SELLING IT by Sara York
Love heals all scars.
Teens are dying and Blaine Wilson, a DC police detective, knows why. The scars on his right leg, left rib cage and
left collar bone are a brutal reminder of his past as a teen prostitute, and a key to solving this investigation.
Blaine’s trips to gay bars are reckless but he’s searching for solace for his wounds. When he meets Andy everything changes. Dating Andy forces him out of the closet at work and then he has to admit his past indiscretions to his captain.
Andy falls in love at the drop of a hat and he's promised his two best friends he won't fall so easily again. When he meets Blaine he's helpless to resist the instant attraction.
Andy and Blaine are dedicated to making their relationship work when the killer targets Andy and his two best friends. Can Blaine save his lover and Andy’s friends without losing himself?
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Copyright © Sara York, 2012
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Excerpt From: Selling It
Blaine couldn’t have imagined a worse ending. Blood covered the floor of the shit motel room and sprayed up the walls, almost to the ceiling. He glanced down at the broken body and cringed. The neck wound had probably caused most of this mess. His heart squeezed and his eyes burned. Blaine pinched the bridge of his nose to stop any tears from falling. Hell, he was a seasoned detective and shouldn’t show weakness, plus if the others found out it would come back to haunt him. There’d be jokes around the station about him crying like a baby. He shivered. No emotion, and no weakness.
He’d seen this kind of injury before. He knew the boy had felt the pain, suffering in death just as he’d suffered in life. Unconsciously, Blaine’s right hand sought out his own scars. First the fingers of his right hand grazed his left collarbone, then his left ribs, finally coming to rest on his right hip. Then, realizing what he was doing, he covered his movements by cocking his hip to the side and resting his hand there, as if he were casually observing the scene. Casual was far from how he felt. His blood boiled and his head spun.
The boy must have been scared shitless. He’d seen the knife coming at him—had to have.
“Hey, Wilson, how come you always stand like that at murder scenes? Never mind, I’m sure ice water runs through your veins.” His partner, Lucy Abbot, sauntered into the room. She was short, sassy and quick to laugh. Eventually, after he’d worked with her for long enough, she would expect answers that he wouldn’t want to give. Why didn’t he date, what was his hang-up about girls? Ugh, maybe he should...but no, not yet.
“This is a mess,” Blaine said.
“People round here don’t know how to murder clean. Always is a mess.” Lucy pulled on a pair of gloves and flexed her fingers.
“He’s probably around fifteen, maybe sixteen.” Blaine knew the kid had to have been desperate. It was the only reason anyone would pick this life filled with skanky hook-ups, all for a little cash.
“Think he had family?” Lucy bent down to examine the body.
“Abbot, everyone has family. The question is why they didn’t give a rip shit about him.”
Her gaze connected with his. She looked hurt. “They might have cared and just didn’t know what to do.”
“No mother or father would ever want their little boy out here selling himself like this.”
“We don’t know he was a prostitute.”
Blaine looked away from the body, no longer able to stomach the scene. “The kid was a pro. Look at how skinny he was. His fingernails are black, his knees worn. Just look at the red marks. He spent his free time on his knees, either blowing or being screwed.”
“Poor kid.” Lucy’s voice was full of pity.
Blaine didn’t want to think about the life the kid had lived. Didn’t want to think about the desperation of not knowing where your next meal would come from. The self-loathing and hate that accompanied turning tricks, or the false bravado the kid would’ve had to have to keep up the life.
Flashes of desperate nights and lonely days played through his head. He blocked them out, focusing on the meticulous tasks of gathering evidence. The crime scene techs were doing their job, but he couldn’t sit still. He slid on gloves and began sorting through the boy’s clothes.
The kid'’s shoes were dirty and eaten through at the sole. Somehow the shoes had escaped the bloody mess. They must have been taken off before he was attacked.
Blaine carefully bagged each shoe. Next, he folded the shirt where it lay and slid the material into an evidence bag. He bunched the underwear and pants together so he didn’t drop any stray hairs or fibres, then placed them in a separate bag.
After labelling each bag he called the photographer over and had them take shots of the bagged clothes and the flooring underneath where the clothing had been flung.
Lucy finished her conversation with one of the crime scene techs and made her way towards him. For a moment he wondered what she would say if she knew the truth about him. No one in DC had any idea. Hell, no one in his life knew of his past.
“Did it look like the clothes had been removed before death?” Lucy asked.
“Probably so. The techies will need to have the final say on that. What about you? Any thoughts?”
“Whoever did this is a bastard.”
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