by Gregory Ashe
Everything uploaded.
Haw didn’t respond, but Shaw knew how things would go: Hobson’s computer, which was technically company property, would be inspected immediately. The stolen files and documents would be found, providing grounds for a warrant. In their search of the condo, the police would find the hard drives. Hobson would go to prison, and Aldrich Acquisitions would maintain control of millions of dollars’ worth of intellectual property.
“Done?” North asked.
Shaw nodded.
While North disconnected the cables and returned the hard drives to the safe, Shaw powered down the computer. They locked up the condo, took the fire stairs, and let themselves out through a service door. Shaw sent another text, and Pari met them on the same street corner.
“He touched Truck’s butt,” Pari informed them as she accepted Hobson’s keys.
“Get back there and claw his eyes out,” North said. “Just make sure you put the keys in his pocket while you do.”
Pari’s grin was vicious; she practically ran toward the Jumping Pig.
Shaw followed North across Kingshighway again. This side of the street was dark, and the air from the park smelled like wet wood and mulched leaves. In the distance, a few artificial lights looked like silver brads fixing the trees against the night sky.
“Is this how you thought things were going to be?” Shaw asked as they approached the Ford.
“I thought it went pretty smoothly.”
“No, I mean—corporate work, planting evidence, tracking down the mistresses of high-level executives.”
“Is this a morals thing? Are you feeling guilty?”
“What? No. He stole that stuff; we just gave them a way to prove it. No, it’s just—I don’t know, I didn’t think this is what we’d be doing.”
“It’s work, Shaw. And we’re good at it.” North opened the door and rested one arm on the roof of the car. “We’re fucking fantastic at it.”
“Right.”
“And Borealis is doing great.”
“Right.”
“So?”
After a moment, Shaw shrugged and got into the car.
Chapter 2
WHEN THEY PULLED UP in front of North’s Southampton duplex, Shaw had one thing in mind.
“Huh?” North said. And then he grunted and spread his legs. “Oh.”
The borrowed Ford rumbled quietly beneath them. The inside of the car smelled like the air freshener—shaped like a cluster of cherries, although smelling more like Laffy Taffy than anything else Shaw could name—and like the American Crew gel North still wore in his textured thatch of blond hair. He was hardening rapidly under Shaw’s touch, and he leaned back in the seat, eyes hooded as he watched Shaw impassively. Normally his eyes were a remarkably light blue, the predawn color of fresh snowfall, or like light caught on the rim of a sheet of ice. Tonight, in the darkened interior of the Ford, with his pupils blown wide, they might as well have been black.
He made a sound in his throat and tried to spread his legs farther. His knee thumped the door panel.
“This is when you invite your beautiful, sexually prodigious, unbelievably generous boyfriend inside,” Shaw whispered, his fingers tracing the length of North’s dick through the denim.
North made another of those noises, but he was still relaxed against the seat. With one hand, barely more than a flick of his fingers, he beckoned Shaw closer.
Grinning, Shaw leaned over the center console. North’s movement was minimal, only a few inches, making Shaw come to him. He moved toward North’s mouth for a kiss.
At the last moment, though, North veered, his mouth coming to Shaw’s ear, and at a normal volume he said, “What about Davey?”
“Ow!” Shaw reared back so fast that he hit the car’s headliner. “North, what the hell?”
“I just remembered your crazy, abusive, controlling boyfriend Davey. I just wanted to make sure he was ok with us messing around.”
“You are really taking that the wrong way.”
North just watched him through hooded eyes. His erection was still visible through the jeans.
“I just took a few details and, you know, made something else up.”
“Uh huh.”
“You and Davey have absolutely nothing in common.”
“Uh huh.”
“He was a total figment of my imagination.”
“Uh huh.” North reached down, pretending to adjust himself, although his hand lingered long enough to suggest something else. “Except those details that you took from real life.”
“North, come on!”
“Night, Shaw.”
“Hey, hold on.” Shaw caught his wrist, drawing North’s hand to the bulge in his own jeans. He let out a satisfied noise and rutted softly against North’s palm. “It’s been almost a week,” Shaw whispered. “And last time, we didn’t even get to do a sleepover.”
“We’re not ten, Shaw.” But his fingers curled possessively, rubbing slow and hard against Shaw’s dick.
Shaw made another of those appreciative noises; he didn’t miss the flush speckling North’s throat. Leaning over the console again, he stroked North and found him, if anything, even harder than before. “Please? I want you to fuck me.”
The rumble in North’s throat was almost a growl. “Is that what you need, baby?”
Shaw nodded.
“Say it,” North ordered.
“I need it. I need you to fuck me.”
North’s grin was sharp and sudden. “Then ask Davey.”
“North!”
North’s grin got bigger.
Shaw slapped his erection.
“Holy Christ, Shaw!” North folded, covering himself. “What the fuck?”
“You’re being a brat.”
“Did you just fucking spank my cock? And not even in the fun way, I might add?”
“Quit being so mouthy,” Shaw said, “and take me inside and fuck me.”
“You’re a fucking monster.”
Shaw turned off the car and withdrew the keys from the ignition. “Now, North.”
North grumbled the whole way to the front door. He let them inside, and the puppy—North’s puppy—was there, waiting for them. He immediately started yipping, dancing around their heels, clawing at North’s legs.
“Hello,” North cooed. “Gotta take care of him first.”
“He’s a fucking cockblock,” Shaw called after him. “This is worse than having children. Children you can just lock in their rooms when daddy needs some dick.”
North pointed at the ceiling and glanced back long enough to reply softly, “Keep shouting; I’m sure Mr. Winns is interested in what daddy needs.”
Face hot, Shaw locked the door behind him and headed into North’s bedroom. He left the sherpa cloak on a chair, kicked off the engineer boots, and climbed onto the bed. A few minutes later, North was there too, toeing off his Redwings, rucking up the sweatshirt he’d worn. He peeled it off, exposing the dense slabs of muscle, the old scar on his side, his chest and belly covered by thick blond fur. He crawled between Shaw’s legs, ran his hands up Shaw’s thighs, and kissed him. Then he pulled back, palming Shaw through his jeans, a smirk plastered on his face.
“Why are you being so mean to me tonight?”
“Keep whining,” North said, eyebrows shooting up, “and you’re going to find out how mean I can be.”
Huffing a breath, Shaw reached for North’s waistband. He unbuttoned the jeans, worked the fly down, and pulled out North’s dick. North shivered and let out a breath. Shaw stroked him slowly, watching North’s eyes glaze.
Then Shaw’s gut twisted.
North was tugging on Shaw’s shirt, trying to turn him out of it, his fingers warm and rough.
“Just a second,” Shaw said.
“What?”
“Just a second. I’ve got to, um, clean up first.”
North studied him, kissed him, and fell on
to his side. Swatting Shaw’s thigh, he said, “Hurry, mister. Now who’s being mean?”
Shaw did what he needed to do. Perched on the toilet, he suddenly felt hyperaware that none of the guys in the books he liked ever had to deal with this situation. When he’d finished, he opened the door and called to North, “Just gonna take a quick shower.” He stepped under the hot water, found the bar of hemp-milk soap he’d stashed so that he didn’t have to use the chemical-laden Irish Springs stuff that North bought in bulk, and cleaned himself up. His hair looked like a cumulus cloud after he toweled it, but North seemed to like his hair more the longer and wilder it got, so he left it the way it was and padded into the bedroom naked.
North was asleep on the bed, jeans still around his thighs, the puppy curled up in the crook of one arm. He yapped at Shaw once.
“I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” Shaw muttered as he walked around to North’s side of the bed. “You got exactly what you wanted.”
“Shaw?” North mumbled.
“Let’s get you out of these,” Shaw said, helping North free of the jeans.
“Just give me five minutes. Gonna fuck you…” He made a sleepy noise. “…can’t walk.”
Sliding under the covers, Shaw found North’s hand and squeezed it. Then he kissed him. By the time he was reaching to turn off the lamp, North was asleep again. And in the morning, when Shaw woke, North had already left for work.
Chapter 3
“SHE DOESN’T LOOK like a romance author,” Shaw said, studying the picture on the website. It showed a woman still on the young side of middle age, trim, her hair in a severe black bob. She had a cigarette holder in one hand, a wisp of smoke artfully photoshopped into the image, and she wore elbow-length gloves. “If anything, she looks like Audrey Hepburn. Or a flapper. Or Audrey Hepburn playing a flapper.”
It was Wednesday, and although Shaw had taken Sunday off (North hadn’t), Monday and Tuesday had been nonstop with the work Aldrich Acquisitions sent their way. It wasn’t just the investigations that kept North and Shaw busy; it was the paperwork. Shaw’s father had mostly kept out of the arrangement, at Shaw’s insistence, and although Haw was a reasonable woman, corporations still apparently required massive amounts of paperwork, documentation, and evidence—all of it carefully organized and presented. After their first job, North had insisted on doing the paperwork himself.
Today was a paperwork day. The Borealis offices occupied the main floor of the house Shaw owned in Benton Park, and they consisted of two main areas: the outer office, where Pari pretended to be an administrative assistant and where Truck and Zion occasionally completed reports for the part-time jobs they did for Borealis; and the inner office, where North and Shaw worked. The inner office had seating for clients and two desks, placed side by side in the center of the room. North’s was immaculate: a large, high-definition computer monitor, a lamp, and a stacked chrome inbox-outbox combo that looked like something Don Draper might have used. Shaw’s desk did not quite reach the level of immaculate, although it was definitely cleaner than it had been. It currently held a series of four Twinkies that had been dissected to various degrees and pinned open against their cardboard sleeves; volumes one, three, and six of the Encyclopedia of Environmental Analysis and Remediation, a Vitruvian Man coffee mug full of water and green onions, and the LP for The Best of Gallagher, which was currently being used as a plate for a piece of a child’s birthday cake. Shaw didn’t remember who the child had been, but the cake still looked edible.
“North?”
North was typing something in a spreadsheet, checking figures against a page he held.
“North, I think she might be lying.”
“Hmm.”
“I think she might be lying, the woman who called us. She doesn’t look like a romance author at all.”
“Uh huh.” North pecked at the keyboard.
“North!”
“Look at this. It’s the middle of February, and we’ve already billed more than we did in the whole first quarter of 2018. And that’s not even counting jobs like last night.”
“North, I’m trying to tell you something.”
After one last, lingering glance at the spreadsheet, North looked over. “That’s her?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you: I think this is a ruse.”
“A ruse.”
“A con.”
“A con.”
“A scam.”
North sighed. “Ok. Let’s hear it.”
“She doesn’t look like a romance author at all.”
“And just because I feel like my life won’t be complete until I hear this: what is a romance author supposed to look like?”
“Well, you know.” Shaw gestured vaguely. “A corset. Fishnet stockings. Stiletto heels. Would it kill her to wear a bustier?”
“I don’t—”
“Or one of those vinyl bodysuits. And maybe a whip!”
“I think you’re thinking of a prostitute—”
“Sex worker.”
“—or dominatrix.” North pointed to the screen. “This lady just looks like she has too much time on her hands, and maybe she likes playing dress-up.”
“Says the man who just ordered an adult Naruto costume—” Shaw cut off at the noise North was making. “I mean, right, yes, whatever you were saying.”
A knock came at the door, and a moment later, it opened.
“Ms. Maldonado is here to see you,” Pari said, all sweetness and light with a prospective client standing behind her.
“Thank you, Pari.”
“And Truck asked me to tell you that hir job is taking hir to East St. Louis.”
North nodded; he was obviously trying not to make a face. “Please remind hir that we only reimburse legitimate expenses.”
“Ze knows,” Pari said, her smile turning brittle.
“That means—”
“Ze knows. We all know.”
“All right,” Shaw said. “Great. Thank you, Pari. Thanks so much. Ms. Maldonado?”
A soft voice answered, “Yasmin,” and then the woman and Pari traded places, and Yasmin Maldonado moved into the office. She had a skunk stripe of gray roots where her hair was parted, and she looked thinner than she had in the picture. She wore a MICHIGAN IS FOR LOVER’S sweatshirt, snow pants that crinkled every time she took a step, and ratty Reeboks. The only thing consistent with the picture was the smell of cigarette smoke that moved with her.
They took a few minutes getting her settled, exchanging introductions, and her eyes roved around the office before settling on the LP with its slice of birthday cake. With what looked like a great deal of effort, she dragged her gaze up to look at North and Shaw.
“I know you’re going to think I’m fangirling, but I just can’t believe you’re willing to take this case. The gay detectives! This is so exciting!”
“Well,” North said with a sidelong glance at Shaw, “there might have been a miscommunication. I’m interested in hearing about the job you want us to do, but I have to be honest and tell you we’re very—”
“Very interested,” Shaw said. “Very excited about a chance to do some work with the LGBTQ community.”
Yasmin nodded. Then her mouth widened into an O. “You mean us! Oh, right. Yes, that would be great. I mean, you’re gay! It would be fantastic.”
“Right,” North said with another of those sidelong looks. “We’re definitely gay.”
“And you’re boyfriends,” Yasmin said, clasping her hands.
Another of those sidelong looks. Shaw discreetly rolled his chair back a few inches and kicked North in the ankle. “Why don’t you tell us,” Shaw said, ignoring North’s murderous glare, “what’s going on? You mentioned death threats. Against you, in particular? What’s been happening?”
“Well, I don’t care what anyone says: we can’t cancel the con. We can’t. I won’t. I’m not going to let some pathetic nobody terrorize us into
ruining a wonderful time for hundreds of people.”
“You’re talking about the…” Shaw checked his notes, which he now saw were written on the back of a Jack in the Box receipt. “Queer Expectations Convention? Is that right?”
“Yes. The premiere gay romance literature convention in the world.”
“The only,” North coughed into his fist.
But Yasmin had heard him, and she shook her head. “Oh no, there’s another. Gay Romance Literature. Very…hoity toity. Noses in the air. Not like us; we just want to have fun.”
“And this con, Queer Expectations, it’s being held in St. Louis this year?”
“That’s right.” Yasmin squirmed to the edge of her seat, snow pants crinkling. “A few weeks ago, I started getting emails. ‘I’m going to get my revenge.’ ‘You’re all going to pay.’ That kind of thing. Then the physical letters started showing up. They had the words cut out of magazines, you know. They said the same kind of things. I brought them, in case you want to see them.” She gestured to a folder on her lap. “And I checked in at the hotel Monday; Tuesday morning, I had another one. Someone had slipped it under the door while I was asleep. It’s crazy. The whole business is insane. And of course, someone leaked it, and our guests are going wild. We already have a lot of people who suffer from anxiety, and this is going to put them in the ground. It really will.”
“I’m not sure,” North said slowly, “what you want us to do. This sounds like something you need to take to the police.”
“I tried! They’re not interested. Actually, if I’m being frank, they looked at me like I’m crazy. Very homophobic. It’s probably because we’re in Missouri.”
“The Metropolitan Police aren’t always my favorite people, but they wouldn’t ignore a credible threat.”
“But they did. I mean, they are. They talked on and on about being careful and keeping an eye out for anyone strange or unfamiliar. It’s a romance convention! We’re all strange! And we love it that way. I tried to explain to them that something horrible is going to happen, but they just won’t listen.”