Hello again, friends! I’m C.S. Poe, back with another monthly author post here at Love Bytes. You might know me for my mystery-romances like Southernmost Murder or the Snow & Winter series. Or you might recognize me from this kooky, Choose Your Own Adventure story, The Murder Collection! Either way, I am me, these are indeed the stories I write, and we’re back with Pt. 7 in this free read.

If you’re new to The Murder Collection, you can read previous entries here. At the end of each chapter, readers vote on which action Dean Stewart should take, and of his choices last month, the overwhelming response was Option 2.

What did Jordan say to Dean in the coffee shop:

“Oh, I’ve been fine. Busy. So busy. I have a show opening this week. If you’ve got nothing going on, I can add your name to the list and get you in.”

Blurb: Dean Stewart recently graduated from a prestigious art college in New York City. Riding the high of a major success that has put him in the spotlight of the art community, there’s tremendous pressure for Dean to unveil his next collection. The only problem is, he doesn’t have one. In fact, Dean hasn’t felt any inspiration in months, and the funds from his first major sale aren’t going to pay for his apartment and work studio forever.
Just when Dean can’t afford a single distraction, he gets noticed by homicide detective Jiro Watanabe, and not in a good way. Without warning, Dean is thrust into a world of mystery and murder, when all he wants is for Jiro to ask him out on a date that doesn’t involve the police station.
The art world just got a whole lot more cutthroat.

–

“Huh,” was all Detective Watanabe said.

I felt heat creeping up my neck and face. “Like I said, he was being an asshole. I told him to—to get bent, and I left.”

“Did you go to his exhibit?”

“Hell no.”

Watanabe tapped his notebook with an open pen, leaving little ink spots on the page. “All right.” He snapped it shut and tucked it into his coat pocket. “Dean,” he said firmly. “I’m going to ask you this, one time.”

“Okay?” I said, confused.

“Did you kill Jordan Bradley?”

“N-no! No way! Jesus Christ, me and death aren’t bros. I can’t even use a mousetrap in my apartment. I caught it inside a little box, brought it outside, and let it go in the alley. I named it! George.”

Watanabe narrowed his eyes. His expression was one-third badassery, one-third hardass cop not taking even the smallest piece of shit, and one-third that look models give the camera—smoldering, I think it’s called. I could feel his stare all over my body. It burned right through my clothes, pierced skin, and it was as if it were looking into my soul to confirm whether or not I was a killer.

But eventually, maybe a bit reluctantly, Watanabe nodded.

“You believe me?” I asked, voice wobbly.

“Should I not?”

“No, please do. I swear I’m telling the truth. Jordan was a jerk, but he didn’t deserve… that,” I said, jutting a thumb backward, indicating to my studio and the human soup in the tub.

“I’m going to let you leave,” Watanabe continued. “But you stick close to home. Understand? I don’t want you leaving this city without calling me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Watanabe turned and started for the studio.

“Detective?”

He glanced over his shoulder.

“What if he comes back?” I asked.

“I think Mr. Bradley is quite dead,” Watanabe answered, deadpan.

I smiled a little. Not because I was glad Jordan was dead—far from it. I smiled because it was a weird thing to say. Kind of funny, like Watanabe was trying to assure me zombies weren’t real. I wasn’t sure if he said it to be morbidly humorous or he was being serious in his attempt to make me feel better.

“I mean Doc.” I took a breath. The very mention of Charlie Houdini— just thinking of his face, that gun, the fact that Watanabe had literally been a human meat shield for my sorry ass…. I looked down at my colorful shoes. My feet were sweating inside them.

Watanabe exhaled loudly. He walked back toward me, passed by, and said, “Come on.”

I raised my head and quickly spun around, all arms and legs flailing after him. “Where’re we going?”

“I’m taking you home,” Watanabe answered.

 

This morning when I’d left my apartment, I hadn’t planned on coming back with a man who should have been on the cover of GQ wearing the hottest new suit in town, but was instead sporting a badge and service weapon. I mean, my house was an embarrassment—we’re talking my mother would have a heart attack knowing I had guests see the sorry state of 12F, kind of bad.

Upon unlocking the door and stepping inside, I immediately started grabbing dirty clothes off the floor. I tossed them into the open kitchen, kicking them with one foot to disappear behind the counter. I snatched an open pizza box, empty takeout containers, and—one shoe, why was there one shoe in my kitchen—and threw them into the laundry pile.

“Nice place,” Watanabe said. He shut the door and took a look around.

“I guess it wouldn’t be so bad if I thought to clean more than once a month,” I agreed. I walked past him and kicked a few more items under the nearest table.

Watanabe made a sound under his breath that could have very much been a laugh.

I looked up. He was staring at me, hands in his pockets, looking far too enticing for his own good.

God. My life was a Shakespearean tragedy. Really. All I’d wanted to do was dick around my studio and paint. Instead I found a former classmate dead. Was shot at by a wanted murderer. Met a total hottie who turns out to be a cop….

And after all this—now he’s laughing at me.

“What?” I asked, my defense coming out way stronger in that single word than I’d meant.

“You said you were twenty-two?” Watanabe looked around the apartment again. “Yeah. I can see it.” He started across the tiny living room, briefly inspected the kitchen, then made his way to the bedroom.

“What’re you—ah—wait!” I ran toward him, jumped onto the couch, then over it, and landed in front of him. “Don’t go in there.”

“Do you have something in the room you don’t want a cop to see?”

“Dirty underwear?”

“Did you want me to make sure this place was safe before leaving, or no?” Watanabe countered.

I chewed on the inside of my cheek. “It might smell weird,” I warned.

“I’ve experienced far worse than a little BO.”

I felt my face flush again and I awkwardly leaned back against the door, letting it fall open. Watanabe strolled inside and began poking at each corner of the room in an effort to deem it clear of any and all monsters or mobsters.

I swallowed the wad of spit in my mouth as I watched.

CHOOSE DEAN’S NEXT ACTION

1. “So uh… you seeing anyone, Detective?”
2. Dean blows it and says nothing.

 

Amazon | Audible

Color of You by C.S. Poe, narrated by Greg Boudreaux

Blurb: Bowen Merlin – yes, that’s his real name – accepts a position in the quaint town of Lancaster, New Hampshire, as the high school band director. He leaves New York City for the snowy countryside of New England just in time for the holidays. With class, homework, after-school activities, and a surprise Christmas concert to plan and rehearse, Bowen is plenty busy. And since he’s never had much luck with romance, factoring in time to find Mr. Right isn’t a priority….

–

C.S. Poe is a Lambda Literary and EPIC award finalist author of gay mystery, romance, and paranormal books.

She is a reluctant mover and has called many places home in her lifetime. C.S. has lived in New York City, Key West, and Ibaraki, Japan, to name a few. She misses the cleanliness, convenience, and limited-edition gachapon of Japan, but she was never very good at riding bikes to get around.

She has an affinity for all things cute and colorful and a major weakness for toys. C.S. is an avid fan of coffee, reading, and cats. She’s rescued two cats—Milo and Kasper do their best on a daily basis to sidetrack her from work.

C.S. is a member of the International Thriller Writers organization.

Her debut novel, The Mystery of Nevermore, was published by DSP Publications, 2016.

 

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