Excerpt – The Murder Between Us – Tal Bauer

It’s Vegas. You’re supposed to do this in Vegas. You’re supposed to let loose. He tipped his head back. Sighed. Go down there. Just for a few minutes. Just look.

Yeah, okay. He could do that. He could look. Looking wasn’t anything permanent.

First things first. He pushed into his hotel room and unholstered his gun, locking it in the safe. If he was going to head back out, he might as well freshen up a bit. Change out of the clothes he’d worn all day. In the bottom of his suitcase were a pair of black jeans, snugger than he ever wore in Iowa, and a slim-fit button-down he’d accidentally bought along with the regular ones he preferred. It was way too tight to wear to the office, and he felt ridiculous when he put it on. In the slim cut, he felt like he was playing dress-up as Hollywood’s idea of a special agent. But he had to admit the shirt showed off his flat stomach and his broad shoulders, the taper he’d built in high school and college through intramural sports and kept up thanks to turning to the gym whenever his frustrations started to boil.

Might as well run his fingers through his hair, too. And brush his teeth. Should he shave? Why not.

Half an hour later, Noah stared at himself, eyeballing the tall, dark-haired, shit-scared man in the mirror. He was just a guy. Just a guy going down for a drink. Nothing more. “It’s Vegas,” he whispered. His fingers curled around the sink’s edge. “Let yourself look.”

He never had before.

Noah grabbed his wallet and his room key and forced himself to walk out the door. He left his badge and gun behind. He wasn’t a federal agent tonight—or at least, not for the next hour. Or, hell, the next ten minutes, if he was truthful with himself about how long his courage was likely to last. He’d rather be back at Quantico than let go of the hotel room door and go down the elevator.

The hallway was empty, not a soul in sight up or down its cavernous length. It was that in-between time for Vegas. Too late for families, too early for the partygoers. All the people who weren’t going out were in for the night, and those who were still going were going to last all night.

But not him. No, he was just going to have one drink. One look.

One, two, three steps. Noah shook out his arms, rolled his shoulders. Strode down the hall. He could do this.

* * *

He couldn’t do this. What had he been thinking?

The casino, if possible, was even more packed than earlier. The floor was brighter, louder. The slots were screaming, electric jangles and digital bells roaring. Neon and strobe lights slammed into him. Men and women, couples and groups, surged. Laughter and shouts rose from the gambling pit, the cocktail tables, the crowds by the slot machines.

He was adrift in a sea of humanity. No one else was alone like he was. Everyone he saw had someone. Friends, a significant other, a partner. Someone they were with. Except him.

The bar was dead ahead, a giant circle of raised marble in the center of the casino floor. He beelined for it, sliding into an open space and leaning on his elbows. He  squeezed his eyes closed. What was he doing? He should go back to his room and turn on CNN. Again.

“Hey, honey!” A slim hand landed on his shoulder. Noah jerked, twisted—

It was the waitress from earlier. Her name tag, pinned low on her breast and drawing the eye to her cleavage, said Rachel. She leaned into his side, beaming, and one of her stocking-clad thighs rubbed against his leg. “Uh—” he stammered.

“Ditch your friends?” Her gaze flicked down, taking in his change of clothes. Her eyes seemed to ignite, and her smile, when she looked up, was different. Hungrier. “Hanging around for a bit, sexy?”

Noah swallowed hard. “I… I don’t know.” He shook his head. He couldn’t think. She was too close. Her breasts were pushing against his arm. As gingerly as he could, he shifted away, putting centimeters between his body and hers. “I only came down for one drink.”

As quickly as she’d lit up, she became completely uninterested. She shifted away and flicked her hair, sending her long, black tresses over one shoulder. “If you’re here for a drink, Philippe will get you one.” She caught the bartender’s eye and jerked her chin to Noah, then pushed back from the bar top. “Enjoy your night.”

“Have a good night, too,” Noah tried to say, but he was speaking to her back as she strode away, smiling at new people, taking drink orders effortlessly and batting her eyes at the men with the tallest stacks of chips in front of them at the blackjack tables.

“What’ll it be?” a gruff voice barked. Philippe, behind the bar, was six feet of solid muscle. He had long hair pulled back in a ponytail, and his black T-shirt wasn’t just tight, it was stretched so thin Noah could almost see the individual fibers struggling to hold on to their atomic bonds. Philippe glowered down at Noah, rubbing his hammer-sized hands in a bar towel.

“Whiskey, please. Jameson on the rocks.”

Philippe nodded and poured his drink silently, then slid it across the bar top. “Twenty-four dollars.”

Jesus. He didn’t know which to be more confused by, the outrageous price or Philippe’s hostility. How had he pissed off two people in less than a minute? You’re not in Kansas anymore. Or Iowa, even. He opened his wallet, thumbed out thirty dollars, and slid the bills to Philippe. Philippe pocketed the cash and walked off.

And then Noah was alone again, sandwiched between two groups of businessmen who had passed tipsy an hour ago and were howling at stories that were being told louder and louder. Elbows jostled him, and a man in a blue sport coat backed into his hip, barely grunting an apology before Noah spread his arms and tried to stake out his territory a bit better. Maybe he should take his drink and go. Walk. Find somewhere else to be. Hell, he could sit in front of a slot machine and get ignored by Rachel and have a better time.

Or he could go back upstairs.

So much for his big try.

Sighing, he slumped forward, head down, fingers twirling his glass on the marble bar top. Ice sloshed and slipped in and out of the amber liquid.

This wasn’t him. He wasn’t this uneasy, this out of his element. He was forty years old, not fourteen. Too old, maybe, for this. He gave himself a silent toast—Hey, you tried, have a participation trophy—and downed the rest of the whiskey.

He caught sight of a man staring at him across the bar. An attractive—Jesus, he was really handsome—man. His blond hair shone under the bar’s lights, and his head was tilted to the side, just so. A tiny smile played on his lips as if he was laughing at some inside joke he and Noah shared.

Lightning sparked down Noah’s arms, electricity zinging beneath his skin.

He froze, whiskey half down his throat, glass to his lips. He nearly inhaled the Jameson, almost ended up spraying whiskey over the backs of the obnoxious sales guys crowding him on his right. His eyes watered, and he set his glass down too quickly, nearly losing it as his hand slipped on the condensation. He couldn’t have looked more undignified if he tried. Heart pounding, Noah peered across the bar, trying to spot the blond man again. His breath hitched, caught, as Philippe paced in front of him—

The blond man was gone.

Disappointment knifed through him. He dragged in a slow breath as his fingers clenched around his empty glass. One look. One glimpse. One skip of his heart. Jesus, if this was the reaction he got just from making eye contact with a good-looking guy, then…

Well. It’s not like he really wondered anymore. He pretty much knew. But there was a difference between thinking, and wondering, and pretty much knowing and… really knowing.

Of course, to know, he’d have to work up enough courage to do something about it, and considering his track record…

It wasn’t so bad, being alone.

Besides, that guy was probably looking at someone behind him. One of the sales guys, or, more likely, Rachel. Or any other attractive person, male or female. Who in this casino would pick him out of the crowd, drinking alone at the bar, to smile at?

Well, he’d had his drink, he’d seen a guy who made his heart race, he’d nearly dropped his drink, and now it was time to head back to his room. Noah batted his glass between his palms on the bar top: once, twice, a third time. He nodded. He’d done what he said he would. Time for another year of thinking about it, thinking he might be—

“Can I buy you another one?”

The voice that spoke was honeyed whiskey, amber and gold sliding down his spine and burrowing beneath his skin. Warmth flowed from Noah’s chest, slid up his neck, and grabbed the back of his skull. A hard body leaned into him, just like Rachel had, but instead of cleavage and soft curves, a sculpted chest wrapped in a dark suit slid against his side. A knee brushed the back of his.

The impulses to jump and to melt crashed inside Noah, and he did both and neither at the same time. Jerking, he twisted, losing hold of his empty glass in the process. He lunged for it before it slid off the bar top.

The man beside him caught it one-handed, as if Noah had pitched it to him on purpose.

Jesus. Noah flushed from the roots of his hair to his toes. His eyes flicked down, and down, and then up, quickly. It was him. The blond man who had smiled at him was right there, one leg behind Noah’s, elbow on the bar top, holding Noah’s glass. He was close enough that Noah could feel the heat coming from his skin, see his chest peeking out from beneath the top two buttons of his shirt, undone and open.

He was tall, as tall as Noah, able to look him in the eye as they stood practically inside each other’s shadow. Up close, Noah saw a distinct lack of fine lines and crow’s-feet, the signs he’d come to recognize in the mirror as he hit the big 4-0 and that he saw creeping onto the faces of his friends. Deep brown eyes, like old leather and cognac, stared back at him. His stomach flip-flopped.

The sales guys behind Noah roared again, laughing at yet another story told too loud. One of them backed into Noah, this time not even bothering to mumble an apology. Noah turned, glowering. “Hey. Back up, please. No need for that.”

They were drunk enough to be happy, and the group shifted six inches down the bar. When Noah turned back, the blond was studying him, that hint of a smile back on his lips, as if he was appraising what Noah had just done.

“Sorry.” Noah gestured to both the sales guys and his glass—still in the blond’s grasp—at the same time. “It’s a little crazy here tonight.”

“This isn’t your normal scene.”

“Definitely not.” Noah chuckled. “I uh, wasn’t planning on coming out tonight.”

Noah felt the blond’s eyes rake down his body. “I’m glad you did.”

He flushed, as if the sun had turned its entire focus on him and him alone. His vision blurred, and there were suddenly two blond hunks in front of him until his eyes snapped back into focus. He coughed, looked down. Ran his finger over a seam in the bar’s marble as he fought a slow smile. “When in Vegas.” He shrugged.

Silence. He felt studied, like a lab rat. He looked back up and met the blond’s gaze. The lights from the bar dipped in and out of his facial features, curving around his angled cheekbones and the square lines of his jaw. Across the bar, he’d been eye-catching. Up close, he was breathtaking. Noah’s chest squeezed.

“Is this your first time?” The question was quiet, the man’s voice soft. Gentle.

He barked out a quick laugh and looked away, squinting at the bottles of top-shelf liquor. He was going to jump out of his skin. “Is it that obvious?”

“Well, I saw you shoot down the waitress—who, I might add, a hundred other guys would give just about anything to get a smile from. I thought I might have a better chance with you than she did, but… now I’m thinking I might be the first guy who has ever asked to buy you a drink.” His eyes peered into Noah’s, searching.

Noah swallowed. Lifted his chin. “You are.”

“Was my offer unwelcome?”

It was an off-ramp, a way to escape this conversation. Escape the question, escape his own question, escape his search for answers. “No. It was welcome. You’re right, though. I’ve never done this before. I’m not sure what I’m doing.”

“What did you come here for?” The man was still staring at Noah. The rest of the bar faded away: the shouts, the jingle of the slots, the electronic chimes and whirs. Even the sales guys and their boisterous, drunken laughter. Everything disappeared except the two of them and the inches that separated them. The heat of the blond’s knee where it brushed the back of Noah’s.

“I was…” He was what? Coming down here to look at men? How did that sound, when he said it outside the four walls of his hotel room? He sounded like a creep, like someone he would investigate and expect to find a string of sexual complaints behind, maybe some Peeping Tom activity or stalking. It hadn’t sounded that ridiculous before. Let yourself look. Let yourself pretend you’re allowed to.

God knows he’d wanted to.

He’d imagined meeting a man so many times, dreamed it and yearned for it and hungered for it, the skin of his hands itching from wanting to reach out and…

He wanted to know what it was like. Was the reality anything like the wanting?

“I was giving myself permission,” he said.

Smiling, the man held out his hand. “My name is Cole.” His smile made his whole face light up, turning the strong angles into gentle curves. “If you’d like, I’ll buy the next round and we can chat for a while.”

He has kind eyes. Whirlpools of warm wood, dark velvet and starlight. Cole’s eyes went right through Noah. That clench he’d carried for years was back, a constriction in his chest like his heart couldn’t beat right. “I’m Noah.” He took Cole’s hand. His skin was warm, smooth. His fingers were long. Jesus, he was gorgeous. “I’d love to have a drink with you.”

Cole beamed.