Page 11 of The Map Home
“In my experience, Christmas Day is pretty quiet, but who knows out there. Talk to you later.”
It was a relief to put his phone down. Dakota appreciated Niall making the effort to get to know him—well, Mat Dempsey making the effort—but it was cringy and so awkward.
It was getting late and he did have to be at work early in the morning, but Dakota pulled his laptop from its spot on the coffee table and fired it up. He figured he might as well see what he could find on Marcy Auchler, and social media was the perfect place to start.
Rolling his neck,Dakota glanced up at the time. Fuck, it was after midnight.
He’d fallen down a rabbit hole and lost track of the time. Marcy Auchler loved her cat. Her social media posts were filled with pictures and videos of a creature Dakota had learned was a Maine coon, a fluffy orange-and-white striped living pillow with massive feet and a haughty expression.
There were a few pictures of her out and about. Hiking a trail outside of town in the spring, having an espresso at CCs. She’d vacationed in Puerto Vallarta the previous winter—there were several pictures of the beach there, some friends, and a post about missing Pound Cake.
Marcy rented a room from Sabrina Suarez. She didn’t seem to have a love interest, at least not one she posted about or had pictures of. Her employment wasn’t listed, but Suarez had reported that she’d worked seasonally for a real estate office and also at a florist’s shop in town called The Wild Bunch.
Dakota clicked off his laptop and flipped his spiral notebook closed. Writing things down by hand helped him sort out ideas and sometimes even find patterns to information. He’d been teased by the rest of the deputies for his little notebook, but it came in handy. For one thing, a notepad never got too cold or hot to work properly.
His last thought before crawling into bed was that he might stop by the florist tomorrow if it was open over the holiday weekend. If it was, he might ask a few questions. Surely people Marcy Auchler worked with would have a better idea of her habits and activities.
Dakota slowly rosefrom asleep to awake. Next to him, on the antique wooden apple crate he’d repurposed as a nightstand, his phone was buzzing. After turning off the alarm, he stared up at the semidark ceiling, the vestiges of the early morning dream clinging to his consciousness. He’d dreamed about Tad Gillespie. Again.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
Appropriate because the dream which had involved Tadhadn’tbeen memories of them being fifteen years old and romping in the pastures around the G-Bar. Instead, it had been a fully Technicolor, everything-but-penetration sex dream that still had Dakota breathless and fucking hard, his hand wrapped around his cock.
The sensible part of him argued that he shouldn’t finish what the dream had started because—well, he just shouldn’t. But another part of him—a louder, more insistent voice this morning—demanded Dakota see through what his subconscious had begun. Tad would never have to know, right?
Tad Gillespie was a problem Dakota didn’t plan on unwrapping this morning, or any future morning. Tad was officially off-limits in real life, he reminded himself. Instead, Dakota pulled up his knees, spread his legs, and began stroking his hard-as-steel cock. It wouldn’t take long for him to finish. In the dream, the sexy, lanky, too-nice-for-his-own-good Tad had been naked and on his knees, his ass in the air, begging Dakota to fuck him.
Dakotawantedto fuck real-life Tad, but dream Tad was going to have to do. He moved his hand faster as he pumped his hips, thrusting into his own tight grip.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mindlessly chanted.
Almost too quickly, the spark at the base of his spine flared into pulsing heat. Precome spilled over his fingers, making his cock slick, and fuck if that didn’t feel good too. He kept pumping almost mindlessly until his cock throbbed and come poured over his fist. A few more pumps and Dakota was groaning, relaxing into the futon, his chest rising and falling in the aftermath of orgasm.
“Great, dude, now you have to toss your sheets in the washandyou get to feel guilty about getting off thinking about Tad.”
Flipping the blankets off himself, Dakota got out of bed faster than he wanted to and stumbled to his bathroom and his tiny shower, where he turned the taps on hot. At least he had a shower that worked, right? At least he had a place he could call his own. Stepping into the small cubicle, he stood under the spray and let the hot water wash over him, wash away the dream of Tad.
As if.
He was so fucked.
Ten minutes later, scrubbed down, rinsed off, and toweled dry, Dakota pulled on a clean white t-shirt and stared into the mirror. He needed to shave. Shaving made him think about Tad’s porn-stache and that in turn had his cock thinking about things too.
And he didn’t even like the fuzzy thing.
“For fuck’s sake.”
Back in his bedroom, he dragged out a fresh CCSO uniform and put it on. It was time to face the day and put all thoughts of Tad Gillespie aside.
A little voice in his head reminded him that he’d been trying to set Tad Gillespie aside for over a decade and since it hadn’t worked yet, why did he think it was going to work in the future?
“Because it has to.”
With that, he shrugged into his winter coat and heavy boots and made his way down the stairs to the lobby of his apartment building. He pushed outside, noting that the building’s owner had shoveled and salted the sidewalk. Across the street, he spotted Geraldine and the excuse of a dog she called Barky.
“Morning, Geraldine.”
“Good morning, Deputy Green,” she called back. Barky, ever true to his name, noticed Dakota and began pulling on his leash and sounding the intruder alarm. “Hush, Barky!”
