel looked at me over the furry, white head.
“Is there any more coffee?”
I stood. “I made a single cup for myself over an hour ago. Come to the kitchen where we can talk without waking Nana up and I’ll start the carafe.” I held out a hand and he set Stanley down, watching him curl up on the pillow now that he’d been given attention, before taking my hand and following me to the kitchen. I turned on the pot and slid into the corner dinette as we waited.
“Why couldn’t you sleep?” Miguel plucked a banana from the bowl on the table and began peeling it.
I drew circles on the Formica tabletop, watching my fingers for a minute, looking up just in time to see him sliding the banana into his mouth.
“What?” He grinned at me.
“The way you’re eating that banana is making me horny.”
He laughed, sucking on it a few times before finally shoving it all the way into his mouth and chewing. He looked utterly lewd. When he finished swallowing, he repeated his question. “Now, what had you up in the middle of the night?”
“Honestly, I wanted to ask you something, but you probably won’t be able to tell me anything anyway, so I don’t know if I should.”
He frowned. “You can ask me anything, Raven. It doesn’t mean I can tell you everything about my past, but you should know I’ll always try. I assume you want to ask me something about John, right?”
I nodded, feeling really wrong about asking him but if I didn’t run my questions by him, I probably wouldn’t sleep tonight either. The coffee beeped and I slid out of the booth as I began thinking of the right questions and how to phrase them. Now that he was sitting here, a lot of the things I’d been thinking about last night seemed stupid. I poured our coffees and brought them to the table, grabbing the half and half before pouring some into my cup.
“Thanks, Raven,” he said, lifting his cup as I set down the creamer.
I took a deep breath, slowly blowing it out as I decided to ask the question looming utmost in my mind. “How do you think John survived out there in the desert after the sandstorm and why didn’t he go back to base?”
Miguel frowned, shaking his head. “Believe me, Raven, ever since seeing him yesterday, I’ve asked myself that question a thousand times. As far as we knew, there weren’t any villages in the immediate area. Maybe we missed one somehow, though, I doubt it. We went back a few times searching for him, going in a wider perimeter with each foray. Our base commander called for drone searches and those were futile too. In the end, we were ordered out of the area because it was just too dangerous. Enemy troops had been spotted by that time. When the NCIS came out to question us, I got the feeling that they somehow blamed us for John’s disappearance.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “So NCIS is a real thing?”
“What do you mean?” He frowned a little.
“NCIS…like the TV show. Is it a real thing? Like they investigate crimes and things?”
Miguel smirked. “Well, they don’t exactly have a Jethro Gibbs if that’s what you mean, but yeah, it’s the law enforcement branch of the Navy. They investigate any crimes committed against anyone in the Navy or Marine Corps or any crimes they’re suspected of having committed. They also investigate missing Naval and Marine personnel.”
“So, they thought you somehow…what? Killed Sutter and buried him out in the desert?”
Miguel shrugged. “It’s been known to happen. He was our team leader which could have meant he was a target for someone who held a grudge,” he said. “It took some convincing, but they finally accepted our recounting of the events from that day…that he’d somehow gotten lost during the storm.” He sipped his coffee. “I suppose it might look suspicious to someone who didn’t know how close knit our unit was.” He studied me. “I think there’s something else. What’s really on your mind, Raven?”
He knew me so well. “What if he was captured and held?” I drew more circles on the tabletop with my finger. I frowned as I looked up. “What if he was brainwashed…or maybe he still is?”
Miguel kept a straight face. “Trust me when I say, I’ve wondered all those things myself, Raven. I suppose it’s a likely scenario…not the brainwashing part…but there’s always a possibility John was captured and held for some reason. Usually, if a lone Marine or U.S. soldier is captured, they’re killed immediately. The fundamentalist shitheads love to show ‘infidels’ being murdered on the web. He could have been held prisoner…but then I wonder how in the hell he showed up out of the blue.”
“You’ve completely dismissed the brainwashing part?” I wondered why.
“Like he was subject to some kind of Stockholm Syndrome? You think he fought by my side for seven years and then suddenly turned traitor?”
I was embarrassed but I slowly nodded, feeling a lump in my throat. “He’s been missing for eleven years, Miguel. I understand you guys undergo extensive training to resist the enemy even under torture, but eleven years is a hell of a long time. You have to admit, it is a possibility.”
He ran his hand through his hair, standing abruptly. He grabbed his coffee mug and took it to the sink, dumping the leftovers into it, before turning to me. His face was a mask of anger. “John’s no traitor. He’s an American hero.”
I swallowed hard, watching him break eye contact and storm out of the room. The lump in my throat had moved to my stomach, forming a hard ball of shame. I should have never suggested that Miguel’s friend…his lover…might have formed an even deeper attachment to the enemy than he’d had with him or the others in his unit. I felt sick inside and I hated the fact that I’d upset Miguel.
I hated the fact that John Sutter had returned at all.