A few days ago, Psychic Obsession was released. It celebrates National Raisin Day, so prepare for little red Sun-Maid boxes.
Frode is a psychic. If he touches an item, he’ll see everyone who’s touched it before him. It doesn’t matter if the touch happened a hundred years ago, he’ll still see it. At times, he helps the police out by doing readings of things collected from crime scenes, but there is always a risk of it being too much for him. Too many touches will leave him unconscious.
When he’s called in to help the homicide department, he’s not prepared to come face-to-face with Nicolai Nesterova – his nemesis… and brother’s best friend. Nicolai left town years ago, and Frode didn’t think he’d ever have to see him again, much less work with him.
Read the first chapter below!
Psychic Obsession
Frode will never forget a face. Once he’s touched the same item you have, you’re forever etched into his memory.
Three months ago, Nikolai Nesterova moved back to his hometown. He swore he’d never set foot there again after his family kicked him out, but when his fiancé broke up with him, he needed somewhere familiar to land. There was an opening in the homicide department, but Nikolai wasn’t prepared for a serial killer case to be dropped in his lap.
If Frode Bakke touches an object, he sees all the people who have touched it before him. He can’t control the influx of faces or break the stream once it’s started, and he fears he’s one touch away from frying his brain.
Buy Links:
Paranormal Gay Romance: 70,682 words
Chapter 1
Frode Bakke pushed a sweat-slicked strand of hair off his forehead and tried to swallow down the bile before it could reach the point of no return. The hair stuck to his shaking hand, and it took a couple of tries to get it out of his face.
He should cut it. Should’ve cut it months ago. He couldn’t remember when he last had his hair cut. Years since a professional had done it, but Hjalmar, his big brother, had hacked off a good number of inches about a year ago. Maybe he should ask him again. Or he could do it himself, if he remembered.
The moment he gained control of his fingers, he slipped on the glove he’d removed from his right hand and reached for the snack-sized red box of raisins. He popped one into his mouth.
The sweet taste was enough of a shock to the system to make some of the nausea disperse but it did nothing about the shaking.
It would go away soon.
Or not.
Some days, he trembled for hours.
With a deep breath, he looked across the table and met Hjalmar’s gaze. His eyes were a startling blue in contrast to Frode’s brown ones. Sometimes he questioned if they were blood-related. He’d seen the baby pictures, so he was pretty sure they were, but Hjalmar was tall and broad, blue-eyed and blond, with a square jaw and a straight nose. He looked like a Norse god. Frode was slimmer, darker, and not Norse-god-looking at all.
And then there was the fact of Hjalmar’s being a normal man, a great one in Frode’s opinion, but there wasn’t a lick of psychic ability in him whereas Frode couldn’t touch a single thing without being tumbled into the past.
“Anything?” Hjalmar’s voice was calm. He was calm. Always. Where others lost patience with him, Hjalmar never did. Maybe because he’d seen the aftermath.
Frode raised an eyebrow, not sure his voice would work yet.
In front of him was a bullet, or not a bullet, a casing. Casings were all right. His contract stated he’d touch casings if the police asked him to—and Hjalmar had asked him to.
Frode worked with the police on a consultant contract. It was the best he could do. In a perfect world, he’d spend the rest of his life in his house, never seeing anyone other than Hjalmar, but he had bills to pay, a mortgage, and sadly food cost money.
Hjalmar worked in drug enforcement, tracked dealers and drug lords, and he was the one who most often requested Frode’s help.
Frode ate another raisin from the Sun-Maid box.
“Ready to look at pictures?” Hjalmar was already reaching for a folder.
Frode cleared his throat. “What are you looking for?”
By touching the casing, the faces of everyone who’d touched it before him had flitted through his mind. His brain had more faces stored than should be possible, and he was drowning in them. Once he’d seen them, there was no way to unsee them, and he didn’t forget.
He might forget where he’d seen them, forgot which object they’d touched, but he never forgot a face.
He’d read somewhere a normal human brain could remember about five thousand faces. If Frode was unlucky, he could get five thousand from one single thing, which was why he refused to touch door handles, anything to do with public transportation, the interiors of restaurants, schools, hospitals, and places like that.
There was a long list in his contract.
Hjalmar opened the folder, spun it, and placed row upon row of photos in front of Frode.
“We want to know who was there. A man was shot to death, we know which gang he’s connected to, and we have a pretty good idea where the order to take him out came from, but we don’t know who did it.”
“And it’s important?” Frode hated knowing he’d have a murderer stored in his mind for the rest of his life. Though, this man wasn’t the first, and most likely wouldn’t be the last.
“We’re trying to get an idea of what’s going on. These two gangs used to work together. They both get their product from the same cartel.” He shrugged. “We need to get to the higher-ups, and the shot guy isn’t at the bottom. He’s not at the top, but a few steps up the ladder. Every piece of information helps.”
Frode sighed. All he could give Hjalmar was a face, but sometimes it was all he needed.
“You have him? You know who he is?”
He didn’t know who he was. It wasn’t like a name popped up. Frode ate another raisin then dug his trembling fingers into his thighs in an attempt to still them.
“You were the first.” Which made perfect sense since he saw the most recent contact first. “Then the evidence woman.” She wasn’t the only one who got evidence out of storage, but it was often her. “Then the forensic woman.” Considering he’d worked for the police for over a decade, he should know the names of the people on the forensic team, but he wasn’t interested enough to learn them, and he only ever saw them for a second. He recognized their faces and could rule them out. Which was enough for him. He never minded seeing them. It was calming to work with the same people over and over again. It made it easier for his brain to handle.
“Dubose.”
Frode nodded, not because he knew her name, but he was sure Hjalmar did. “And the cute guy from the forensic team.”
A flicker of a smile. “Saylor.”
“His name is Saylor?” It was a name his brain should’ve stored.
“Jaxon Saylor.”
“Are you kidding?”
“No, why?”
“It sounds like a made-up name.”
“Like Frode Bakke?”
Frode scowled. Out of the two of them, he believed he’d drawn the winning ticket in the name lottery. Their mother’s love for everything Norwegian was insane, and a lot of people had teased him for his name through the years, but he still believed it was better than Hjalmar.
“Way cooler than Frode Bakke.”
“You only say that because you think he’s cute.”
Frode was aware of what he was doing. This teasing was to calm him, to help center him, and he appreciated it, he did, but he also wanted this over with so he could go home and not pick up his phone for a day or two.
“Next is a man I haven’t seen before.”
Hjalmar nodded. “What does he look like?”
Frode closed his eyes. “Mid-forties, perhaps. Dark, almost black hair. I want to say Italian, but I’m basing it on his colors. Could be entirely wrong. Handsome.”
Hjalmar nudged the folder with the photos closer to him, and he forced himself to focus on them. He looked at one at the time before moving on to the next.
When he turned the page, Hjalmar stiffened. Frode looked up at him. “You expected him to be on the first page?”
“Yeah.”
Shaking his head, he continued assessing the photos. Hjalmar always placed his top suspects on the first page to make this part as short as possible. Frode crashed after a reading and needed to rest, as Hjalmar knew.
Frode appreciated everything he did. He did, despite snarling at him for it at times.
It was different when he worked with other agents and detectives. They were not as accommodating.
On the last row on the fourth page, he found him. It was a photo taken of the man from afar as he exited a building, but recognition sang in Frode’s bones.
He tapped a gloved finger at it. “There he is.”
Hjalmar spun the folder around so fast, Frode hardly managed to get his hand away in time.
“Are you kidding me?”
Stupid questions don’t deserve any answers, so Frode kept quiet.
“That’s—” Hjalmar pressed his lips together. “He’s up top, not at the absolute top, but he sure as hell hangs out with them on a regular basis. I didn’t think he did any dirty work anymore.”
Frode still didn’t speak. He didn’t want to know. He touched things and pointed at photos. It was as deep into police work as he was willing to get. “I hope it helps.”
Hjalmar stared at him. “Yeah… Yeah, only have to prove it, you know.”
Because while they wanted Frode’s input, his saying something didn’t make it stick in court. All he had were words, and no one could trust a lunatic like Frode Bakke. If they could’ve broken into his brain to see what he saw, then maybe it would’ve helped, but the few times he’d been asked to come to court to talk about his part in the investigation, everything he’d said had been dismissed.
“Am I free to go?”
“Let me drive you home.” Hjalmar flipped the folder shut. Frode wanted to snarl at him, but he was in no shape to drive. He never was after having touched something, which was why he’d taken a cab here. “We’ll grab lunch on the way. You need to eat.”
Frode wanted to protest, wanted to bark at him to mind his own fucking business, but he did need to eat. The tremors and the floatiness in his mind wouldn’t go away before he’d eaten and gotten some rest.
They moved toward the door, and Frode steeled himself. He didn’t want to go out there, didn’t want to go to Hjalmar’s desk where people would talk to them. The sneers weren’t as obvious when Hjalmar was by his side, but it only made him feel worse. They were all deceiving Hjalmar. Fuckers. Pretended to be friendly, then, when Hjalmar wasn’t around, they’d turn into schoolyard bullies.
Frode could handle bullies. He wasn’t a scared kid anymore, and he’d come to realize, in many cases, they acted as they did because they feared him. Plus, he’d learned how to be rude.
He hated cops. All kinds of them—didn’t matter if they were officers, detectives, agents, and whatever the correct term for the brass was. Most of them were small-dicked insecure excuses of men. They flashed their badges and believed it made them superior to everyone else. Pathetic.
And sometimes they needed to be told.
He ran a gloved hand through his hair. No longer sweat-slicked, but grimy. He needed a shower despite having showered before he got here.
“Ready?” Hjalmar waited with his hand on the door handle, and Frode had to force down the urge to push him out of the way and throw the door open simply to get it over with.
“Yeah.” He tugged at his gloves to make sure they were in place—they always were.
* * * *
Nikolai Nesterova stared at the living room with the blood-soaked rug, and the woman sprawled on top of it. There was blood splatter on the walls.
“Wow, we need to ask Dexter to come look at this.”
Nikolai gave Isaac Elmore, the fellow homicide detective he’d been paired with, an unimpressed look.
“What?” Isaac widened his eyes. “There is a lot of splatter. I’m sure he could’ve given us some insight.”
Nikolai held in a sigh. “We have a forensic team, a real one.” He stared at Isaac, something most found intimidating, but it had no effect whatsoever on Isaac. “And you do realize Dexter is a fictional character, right? He doesn’t analyze blood splatter for real.”
“You’re such a killjoy, Nesterova.”
Nikolai gave him the kind of smirk his ex-fiancé had called cruel and gestured around. “You’re not having fun? There is so much happiness in this room.” Fuck, he needed a drink.
“I’ll go talk to the neighbors.” Isaac stalked out of the apartment.
Nikolai had moved back to Berg three months ago.
He’d promised himself he would never come back here. Ever. His family had been here for three generations, him being the third. His grandfather had immigrated from the Soviet Union when he’d been in his twenties. He’d met a lovely Soviet woman, married her, and had five children. One of them had been his father, who in his turn had found a lovely Soviet woman, and together they’d had three children—Dimitri, Natalya, and lastly Nikolai.
Only Nikolai came out queer, so he was no longer welcome in the family. They’d never said he needed to leave town, but it had been heavily implied.
He hadn’t spoken with anyone from the Nesterova clan for over fifteen years, and he’d fully intended to change his last name when he and Julian got married.
Only Julian didn’t want to get married anymore.
He swallowed a sigh and looked around as the forensic team put out number tags and took photos before bagging everything.
One of the crime scene investigators walked over to Nikolai and gave him a nod. “You’re new.”
“No. Transferred here three months ago.”
A slight frown stole over the man’s face. “Huh, I feel like I should’ve known. We’ll wrap up here.” He stepped out of the way as the body bag containing the woman was moved out of the room. “I’ll send you what we find, and I think the body will go to Zachary Mallon.”
“Who?” Nikolai hadn’t heard the name before; he didn’t think, at least.
“The ME. He examined the other two. If he’s not available, I guess Audry Hinds will take it, but I don’t think Mallon will let it go.”
Cold seeped into Nikolai. “What do you mean, the other two?”
The man’s eyes swept over his face. “About six months ago, you’ll have to check the date, there was a woman placed on a rug in her living room, her throat cut—” He gestured back into the room. “Then there was another one about four months ago. A woman with a sliced throat, on a rug in the middle of her living room.” He shrugged. “Third time’s a charm, right? You’ll get him this time.”
The man took a step away as if to leave, but Nikolai snagged the sleeve of his white disposable coveralls. “Wait. Are you telling me there is a serial killer?”
The man gave him a confused look. “Eh… It’s your case, isn’t it? Detective Bedell retired and handed it to you?”
Nikolai was going to kill someone—strangle them because he’d seen enough blood for one day. “Yeah, he retired.” But Lieutenant Medlin hadn’t said anything about a serial killer.
The man shrugged, and Nikolai realized he still held onto his sleeve. “What’s your name?”
“Oh, sorry.” The man offered his gloved hand. “Jaxon Saylor.” He motioned at a woman walking out of the room. “Maeve Dubose, and eh…” He looked around, but the room had emptied. They weren’t done, but for some reason, everyone had found things to do elsewhere at the moment.
“I’ll let you know when we’ve found everything we can, Detective…” He tilted his head as if there was a question in the statement. It took a couple of seconds, then he wanted to smack himself.
“Sorry. Nikolai Nesterova.”
Saylor narrowed his eyes. “Nesterova? Have we met?”
Nikolai shook his head. It was hard to see what a person looked like underneath the marshmallow suit, but he didn’t think they’d met, and he didn’t want to mention his family, so he settled for the head shake.
“I’ll ping you, all right.”
Isaac appeared by his side. “Ready for some lunch?”
With the scent of death clinging to his nostrils, food wasn’t what he was thinking of. “I think we need to have a talk with Medlin.”
Isaac sighed. “I don’t wanna.”
For fuck’s sake. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-seven.”
Nikolai looked him up and down. Thirty-seven? He’d have guessed thirty, though he was a detective, and Nikolai had the feeling he’d been one for some time.
“How come?”
“You act like you’re seventeen.”
Isaac snorted. “And how old are you, Papi?”
Isaac was as white as they came, blond, blue-eyed, with a boy-next-door appearance. “I didn’t know you spoke Spanish.”
“I don’t.”
“Right. Medlin, now.” He turned and walked out of the blood-drenched apartment. Shouldn’t someone have noticed a woman being murdered in an apartment building? He guessed they’d have to wait for the autopsy report, but if she was alive when the murderer had sliced her throat, there would’ve been sounds. She would’ve fought, would have screamed.
“You never answered.” Isaac tumbled after him like an excited puppy.
“What did you ask?”
“How old you are. I think I read your birth date somewhere, but I can’t remember.”
Nikolai glared at him. “Forty-one.”
“Looking good.” Isaac wiggled his eyebrows.
Nikolai sighed.
Ofelia Grand 