Secrets by Jordan Castillo Price
Series: PsyCop #4
Source: Copy provided by the Author
My Rating: 4.5 of 5 Stars
Victor Bayne’s job as a PsyCop involves tracking down dead people and getting them to spill their guts about their final moments. It’s never been fun, per se. But it’s not usually this annoying.
Vic has just moved in with his boyfriend Jacob, he can’t figure out where anything’s packed, and his co-worker is pressuring him to have a housewarming party.
Can’t a guy catch a break?
On a more sinister note, Vic discovers there’s absolutely no trace of him online. No trace of anyone else who trained at “Camp Hell,” either.
Everyone Vic knows has signed a mysterious set of papers to ensure his “privacy.” The contracts are so confidential that even Vic has never heard of them. But Jacob might have.
What other secrets has Jacob been keeping?
So in love with this series right now…
I’m not sure which part was weirder – that it had taken me so long to find someone I was serious about, or that it had even happened to me at all. I’d always figured I was too screwed up to do the whole long-term relationship thing with anybody. Ever.
Domesticity is not Victor’s strong suit.
He and Jacob aren’t even completely moved into their new home when Jacob gets called away on a case. Not a huge surprise for one of them to get called away, but it leaves Vic pondering all of the changes in his life how far he’s come.
Vic would much rather talk shop with Jacob than face unpacking the mountain of boxes, but Jacob refuses to open up about the case which is obviously gotten under his skin.
Sometimes it’s not about the information being kept from you…
Sometimes the hurt comes from knowing the person you love won’t share…
This book is not about a campy three’s-company-style grand misunderstanding, it’s about figuring out how much you should share with the person you’re sharing your life with…
Vic has spent a great deal of his relationship with Jacob questioning the whole situation – There are times when Vic seems honestly baffled that Jacob could love him. He’s finally come to the point where he’s forced to acknowledge that Jacob’s attentions are not a fluke – I mean, they just bought a house together, and the “L” bomb has been dropped…
In this installment of the PsyCop series, Vic has an amazing moment where he shakes off all his self-doubt and charges in to defend his relationship. It was amazing to read and it really solidified all the warm fuzzy feelings I have for this series.
Every time I finish a PsyCop book I think ‘Wow, Jacob and Victor really came together in this one!’ and those moments just keep happening for them – it has been a steady and believable build up for their relationship and I’m just smitten with them both.
Jacob was the only lover I’d ever had who could actually overpower me. He was so strong he could do it without even batting an eyelash. And yet, he was the first man I’d ever trusted enough to venture into territory that could turn dark and ugly if it when too far.
Outside of the romance and new home drama, we had a ton of fun stuff happening in this story!
Most of it is spoilery, but I CAN tell you that there are malicious spirits and Grannies involved…
Also, Lisa is back (yay!) and her training at the Psych school has Vic remembering his time at Camp Hell… The memories are fuzzier than they ought to be, the internet insists that Camp Hell never existed (no surprise there) but the real shocker is that Vic doesn’t seem to exist online either.
Someone is going to great lengths to ensure that nobody talks about Victor Bayne.
In addition to the great internet mystery, Vic discovers that he’s being followed…
There’s quite a bit of foreshadowing in the lead up to the next book, Camp Hell, and I’m practically salivating in anticipation! We finally get the scoop on Heliotrope Station?!?
Oh I am soooo ready for that!
I mean, I’m scared, but I’m excited…
Bring it on!
“You don’t need the futon,” Jacob called from the living room. My living room. The one he’d been sharing with me since an incubus exploded in his swanky Lakeview condo last fall. I was in the kitchen at the time, trying to determine exactly how attached I was to the corkboard next to the phone, the one where I stick small pieces of paper until I forget what the notes scrawled on them were supposed to mean. “I have a living room set,” he said.
I vaguely remembered Jacob’s living room set. I’d seen it at his old condo maybe twice before it’d gone into storage. I’d been too busy ogling his naked body to pay much attention to his décor. When I wasn’t busy shooting at the incubus who’d followed him there, anyway.
I worked the yellow sticky note I was holding between my thumb and forefinger, rubbing it, creasing it down the center. It was so damp with sweat, it molded to the shape of my palm. I shook it loose and it landed on the countertop. I scrubbed my palm against the leg of my jeans, and wondered if I’d managed to leach all the sticky out of the note. Stupid of me. I’d made a deal with Jacob that I’d only keep the things I marked with a yellow paper tag. It had seemed like a big stack of stickies, at the time. But my stack had grown awfully thin. There aren’t as many sticky notes in a pack as you might think.
It was the week of my thirty-ninth birthday, and there I was, poised to move out of my bright white apartment and into the old brick loft building, a turn of the century cannery, that I now owned with Jacob. I’m not sure which part was weirder—that it had taken me so long to find someone I was that serious about, or that it had even happened to me at all. I’d always figured I was too screwed up to do the whole long-term relationship thing with anybody. Ever.
“Vic? The futon.”
I looked down at the soggy paper square on the countertop. Maybe Jacob was right about the futon. Almost-forty-year-olds didn’t generally have cheap futons as the focal point of their living rooms. Especially not when there was actual furniture around they could be using. Besides, it would free up that sticky note so I could mark something else I wanted to keep.
I touched the seat of the barstool under the kitchen counter. Vinyl and chrome. I liked my barstools. Did I need to put a sticky on each of them, or was it understood that they were a set?
Jacob appeared in the doorway, flashing his washboard abs. He wasn’t trying to seduce me; he was mopping sweat from his face with the hem of his black T-shirt. Still, he was distracting, to say the least. “Bedroom’s packed,” he said, tugging his shirt back down. “Where are those barstools supposed to go?”
He frowned. It was more of a thinking-frown than a cull-your-shit-already-frown. I think. “Maybe. Or maybe we can put a bar in the basement.”
If we did put a bar in the basement, Jacob would be drinking at it alone. Not because I don’t drink, which I don’t, but because I don’t do basements. They’re creepy. Even the ones that’ve been finished with paneling, indoor-outdoor carpeting and dart boards.
But I didn’t argue. I don’t do confrontation any better than I do basements, or shots of Jägermeister.
“Why don’t we just take it all and sort it out once we get there?” I suggested. Jacob hadn’t thought it was a good idea the night before, but it couldn’t hurt to try one more time and see if I might wear down his resolve. “There’s plenty of room.”
Jacob went to the sink and held his hands under the tap. He splashed cold water on his face and performed another ab-flashing maneuver that would bring any card-carrying queer to his knees. “How many times do you want to end up carrying this stuff?” he said. “We don’t need two of everything.”
And my furniture was all cheap pressboard crap, while his was real. Yeah, I knew that. But still. I had a hard time wrapping my head around the idea that the hundred-year-old cannery, a bizarre student attempt at Egyptian revival, was my new home. I pressed a sticky note onto a narrow white plastic end table in the corner and heard Jacob sigh.
“What?” I said. “That’s where I keep my keys.”
Jacob stepped back from the sink and eased his way toward me. Sweat made his fitted black T-shirt cling to his body, and his deep olive skin glistened in the greenish light cast by the fluorescent overhead fixture. He kept on coming at me until he’d backed me into the wall, where the plastic table threatened to warp under the weight of my thigh. The smell of new sweat was heady, and it turned my furniture frustration to thoughts of sex. I felt a warmth deep in my belly. No, lower. Damn him. Neither one of us needed to resort to arguing. We each had our ways of trying to get what we wanted.
About the Author:
Author and artist Jordan Castillo Price is the owner of JCP Books LLC. Her paranormal thrillers are colored by her time in the midwest, from inner city Chicago, to small town Wisconsin, to liberal Madison.
Jordan is best known as the author of the PsyCop series, an unfolding tale of paranormal mystery and suspense starring Victor Bayne, a gay medium who’s plagued by ghostly visitations. Also check out her new series, Mnevermind, where memories are made…one client at a time.
With her education in fine arts and practical experience as a graphic designer, Jordan set out to create high quality ebooks with lavish cover art, quality editing and gripping content. The result is JCP Books, offering stories you’ll want to read again and again.