For T.M.:

You inspire me every day with your kindness and friendship. Your love of all things paranormal was the springboard for this series.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

PROLOGUE
Ronan

June…

Boston was suffering through day eight of an unseasonable early summer heat wave. With rising temperatures came rising tempers. Rising tempers always brought an increase in calls to 9-1-1.

This particular call-out to H Street in South Boston had included members of 48th precinct homicide unit due to the volume of emergency calls. The 48th didn't usually arrive on-scene until after the bullets finished flying, contrary to what programs like Law & Order: SVU portrayed on television.

A man had his family barricaded inside their townhouse and was holding them at gunpoint. Concerned neighbors had heard Manuel Garcia shouting in English and Spanish that he was going to shoot his wife and three small children. They’d called the cops.

Detective Ronan O’Mara was sweating his balls off. Positioned behind a large oak tree in Manuel Garcia’s South Boston backyard, he could feel sweat trickling down his spine to soak into his already sodden black boxer briefs.

He was dressed in a blue button down and navy trousers with his Kevlar vest secured tightly over his chest and stomach. It wasn’t his usual detective garb or the ninety-five degree temperature in the shade that was making him sweat bullets. It was the fact that these kinds of domestic situations had the tendency of going downhill fast and ruining families.

By raising his voice and reaching for his gun, the dirt bag inside the house had fucked his family over forever.  His kids would never forget the day their father held a gun on them. His wife, if she had half a brain in her head, would pack their things once the BPD got this guy in custody and run as far away from her husband as possible then file for divorce.  Some things were cut and dry like that.

His own marriage and subsequent divorce hadn’t been. Eight weeks after the papers were signed, Ronan was still trying to figure out what the hell had gone so wrong, so fast.

Two months ago, Ronan had it all, a handsome husband, who was also a homicide detective, a nice townhouse in an up-and-coming neighborhood in Southie, a kitchen table littered with brochures from local adoption agencies, and a sweet, newly restored 1968 Ford Mustang fastback painted candy-apple red. Once the envy of every couple he knew, now his marriage was nothing but a floating turd in the sewer of life.

All he had left now was the car, which was parked in front of his shitty one-bedroom apartment in an equally shitty Dorchester neighborhood, that was most definitely not up-and-coming.

The one thing that the shitty studio apartment in the shitty Dorchester neighborhood had was a brand new bottle of Jameson waiting for him in the run down and dented refrigerator. Ronan wasn’t an alcoholic. Well, not yet anyway. He still wasn’t used to sleeping without Josh in bed next to him, his soft snores lulling Ronan to sleep.

The Jameson was just a balm on his battered heart to get him through to when he could finally sleep alone. At least that was the line he sold himself every night when he tucked his buzzed body into bed.

His father had been a useless, wastrel of a no-good drunk, according to Ronan's sainted mother. He had no idea if this was actually true or not. John O'Mara was long gone by the time Ronan could walk.

His mother, Erin, had passed away from a brain aneurysm two weeks after he graduated from the police academy. She'd never met Josh and thankfully hadn't been there when the relationship had crumbled down around him two months ago.

"You see anything, O'Mara?" His partner, Tony Abruzzi's voice crackled through his earpiece.

"Only a view of the kitchen. All I can see is the refrigerator." He swiped the back of his hand across his sweat-soaked forehead, quickly wiping it against his pants.

Tony was situated in the next door neighbor's yard, taking cover behind the wooden fence separating the small plots of land. The row houses were all joined on H Street. There wasn't a break in the buildings until East 7th Street crossed H, about two blocks down. He and Tony were the only two detectives stationed out back.

Realizing what a precarious position he and Tony were in should the suspect make a break for it out the back door, Ronan cleared his throat, about to ask Captain Davidson for some extra bodies to help secure the back of the house.

He'd heard the call over the police band radio announcing the arrival of SWAT about fifteen minutes ago. Negotiations were also ongoing with the Hostage Recovery Team. "Captain, Abruzzi and I are alone back here-"

The unmistakable pops of gunfire stopped Ronan's request for backup in its tracks. Pulling his gun out of its holster he chambered a round and got into position, readying himself in case the suspect should charge out the back door.  

"Prepare to breach!" Came the shout from the SWAT commander.

"Jesus, be ready," Tony warned through Ronan’s earpiece.

All Ronan was focused on now was going home at the end of his shift. Nothing else mattered. Not his broken marriage. Not the unopened bottle of Jameson. Not the asshole inside the house who'd possibly been shooting up his innocent family. Just stay alive and go home.

"Why’d you make me do it, Shelly?" Came an outraged shriek. "Why’d you make me do it?" Ronan could see a panicked looking man dart into the kitchen. The bald man was wearing a blood splattered wife-beater and was holding his head with both hands. In his right hand was a Beretta.

"Drop the gun and come out with your hands up, Manuel!" Ronan shouted.  

At the sound of his voice, Manuel started to fire wildly out the kitchen window. The glass shattered.

Too late, Ronan pulled his bulky body back behind the oak tree. Fire sizzled down his left arm and he knew he'd been hit.

His heart was pounding so hard, he couldn't hear anything else going on around him. The cacophony of voices coming through his earpiece faded into a dull roar, kind of like the way the breaking waves of the ocean sounded at Salisbury Beach after an Atlantic hurricane passed offshore.

Knowing he had to get it together or this motherfucker was going to kill him, he chanced a look around the tree and could see Manuel tearing down the poured concrete stairs and into his backyard. He was heading right for the tree.

"Gonna take your fucking head off, asshole!" he shouted.  His face was a mask of fury.

"Not today," Ronan said calmly. He took careful aim, keeping as much of his body behind the tree as possible and pulled the trigger twice. Blood and brains exploded from Manuel's head before his body melted to the ground.

"Officer down! Officer down!”  Ronan managed to shout as he sank to the ground when he saw Tony vault over the fence separating the yards. He tried to put pressure on his wound, but he was losing strength fast now that his adrenaline rush was fading.

"Jesus, fuck! What the hell were you thinking?" Tony shouted, pulling a pressure bandage from his belt and secured it around Ronan's left shoulder.

Ronan felt himself starting to slip toward unconsciousness. Maybe that was why Tony sounded so pissed at him. "The fucker shot me, said he was going to blow my head off. He just killed his family."

Tony’s brow creased in what looked like confusion. "Dude, Garcia didn't kill anyone. The gunshots we heard were fired into the ceiling. He wanted to draw a SWAT response. Suicide by fucking cop, man." Tony shook his head. "It all came over the radio. The hold-fire command came over repeatedly."

Ronan shook his head. He hadn't heard anything of the sort. He would never have fired his weapon if he'd heard the command. He would have tried to talk Garcia down instead. In twelve years as a member of the Boston Police Department he'd never once fired his service weapon in the line of duty and now he'd just killed a man.

If what Tony was saying was the truth, Detective Ronan O'Mara was totally fucked. He blinked up into his partner’s brown eyes and let the darkness take him.

 

 

1
Ronan

January…

Ronan's eyes felt like they were each filled with ten pounds of sand. No matter how many times he'd read the witness statements and looked at the photographs of the missing and presumed dead boy's bedroom, nothing was catching his eye that hadn't caught the eyes of the previous detectives who'd worked this cold case over the last seven years. 

Taking a swig out of his room temperature cup of coffee, Ronan surveyed the squad room. At just past 11pm the place was a virtual ghost town. All of the homicide detectives he used to work with had bugged out a few hours ago and if he stuck around much longer, they'd all be back, freshly showered after a night in bed with their wives or God knew who else. 

Ronan sighed. The last six months after the shooting on H Street hadn't been easy on him or on the department. 

His shoulder wound had been a through-and-through. He'd spent two nights in the hospital, surrounded by bouquets of flowers and the friends who had his back. They'd done the best they could to keep Internal Affairs out of his room and off his case until the doctors had taken him off the morphine drip for the pain.

After those quiet two days, everything turned on its head. He'd spent days being interrogated over the shooting. Reporters waited for him trying to get an exclusive interview outside the squad house. More waited to ambush him outside his shitty apartment in Dorchester. 

The worst part, aside from being stripped of his badge and gun, was not being able to communicate with Tony Abruzzi and his wife Carlotta. They'd been there for him when Josh left, making him meals and letting him crash on their couch when the pain of being alone was just too much to bear. 

In those first few weeks, he'd been on his own. Barely sleeping, barely eating, mostly drinking. Friendless and completely alone.

Inevitably a lawsuit had been filed by the Garcia family against the Boston Police Department and Ronan for wrongful death. The suit had been dismissed after it had been ruled that Ronan’s lethal shots had been fired in defense of his life after Manuel Garcia shot first.

In the end, the shoot had been ruled clean by Internal Affairs. Ironically, it had been the bullet in the shoulder that saved him, as the board ruled he’d been in eminent danger when he fired the shots that killed Manuel Garcia.  It had been the drinking that sank him. 

Still not willing to admit he was an alcoholic, Ronan was given two choices: rehab in the Sunshine State, while he served a ninety day paid suspension while the shooting was investigated or be relieved of duty, no pension, no benefits. 

Not a stupid man by any means, Ronan went to Florida. He learned to meditate and walked on the beach for three months.

He'd been reinstated to the Boston Police Department when he'd returned to Massachusetts in October, but not as a homicide detective. 

"Motherfucker," Ronan muttered to himself, after spilling the dregs of his now cold coffee. The spill dribbled off his desk to land on his tan pants. 

Motherfucker was a word he'd become well acquainted with in the two months since he'd been assigned to the cold case squad. 

If he'd thought turning in his badge and gun was the lowest point of his career, he'd been wrong. Sitting in Captain Davidson's office after he’d gotten back from rehab and listening to how the department determined he'd be best placed in the cold unit had been a new all-time low for him.  Everyone in the BPD knew the cold case unit was where careers went to die.

Getting up from his desk, he strolled into the break room where the television was permanently tuned to Channel 5, Boston's ABC affiliate. Usually, he paid no attention to the news, but the man being interviewed was absolutely gorgeous. His dark eyes were glowing with happiness and pride, not usually something you saw on the nightly news, while his riot of dark curls blew around his cold-pinked cheeks.

At a quick glance the guy reminded Ronan of Jon Snow from Game of Thrones, but there was no way a smoking hot babe like Kit Harrington would be doing a news interview in Boston.

Needing to know what was making the guy so damned happy, Ronan pressed the volume button on the remote control.

"How did you know where to find the missing Lanski boy, Tennyson?"

Oh...  Ronan rolled his eyes. The story of some dime-store psychic from Salem finding a missing boy from Scituate had been the top news story all day.  The other cold case detectives had been talking about it since the news broke around lunchtime.

Ronan should have noticed the banner under the handsome fruitcake's face which read, Tennyson Grimm, psychic. Led police to missing boy.

"He probably knew where to find the boy because he was the one who took the kid." Ronan shook his head and wet a paper towel to dab at the coffee stain on his pants. 

"Well, John, I had a vision of a basement. I could see the boy in shackles and the next thing I knew I could see the number on the mailbox and the front door.” Tennyson grinned at the reporter with perfect white teeth.

Ronan snarled at the man on the television screen who was now explaining how his “gift” worked. “Gift, my rosy red ass!”

“I simply asked my spirit guide to show me the boy. I’d assisted the police a time or two here in Salem in small matters, but never in something as big as this before. I just got lucky that I was able to see where he was so clearly. It doesn’t always happen like that...” A darkness crept into Tennyson’s once vibrant chocolate-brown eyes.

The camera panned back to the news reporter. “Due to the viral nature of this case, RSN, the Reality Show Network is in town looking to sign Tennyson Grimm to a deal to showcase his talent on a national level. Reporting live from Salem, this is John…”

Ronan pressed the mute button. “What a crock of bullshit.”

There was a snort followed by laughter from the doorway of the break room. When Ronan turned around he saw his ex-husband, Josh Gatlin, leaning against the jamb like he didn’t have a care in the world. A cinnamon-flavored toothpick was sticking out of the left side of his mouth. Ronan’s breath caught in his throat like it always did when he saw Josh, but it was quickly tempered by the glint of gold shining on the third finger of his left hand.

His dark, slicked back hair looked the same as always. Ronan knew if he reached out to touch it, the locks would be stiff and hard from the globs of mousse and hair gel his ex meticulously applied after his shower, but before he got dressed.

While Ronan had been in rehab learning how to find his Zen, Josh had been busy knocking up and then marrying one of the badge bunnies who hung out at Nick’s Irish Pub, a local police watering hole, two blocks from the station house.

He took a deep, calming breath, not wanting to betray the riot of emotions barreling through his body. “Something funny, Detective Gatlin?”

“Yeah, I was just thinking you could use that nut job to help solve your cold case about that missing kid.” Josh took two quick steps into the room, invading Ronan’s personal space.

This was one of the tricks Josh often used with perps. Ronan had worked alongside his ex-husband for enough years to know all of the weapons in his arsenal. They’d been partners long before they’d been lovers and then husbands. Ronan raised an eyebrow, but other than that, didn’t move a muscle.

“Rumor has it, Ro, that you’re one step from being busted back down to patrol.” Josh raised a finger to course down the side of Ronan’s left cheek.

It was almost like old times. Ronan could smell Josh’s spicy aftershave and the cinnamon from the toothpick. His spine tingled at his ex’s touch, but it was the hateful look in his icy blue eyes that broke the spell, that, and the memory of Josh shouting that he hated Ronan for making him the laughing stock of the department for being a gay cop in South Boston. “Take your fucking finger off me before I break it,” Ronan said in a low voice just above a growl. He took a cautionary step back just in case Josh continued to push his luck.

Josh burst into a sunny smile. “Still a dick, huh, Ro?” Josh patronizingly patted his cheek. “Guess it’s ‘cause you miss mine, huh?” Josh grabbed his package, waggling his eyebrows at Ronan before heading out the door. Ronan could hear him laughing as he walked away.

“Asshole,” Ronan muttered.

His mind cast back to the handsome psychic on television. Obviously, the man had nothing to do with the boy’s abduction, otherwise the Scituate Police would have arrested him too. Thinking he had something to do with the kidnapping was Ronan being a dick just like Josh said.

What if the curly-haired fruitcake could help with the disappearance of Michael Frye? What if Tennyson Grimm could help bring the now twelve-year-old boy home to his family like he did for the Lanski family?

Would Ronan be a fool to ask for Tennyson’s help?

Would he be a bigger fool not to?

 

 

2
Tennyson

 

“Wow!” Carson Craig marveled as he set a bag of Chinese food down on his mother’s reading table in the back room of West Side Magick, the storefront he and Tennyson Grimm now shared.

“Still a mob scene out there?” Tennyson ran a hand through his mop of curls before taking a seat and opening the bag of food.

“Yeah,” Carson grinned, his blue eyes sparkling. “People just want to catch a glimpse of the hero psychic.” Carson made air quotes over “hero psychic.”

“Oh, please. You’re the hero, saving Truman’s life a year ago by taking the bullet meant for him.” Tennyson handed Carson his usual lunch, the number seven special from Lotus Blossom, beef and broccoli with white rice.

West Side Magick had been left to Carson and his younger brother, Cole, when their mother passed away a little over two years ago. Bertha Craig had been a true talent, with the gift of sight and being able to speak to the those who’d passed on. At the time of her death, neither of her sons had shown any talent whatsoever, but she’d made them promise they’d keep the store open as her legacy.

A year after her death, Carson had his first psychic vision in which he saw a man being held at gunpoint before being shot and killed. He’d set out to find and save the man in his vision, falling in love with him along the way.  Truman, the man in the vision, hadn’t believed Carson until the gunman had shown up at a Christmas party wanting revenge for the job Truman had fired him from weeks earlier. Carson had taken a bullet for his lover, saving Truman’s life and nearly losing his own in the process.

After Carson had recovered from his gunshot wound and the whirlwind wedding and honeymoon that followed, he’d sought Tennyson out, knowing he needed a mentor and guide to help him understand and harness his new psychic powers which seemed to be growing stronger by the day.

Up until that point in time, Tennyson had been working out of his apartment on Essex Street, giving private readings to his clients. The situation wasn’t ideal, but he’d made it work for the seven years he’d been living in the Witch City, Salem, Massachusetts.

He’d grown up in the Midwest, in the tiny town of Union Chapel, Kansas, population 588. Life in Union Chapel revolved around two things: religion and football. Tennyson hadn’t been good at either of them.

It was football that led him to realize he was gay at the tender age of ten. It had been a confusing day for him when he’d figured out the best part of football was when the bigger boys tackled him; landing on his body and grabbing him in places it wasn’t proper for boys to grab each other, according to his Sunday school teacher, except when he was on the good old gridiron.

His psychic abilities began to manifest themselves in earnest once he’d hit puberty. It wasn’t unusual for him to wake up in the middle of the night to see a stranger sitting on the end of his bed. It was less unusual to hear voices, not his own, in the back of his mind, giving him messages to pass along to people he was standing near at the grocery store.

Religion didn’t mesh so well with being gay and psychic. At least not the religion preached in the Union Chapel Calvary Baptist Church. Neither psychics nor gays were welcome to worship in their pews.  Pastor Greene spoke feverishly about both groups of sinners at least twice a month, making Tennyson feel perpetually guilty and on constantly edge.

At the beginning of his senior year of high school, unable to keep his secrets another day, he’d confessed both of them to his parents, who’d always assured him he could come to them with anything. As it turned out, their idea of “anything” had been drugs or underage drinking. They could have even dealt with fornication or, God forbid, teenage pregnancy. What neither of his parents had been prepared for was, “I’m gay… and psychic.”

Because Tennyson had hit his parents with the double-whammy confession he’d never know how they would have reacted to his secrets one at a time. They’d told him since he was still seventeen they were responsible for him until he graduated from high school. After that, he was on his own.

They donated his college fund, which they’d been diligently saving since he’d been born, to the church. From all outward appearances, the Grimms were a happy family, but from that day forward, Tennyson was no longer their son.

With no money for college to fall back on, Tennyson saved every dime from his part-time job at the Union Chapel McDonalds for his escape. He knew he’d have to leave his parents’ house the day after his graduation and his two best options were New Orleans or Salem, Massachusetts. Both cities were psychic-friendly and he knew he could establish himself quickly and earn a living.

The final, deciding factor was the fact that Massachusetts was more gay-friendly than Louisiana. He’d be able to marry the man of his dreams there, should he ever be lucky enough to meet him. So far, that kind of luck hadn’t been on his side.

“Everyone’s a hero to someone, Ten.” Carson shrugged and dug into his lunch.

His friend’s voice brought Tennyson back to the present. Thinking about his family back in Union Chapel always did more harm than good and he needed to be sharp for his meeting with Brett McCabe from RSN.  “Where do you stand on this whole reality show thing?”

Carson grinned thoughtfully while he chewed. “I made a pro and con list.” He stood up and pulled a folded piece of paper out of the back pocket of his jeans.

“Of course you did.” Tennyson shook his head. Carson could always be counted on to produce a pro and con list in times of trouble. Not that this decision was trouble, but the stakes were high for everyone involved.

Not only would this decision affect him, but Carson and his brother Cole as well. Tennyson had been mentoring both of the Craig brothers and all three worked in the West Side Magick shop. Next door to the shop was a bakery owned by Cole’s wife, Cassie, who was also Truman’s best friend and business partner.

A reality show of any kind was bound to bring an influx of new business to both shops and would affect all five friends. Cassie and Cole were already in a balancing act as it was between their jobs and their one month old daughter, Laurel.

Carson and Truman’s life was about to get a whole lot busier as well. Their triplets, conceived via in-vitro fertilization, were due at the end of February.

“Okay, hit me with the top two pros and the top two cons.” Tennyson knew damn well there were more than two of each type on Carson’s list, but if he let his friend ramble on, they’d be here all day and Brett McCabe was due any minute.

“Top two? Cutting me off at the knees, Ten?” Carson rolled his eyes. “Fine. Con, more business than the three of us can handle. Pro, more business than the three of us can handle.”

Tennyson had been expecting Carson to say that. He knew that once The Long Island Medium had debuted on TLC, Theresa Caputo’s reading calendar had booked up fast, but the rate she’d been able to charge had shot sky-high.  “With that would also come more money.”

“I had that on my pro list, but you said to only pick two!” Carson’s eyes lit up. “Moving on. Con, notoriety. People beyond Salem, Massachusetts are going to know who we all are and how to find us.”

“I’d thought of that too.” Tennyson knew the story of Timmy Lanski had gone national. It was the second story on the ABC News last night, behind a suicide bombing in Turkey. That story was going to bring him notice beyond Salem. In the other news stories he’d heard, there had been mention of what had happened with Carson and Truman last year, bringing their names and story back into the public eye.

There was no doubt in his mind that word of his heroism had made it back to Union Chapel. Although “heroic” wouldn’t be the word the fine citizens of his hometown would use to describe how he’d found the missing boy. They’d say he’d used his “Satan-given” powers to rescue the child and then they’d pray for his doubly doomed soul.

Tennyson shook his head. “What’s the last pro?” He hoped Carson wasn’t going to say notoriety. The last thing any of them needed was to go Hollywood. Red carpets and star-studded galas definitely weren’t his idea of a good time. Even if it meant he’d get to rub elbows with the likes of Matt Damon and Mark Wahlberg.

“The people you’d be able to help.” Carson shut his mouth and dug back into his lunch.

Tennyson burst out laughing. Carson, ever the showman, always knew how to go out with a bang.

 

3
Ronan

The forty-five minute drive from Dorchester to Salem was surprisingly soothing. Once Ronan was out of the congested traffic of Boston, his GPS guided him up Route 1A, which was a coastal road. Sightings of the ocean mixed with snowbound marshland made Ronan wonder why he was so fond of the city in the first place.

Winding his way up the coast to Salem, he turned onto Route 114 and was greeted by signs and banners welcoming him to the Witch City. Not the biggest student of history, he found it odd that Salem would choose to capitalize on its scarred past by plastering the city with pictures of flying witches on broomsticks.

The GPS led him past the imposing brick façade of the Salem Witch Museum. If it weren’t for his research last night and the giant sign on the front of the building, he would have thought it was another New England church. According to what he read online, the museum features a life-sized presentation of the witch hunt and subsequent trial based on transcripts recorded in 1692.

Turning left onto Brown Street, Ronan tried to focus on what it was he wanted to say to Tennyson when he met him. He’d called the shop first thing this morning and spoke to a man named Cole who was more than happy to make an appointment for him to see Ten, as he’d called the psychic, telling him that he was lucky to have gotten in to see him today at all. Apparently appointments were booking fast now that Tennyson was a household name.

He still couldn’t believe he was doing this, seeking out the advice of a psychic to help with Michael Frye’s case. What frosted his ass more than how low he’d fallen, was the fact that this was Josh’s idea.

Sleep had been slow in coming last night. Ronan hadn’t been able to get the feel of Josh’s touch out of his head. It had been so long since his ex had touched him like that. Since anyone had touched him like that, really.

He hadn’t been with anyone at all since his divorce. Ronan knew a lot of guys who went out and fucked anything that moved after a bad breakup, but that wasn’t his style. All he wanted to do was lick his wounds in private.

Getting divorced was a rite of passage in the BPD. Hell, out of all of the cops in the 48th precinct, only a handful of them were still on their first spouse. One such couple was Tony and Carlie Abruzzi. He’d always thought he and Josh would be on that list too, but that was all water under the bridge now.

Finding a place to park a few doors down from West Side Magick, Ronan shut off the car and studied the shop. It looked exactly like the images he’d seen on the news. There were a handful of people milling around outside, peering in the windows and snapping pictures with their smartphones, while a few more were checking out West Side Sweets, the bakery next door. He’d read the shop was co-owned by the people who owned the Magick shop.

Part of him felt like a creeper for having done research on the businesses and their owners last night, but a good detective always went into a situation armed with as much information as possible. Grabbing the accordion file with a copy of the Michael Fry case, he got out of the car and hurried toward the front door, ducking his head into his collar against the biting January wind.

A chime tinkled over the door as a warm blast of air greeted him when he stepped through the door.

“Welcome to West Side Magick, I’m Cole Craig.”

“Hi, Cole. I’m Ronan O’Mara. I have a 1pm meeting with Tennyson.” He held out his hand to shake with the youngish man. He was a bit over six feet tall, but shorter than Ronan by an inch or so and had a weaker grip.

“Ten is finishing up with his 12:30pm reading. Feel free to browse the shop and I’ll grab you when he’s finished.”

Ronan nodded and moved off to check out the items the shop offered for sale. In his mind, all of it was complete bullshit. There were crystals to cure anything that ailed you from sexual dysfunction to depression. There were aisles of dream catchers and statues of various gods and goddesses, crystal balls, and decks of tarot cards. He steered clear of the endless types of candles and headed toward the shelves of books.

Now that he was here in the shop, Ronan could feel his anxiety ratchet up. He tried to practice his deep breathing exercises, but this wasn’t the sheltered confines of his Jupiter, Florida rehab. This was real life. What was left of his career was hanging on his ability to figure out what happened to Michael Frye. Tennyson Grimm could be his last, best chance at finding an answer.

“I have something that will help you,” a soothing voice said from behind him.

Ronan startled and turned around to see Tennyson, who he recognized from the news broadcast, standing behind him with a colorful stone sitting in the palm of his left hand.  He was just as handsome, if a little shorter, in person. “It’s a rock.”

“Actually, Charlie Brown,” Tennyson raised an eyebrow at him, “it’s a fluorite crystal.”

“It’s going to help keep my teeth clean?” Ronan asked, his tone dubious.

“That’s fluoride.” Tennyson rolled his dark eyes, which looked flustered. “Fluorite neutralizes negativity and absorbs anxiety. I could feel both flowing off of you the second you walked through the front door.”

“Oh, could you now, Nostradamus?” Ronan’s voice dripped with sarcasm, but he accepted the smooth stone from Tennyson, slipping it into his coat pocket. He could feel his entire body tense as the psychic’s eyes roamed over him. He supposed it was fair though, after all, Ronan had been giving the smaller man the once over himself a few seconds ago. There was something different about the man standing this close to him that hadn’t come through on television, but he’d be damned if he could put his finger on it.

Tennyson’s lips quirked in an all too brief smile. “For a man who’s desperate for my help on the Michael Frye case, you’re kind of being a dick. Tennyson Grimm at your service.” He held out his hand.

Ronan gasped and took a step back. How the fuck did Tennyson know all of these things about him? Yes, he was an alleged psychic, but Ronan must be giving off other clues that Tennyson was picking up on. Flim-flam men like him knew how to read body language. Anxiety was an easy one to read. He was dressed in his detective’s clothes, so that was a dead giveaway, but how in fuck did he know about Michael Frye?

“His name is written on the tab of the accordion folder.” Tennyson pointed with a grin.

“What?” Ronan looked at the folder under his arm. “Oh…” He shook his head. “Wait! Were you reading my mind?”

Tennyson sighed, rocking back on his heels. “You’re dressed like a cop. Most men who come to see me are wearing jeans and a tee-shirt and look sad or troubled. You look determined, desperate even. Then there’s the anxiety, which you don’t have to be psychic to read on your face and in your tense body language. Your eyes are darting around like you’re expecting a ghost to jump out at you from around every corner. A ghost or perhaps a colleague from the Boston Police Department, Detective O’Mara?”

For a minute there, Tennyson almost had him. He’d sounded an awful lot like Benedict Cumberbatch’s version of Sherlock Holmes describing how he knew someone had come in on a 9:30 train from the country, in the rain. “So, you Googled me? I fucking knew it. You really are a fruitcake and a fraud to boot.” Ronan shook his head. “This was a complete waste of my friggen time coming up here from Boston.”

“I, uh, hate to interrupt your fascinating and rude diatribe, detective,” a sarcastic voice sneered from behind them, “but Brett McCabe is here to discuss the idea of a reality show, Ten.”

“Thanks, Carson.” Tennyson peered around Ronan’s body to wave at him and the television producer. “Actually, detective, I watch the news. I remember your name from when you were shot in the line of duty last summer, so there wasn’t any need to Google you.”

Ronan felt like a bit of an asshole, but not much. Tennyson hadn’t done anything yet to prove he was the real deal.

“Brett, why don’t you give me a few minutes to meet with Detective O’Mara about his missing child case and then we can talk about what you have in mind for me.”

“Hold on a minute here. How long has this kid been missing?” The reality television producer’s eyes glowed like a kid’s on Christmas morning after seeing that Santa came.

“Seven years,” Ronan answered grudgingly.

“You work as a member of the cold case unit, detective?” McCabe asked, sounding positively giddy.

“I do,” Ronan answered tightly, not liking where this was going.

“This is brilliant, absolutely fucking brilliant!” McCabe laughed out loud, slapping a hand against Carson’s shoulder.

“What’s brilliant?” Tennyson shot Ronan a confused look.

“Shows like Long Island Medium and Tyler Henry, Hollywood Medium are old hat. We all know you can talk to the dead, Tennyson. The market is saturated with weeping families wanting to connect with their dead kids.”

Tennyson gasped, his mouth gaping open like a fish out of water.

Ronan took half a step toward the stunned psychic before he realized what he was doing, as if some part of him were moving to protect the smaller man instinctively.

“What we don’t have,” Brett McCabe continued as if he didn’t notice the psychic’s distress, “is a show featuring parents searching for their missing kid! We would feature interviews with the grief-stricken parents and siblings and show the two of you working side-by-side to bring the little mite home.” He looked back and forth between Tennyson and Ronan. “Well, what do you think? We’d call it Psychic Detective or something like that, but more clever.”

Ronan didn’t know about Tennyson, but he felt like he was in the Twilight Zone. “Me, work with him?” He pointed back and forth between himself and a still stunned looking medium.  “He doesn’t have a gun or any police training whatsoever!”

“I know! Brilliant, right!” Brett McCabe crowed.

“No! It’s not brilliant. Stop saying that.” Ronan could feel the tenuous hold on his temper start to slip away. “Look, pal, I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but the Frye case isn’t just some ratings boost. They’re a real family with a real missing child.” Ronan held the Frye case file close to his chest. “This kid’s been gone seven years. He was five years old the last time his parents saw him. That’s seven Christmases with an empty place at the dinner table. Seven birthdays they didn’t celebrate with their son…” Tennyson’s hand on Ronan’s arm stopped his speech. A warm tingle spread through his body.  He instantly and inexplicably felt calmer.

“What if we could find him, Ronan?” Tennyson asked softly. “What if we could bring him home?”

His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, almost as if Tennyson’s touch had lulled him into a trance. “What?”

Tennyson’s dark eyes softened. “What if the cameras filmed us while we worked? What harm would that do to our investigation?”

“There is no our investigation.  I came here to… Shit, I don’t even know what I came here to do.” Ronan shook his head, feeling more confused than ever. All he’d wanted to do was talk to Tennyson, one-on-one.

“We both know you came here to consult me on the Michael Frye case. So, let me see the file and let’s get to work.” Tennyson held out his hand.

“No!” Brett McCabe practically shouted. “If we’re going to do this, it all needs to be authentic. The biggest gripe people have with this kind of show is thinking it’s contrived. You need to see the file for the first time and hear Ronan describe it on camera. All of your reactions and feelings need to be genuine.”

“Even if, and it’s a pretty big if, I agree to work with him, there’s no way in hell the Boston Police Department is going to agree to allow an active investigation to be assisted by a psychic let alone to allow that investigation to be filmed for public consumption.” Ronan felt the beginnings of a headache and not just a physical one either. He’d only been working with his new captain for a few months now and he didn’t know the man well enough yet to figure out how the man would react to this situation.

“Bullshit!” McCabe said gleefully, crossing his arms over his chest. “While we’ve been talking, I Googled you, Detective O’Mara, and after the Garcia shooting and subsequent wrongful death lawsuit, you need all the good press you can get. With all the recent allegations of racism and members of the 59th precinct taking bribes from drug dealers, the BPD needs good press too. I can spin this to your captain in a way that makes it a win-win situation for everyone. All you have to do is agree to work with us. It was your idea to work with Tennyson in the first place.”

As much as Ronan hated to admit it, McCabe had a point. Several of them in fact. It had been his idea to drive north and show Tennyson the Michael Frye case file. What hadn’t been his idea was any of this shit show that had followed: crystals, magic-feeling touches, reality television and a man who he somehow felt magnetically pulled toward and knew he needed to protect. Ronan sighed as if the weight of his career were on his shoulders. “Fine, I’m in.”

 

 

4
Tennyson

The project, tentatively titled, Cold Case Psychic, had been given the green light by the Boston Police Department a week later. According to Brett McCabe, the Reality Show Network had to give up final creative control to the BPD, who’d been afraid the network would make them look like a bunch of Keystone Cops otherwise.

Tennyson didn’t much care about any of those things. What was foremost in his mind was helping to find that missing boy and bringing him home to his grieving family. 

Running a close second in Tennyson’s mind was Ronan O’Mara. The gruff, but handsome detective was never far from his thoughts. They’d exchanged phone numbers after Brett McCabe had left the store to begin working on his plan to woo Ronan’s boss into allowing his production company to shoot the investigation, but so far, Tennyson hadn’t been brave enough to use it.

Not that it mattered now anyway. Today was the first day of the investigation. The production team had arrived at West Side Magick around 5am to set up cameras for shooting around the store. He and Ronan would use the reading room as Ronan walked him through the entire Michael Frye case file.

Surprisingly, Brett and Ronan had been in agreement that this whole thing would be a one-take operation. If someone misspoke or stuttered, tough luck, it all stayed in as part of the record. Above all else, the investigation needed to be authentic. If the dialogue sounded too perfect or scripted, they’d lose credibility. Tennyson found himself agreeing with this line of thought.

He'd seen the detective in question only briefly when he'd arrived at West Side Magick. Truman had introduced himself and taken the cop over to the bakery he co-owned with Cole’s wife, Cassie, and had gotten him a muffin and a cup of coffee. 

For all of Ronan's gruffness, the one thing that had been crystal-clear had been the man's caring nature. The most important thing to him was Michael Frye and the missing boy's family. 

It was obvious to Tennyson that the detective felt that being assigned to work in the cold case unit was a demotion, but that didn't stop Ronan from giving it his all. He admired that in his new partner. Not that he was going to tell Ronan that piece of information. He had a feeling hearing that from him would prickle more than the actual demotion.

Another thing that was clearly apparent was that Ronan was mourning a relationship of some kind. Tennyson didn't need to use his psychic abilities to see the jealous look in Ronan's cornflower blue eyes when he'd spy a happy couple walk into the bakery. 

One of Tennyson’s iron-clad rules was not to read someone unless that person asked him to. Ten was having a hard time sticking to that rule with the detective.  He wanted to learn more about the man and find out what made him tick, but he was going to have to do that the old-fashioned way and get to know him through conversation.

"Are you ready to get this shit show on the road?" Ronan asked from behind him, making Tennyson jump a bit.

Straightening his spine, Ten turned around to face the cop. "I'm ready when you are."

"You sure about that, Witch City Medium? You look a little jumpy to me.” Ronan folded his arms over his broad chest, a shit-eating grin plastered to his face.

"What a clever nickname, detective. Think that up all on your own, did you?" Tennyson turned and headed toward Carson who'd just come into the shop with Cole who was holding his infant daughter. 

Even when Laurel was screeching her tiny head off like a banshee, holding the baby brought him moments of absolute calm. The one-month-old had no spirits following her and no visions to interpret. "Hello, my angel girl." Tennyson pressed a kiss to her forehead before Cole handed the baby to him.

Tennyson closed his eyes and focused on the baby's pure aura, relaxing himself in her calming presence. 

"Cute kid. She's not going on camera, right?" Ronan asked, his voice filled with doom and gloom.

His Zen broken, Ten opened his eyes to see Ronan staring at him intently. "That will be up to Cole and Cassie. She's their daughter."

"Babies bring out the crazies. Makes my blood run cold when I see celebrities and reality show people showing their kids off. It's like you're giving rabid fans an invitation to exploit or kidnap your kids."

Tennyson pulled the baby closer to his chest. The need to protect the child burned fiercely through his entire body. Although what all 5'9" of him could do against a person intent on doing Laurel harm, he didn't know. What he did know, was that Ronan would give his life to save the little girl. "I'll mention that to Cole." Unable to stand the intensity of Ronan's icy blue stare, Tennyson headed off to find Cole and Cassie. 

Tennyson’s emotions were all over the place. Arousal was battling with stone-cold worry. Ronan O’Mara was the best looking man he’d ever set his eyes on. He reminded Ten of Scott Eastwood with his piercing blue eyes, brooding stare, and long legs. His unpleasant sarcastic demeanor was where the similarities ended. How was it possible to be this attracted to such a dick?

Pushing the attraction to Detective Dickhead aside, it was the worry that had Tennyson feeling off. Never one to doubt his abilities, he was worried now. The Frye case could go one of two ways. Either the boy was dead or he'd been kidnapped and was living far away from New England under a new name with a new family.

If it was the latter, it wouldn't be so simple to find the child. He'd gotten lucky with the Lanski boy. He'd been familiar with the Scituate neighborhood where the boy was being held because it was near the lighthouse.

Tennyson had visited the lighthouse and the beach hundreds of times since he'd moved to Massachusetts. If the boy was living in Florida or somewhere in the middle of nowhere, Texas, finding him would be near to impossible. 

As much as he hated to even think it, his best chance of finding Michael Frye was if the boy was dead and his spirit could lead Tennyson to his remains and hopefully, his killer

 

5
Ronan

 

Ronan was as nervous as Tennyson. He was just better at schooling his emotions from his face. 

Working an investigation was always a crap shoot. Sometimes you got lucky with evidence, leads, and eyewitnesses, but with this case being seven years cold, the odds of catching a lucky break were slim to none. 

Not only did he have the pressure of solving this case sitting on his shoulders, but all of his work and methods were going to be chronicled for the world to see on video. Any mistake or wrong step would be there for the entire viewing audience and his captain to see, live and in living color. 

Then there were the Fryes. He'd met them two weeks ago when he'd been assigned the case. From the outside looking in, they looked like a happily married couple. They lived in a nice row house on Columbia Road in South Boston, with an unobstructed view of Boston Harbor.

Ross Frye was an ER doctor at Boston Mercy Hospital and his wife, Jackie, was a NICU nurse. She'd left her job when Michael had been born, but after he'd been missing for two years, had gone back to work to keep from sitting at home waiting for a phone call that so far, hadn't come. 

Ronan had listened to the story of the day Michael had been taken from their front yard, his heart breaking the entire time. The only good thing about working homicide in Boston was that he'd never before dealt with a child kidnapping case. For the most part he'd worked on cases of dead gang-bangers or hookers who'd been killed by johns or angry pimps. 

Hearing the details of a five-year-old who'd been in the fenced-in front yard one second and gone the next, had nearly undone his six months of sobriety. He’d spent a couple nights after that interview at local AA meetings white-knuckling the hard plastic chairs in the local YWCA.

"Good morning, people!" Brett McCabe called cheerily. "Let's make some magic! Pun intended!"

"We're ready to roll when the two of you are," Brett grinned. 

"Before we get started," Tennyson said, "I only want to hear the bare bones of the case. I don't want to see any pictures of the boy or the crime scene, okay?"

Ronan nodded, figuring it would be more dramatic when Tennyson described Michael's towhead blonde hair and gap-toothed smile to his parents when they visited them later this morning. "Okay, well this is what we know. Michael Frye was playing in his front yard with a new puppy on the afternoon of October 17, 2010. His father was at work and his mother was in the house making dinner. The puppy needed to do its business and Jackie Frye let Michael take his new pet into the fenced in front yard. When they hadn't returned ten minutes later, she ran out to check on them. The dog was in the yard, but the boy was gone. She searched the neighborhood, calling for him and asking neighbors to help before calling 9-1-1. There were organized searches, a tip line was set up and the parents made several pleas on television for the return of their son. Every tip was investigated but none panned out. It was as if the boy simply vanished into thin air. The parents were investigated and were ruled out as suspects." Ronan folded his hands over the accordion folder with the case notes in it. Knowing the case by heart, he didn't need to refer to them.

Looking to Tennyson, he could see the psychic nodding. "May I?" Ten was reaching out toward the file, setting his left hand on top of it. 

"Yeah, go ahead." Ronan thought he didn't want to look at the pictures inside, but hey, whatever floated his boat.

His eyes slipping shut, Tennyson left his hand sitting on top of the file, he didn't move and barely seemed to be breathing. "The parents had nothing to do with his disappearance and all of the tips called in to the tip line are dead ends."

"I just said that, Grimm." Ronan hated the tightness in his voice, but he'd just said that very thing. The cops of the 48th had spent years investigating the leads in the file and this fruitcake set a hand on the folder and could say definitively in seconds what it had taken good men and women years to determine? That was bullshit if he’d ever heard it.

“It’s not bullshit, detective.” There was heat in Tennyson’s words.

“Stop reading my mind,” Ronan gritted out from behind clenched teeth.

“For your information, I’m reading your body language. You tense up like a virgin on a blind date when you’re ready to throw the bullshit flag.” Tennyson shrugged. “Deceit and malice read hot, like when you move your hand over the hot burner of an electric stove.”

Before he knew what he was doing, Ronan reached out and set a hand on the accordion folder. He didn’t feel any heat. The folder was cool to the touch.

Tennyson raised a wordless eyebrow.

“I still think its bullshit. A lot of good men and women spent years running down those leads and for you to pass your hand over the folder like some kind of friggen magician about to pull out a rabbit is bullshit.”

Tennyson set a hand on top of Ronan’s. The detective wasn’t prepared for the instant calm that came over him. He’d been spoiling for a fight, and the second Tennyson touched him the anger and frustration blew right out of him like a hurricane spinning down over cool water. When his heart slowed and he was able to think clearly again he was even more unprepared for the tsunami of attraction swamping his senses and heading straight for his cock.

About to jerk his hand away from Tennyson like he’d been burned, Ronan remembered they were on Candid Camera. “Is there anything else you need to know about the Frye case before we meet Jackie and Ross?” Getting back to the matter at hand was what Ronan needed more than anything right now.

Tennyson directed his dark stare at him. He seemed to be thinking over exactly what he wanted to say. “What do you think happened to Michael Frye?”

“It’s not my job to speculate.” He didn’t want his worst feelings recorded on tape for Ross and Jackie to see at a later date.

“Come on, detective. You’ve been doing this for a long time. You must have some idea of what happened.”

All of the tension Ronan had managed to let go of with Tennyson’s stupid rock rushed back in. He had a few ideas of what happened to the boy and none of them were good. After reading and rereading the case file he’d figured the boy had been abducted or was dead. “After seven years of being missing, there are a few ways I can see this case going and none of them are going to end with a parade, Grimm.”

 

6
Tennyson

 

Ronan hadn’t said a word during the hour-long ride into Boston which suited Tennyson just fine. He was trying to focus on any messages his spirit guides would be sending him about Michael Frye. Oddly enough though, they were silent. It reminded him of what happened when he held Laurel. Dead silence.  It was unnerving to say the least.

What was making him feel even more on edge was the steady stream of emotions rippling off Ronan. If his emotions were a stone dropping into a calm pond, it would send breaking waves onto the shore. Not knowing the man well enough to try to soothe him, he kept his mouth shut.

He could well imagine how difficult it was being the latest in a string of detectives picking up a case in the middle. What must be even harder was bringing a psychic to meet the parents of the missing boy. What was worse still was that Tennyson had no answers to give them at the moment.

“You’d better have something to tell these people,” Ronan grumbled from the driver’s seat as if he were the one reading Tennyson’s mind.

“It doesn’t always work that way,” he replied softly.

“Jesus Christ, Grimm, if we’ve come all the way out here and you sit there silent as the grave…”

“Calm down, Ronan. Your emotions are disrupting my ability to pick up messages.”

“What kind of bullshit is that?” Ronan pulled his eyes off the road to give Tennyson a withering glare.

Tennyson rolled his eyes. “Did you ever listen to the radio in the car and have a stronger radio station interfere with the one you’re listening to? That’s what your emotions are doing to me. All I can do is read you right now. It’s like you’re shouting over everything else I’m trying to listen to.” He sighed, there was no way Ronan was going to buy what he was trying to explain.

“Don’t you have a rock that can fix me?” Ronan sounded jovial for the first time all day.

Tennyson burst out laughing. “Am I going to need to carry a pocketful of healing crystals around for you? Where’s the one I gave you this morning?”

Ronan shrugged and mumbled something under his breath. It sounded like he said in his back pocket.

The last place Tennyson was going to go rooting around in was Ronan’s back pocket. “Here, take my hand.” He held out his left hand.

“You gonna be my rock, Grimm?” Ronan took his hand and instantly seemed to calm.

God help him. It seemed like Tennyson already was. 

That same buzzy feeling of attraction that he’d felt back at the shop zinged through his body, lighting him up like a tilted pinball machine. He had no idea if Ronan was gay and in this moment, it didn’t matter one way or the other.

They were on their way to meet the grieving parents of a little boy who’d been lost for seven years. The very last thing on his mind should be how damn good it felt to hold the grumpy detective’s smooth, warm hand. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on how Tennyson chose to look at it, Ronan’s touch seemed to be comforting him just as much as his own touch was comforting the cop.

With their hands joined, Tennyson was able to hear whispers from his spirit guides. He was even seeing a grainy image or two. “Cute kid,” Tennyson half-laughed.

“Who’s cute?” Ronan sounded confused.

“Michael Frye. Light hair so blonde it’s almost white, green eyes, missing front tooth. Apple tree background. Red Sox tee shirt. Must be his kindergarten picture.” Tennyson felt Ronan’s grip tighten on his hand.

He was ready for the detective to accuse him of seeing the photo on Google. He knew school photos were taken in the fall and with the kid going missing in October, he was sure this image had been plastered all over the news after Michael had been taken.

“Yeah, he was a cute kid. You able to see him now that my emotions are calmer?” Rather than sounding annoyed, Ronan sounded curious.

“Yeah, it’s almost like being able to see through a snowstorm because you turned on the windshield wipers.”

“You got a lot of metaphors.” Ronan pulled his hand back from Tennyson.

“It’s not easy to explain what I see and feel, so I look for ways to explain it that anyone can understand.” He felt cold without Ronan’s hand in his. 

“This is it.” Ronan pointed to a grey row house with a fenced in yard. The fence looked to be about ten feet tall.

From the passenger seat, Tennyson could see there was a call-box at the locked gate and the second floor windows had bars on them. He wasn’t an expert in security, but the place looked more locked down than Attica. “Sweet Jesus,” he whispered under his breath.

“They can’t leave this house just in case Michael finds his way home, so they made it impenetrable. Or as much as it can be in this day and age.”

Tennyson shook his head and got out of the car to stretch his legs. Usually he’d walk around and touch things, but since the fence wasn’t here when Michael was, doing that was useless.

He turned his face to the ocean, feeling the bite of the wind. From where he was standing, he had a nice view of the harbor. To his right was the L Street Bathhouse, a summer camp hangout for kids and the home to the L Street Brownies, whose charity Polar Plunge each January raised thousands of dollars for Massachusetts Special Olympics.

From outward appearances this looked like an ideal neighborhood to grow up in. Tennyson moved down to his knees and sat back on his heels. He knew this would be the average height of a five-year-old boy. The world looked a bit scarier from down here. It would be so easy for a grown-up to grab him and shove him into a waiting car.

“What are you doing, praying?” Ronan asked.

Tennyson startled at the sound of his voice. “No, I’m imagining life from Michael’s point of view.” He shivered and it wasn’t from the cold January wind off the water. “So many dangers could come at you when you were this small. All of which you’d be powerless to fight off.”

“Well, come on, film crew is here.” Ronan extended a hand down and pulled him effortlessly to his feet.

Tennyson couldn’t help offering a silent prayer. He knew this meeting wasn’t going to be easy for any of them.

 

7
Ronan

Ronan paced around the spotless kitchen while Brett McCabe and the film crew set up their gear in the equally spotless dining room. He could tell from the dark circles under Jackie Frye’s eyes that she’d spent the night cleaning her already immaculate house in lieu of sleeping.

“We’re ready,” Brett poked his head in from the dining room.

Tennyson, who’d been standing at the sliding glass door looking out over the postage stamp of a backyard, silently walked toward the dining room. Brett held him back from entering at the last minute.

Before they’d come into the house, Brett had advised Ronan to let Tennyson take the lead with the parents. He could introduce them and facilitate the meeting if need be, but, Brett wanted the psychic to be the star of the show, especially if Michael’s spirit came through and everyone’s worst fear was realized.

Ronan had been raised in the Catholic Church. It had been years since he’d stepped inside Saint Theresa’s sanctified walls, but the prayers never left him. Saying the words of the Hail Mary silently to himself, he found small comfort in the rote words of his childhood. He could only hope the Blessed Mother would be there to comfort Jackie in her hour of need should Tennyson connect with Michael.

For his part, Ronan was torn. He didn’t know which outcome he was hoping for. If Michael came through in this reading, the Frye’s would know for certain their son was dead. If he didn’t, hope would be kept alive that their boy was out there somewhere. Hell, it was possible the child was living a privileged lifestyle with everything he could possibly wish for. On the other hand, it was also possible he was living a life of pure hell.

Turning toward the doorway, Ronan stood up. “Ross and Jackie, I’d like to introduce you both to Tennyson Grimm.”

Ten walked into the room and shook hands with the boy’s parents. Ronan could hear Tennyson speaking with them in low tones, but couldn’t make out the words he was saying. He knew Brett had miked Tennyson for sound, so he had no doubt every word was being recorded. 

When Tennyson came back to his side of the table, he took his seat.  “Thank you both for agreeing to meet with us today,” Ronan started. All of the words he’d rehearsed during the ride down here all felt stiff to him now. He was going to have to wing it.

“Is my son here, Mr. Grimm? Is Michael here?” Jackie Frye asked anxiously.

Ronan turned to Tennyson, who was sitting with a placid look on his face. He was usually good at reading people, but when it came to the psychic, he got nothing.

To be honest, he didn’t believe in any of this bullshit.  He’d seen The Long Island Medium on television. For whatever reason, Josh had been obsessed with the show. His favorite episodes had been about dead or murdered kids.

Homicide detectives were a strange breed of people. They didn’t unwind like normal people with normal jobs did. If watching a staged show about a staged psychic was what helped Josh sleep at night, he’d been willing to go along with that.

Sitting here now with the Fryes and Tennyson, it felt so much more real than what he’d seen on television. He knew that Ten hadn’t seen or read any of his case file on Michael Frye. Tennyson said he hadn’t looked the case up online and hadn’t watched any of the archived news footage. For whatever reason, Ronan believed him.

Ronan studied Tennyson as the man’s attention seemed to be fixed off into space. His hands sat flat on the dining room table. Ronan could swear the other man wasn’t breathing. Seconds, which felt like hours ticked slowly by. Tennyson’s left hand twitched, as if it was about to ball into a fist. A small tear trickled down his cheek.

Ronan didn’t need the psychic to speak. He knew in that moment Michael Frye was dead.

“Hello, Michael,” Tennyson said, his watery voice barely above a whisper.

Both of the Fryes gasped and reached out for each other. “No! Oh no, no, no, no, no…” Jackie Frye wept on her husband’s shoulder.

Ross Frye held his wife and stared silently at Tennyson, who was still staring off in the distance, both hands flinching, almost as if he were being shocked by electricity.

Ronan had no idea what to do. Should he reach out to help Tennyson? The Fryes? Should he shut the hell up and stay in his seat? He’d never seen anything like this on The Long Island Medium, that was for damn sure. Grimm had damn well better not be doing this for show.

Jackie Frye reached for the tissues near her left hand and slowly pulled herself together. “He’s really here?”

Tennyson’s concentration seemed to snap as his focus turned to the boy’s mother. “He is, Jackie. He’s sitting in the empty chair to my right.”

“That was always his seat at the table,” Ross said with a glassy grin. “He liked to sit near his mother.”

“He still does,” Tennyson agreed. “Only now dinners are quiet with no one telling jokes or talking to each other.”

“Jokes?” Ross gave Tennyson a confused look.

“Don’t you remember we got him a joke book for Christmas and he’d tell us one at dinner every night?”

“What’s Irish and stays out all night?” Tennyson asked with a shy smile.

The Frye’s looked at each other with blank stares.

“Patio furniture.” Ronan answered.

Jackie Frye snorted and started to laugh. Soon, her husband joined her.

Ronan exchanged a guarded look with Tennyson, by the look in his eyes it was obvious they both knew the laughter would soon turn back to tears.

“If my Michael is telling you jokes then that means he’s…” Jackie’s blue eyes filled with tears.

Tennyson nodded. His own eyes were watery as well.

Ronan had never stopped to consider how hard this day would be on the psychic. He’d been a complete dick earlier when he’d told the other man that this case wasn’t going to end with a parade like the one the Lanski family wanted to honor Tennyson with. He knew this day was going to be a nightmare for the Fryes but he’d never given Tennyson a thought. Either he was going to connect with a dead child or have no news for parents who’d already been through seven years worth of no news.

“He’s passed on, Jackie,” Tennyson said.

“How?” Ross said.

Tennyson shook his head and sighed heavily. “He wants to tell you he understands about Max.”

“Who’s Max?” Ronan’s radar was on high alert. He had read through the case file at least a hundred times and he’d never heard that name before. Could Max be the boy’s killer?

“The puppy,” Ross said with ice in his voice.

Okay, so maybe not his killer then. Ronan tried to relax back into his chair. "What happened to the puppy?" Ronan had a bad feeling about the answer.

"We left the damned thing at the pound. Once the media coverage died down and we knew Michael wasn't coming home, we got rid of it. I couldn't stand to look at damn thing. It was the reason my son was gone."

Jackie grabbed for another tissue. "How did Michael know?"

"He can see and hear you. His spirit has been right here with you ever since he passed,” Tennyson offered gently.

"Why is he here and not crossed over or whatever they call it?" Jackie looked alarmed.

Tennyson shot Ronan a sad look. "He can't pass on until he says his piece and he knows you're both going to be okay."

“We’re fine,” Ross said stiffly.

“Clearly you’re not,” Tennyson said gently. “It’s obvious the toll losing Michael has taken on your lives and on your relationship with each other.”

Ross’s hands clenched in front of him. “This isn’t about us! This is about our son. Who killed him? Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” Tennyson said simply.

“What do you know?” The ice in Ross Frye’s voice over the puppy was back and aimed at Tennyson.

“Michael wants you to know that he’s okay now.” Tennyson’s voice was gentle.

“Okay now?” Jackie screeched. “Does that mean he wasn’t okay before? What happened to him? What happened to our son?”

Tennyson flinched at the rapid-fire questions being hurled at him by Michael’s mother. “Mrs. Frye, Michael is telling me that he is okay and that he wants you and Ross to be happy again.”

“God damn you,” Jackie whispered. “We invite you into our home and you, what? Toy with us?”

“Mrs. Frye, I assure you that’s not…”

“We should go.” Ronan stood up, grabbing Tennyson by his collar as he moved toward the front door.

“Stop manhandling me!” Tennyson swatted at Ronan’s grip. He shot him a dirty look when Ronan finally released him. Ten took a deep breath and turned back to the Fryes. “Your boy was always fiercely independent, yes? The kind of kid who always did things his way?”

Jackie and Ross looked at each other before nodding briefly.

“That hasn’t changed in the afterlife. Michael has a story to tell and he going to tell it his way.” Nodding at the Fryes, Tennyson pushed past Ronan and walked outside.

Ronan could feel his blood start to boil. Once he finished apologizing to the Fryes for the fruitcake’s attitude, he and said nut job were going to have a little chat about his bullshit powers and the way Tennyson had treated the grieving parents.

 

 

8
Tennyson

Once Tennyson was outside, he started to run. The frigid January air burned his lungs, but he didn’t care. It had started to snow while he’d been inside the Frye fortress, but he could see Boston Harbor through the thick flakes. His eyes focused on the ocean and he kept running toward it.

Thankfully, the light on Columbia Road had turned red, allowing him to keep running across the street and under the pass-through of the L Street Bathhouse. Seconds later, his loafers skidded onto the sands of Carson Beach. Folding his body over double, Tennyson gasped for air.

The reading with the Fryes didn’t go anything like he expected. He’d had an inkling that the boy was dead before he and Ronan had arrived at the house. That feeling was confirmed when he’d stepped through the front door and he’d felt the boy’s spirit. For some reason he couldn’t put a finger on, he hadn’t been able to see the boy until they’d all been sitting at the dining room table. As close as he could figure it was because that was when Michael had wanted Tennyson to see him.

Usually, children were easier to read than adults. There was no guile to them. No secrets. No malice. But Michael was different. This boy had secrets and plenty of them.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Grimm!” Ronan bellowed from behind him.

Tennyson startled and lost his balance, pitching face-first toward the shell-littered sand. He managed to catch himself with his outstretched hands before his face hit the beach, but a broken shell cut the palm of his left hand. “Damn it, ouch!” He turned to see Ronan looming over him, a furious look on his face.

He knew this outburst from Ronan was coming. It was half of the reason he’d taken off for the beach in the first place. There were no cameras here to capture what he didn’t need to be a psychic to know what was going to happen next. Ronan was going to completely lose his shit on him.

Reaching down, Ronan grabbed the psychic’s uninjured hand and hauled him roughly back to his feet. “Just who in hell do you think you are treating those people like that? Telling them their son is dead and then fucking with them more by not telling them where he is or how he died?” Ronan studied Tennyson for a second. His blue eyes quickly darting back and forth between Tennyson’s dark orbs. “Fucking answer me!”

“I don’t have the answers, Ronan! Bullying and intimidating me isn’t going to make me give up information I don’t have.”

Ronan grabbed him by the jacket, bringing Tennyson face-to-face with the furious detective. “If you’re lying to me, I swear to fucking God, I’ll...”

“You’ll what, detective? Pound me? Go ahead. It’s not like I haven’t taken a beating before.” Tennyson knew it was a low blow. Something deep within him knew Ronan would never lay a hand on him in anger. What he was seeing now was frustration over not being able to give the Fryes any answers about Michael.

The anger bled out of Ronan’s eyes and he set Tennyson back on his feet. “Why did you run? Can’t you see it’s snowing?”

“What I could see was how angry you were and I didn’t want this,” Tennyson waved his index finger at Ronan, “caught on tape.”

Ronan looked taken aback. “Let’s go. You’re bleeding. Don’t think we’re done talking about what happened back there. I want answers and you’re going to give them to me.”

Tennyson nodded. He only hoped that what he had to say was what Ronan wanted to hear. 

Thankfully, Ronan lived out of his car when he was investigating cases and had a huge stash of fast-food napkins in the glove box of his Mustang. There had also been an unopened case of Poland Spring water bottles in the trunk.

Between the napkins and the water, they’d been able to clean up his cut and bandage it up well enough so that Tennyson wasn’t bleeding when he got back into the car. The cut wasn’t very deep and wouldn’t require stitches, but all the same, it hurt like the devil. Served him right though for running off like Usain Bolt into a blossoming snow storm.

As they drove quietly through the streets of South Boston then into Dorchester, the radio DJ announced that the Greater Boston area was in for nine to twelve inches of snow overnight. Joy… 

They’d all been so busy with figuring out how the first meeting with the Fryes would go, no one had bothered to pay attention to the weather report.

The other thing Tennyson hadn’t been paying attention to was where they were now. Not an expert in Boston geography by any stretch of the imagination, even he could see they were traveling through residential neighborhoods and seemed to be getting further away from city streets and the highways that would lead north, back to Salem. “Where are we going?” His voice sounded hollow breaking the silence.

Ronan grumbled under his breath.

Tennyson’s heart kicked up a notch. He wasn’t sure, but he thought Ronan said, “home.”

A few minutes later, the Mustang roared to a stop in front of a five-story walk-up in a neighborhood Tennyson would never have pictured Ronan living in.

“Let’s go.” Ronan was out of the car before Tennyson had even unbuckled his seatbelt. Seconds later, Ronan was yanking the passenger door open and folding his arms over his broad chest, a less than amused look played across his weathered face.

Tennyson quickly scrambled out of the seat and onto the sidewalk, his feet nearly sliding out from under him on the snow-slicked sidewalk. The second Tennyson’s loafer touched the first step of the building, he was assaulted by voices and visions. He took an instant step backward and stumbled back onto the sidewalk.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Ronan growled.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Tennyson said, his voice shaking.

“Try me.” Ronan’s tone brooked no argument.

“You lived here while you were still working homicide cases, yes?” Tennyson knew he did. The spirits he could see and hear told him that was the case.

“Yes,” Ronan answered tightly. “Look, if my house isn’t good enough for you…”

“The ghosts of the dead glommed onto you. They followed you home. They’re still here. All I can hear in my mind are their voices. They aren’t quiet like Michael, they’re screaming. It’s off-putting is all.” Tennyson straightened his spine and climbed the front stairs, leaving Ronan behind him.

Ronan silently opened the front door for him and led him up to the fourth floor, twisting three keys in various locks before pushing the door open for him.

Tennyson whispered cleansing words, wishing he had sage with him, but his words would have to do. He had a feeling this was home for the night.

“After you, Princess Grimm.” Ronan half-snickered from behind him.

“I’m reciting an incantation.” Tennyson shook his head and entered the apartment. 

Ronan sighed, but waited for Tennyson to finish what he was doing. 

The apartment was, unfortunately, just what Tennyson expected, tiny and loaded with spirits and old pizza boxes. He knew this was going to be an uneasy place for him to spend any amount of time.

"Dining room table." Ronan pointed and headed toward a dark hallway.

Tennyson obeyed, wondering how much longer Ronan was going to think he had the right to boss him around. He also couldn’t help wondering for how much longer he was going to continue to obey.

When Ronan returned a few minutes later, he was carrying bandages and a tube of what he assumed was an antiseptic cream of some sort.

Ronan worked quickly, cleaning and then bandaging the cut. "Pizza or Chinese food?"

Tennyson wasn't really in the mood for anything, but knew Ronan needed to eat. "Pizza, anything but mushrooms and anchovies.” 

Ronan grunted and made the call. Pepperoni and sausage with a garden salad on the side. 

Sitting across the table from Tennyson, Ronan folded his hands. “Start talking.”

Tennyson sighed. He knew Ronan was suspicious of what he did in the first place. What he was about to say wasn’t going to do much to make the wary detective build trust in him. In fact, it might make the cop trust him even less.

 

 

 

 

9
Ronan

Ronan’s temper was just shy of the boiling point. It wasn’t going to take much to set him off like a torch to a powder keg. This wasn’t what he wanted. He didn’t want to be sitting at his own scarred dining room table laying his life bare to the fruitcake, but with the weather turning from bad to worse he didn’t see any other option but to bring Tennyson home with him.

He needed answers, and like it or not, Tennyson was the only person who could give them to him. The one thing he had to give the other man credit for was not having this conversation in front of the cameras. Before they’d left to drive into Boston, Brett McCabe and the film crew had wired his Mustang with tiny cameras that were voice activated. The second a door opened, the recording started to roll. By Tennyson ending up on Carson Beach rather than hopping in his car, he’d saved Ronan some embarrassment by not having their fight captured on tape.

“In order for you to understand what happened today, you need to understand my gift.” Tennyson was staring at his folded hands.

“Your gift?” Ronan’s voice had an edge to it. He needed to get that under control and treat this conversation like any other interview he conducted with a witness. He was treating Tennyson like a suspect.

“Yes, damn it! My gift!” Tennyson said hotly. “I get that you don’t believe in what I do, detective, but I believe that what I have is a gift.”

“Tell me about it.” Ronan nodded, taking a deep breath. He could do this. He could listen to Tennyson with an open mind.

“They show me images, whisper words. To me, they mean nothing, but to you, they could mean everything.”

“What do you mean?” In order to understand what Tennyson was talking about he was going to need to dig deeper.

“Do you really want an example?” Tennyson’s dark eyes bore into Ronan’s.

Did he? He could see the challenge in Tennyson’s eyes. “Yes.” It was the only way to know if this was bullshit or not.

“Okay, then. Let’s start with 744. What does that number mean to you?”

“Oh come on! You looked that up.” Ronan shook his head. He knew this whole thing what a crock of shit.

“Looked what up, detective?” Tennyson smirked at him.

“The number of the house I grew up in.” Ronan folded his arms over his chest and leaned back against the chair.

“So, it’s easier for you to believe that I Googled you and found out that you grew up at 744 Highland Avenue in Quincy, Massachusetts, rather than believing that your mother Erin told me, right?”

Ronan growled, his entire body tensing.

“We’ll discuss your sainted mother another time, detective.” Tennyson narrowed his eyes. “Michael Frye was only giving me a little bit of information to work with. Channeling spirit isn’t like reading an open book or watching a movie. It’s more like seeing a flash of images or hearing a line of dialogue. Some people are more open than others. Your mother wants to talk, talk, talk. Michael Frye doesn’t.”

At the mention of his mother’s chatty ways, Ronan felt the old grief swamp over him. He ground his teeth and did his best to keep those feelings from showing on his face.

“When you worked homicide, did you have your partner’s back?”

“What?” Tennyson’s question startled him out of his memories of his mother.

“Did you have your partner’s back when you worked homicide cases?” Tennyson leaned across the table. “Because you didn’t have mine today.”

“I always had my partner’s back.” Ronan didn’t like the way Tennyson was challenging him right now. How he acted with Tony Abruzzi was none of his business.

“Just not today,” Tennyson challenged back.

Ronan exploded out of his seat. “You have no idea what those people have been through! Their son has been gone for seven years and you walk through their door and tell them he’s dead! Then you won’t tell them who killed him or where his body is! How the fuck can I stand behind you when all you’re doing is putting them through more pain?”

Tennyson sighed, sounding like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. “What’s my middle name, Ronan?”

“What?” He was losing his mind. They were talking about Michael Frye and now Tennyson was asking about his middle name. This guy was seriously one nut shy of a fruitcake. “How the fuck do I know your middle name. You’ve never told me what it is!”

“That’s my point exactly! I don’t know who killed Michael Frye because he hasn’t told me, Ronan. I don’t know where his body is because he hasn’t told me that either.” Tennyson got up from the table and walked over to the detective. “I know all of this is hard for you to believe. You’re the kind of man who needs to be able to see something in order to believe it. I get that. I really do. I’ve been reading dead children since I was a teenager, so I do know how hard this is on the Fryes. I know how hard this is on you, detective.” Tennyson set a hand on Ronan’s beefy shoulder.

There it was again, that feeling of instant calm warring with the need to take a step closer to Tennyson. The confusing emotions darting through his body were the last things he needed at the moment. He stepped back from the comfort of the psychic’s hand.

“It’s going to be okay, Ro Your Boat. I promise.” Tennyson turned and headed back toward the table.

Ronan stood rooted to the floor. How in the name of Mother Theresa did Tennyson know his mother used to call him Ro Your Boat? It wasn’t possible. It just wasn’t possible. 

“What did you just call me, Grimm?” Ronan took two menacing steps toward Tennyson, grabbing the other man’s arm as he started to retreat backward.

“I think you heard me the first time, detective.” Tennyson tried to jerk his arm away, but Ronan only gripped him tighter.

“No one called me that but my mother. Who told you, huh? Who?” Ronan jerked Tennyson closer.  He could smell the flowers in the shorter man’s shampoo and caught a whiff of his fresh smelling soap. Only an inch or two separated their lips and Ronan was just angry enough to do something about it.

“You won’t believe me if I tell you anyway, so what’s the point?” Tennyson tried weakly to pull away again, but he was no match for the stronger cop.

“Oh no, you’re not going anywhere, Princess.” Ronan’s voice was just above a whisper. He knew this was absolutely the wrong thing to do but couldn’t fight it one second longer. Closing the distance between them, Ronan kissed Tennyson. His fingers dug harder into Tennyson’s arm, while his other hand came up to hold the side of his face. He used his thumb to push down on the psychic’s chin. There was no way he was going to come this far and not get a taste of the maddening man who was kissing him back.

Tennyson managed to work a hand between their bodies and gave a weak push against Ronan’s chest. He whimpered when the cop pulled him closer, surging his tongue into Tennyson’s now open mouth.

Where Tennyson had whimpered before, he moaned now, in concert with Ronan.

Ronan knew this had gone far enough. He’d proven his point, even if he was too far gone to remember what his original point had been. He needed to stop kissing the psychic’s soft lips, even though it was the last thing he wanted to do. He needed to push him away even though all he wanted to do was pull him closer. The ringing door buzzer decided the matter for him.

“Dinner,” Ronan said lamely.

Tennyson nodded, breathing heavily.

Shit, shit, shit…  Ronan hadn’t just stepped over the line, he’d blown it up with dynamite. All he could do now was pay for the pizza and figure out how to apologize to Tennyson for all of the dick moves he’d made today, like not having his back and kissing his lips off.

 

 

10
Tennyson

Hours later, Tennyson could still feel the ghost of Ronan’s lips on his own. The tender flesh felt swollen and abused, but truthfully, he couldn’t bring himself to care. No man had ever kissed Tennyson like that in his entire life.

He’d been able to taste Ronan’s anger, fear, and frustration on his lips, but once their tongues had tangled, there had been something else. Something dark and dangerous. Something addictive. Something Tennyson knew he could never get enough of. Something he knew he could never taste again.

Dinner had been a quiet affair. Both men ate with their heads down. Ronan shoveled the food in like he couldn’t eat fast enough. Tennyson wondered if he even tasted it. For his part, he ate half a piece of pizza and pushed his salad around on his plate, barely eating any of it.

After dinner they’d sat in silence and watched the news followed by a few episodes of some 80’s comedy on cable. Before he’d stalked off to bed, Ronan had been kind enough to make up the couch for him.

Not that Tennyson would be getting a lot of sleep tonight. Between the spirits haunting the apartment and Ronan, and the cop’s kiss haunting him, he knew there would be no rest for him tonight. 

From his spot on the couch, he could see the falling snow illuminated by the streetlight outside the window. Being here with Ronan like this, snowed in, as it were, reminded him of being a kid back in Union Chapel. Only this time, there would be no waking up to a day of sledding and snowball fights with his friends.

There would be a fight all right, but it would be about Michael Frye.

“Hey, you up?” Ronan’s voice asked quietly from the hallway. His body was backlit by the bathroom light which he’d left on so Tennyson could find his way in the dark.

“Yeah,” Tennyson sat up. He could tell from the low light that his host was only dressed in a pair of sweatpants, slung low on his hips. Christ, if he wasn’t sleeping before, he sure as hell wasn’t going to sleep now. Ronan’s broad chest was on full display. He could see a light dusting of hair covering his defined pecs and six pack abs. What Tennyson would give to tangle his fingers in that soft fur and lick Ronan’s ripped muscles until he ran out of saliva.

“Grimm?” Ronan’s voice was tinged with amusement.

“Huh?” Shit, Ronan must have been talking to him while he was fantasizing about using the stacked and jacked detective’s body like a jungle gym. “You do know I’m gay, right? Put a shirt on and I won’t get distracted.”

Ronan snorted and took a couple of steps forward into the living room. “What did you mean about spirits following me home?” His voice had taken on a softer tone. Gone was the gruffness Tennyson had gotten used to hearing in the detective’s voice.

Tennyson couldn’t help liking this middle of the night version of Ronan with his soft edges and willingness to listen to him. “People that I refer to as the lowest common denominator, drug dealers, prostitutes, criminals, vibrate at lower level than law abiding, good people like us. When people like that die, they’re looking for the light.”

“You mean the white light of heaven?” Ronan took a few more steps into the living room. His arms hung loosely at his sides instead of being crossed over his chest, making him look open and approachable.

“Right, but since they’re confused and might not have people waiting to welcome them into heaven, they’ll often glom onto any light they can find.” Tennyson pointed a finger at Ronan.

“Me?” the detective scoffed in obvious disbelief. Ronan walked over to the couch, sitting down next to Tennyson.

He could feel the heat radiating off of the detective. His arousal ramped up even higher as he imagined himself falling asleep with his head on Ronan’s shoulder. “You have an amazing light, Ronan. It’s plain to see that you became a cop to help people. I’ve known other police officers over the years whose only aim in getting into law enforcement was being able to carry a gun and bully other people into obeying the law.”

“I was a bully today.” Shame and embarrassment were obvious in Ronan’s voice.

“You were, but that was partly my fault.”

“No, it wasn’t, Ten.” Ronan shook his head, reaching out for Tennyson’s hand. “My being a complete dick had nothing to do with you.”

Tennyson squeezed their joined hands. It felt so right sitting here in the semi-darkness like this with Ronan, talking out their differences. “I should have explained to you how my gift worked before we went to see the Fryes, that way there you would have been better prepared for what happened.”

“It won’t happen again. I promise.”

“What won’t happen again?” Tennyson hoped to God Ronan didn’t mean the kissing. He was hoping that was going to happen again in the next few minutes.

“Me not having your back. We’re partners now and no matter what happens, I’ve got you.”

“I’ve got you too.” Tennyson offered him a shy smile.

“Finish what you were saying about my light. I’m a broken down alcoholic cop with a divorce under my belt. How can I possibly have any light left?”

“Your circumstances don’t define the light in your soul, Ronan. Your divorce wasn’t your fault and you started drinking because you were led to believe it was.”

Ronan stiffened beside him. “Are you reading me?”

Tennyson shrugged. “A little. I know you didn’t cheat on him and that you loved him with your whole heart. Any man who would walk away from that kind of love and faithfulness is a fool. I also know neither of those things were returned to you.”

“You know that for a fact?”

“No, but you do. You’re just not willing to admit it to yourself.”

Ronan nodded and cleared his throat. “So these spirits came home from crime scenes with me like hitchhikers?”

“Yeah and from bars too, I’m guessing. Spirits often return to the places they were most happy before they passed. For some people that’s their local watering hole.”

Ronan shivered in the near-darkness. “I’m so glad that wasn’t me.”

“Me too.”

“Did I hurt you earlier?” Ronan brushed his thumb over Tennyson’s still swollen lower lip.

Tennyson gasped at the intimate contact between them. His pulse sped up and his cock came to immediate attention. “You could never hurt me, Ronan.”

“I was so rough, taking what I needed.” Ronan’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“Who says I didn’t need it too?”

Ronan shook his head and pulled away, the spell broken. “Good night, Tennyson. Get some sleep. I’m going to show you the full case file in the morning and we’re going to get to work on finding Michael Frye.”

“Good night, detective.” Tennyson shivered when Ronan stood up and strode toward the bedroom. 

“By the way, Ten, I’m gay too.”

“I didn’t need to be a psychic to figure that one out.” He’d figured that out the second Ronan’s lips landed on his, not to mention the fact that it had been a pretty easy vibe to pick up from him the longer they’d been together. It was nice that Ronan trusted him enough to come out to him.

“Oh yeah?” Ronan fisted his hands on his hips. “How’s that?”

“Your gun was digging into my hip.”

“I wasn’t wearing my gun belt when I kissed you, Grimm.” Ronan sounded confused.

“Duh…”

 

 

11
Ronan

 Ronan hadn’t slept well after his midnight confessional with Tennyson. He was conflicted over being so close to Tennyson and not kissing the maddening man for a second time.

Although, he had to admit their late-night conversation had been their best one so far. One that hadn't ended with either of them being angry at the other. 

Tennyson had still been sleeping when he'd gotten up for good around 5am. Ronan had taken that time to get outside and shovel out the Mustang from the ten inches of snow that had fallen overnight. 

He knew the minute the plow truck came by, the car would be snowed back in again, but this kind of physical activity was good for him. He certainly wasn't going to be able to go out for his morning run in this weather. 

Being outside in the cold was also keeping him away from the very hot man sleeping on his couch. Seeing Tennyson dressed in his clothes last night, lying on his sofa had loosened something inside of him. Something he didn't really want to examine too closely at this moment in time.

Suffice it to say he was stupidly attracted to the psychic. He'd wanted nothing more than to take the man to bed with him last night and kiss him until Tennyson was begging to be fucked, but that was the last thing their tenuous working relationship needed right now. 

That option was certainly worth considering once they'd found Michael Frye's remains and his killer was locked behind bars.

Tennyson was sitting at the dining room table typing on his phone when Ronan came back upstairs fifteen minutes later. He was fresh from the shower, his curly hair damp and smelling like Ronan's shampoo. "Wow, you're up and ready to go."

"Figured you'd be eager to get back to work. We got a lot more snow up by Salem, so the ride back might take longer. I didn't want to hold us up."

Ronan nodded, touched by Tennyson's thoughtfulness. "We'll grab coffee and breakfast once we get on the road, okay?"

"Sure. I’ll text Brett and let him know our plans while you're in the shower."

Ronan was about to head off to the bathroom when he caught a good look at his guest. Tennyson looked like shit. "You get much sleep?”

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Ronan knew the psychic was lying. Instead of calling him out, he raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Tennyson sagged a bit. "I spent most of the night trying to cross over the spirits who live here with you. Some of them didn't want to go..."

Before he knew what he was doing, Ronan was across the room and cradling Tennyson's face in his large hands. "Did they hurt you?"

Tennyson shut his eyes, as if Ronan's touch were somehow comforting him. "No, they were just being stubborn. Some crossed over, some didn't. I listened to the ones who stayed and tried to reason with them, but..." Tennyson shrugged. “I'll pack sage and the other things I'll need to cleanse the house for you on the off chance you ever invite me over here again."

"I don't need you cleaning my house for me, Grimm." Ronan's hands tightened on Tennyson's face. 

"I don't mean cleansing like with Windex and a Hoover, detective. I mean cleansing the house of spirits."

"Oh." The harsh look in Ronan's eyes softened. "Thank you." He leaned closer, looking like he was going to kiss Tennyson, before he shook his head and backed off.

Christ, less than twenty-four hours ago he'd been ready to throttle the curly-haired psychic and now he could barely keep his hands or his lips to himself. 

Running the water in the shower, he stripped off his wet clothes and hopped in. His cock was already half-hard, and it didn't take much coaxing to get it to come the rest of the way to attention. 

Ronan set a punishing pace over his heated flesh, figuring this was the only way to get Tennyson out of his head. He shut his eyes and pictured the maddening man on his knees in front of him. He'd wrap both hands around the psychic's head and shove his cock down his throat.

He had no idea if Tennyson enjoyed getting his face roughly fucked, but Dream Tennyson fucking loved it; his dark eyes telegraphed it to Ronan and even begged him to go harder and faster. 

Ronan was more than happy to oblige. "That's it. Fucking take it, Ten," he muttered to his dream lover, increasing the pace of his hand on his cock. 

Ever since his marriage ended, he took care of his body's demands, but this was the first time he'd done so with another man's face in mind that he knew in person, rather than with some random hot actor.

Dream Tennyson moaned like a whore, fondling his balls with one hand and teasing his entrance with the other. Ronan couldn't help probing his back door just the way he knew Tennyson would do it if he were here now. 

He was getting closer to his end and he knew Tennyson would finally breach the snug ring of muscle to find his prostate. 

"Fuck, yes!" Ronan yelled, his cock spurting over his fist and coating his chest. He bit his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. The coppery tang filled his mouth as blast after blast of sticky release landed on his chest. 

When his cock twitched for the last time and the last trickle seeped out of his slit, Ronan braced both hands against the shower tile, offering a silent prayer that his houseguest hadn't heard him jacking off in the shower.

Although, if he were being honest with himself, there was a part of him that hoped Tennyson had been listening at the door with his ear pressed against the cold wood, his own spent cock in his hand.

 

12
Tennyson

 

The long ride back to Salem was made even longer by Tennyson's traitorous mind replaying Ronan's shower spank session second by agonizing second. 

It had started innocently enough with Tennyson returning the clothes Ronan had loaned him for the night. He was in the process of folding and leaving them on his host's bed when he'd heard a low moan come from the bathroom.

Unable to resist Ronan's siren's song, he'd crept to the bathroom door like a thief in the night, pressing his ear against the door, almost desperate to hear that sound again. There was absolutely no doubt in his mind what had caused Ronan to make that sound.

He didn't have long to wait. Not only was Ronan moaning like a champion porn star, he was whispering dirty encouragements to his dream lover. Tennyson couldn’t help hoping that dream lover was him.

Tennyson's cock had gone rock-hard the second Ronan's first moan had reached his ears. By the time Ronan was crying out a steady stream of "fuck yeahs," his own cock was in his hand and he was stroking along with the cop.

He'd never been a voyeur in his life, but fuck if he was going to miss out on the hottest moment of his entire life.

If he was a braver man, he would have opened the bathroom door and asked Ronan if there was something he could have done to help him out.

Unfortunately, Tennyson wasn't that brave. He'd settled for jacking off and coming all over the bathroom door. Thankfully he'd been able to clean up the evidence before Ronan had come out of the bathroom. 

Instead of leaving him feeling more settled, Tennyson felt edgier than ever.

He was sure most of it had to do with digging back into the Michael Frye case rather than with sitting six inches away from Ronan. At least that was what he was trying hard to convince himself of. It wasn’t working.

Ronan had barely said two words the whole way back to Salem. It was just as well, Tennyson figured. They were both so tired that the slightest thing was bound to start them arguing again even after the fragile peace they’d seemed to forge in the middle of the night.

“Here we are, Princess Grimm,” Ronan grinned as they pulled into a shoveled parking space in front of West Side Magick.

“My hero.” Tennyson rolled his eyes and hopped out of the car.

“Thank God you’re safe!” Carson pulled Tennyson in for a tight hug the second he walked into the store.

“Uh, you’re a psychic. Shouldn’t you have known he was safe all along?” Ronan shot Carson a glib smile.

“Are you always this charming first thing in the morning, detective?” Carson asked, winking at Tennyson.

“They got his coffee order wrong at Dunkin’s…” Tennyson shrugged.

“I can remedy that.” Truman grinned. “Come with me, Ronan. We’ll get you fixed up next door and leave the girls to gossip.”

“I’m standing right here, husband.” Carson fisted his hands on his hips.

“I can see you, wife!” Truman laughed.

“Jeez, you’d think after I took a bullet for the guy he’d treat me with a bit more respect.” Carson laughed and pecked Truman’s lips.

“A bullet?” Ronan shot Tennyson an alarmed look.

“I’ll tell you all about it over coffee,” Truman offered.

“It all started with a vision of love, detective. I’m sure the story will be right up your street.” Carson was all smiles.

Ronan looked confused, but followed Truman into the adjoining bakery.

“Okay, spill all the juicy details and don’t you dare leave anything out!” Carson was bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Tennyson raised an eyebrow at his friend. “You’re psychic. You know all the juicy details.”

“Hand to God, I don’t.” Carson held his hand up. “I’ve been working on those blocking exercises you gave me. They sort of work.”

“What do you mean sort of?”

“I know he kissed you, but that’s it!” Carson started to laugh.

“Then you know it all.” Tennyson shook his head. “For a minute there I didn’t know if he was going to kiss me or kill me.”

“He didn’t either,” Carson said softly. “I mean don’t get me wrong, he’s wanted to kiss you and kill you in equal measure since the minute he met you but… I should really stop talking now.” His mouth snapped shut with a clack of his teeth.

“Oh no, this is truly fascinating. Please continue.” Tennyson rolled his eyes.