When PI Luca Nolan accepts a case from a man looking for his lost cousin, he doesn't expect to find artist Daniel Merriweather so quickly -- and so attractive. As he surveys Daniel in gay-friendly Provincetown, Luca finds more of himself in Daniel than he does for his client, leading him into questionable gray areas in terms of his personal life and his private practice.
When Daniel discovers he's being watched, and Luca's put in a bad place that only reminds him of his past, will each man not let their past wounds dictate their future? Or will they fall victim to the death of a thousand cuts?
"You're very kind ...?"
"Daniel," I said, and then realized my own foolish error. I never gave my own name when I was investigating, even though it was a common one. I usually did use Daniel as a cover, since it was so similar to my own, Biblical references and all; the fact that this was his name, his hidden name, only made my next slip that much stupider. "Luca Daniels," I said, trying to salvage something. I extended my hand.
"Markus," he said, and his face grew tense. His handshake was limp. "Nice to meet you. But I should stay here, keep drawing. I appreciate the offer, though. And I'm glad you like the picture."
"I do. I really do. You'll be here tomorrow?"
"Maybe." Daniel looked to the ocean, and then back to me. "Supposed to rain. So I'm not sure."
"Where do you go when it rains?" I gestured to the large clouds above the sky, a never-ending blue, when he didn't quite answer fast enough. "Seems like it never rains here at all."
"It does. It's just --"
A crash sounded from behind us. A mother and her child had dropped a large cooler, and most of its contents spilled out against some rocks. A can of soda fizzled, creating a hiss-pop-bang that startled even me. While many people in the artist area let out an exasperated yelp, and some even jumped from their seats, it was only Daniel who suddenly threw his arms up around his ears. He knocked his sketchbook down in the process. He covered his face with his hands, and the rest of his body curled up. It was a split second reaction, something completely involuntary.
Yet it gave me a startling picture of what I was looking at.
Most of the people, now understanding where the crash had come from, laughed in a lighthearted way. Daniel remained tucked up tight, though he lowered his hands ever so slightly.
"Here," I said, and picked up the sketchbook. I closed the cover, noticed a street name written on the side of it, and then handed it back to him.
"Thanks." His voice was small, almost embarrassed.
"I'll see you tomorrow, maybe. If it doesn't rain."
He nodded and I thanked him once again. I took a long time walking back to my truck, surveilling over my shoulder as I did. I wanted to stay here on this beach, keep watching him from afar, but I knew I'd almost blown my own cover. Stupid, stupid, I chastised myself, like I'd done all throughout middle and high school when my voice got in the way. When my scar, my wonky lips, and everything else I hated about me got in the way. It was a wave of sudden feeling, a crash of my past against my own ankles, like the rising and ebbing tide next to me. Like the crash that had made Daniel jump ten feet higher than anyone else around him.
I knew that jump. I knew that scared, defensive, please-don't-hit-me-again pose. It had been a long time since I jumped that way, but it was something that never truly left my bones. When I looked out at the ocean, I also looked back to Daniel. He caught my gaze. He turned away and sketched something, his hands shaking as he did.
And before either one of us revealed too much more about ourselves, I drove away to find some sort of shelter for the evening.
