by Gregory Ashe
Regina put a two-inch long flamingo lacquered nail on his lips. Shaw thought he smelled pâté.
“Do you believe in psychics, sweetie?”
He had to speak around her nail, but he was so excited that the words just burst out. “Holy crap. Do you see these pearl onions? I was just—”
Shushing him, Regina delicately plucked the jar from his hands and set it on the shelf behind his head. “Would you believe me if I told you I was a little bit psychic? See, sweetie, I have this gift. I can sniff a virgin. Smell him from a mile away. And you, you reek like an untapped ass. That’s why I like to tease you about North. No, honey. Shush. Regina Rex is speaking now; you just listen. A grown man like you and still a virgin. Now that is a very, very rare find. And sweetie, I’m going to make you an offer. Are you listening?”
Shaw breathed through his lips, avoiding the smell of pâté on that flamingo pink nail. It had gotten so damn Animal Planet that he wouldn’t have been surprised if she dragged him off with her jaws around his neck. And underneath that initial panic was the hot, prickling flush of shame that somehow she knew, somehow she had figured it out.
“Ain’t nobody who can take that cherry from you the way Regina Rex can. Think about that, sweetie. You can keep your hand busy for the next ten years, waiting for your buddy to notice you. Or you can stop by Regina Rex’s apartment. No strings. No lovey-dovey stuff. You don’t even have to stay the night. You certainly don’t have to call the day after.” Then Regina flashed one of her show-stopper smiles a mile wide. “You’re just so scrumptious, and I hate the thought of nobody, absolutely nobody, getting that gorgeous boy puss.” She traced his lips with the tip of her nail. “Now what do you say about that?”
“I’m not—”
“Honey, trust me. I won’t tell a soul. And you’d be in very good hands. Like I told you, I’m kind of psychic. This is very much my area of expertise.”
Shaw opened his mouth. He had absolutely no idea what would come out except, maybe, some sort of fumbling denial that she was wrong. North would laugh. He’d have some kind of mocking subversion that twisted the whole thing around. North would—
“What am I interrupting?” North said in that voice like mahogany set to smolder.
“Since you don’t seem willing to take care of matters,” Regina said, “I was just offering your boy here—”
Shaw dropped the tonic water. It exploded. Carbonation propelled the water into a geyser, and Regina backstepped, slapping at her clothes, swearing at Shaw, North, the water, and the universe. Shaw tried to retreat, but he was backed into the pantry. His head cracked against the shelf, and the jar of pearl onions that Regina had replaced rolled over his shoulder, tipped, and shattered on the floor. Regina swore some more and backed up again. Her two-inch nails were spread with helpless horror.
With typical decisiveness, North grabbed a tea towel from the oven, smothered the geyser with it, and upended the bottle over the sink.
Shaw could smell the pearl onions. He shifted, and his toe scraped broken glass.
“What happened?” Teddi shouted as he sprinted from the breakfast nook.
Shaw found a very interesting patch of tile and focused on it.
“You stupid son of a bitch,” Regina shouted. “I’m supposed to wear this again tonight, but your stupid bitch ass just got me wet.”
Shaw opened his mouth, but nothing would come out. Virgin. And North was here, right here. Had North heard? Did he already know? And the last part, what Regina had said about Shaw waiting for North to notice him—
“What happened?” Teddi asked again.
Waiting for North to notice him. Regina knew. She had said it out loud, and North had probably heard. He had almost definitely heard. Shaw wanted to squeeze his eyes shut. This moment, all by itself, had probably just paid for his therapist to buy a yacht.
“Shaw was looking for tea,” North said as he wrung out the tea towel. “Regina, stop throwing a hissy fit. That look is good for you. Really shows off your breasts. If I were you, I’d think about staging a wet t-shirt contest.”
Regina huffed and put her hands on her hips—drawing the top even tighter, the wet fabric clinging to her chest. “Well . . . I suppose it isn’t awful.”
The worst of the moment had passed, and suddenly Shaw found his voice, and instead of saying something coherent and rational, the only thing that emerged was a strangled shout: “Licorice root tea.”
Everybody looked at him.
With a sigh, North tossed the towel in the sink.
Chapter 8
The Grand Caravan really did smell like dead dog. Today’s April day was hotter than usual; the windshield glowed with sunlight, and Shaw cranked the window down to get a lungful of exhaust as they followed Jefferson to Highway 40. The sky had hardened into an enameled blue-white. A robin darted from powerline to powerline, and then they reached the underpass, and the darkness was like a bandage to Shaw’s eyes.
“What did that old bitch do to you?”
“Nothing.”
“Did she hurt you?”
“God, no. I’m a grown man.”
“I’m sorry. I thought I had an eye on her.”
“I’m fine.”
“I know. That’s not what I’m saying. But did she . . . did she hurt you?”
Shaw considered that as the Caravan chugged up the ramp and onto the freeway. Up here, the sun was even brighter. It turned the Caravan’s snub nose into a white blaze, and Shaw had to close his eyes.
“She just—you’re going to laugh.”
“Probably. Since when can’t we laugh at each other?”
Since right now, Shaw thought. Since that night on the roof of Sigma Sigma. Since forever, maybe. Since Carl got cut up in an alley and a lunatic almost chopped off my balls, Shaw thought. Since that moment, we can’t laugh at each other. Not about some things.
Shaw opened his eyes and cleared his throat. “She wanted to hook up.”
“Well, yeah. What’s new? And you told her that a fancy rentboy like you charges five hundred bucks, right?”
“Of course.”
“We could really use that money.”
“Kissing is five hundred. Anything else is a thousand.”
North grinned. “Did you ever wonder what got her so hot on your trail? I mean, I know you play hard to get.”
“I don’t play hard to get.”
“So you’re easy?” North smirked and raised one hand from the wheel when Shaw started to protest. “On the eyes, I mean.”
“I just like to take my time. Get to know someone first.”
“Um, no.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s just your vibe.”
“I had my vibrations checked by Master Hermes last time I went—”
“No, not that vibration and harmonics and aura bullshit. Your vibe. Your—your whole thing. You.”
The patch of Highway 40 ahead looked like it had survived an acid bath, and for the next half a minute neither of them spoke. The Caravan bounced like a carnival ride, and Shaw had to clutch at the door handle and try to keep his lingering hangover from detonating his head like a shaped charge.
When they’d cleared the minefield, though, Shaw said, “What’s my thing?”
“Come on.”
“No, I’m serious. What’s my thing? What’s giving Regina this idea to walk right up and try to jump my bones?”
“You’re joking, right?”
“No, I’m not joking. What is it? What’s my vibe?”
“Master Hermes can tell you.”
“Don’t be an asshole.”
“It was just a joke. All right. Your vibe.” North studied him askew for a moment. “Hippy. The hemp pants, for example. Even if they do make your ass look incredible, they also mark you as a total hippy. And your hair. And the yoga shirt. And when you talk about crystals and coffee enemas—”
“I have never h
ad a coffee enema.”
“You literally could not stop talking about coffee enemas last month.”
“Yeah, I talked about them. I haven’t had one.”
“Ok, prepare yourself for a really big surprise: you come off as a hippy when you talk about stuff like that.”
“And?”
“I don’t know, it’s a whole thing.” North’s lips compressed as though he were holding something back, and then he added, “I think you give people the impression that you’re into that kind of stuff. Like, free love. Swinging.”
“Swinging.”
“One night stands.”
“Nobody has called it swinging since the 70s.”
“They probably call it something else these days. I’m a happily married man, so I wouldn’t know.”
Shaw wasn’t sure why, but that line, delivered by North with his face locked forward and his hands compressing the steering wheel, was the last straw.
“I’m not a hippy.”
“Ok.”
“I don’t sleep around.”
“I know. You play hard to get. But that’s not my point.”
“So what’s your point?”
“My point is that you’ve got this whole come-fuck-me vibe that drives guys crazy, and then you play hard to get. And I’m not saying it’s intentional. You want to take your time and get to know guys. I think that makes a lot of sense, especially after everything you’ve been through—”
“Oh my God.”
The realization, following on the heels of Shaw’s encounter with Regina, was too much: North felt sorry for him. Even after all these years, North still pitied him.
“What?” North said.
“Nothing. Can we just—” They followed the Kingshighway exit, and Barnes Jewish climbed the sky to the right. “Let’s just drop this.”
“Can I just say one thing?”
“North, please.”
“One thing. Maybe two.”
The green swath of Forest Park opened across the road, and the Planetarium glinted above the trees.
“One thing,” Shaw said.
“I think it’s great that you take things slow. Honestly.”
“Please, holy Buddha, change me into an ant or a grasshopper or a tire iron.”
“And number two, I will totally support you in your decision to bang Regina for money. As long as it’s for at least a thousand dollars.”
“You’re pimping me out now.”
“I really want a new TV, and Tucker is saving for that stupid new—” North cut off, and his face colored.
“For what?”
“Never mind.”
They drove the rest of the way in silence.
The address Teddi had provided was for a three-story walkup crammed between a Kaldi’s Coffee and a Courtyard by Marriot. It matched the clues Matty had given them: secure door, but no doorman; within a few blocks of Allure; and located within the bubble of the Central West End. Although, Shaw noted, toward the very edge. The rent would still be exorbitant. But not quite as exorbitant as the rest of the area.
North found a parking spot up the block, paid the meter, and stood with his hands shoved into that stupid Carhartt jacket.
“I feel like I pissed you off.”
“My head just hurts.”
“I was joking about Regina.”
“I know.”
Those ice-rim eyes searched Shaw’s face, and then one hand settled on Shaw’s shoulder, squeezed. “She’s not even your type.”
“Excuse me?”
Shaw wasn’t even sure what triggered the seismic shift toward anger. A lot of it was the humiliation of having to stand there, Regina’s nail stinking like mashed duck liver, while she dragged out one of the most embarrassing secrets of his existence. The first shock was wearing off, and now Shaw’s defense systems were engaged, transmuting humiliation into anger.
And North pitied Shaw. That realization was worse than the rest of it. North felt bad for Shaw. Because of one night, one fucking night years ago, North still saw Shaw as broken. No, worse than broken. Defective.
Shaw knew some of that, at least, and some of it he could sense, and some of it he was sure he’d fucking process the next time he saw Dr. Farr, but the anger smoked up the top of his brain and made it hard to think about anything else right now.
“I just meant Regina’s not who you usually go for. What’s going on? You look pissed.”
“Who do I usually go for?”
“Come on.”
“No, I want to hear.”
“We’ve got a job to do.”
“We’ve got two minutes for you to tell me who I usually go out and fuck.”
“What the hell is going on? I was giving you a compliment—”
“Because I don’t like to fuck drag queens? Is that a compliment?”
Dark red stained North’s cheekbones. “Can we have this conversation somewhere else? I’m sorry I made you mad. I’m sorry I said anything.”
“No, just tell me. Who’s my type?” And without even knowing it, Shaw had made a decision. It was before him, a crystal clear matrix into which North’s answer would be evaluated. If North even hinted at it—blond, beefy, blue-collar, a stud like me, because I know you’ve had a crush on me since college—if anything even remotely like that came out of North’s mouth, this was over. Pity was one thing. Shaw could stand the pity. But pity and humiliation. Pity and North’s . . . forbearance? No. No fucking way.
North still hadn’t said anything.
“Forget it,” Shaw said, brushing past him and heading toward the building.
“Smart.” North caught his arm. “Like you. Bookish. In a cute way. Glasses are a plus. Skinny. They universally like Game of Thrones.”
Shaw’s heart beat in his throat for what felt like an hour. And then he jerked his arm loose and said, “Of course they do. They’ve got to have good taste.”
North opened both hands palm up, and the question was clear: what’s going on?
“Sorry. I just—my head hurts, and Regina got under my skin, and I fucked up that date with Hank and—I don’t know.”
For a moment, North seemed to evaluate this statement. Then he nodded. The snowfall eyes didn’t miss much.
At the door to Mark Sevcik’s building, North gestured for Shaw to go ahead, and Shaw ran his hand down the call buttons. A few voices queried, and Shaw ignored them. He ran his hands down the buttons again. And again. And again.
And then somebody buzzed them in.
They passed the mailroom and took the stairs to the third floor, and they took the hall to the back of the building, and then they stopped. North put one of his hands flat on Shaw’s chest, and the gesture was so unnecessary that it made Shaw smile, and he didn’t like how very much he liked it.
The door to Mark Sevcik’s apartment had been kicked in.
Chapter 9
North examined the door for less than a heartbeat. The splintered wood around the strike plate told most of the story; the boot print on the door itself told the rest. He did, however, notice that the deadbolt hadn’t been set.
Something wasn’t right. Apprehension prickled the back of North’s neck; he didn’t believe when people talked about feeling eyes on them, but he did believe in trusting his gut. And his gut was telling him something about this whole setup, with the door kicked in and waiting for them, wasn’t right.
Easing his hand back from Shaw’s chest—the movement had been reflexive, and North allowed himself to enjoy, in that last instant, the five points of heat under the pads of his fingers—North cut his eyes to Shaw, and Shaw gave a half nod, which was kind of a relief. It was the first normal thing the wiry man had done in the last two days. North had been starting to think Shaw had a screw loose.
North doubled back along the hall, checking to see if someone had followed, but the stairs were quiet. When he glanced back, Shaw was standing with his hands shoved into those
ridiculous hemp pants, and he cocked his head, summoning North back.
As North watched, Shaw approached the door to the apartment opposite Sevcik’s. He studied the peephole. Then he rapped on the wood.
Nothing.
Shaw knocked again.
That tickle at the back of North’s neck had become a tingle. He didn’t like any of this. He didn’t like when his gut started screaming at him that things were bad, really bad. The last time he had ignored that warning, it had ended with—his mind whited out, and then all he could see was Shaw at the bottom of the cement steps—North having to put a bullet in Marvin Hanson.
Still nothing from the apartment opposite Sevcik’s. North threw another glance back at the stairs. He was starting to wish he were carrying.
“Call the police,” Shaw said.
“You’ve got a phone.”
“Tell them somebody’s breaking into unit 3D.”
North worked his phone out of his pocket and unlocked the screen.
From behind the door came a voice. “We’re coming out. Move up against the wall, hands spread where we can see them.”
“Come on out first and I’ll think about it,” Shaw said.
Hints of a murmured discussion made their way through the door, and then it cracked open. The first man to come out made North grimace: he was too much of a pretty boy. Darkly sandy hair, darker eyebrows, even darker eyes, like the whole palette had been selected off the Calvin Klein beachbum collection. He wore a tailored suit, and he was holding out a badge. Shaw obligingly backed away from the door, hands out and open.
“Gentlemen,” the pretty boy said.
His partner wasn’t pretty, and he looked like he’d had twenty hard years on the force. Bushy dark hair, bushy dark brows, a bushy little sliver of goatee. He might have passed for a guy who just never made it out of the 80s except for the eyes. He looked like he’d seen every kind of shit humans could imagine and then some new stuff people were still inventing. He looked like he knew how to do his job.