Heat Read online

  Heat

  By R.W. Clinger

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2015 R.W. Clinger

  ISBN 9781611528244

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  To Kenito, always.

  * * * *

  Heat

  By R.W. Clinger

  Part 1: June 2, 20—

  Chapter 1: Don’t You Guys Ever Want to Play?

  Chapter 2: A Second Case

  Chapter 3: Casey Kalhoun

  Chapter 4: Rebecca Rexx/Rita Redd

  Chapter 5: Necessary Invasion

  Chapter 6: The Messenger

  Chapter 7: The Clay Artist

  Chapter 8: Night Walk

  Chapter 9: Night Swim

  Chapter 10: Fire’s Delight

  Part 2: June 3, 20—

  Chapter 11: The Matriarch Becomes Sassy

  Chapter 12: Cougarize

  Chapter 13: Naked Play

  Chapter 14: Ronny Shower

  Chapter 15: Underground Spectacle (One)

  Chapter 16: Two Humps Dunes

  Chapter 17: Fire’s Blend

  Chapter 18: Laura Monigal

  Chapter 19: Bruno Grigade

  Chapter 20: Two Attractions

  Part 3: June 4, 20—

  Chapter 21: Firewalking

  Chapter 22: Sunshine Dane

  Chapter 23: Calvin Bow

  Chapter 24: Tristen Trintar

  Chapter 25: Chief Darren Dawe

  Chapter 26: Casey and Bruno

  Chapter 27: Sign Farm

  Chapter 28: Underground Spectacle (Two)

  Chapter 29: Leaving the Sideshow

  Chapter 30: Intuition

  Part 4: June 5, 20—

  Chapter 31: Not Into Play

  Chapter 32: Burn and Visitors

  Chapter 33: Merman’s Bar & Grille

  Chapter 34: Better Luck Next Time

  Chapter 35: Rotunda Disturbed

  Chapter 36: The Return of Margo Pagino

  Chapter 37: Clarissa Monigal

  Chapter 38: Laura Calls

  Chapter 39: The Drift

  Chapter 40: Bobby Surfaces and Other Matters

  Part 5: June 6, 20—

  Chapter 41: Margo Confesses

  Chapter 42: Casey, Bothered

  Chapter 43: Rebecca Shares

  Chapter 44: Officer Cane Bishop

  Chapter 45: A Good Boy

  Chapter 46: Laura Monigal Explains

  Chapter 47: Bungalow 16

  Chapter 48: The Burning Bed

  Chapter 49: September

  Chapter 50: The Widow’s Walk

  Part 1: June 2, 20—

  Chapter 1: Don’t You Guys Ever Want to Play?

  Hurricane Bay, Florida

  St. Paul Street

  Hurricane Bay Investigative Agency (HBIA)

  9:27 A.M.

  Peter Rotunda’s fatty chest and all-around ugliness repulsed me. Vomit clung to the rear of my throat, and my tongue started to burn from rising stomach bile. The thirty-two-year-old man looked disgusting with his greasy dark hair and pools of sweat under his arms. I wasn’t beneath the act of telling him that he smelled up my office and probably the rest of Hurricane Bay. He had massive shoulders and fleshy rolls for a chin. The man’s pecs were mounds of blubber with no nipples. I figured he weighed an easy three hundred and fifty pounds and stood at six-three like some kind of giant squid.

  “You like what you see, don’t you, Dupree?” he asked, grinning from ear to ear. “Some guys like bigger men. They actually get off on the fat. Admit it: you find my body attractive and sexy as hell. Tell me you want to fuck me.”

  “I’d rather keep this professional between us, Peter.” I cleared my throat and removed my disgusted view from him, down to the penciled notes in front of me.

  Peter agreed to pay me ten grand (if I agreed to his conditions) to find out who burned down his queer bar called the Flaming Flamingo three nights ago. The Hurricane Bay fire chief, Darren Dawe, had already deemed the fire arson, claiming the inferno had been started with gasoline.

  A glossy headshot of Peter’s pretty boy bartender sat next to my notes. Rudy Shower, the bartender on duty during the fire, had piercing blue eyes, a smile to get hard for, and an Irish pale complexion. His blond hair was cut short, and he sported miniature gold hoops in both earlobes. My notes indicated that Rudy was twenty-three, an identical twin to a brother named Ronny, and didn’t have any ink on his torso or other places on his body. He lived in an IKEA-decorated bungalow on North Palm Way with his twin, next to the Hurricane Bay Shopping Plaza, and sometimes dated his drinking, and queer, clients.

  Peter wasn’t wealthy by any means, I knew, but he wasn’t monetarily suffering, either. Single, he lived on Hurricane Bay Road in Bungalow Forty-Eight and owned three gay bars: the Flaming Flamingo, Roughs, and Merman. I also knew the guy had a string of men in his life, sleeping around, never faithful. The man spent loads of money on his men for drugs, alcohol, food, and short trips around the world, when Peter felt it necessary.

  “Professional is boring, Dupree. I’m perfectly fine with you nailing me over your desk this morning. I always crave young dick in my asshole. Just so you know.”

  He laughed after his bold statement and winked at me. He scrutinized my cocoa brown buzz cut, six-one frame, and one hundred and eighty pounds of toned torso. I could never be considered ugly by any means concerning my light brown eyes and thin lips. I figured he knew I was twenty-nine, where I lived next to the Gulf, and that my best friend’s name was Rebecca Rexx. Peter did not seem to be the type of man to waive doing homework on the people he hired, particularly a private eye who had only been in business as Hurricane Bay Investigative Agency for the last three years and still had the reputation of being an amateur.

  I tried to be polite, smiled, and shook my head. “I have a boyfriend,” I said, referring to Casey Kalhoun. “We’ve been together for four months, and it seems to be working out just fine.”

  Peter pushed his chair back, spread his legs, and grabbed the mound of khaki-covered cock and balls between his fat legs. “If you get tired of the same dick at home every night, you can always stray to mine.”

  “Casey and I do not stray.” I closed the folder in front of me and passed it over the desk.

  He rolled his eyes, huffed, and said, “I hate when young and handsome men are faithful. Don’t you guys ever want to play with a wealthy cocksucker like me?”

  “Not this guy,” I said and stood. “With all due respect, I’m going to have to pass on this job, Peter.”

  He reached inside his shorts, pulled
out five one thousand dollar bills, rolled the chair forward, and placed the money on the desk in front of me. He grinned at me like a horny madman and said, “I’ll give you fifteen thousand, Dupree. That’s my final offer.”

  I needed the cash and a job since the economy for private eyes was weak. I took the five grand off the desk, held it in my right hand, and said, “I want seven K up front. You can pay me the other eight when my investigation is done.”

  “Done, Axle Dupree.” He dug in his pants for the other two thousand dollars and passed it to me, on the spot.

  “Done.” I took the money and knew instantly that a wild case and ride were ahead of me, mostly because I was now his employee.

  Chapter 2: A Second Case

  11:42 A.M.

  My office that morning moved and shook for a change. I couldn’t remember when clients sat across from my desk and wanted to hire me for my services. Money was tight, but manageable. My second meeting for the day was just as interesting as the first. Margo Pagino, the famous paperback “fluff” writer, stared at me with a stern and wrinkle-less face. She sucked on the tip of a Waterman pen and clicked it against her rabbit-like teeth.

  “You do find people, don’t you?”

  I nodded. “Only when they really want to be found.”

  “And what if they don’t want to be found?”

  She was a spicy woman with long legs, lots of plastic surgery, and only wore the most expensive labels. Her narrow lips were a bright red, her hair blazed white, and pearls were snug around her corded throat. Rumors in Hurricane Bay and along the Gulf’s coast suggested that she was worth four hundred million dollars because of her paperback sales during the last forty years. Truth was, no one knew how much she had earned from her books, except for maybe her hired accounting firm and nosey Uncle Sam.

  “If someone doesn’t want to be found, then I can’t help you, Margo.” It sounded curt, but to the point. And the use of her first name probably threw her off a touch, since she only liked to be called Ms. Pagino.

  She placed the pen inside her casual clutch, shifted in her seat like a delicate and old bird, and said, “I’m not sure if my son wants to be found.”

  “Which son?” I asked, knowing that she had six: Bentley, Brian, Benjamin, Bradley, Brandon, and the baby in the family, Bobby.

  “Bobby, of course. The ugly duckling of the family.”

  Robin “Bobby” Pagino was hardly ugly in my opinion. Gorgeous with a thick head of red hair, freckles, and a middleweight wrestler’s frame, I thought him rather attractive. Something told me that he never had a bad day in his life because of his good looks, his mother’s money, and his last name.

  “Has he run off?” I asked in an effort to learn her situation, a few details of the case, and maybe the reason why Bobby turned up missing.

  She sighed, looked at the clutch on her lap, and said in a frazzled tone, “Run off. Abducted. Moved. Something like that. I’m really not sure, Mr. Dupree. You figure it out. All I can tell you is that he has been missing from his studio apartment for the last forty-eight hours. Bobby makes contact with me every day. I’m very concerned with his current state and location.”

  “The pay is steep,” I told her. Honestly, it wasn’t, but she was loaded. I wanted to take advantage of her paperback sales. Like I said, money couldn’t be any tighter.

  “There isn’t an amount that’s too high regarding my son.”

  “Twenty thousand dollars,” I said. “I want half up front. When I find him, if I do find him, you can pay me the other half.”

  She agreed, signed a contract with me, and wrote out a check for the ten grand. Before she left, she commanded, “You will find him. No one ever lets me down in Hurricane Bay.”

  “Of course.” I fixed a strong and convincing stare at her, thrilled that I had just earned enough dough to live off for four months, and told her goodbye.

  Chapter 3: Casey Kalhoun

  St. Paul Street Grille & Bar

  1:28 P.M.

  Four months ago, I met my current boyfriend, Casey Kalhoun, at the St. Paul Street Grille & Bar during a wet T-shirt party. While the show—a line-up of musclehead dudes in white T-shirts that were hosed down in cheap beer—continued, Casey had accidentally bumped into me, knocked my beer against my chest, supplied me with my own wet T-shirt, and caused fireworks to occur between our bodies that exploded throughout Hurricane Bay. He felt horrible for his clumsiness, of course, and bought me a free beer, plus three more that evening.

  Happy to pull the beer-soaked T-shirt off my torso, he told me, “Guy, you look good out of the cotton, anyway. Show that hot shit off.”

  I didn’t believe in love at first sight, but sort of leaned that way during our night at St. Paul’s. Not only was Casey eye-catching with his rock solid jawline and twinkling hazel eyes with flecks of amber, but the blond who wouldn’t share his real age with me—even to this day—seemed easy to talk to and a master at flirting. I claimed him Prince Charming; someone I had always wanted to find.

  We hit it off quite well with three dates, which then turned into eight dates. On the ninth date, we slept together at his bungalow on Hurricane Road, which overlooked the Gulf and a private beach. I’ve stayed at Bungalow Sixteen ever since, enjoying the professional interior designer, his pad, food, chiseled body, and continued to learn him as the boyfriend he was labeled.

  We definitely considered ourselves lovers, but a vow of becoming hitched felt long off. Casey still had to prove to me that he wouldn’t stray and share his handsome five-eleven frame and one hundred and seventy pounds with another man. Being a high-rolling flirter, mastering the task of wooing men with his dripping charm, I kept a close eye on him, surveyed a future with the man, and had yet to declare him as the knight in shining armor of my dreams. Nor had I axed him from the list, always aware of promising opportunities.

  Following my meeting with the famous paperback writer, lunch at St. Paul’s with my boyfriend consisted of wedge salads and iced water. To my surprise, covered in sweat from head to toe, Casey shared an unearthly aroma with me, littered in dust.

  Seated at a two-person table overlooking the Gulf, I asked, “What hole did you crawl out of this morning, man?”

  He laughed, waved a fork at me, and said, “The Cockton job is out of control. Bruno needed some help moving plastic-covered Swiss furniture out of a van. The plastic had a thick layer of dust on it, which is what I’m now wearing.”

  Bruno Grigade was a nineteen-year-old intern from Colossal Designing School and under my lover’s care for the next year. The German student from Naples looked as big as a truck with dark skin, almost-purple eyes, and, according to Casey, enjoyed his alcohol, even if he was underage. Sexy as hell, Bruno didn’t mind sharing his beautiful smile with others. Casey often told me that the young buck could put men under a sex spell by simply smiling before having his sexual way with them.

  Did I fear that Casey would end up under Bruno’s sex hex when the two men were together? Unfortunately, I did. But I had to trust my man, stay calm, and not lose my sanity concerning the two men working together. Thus far, Casey had not strayed from our romance. I only hoped he would stay faithful, devoted to me alone, and keep the labels I had deemed him as man of steel and lover.

  “When are Larry and Luke Cockton returning from Quito, Ecuador?” I inquired, grinning at my man with endearing love.

  “I have two more weeks to finish the job.”

  “Can you get it done?”

  “The dining room is complete and looks smashing. Bruno and I are trying to finish the living room. The lighting is being hand-crafted in Baton Rouge, which is holding the project up.”

  “I have full faith in you that you’ll complete the job on time. When have you ever let a client down?”

  “Kalhoun Design’s reputation is flawless, and I hope to keep it that way.”

  Although I didn’t know Casey’s age, I did know that his business was ten years old. His financial state wasn’t bleak. Casey could re
tire at any second in his career if he wanted to, but his drive to design kept him at work and helped decorate the rooms of the world, particularly southern Florida.

  “Cheers to that.” I lifted my glass of water, clanked it against his, and realized that what a great man he made. He enjoyed his job, life, and my company.

  Chapter 4: Rebecca Rexx/Rita Redd

  Hurricane Bay Investigative Agency (HBIA)

  2:57 P.M.

  Rebecca Rexx let herself into my agency, rushed into my office, and placed three eight-by-ten color headshots on the surface of my desk. Three handsome men stared at me with smoldering smiles. The first had a bald head, a rugged physique, and aquamarine-colored contacts. The man in the center looked like a college-aged cub. And the last one—a gray-haired, weathered stud with glasses—passed as handsome. She stood over my desk, faced me, and pointed at the pictures.

  “One of these three men is my future husband.”

  “The fifty-plus guy is out of the question, Rebecca. You’re only thirty-three and far too young for a geriatric.”

  “I’m twenty-eight-years-old, Axle. Tell no one the truth.”

  I looked at the out-of-work actress and thought her stunning at five-eight and one hundred pounds. Rebecca had the frame of a dancer, steel-colored eyes, plump lips, and golden hair. Never had I seen her not wear four-inch high heels, short skirts, or flowing blouses. The friend of eons looked stunning as always, smart, and powerful.

  “Whatever.” I grunted, studied the pics on my desk, and turned two over without further judgment: the old coot and the bald man. Then I said, “I choose the cub.”

  She giggled and waved a hand at me. “Isn’t he darling? I just love baby bears. They can be so cuddly.”

  “Don’t forget that baby bears can bite.”

  She growled in a playful tone. “I can only hope.”

  Rebecca Rexx had three previous full-grown and adult bears in her past, all of which were deceased. Her first bearlike husband of two years, Hennington Hampton, had been a real estate tycoon who died from a heart attack at forty-three. Hennington left his entire fortune (nineteen million dollars) to his twenty-one-year-old girlfriend/stripper, Trixie. Rebecca’s second husband, a professional boxer named Julius Sphinterelgio, had been accidentally gunned down in Miami following a title win. Julius just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He had willed his three million dollars to Rebecca Rexx, which enabled some monetary comfort in her life. Rebecca’s third husband, her second bear, named Raphael Brochette, had been a Frenchman who designed and produced high-end yachts. When Brochette drowned in the Mediterranean at the young age of thirty-seven last year, after accidentally sinking one of his prized yachts, Rebecca became a distinguished member of the super-rich and had über-loads of money, a sum no less than two billion dollars, or thereabouts.