Cope let out the breath he’d been holding. Maybe this confession wasn’t as bad as he thought it was going to be. “I love taking care of you.”
“I know,” Jude agreed. “But while you’re taking care of the three of us and sometimes Everly, Ezra, and Aurora, no one is taking care of you. I’m an asshole for taking advantage of you like I’ve done for all these years.”
Cope pressed a kiss to Jude’s stubbled cheek. “Does this conversation have anything to do with Chet Hines?”
Jude’s eyes widened, as if he couldn’t believe Cope had gotten it on the first try. “Maybe you haven’t noticed, but there are a lot of similarities between Cyrus Longfellow and me.”
Oh, Cope had noticed, alright, but he wasn’t about to tell Jude. “Like what?”
“Cyrus was a hedonist, pure and simple. He was only out for himself and his own pleasure. I was the same way before we started sleeping together. Hell, I was still that way when we were just having casual sex. I was such a shit to you. I had feelings for you, but they scared me. I’d never felt that way before, and I didn’t trust anyone enough to show those feelings. Even you.”
“You’re right, Jude,” Cope said quietly.
Jude gasped as if he were somehow scandalized by his husband agreeing with him.
“I knew who you were before I started sleeping with you. There was no guarantee we’d end up together, and there were times when I wondered how long you’d be with me before you got bored and moved on.” Cope paused for a few seconds. “I identify with Chet Hines on that score. Maybe someday, Cyrus would have decided he’d had enough of the single life, but bravo to Chetfor taking control of his future and walking away. It just sucks that the night he decided to stand up for himself was the night Cyrus was murdered.”
“What would you have done if I hadn’t realized my true feelings for you?” Jude was afraid of Cope’s answer. He always felt like he’d gotten Cope in the nick of time.
Cope grinned. “To be honest, I’m not sure. I was in love with you, no doubt about it. I knew that you weren’t going to turn into a psycho killer like Deacon Boudreaux had done. I was safe with you, and I was happy. I don’t know how long I would have stuck around waiting for you to get your head out of your ass. Thankfully, I didn’t have to find out.” It was the call from Arizona telling Jude that Wolf had been orphaned that changed everything between them.
“Wolf put everything into perspective for me. He still does. Same with Lizzy B.” Jude turned his head to his sleeping daughter, who was lying on her back in her portable crib, with a stuffed lobster clutched in her right fist. A towel covered the top of it to keep the sun off the baby. “You know I was in love with you from the very beginning but was too stupid to say the words out loud, right?”
Cope snickered. “Yeah, I knew. Took you long enough, by the way.”
Jude wrapped an arm around Cope’s shoulder and kissed his neck. He was about to suggest they go upstairs for some afternoon delight when someone standing behind them cleared their throat.
“Uh, excuse me, Mr. Byrne?” a familiar voice asked.
Jude turned around to see Jake Powell standing with a nervous-looking older man he didn’t recognize. “Hi, Jake.”
“This is Al Washington. His professional name was Baked Alaska.” Jake set a hand on the man’s shoulder. “This is Jude Byrne and Cope Forbes, the guys I told you about.”
Al nodded and seemed to relax a bit. “I got a call yesterday from Sam. She told me you were looking into Cyrus Longfellow’s death and thought maybe I could lend a hand.”
“I’ll leave you guys to talk.” With a wave, Jake headed back to the motel.
Cope’s eyes widened as he scanned the man with his gift. What a life he’d led. Al’s escapades made Jude look like a choirboy. There had been a ton of sexual shenanigans, but he wasn’t able to tell if the man had anything to do with Cyrus’s death. “Have a seat.” Cope motioned to the empty beach lounger behind their blanket.
“Jake said you boys are here from Taxachusetts.” Al laughed at his own joke.
“We are,” Jude agreed.
“Which one of you is the psychic?” Al looked back and forth between the men.
“I am,” Cope said.
“If you’re psychic, how come you don’t already know who killed Cyrus?” There was no trace of snark on Al’s face.
If Cope had a nickel for every time he’d been asked a question like this, he would have been able to retire in his twenties. “My gift isn’t absolute. I can’t tell you what tonight’s winning lottery numbers are or who shot JFK, but I did take a brief walk through your life, and after we talk about Cyrus, I want to hear all the deets about Elton John, deal?”
Al snorted. “Deal.”
“Elton John?” Jude asked, his eyes wide.
“The seventies were a crazy time, man.” Al waggled his eyebrows.
Jude looked impressed. “Is there anything you can tell us about Cyrus that could help us solve his murder? I know he’s been gone for fifteen years, but sometimes the smallest clues are what breaks cases like these wide open.”
