by Adira August
"Then you'd have to become a kept man." He waggled his eyebrows, as if he were joking, but his gaze burned bright with anticipation.
Well, shit. I didn't have time to manage his burgeoning affection for me. I had a case to prepare.
The Killer …
.. was in pain. Stabbing, wrenching, swelling, gut-twisting pain. It started when Hunter's head disappeared into the asshole's lap.
The car rocked. The fucking car rocked from the force of the boy's giant red dripping cock slamming into Hunter's mouth stretched and drooling and …
Stifling a cry from a stab of intestine ripping agony, the killer almost missed the driver's door opening.
Hunter Dane, traitorous motherfucker that he was, emerged feet first.
He stood up. Adjusted his clothes. God forbid he shouldn't look good for the pig in the passenger's seat.
At the sound of their car's engine starting, the killer blinked hard, peering through a dark tunnel at the tail lights of the grey car. Felt for the ignition key. Waited until the car turned out of the alley, back onto the one-way.
The killer turned the key. The music filled the car.
PART FOUR
Thursday cont’d
9:33pm The Last Verse
Cam directed Hunter to a reserved spot in the covered parking next to the building. He swiped a card key through a security sensor and pulled the door open. Hunt passed him, with the ever-present briefcase.
"So what do you do now?" Cam asked, depressing the elevator button for the top floor. "I mean, knowing is good, but you can't arrest people on 'I think they did it,' right?"
"We make a new timeline," Hunt said. "We examine the evidence and see if it supports the hypothesis. It will. I write the warrant and wake up a judge. Uniforms make the arrest. We get a print match, a blood type match. That'll be enough for an extended hold until the DNA match."
The door slid open in front of the imposing reception desk. A series of letters suspended over it gleamed in the dim night lighting. "Snow & Assoc."
"You make it sound simple," Cam said. He found a switch and the hallways flooded with light.
Hunt hoisted the briefcase up onto the tall reception desk. "It's a long, tedious, nitpicky process," Hunt told him. "It has to be done in a few hours and defense attorneys will have months to find the mistakes. There can't be any. It has to be perfect."
"Now you're just trying to make me hard, again," Cam said.
Hunt handed him the laptop. "Why don't you get started, I have to hit the head. Which is …?"
Cam was already halfway to the conference room, one door from reception. "Other way. Back past the elevators. First door on the left."
Dragging the briefcase along, because heaven for freakin' bid he should leave it alone in an empty office building for five minutes, Hunt found the right door.
Inside, he muttered a thank-you to the unknown person who'd insisted on paper towels - nice ones at that - and plucked a few out of the holder. Running them under warm water intensified his need to piss, but he wrung the towels out carefully so he wouldn't drip on himself.
During the parking lot interlude, in his extreme arousal, Hunt had managed to unload a gallon of precum in the briefs Cam had leant him. In the handicapped stall, where there was a hook for his trousers, Hunt stripped below the waist and cleaned himself.
He slipped the sticky briefs into an empty evidence bag. He put that into his jacket pocket, afraid he'd forget it in his briefcase and log it into evidence some day. He pulled his pants back on. Commando it was.
He cupped his hands under the cold water. Splashed it on his face. He needed a shave. He noticed some of his beard hairs were white.
"I'm getting too old for this shit," Hunt muttered. Too old to suddenly discover a new kind of sex with an indefatigable lover. Too old to start looking forward to a smile or quirk of an eyebrow. Too old to deal with the crushes of earnest youths.
Hunter inventoried his many aches since Cam had taken over his sex life. His sphincter that reminded him at every step of how utterly defenseless and insanely aroused he'd been when Cam drove inside him. His hips that ached from being stretched so far and pounded so hard. Shoulders … wrists … jaw. And it had only been a day. A week, if he counted Friday. The fading bruises under his clothes voted he should.
The welcome scent of dark roast reached him as he tossed the last of the paper towels into the bin. Cam had made coffee, bless him. They needed to be sharp and it had been a very long … day? How many hours had it been -
He heard the ding of the elevator at the same time as the music, so loud it penetrated into the bathroom.
I picture you with matchstick men
The Colt was in his hands as before his shoulder hit the door.
I look for you, I see you when
He pivoted into the hall in a shooter's crouch.
You rush to lie in bed with him
He saw the fabric weave of a coat as the barrel came up to target, twelve yards away ...
Now through with you and through with them
… a revolver in small hands held straight out, the body already pivoted toward Cam ....
Alone I stop the matchstick men
… frozen in the hallway with a mug in his hand. Steam rising into the air ...
And with him you’re the matchstick men
Hunt no longer heard the music. He didn't hear anything.
I picture you with matchstick men
His first round hit Lillibeth directly between the shoulder blades, the second and third slightly higher and to the left as she moved.
He pulled the fourth shot as she went down so he wouldn't hit Cam. It penetrated a red polkadotted ceiling tile.
He ran to her, the Colt trained on her. His kick spun the revolver away on its cylinder to stop amongst white shards of a broken ceramic mug.
Someone was screaming. It was hard to hear over the blaring music.
Polkadotted?
9:44pm Two Minutes
There was blood everywhere.
Cam writhed in agony; arterial spray arced from wall to ceiling to wall.
Two minutes. He has less than two minutes.
Hunt leapt on him, the Colt holstered, both hands pressing down. Cam screamed.
"Lie still," Hunter shouted. "You'll be dead in two minutes if you keep moving. Lie still and do not pass out. I don't have time for your squeamish candy-ass bullshit right now. Man up, you fucking pansy!"
Assess.
Hunter wasn't concerned about the steady flow from between his fingers. The spurting had stopped.
He had one knee on either side of Cam's thigh, facing him. That was good. He had the tools he needed, but couldn't reach either of them.
"Can you hear me?" he asked over the music.
Cam's mouth moved. Hunt couldn't hear him, but the words were clear. Fuck you.
"Good," Hunt shouted. "Pay attention. Your femur is broken. That's what hurts so bad. The bullet ripped your femoral artery. That's what will kill you. We need a tourniquet. You are going to sit up-"
"You're supposed to go unconscious and wake up in the hospital!" Cam shouted.
"Sit the fuck up, you spoiled brat, private school, shithead."
Cam lifted his head and glared.
"Take a deep breath, cross your arms over your chest and do a sit up. You've done it a billion times. Let's go."
He did. Screaming. Reaching. His hands locked around Hunter's neck. He let out an explosive breath. Tears coursed down his face.
Hunt spoke into his ear. "Look over my shoulder. Is she moving?"
Cam rubbed his eyes on Hunt's shoulder. "No. Foam, pink foam from her nose and mouth. She looks dead, but I'm not sure."
"Watch her. Tell me if she starts moving toward the gun." It was to his left, he could see it.
"What are you going to do? If she gets up?" Cam asked.
"Get you to press on your own leg so I have an arm free to kill her."
"Your job sucks."
&
nbsp; "Where's your phone?"
"Office."
Alternatives.
Cam could either slide, with Hunt attached, around the reception desk to the phone there, or remove the tie he'd leant Hunt and use it as a tourniquet. Not ideal. A tourniquet like that can do serious damage. So can sliding around with a razor sharp edge of broken bone in your leg that can slice through nerves and muscle tissue.
Hunter knew it was a toss-up in terms of the danger. But the slide was a monumental feat of strength and coordination in Cam's present condition.
If things went badly, Hunter didn't want Cam living the rest of his life asking why he hadn't made the other choice. The fact that he was assaulted by extreme pain and brain-shredding sound, sitting in a widening pool of his own blood and could barely think, wouldn't help him forgive himself in his wheelchair. Better to blame Hunter.
"Take off my tie, we need a tourniquet," Hunt told him. "We'll have an ambulance here in less than five minutes. They'll have an inflatable. It'll be fine."
Cam looked relieved. "It's my tie," he said and reached for it.
When it was free, Hunt told him, "Okay, slide it under, up high. Don't catch a ball under it when you tie it."
"Yeah," Cam said. "That might hurt." He rolled his eyes.
Go, adrenaline.
"We don't have a handy stick, so you'll have to hang onto the ends until I find something."
Cam wrapped the ends of the tie around his fists and pulled the simple knot tight, making a terrible noise through clenched teeth. The oozing under Hunt's fingers slowed.
"Excellent," Hunt told him. He felt Cam relax slightly.
"I'm going to grab the phone on the desk. This might bleed more when I let get up. Don't let it scare you. You're in top shape, you have superhighways for arteries and your heart could pump up the tires on a semi. You have plenty of blood. After I make the call, you can lie back and rest. I'll take over. One minute, Cam. Keep the pressure on."
"Hunt?" Cam's looked at him with the very big eyes of a frightened child.
Hunter leaned forward so his mouth was at Cam's ear. "If you die, I'm gonna find your mother and console her. In her bedroom. For days."
He jumped up and raced for the phone.
Friday
11:19am Homicide
Detective Sergeant Hunter Dane was asleep under a table in an interrogation room of the Denver Police Homicide bureau.
When he fell asleep, he knew two things of importance: Lillibeth Elaine Forrester was dead in the city morgue. Camden Snow was not dead in an operating room a few floors above her body.
The less important things were that they had his Colt (standard procedure). He wasn't allowed to leave (not standard). He didn't care because he was so completely exhausted by the time he finished his statements, he couldn't walk to the elevator much less drive his car.
Pain woke him. And the urgent need to piss. He tried to identify one part of his body that did not hurt. The bottoms of his feet. He wondered if that would be true when he stood up.
He opened his eyes. It was a two-stage process. First, he rubbed the dried eyegunk stuff from his glued-shut lids. I have too many eyelashes. His shoulders protested the movements.
Second, lifting his lids. It seemed like a lot of work after the eyegunk rubbing. His bladder banged on his cock.
Fine.
He opened his eyes. Legs. In stockings. And low heels. Pretty ankles. A woman's bag on the floor next to the chair the legs led to. The leather so new, he could smell it. And some clean, sweet perfume…
What the fuck?
He rolled and yelped from the pain in his hip. Tried to push himself up on his hands, whacking the back of his head into the underside of the table. Scooched backward until the wall greeted his sock-covered toes. Tried to push himself up and fell sideways onto his elbow.
Now everything hurt.
"I'm wondering how you ever managed to save my son's life?" a musical voice queried, with an undertone of amusement.
Hunt found himself on his knees before the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. If Cam was a Norse sex god, this was the Ice Queen of Asgard. Tall and ash blond, sleek in a blood red designer suit, eyes like Swiss topaz - electric blue, sparking intelligence. Her skin … metaphors failed Hunt. The resemblance between Cam and his mother was striking.
"You should be wondering how I managed to get him shot, in the first place." Hunt used the table to struggle to his feet, collapsing immediately into a chair.
Ow.
"Elizabeth Snow, right?" he asked.
"You're going to console me in my bedroom? For days?" She cocked her head. Like son like mother. "You'll need to be able to stand up, first."
I really have to piss.
"It's my belief," he said, trying to muster a bit of dignity, "that people are less likely to succumb to shock when they are angry and have something to live for. Like beating the crap out of me."
He pushed himself upright.
Uprightish.
"I really would like to speak with you,” he said. “But, I need to - I'll be right back."
He paused in the doorway. The bullpen was full. A strong arm slipped around his waist. Elizabeth just down from Asgard Snow helped him across the room.
"Where's the bathroom?" she asked.
"Couple miles up the right-hand corridor."
Her arm tightened briefly around him in lieu of a laugh.
"I'll get you there," she said. "Camden wouldn't like it if anything happened to you."
"Because he wants to kick my ass, himself?"
She laughed. "I don't think kicking is what he has in mind for that part of your anatomy, Hunter."
He felt the heat flash across his face. They stopped in front of the men's room door and she stepped back.
"People tend to speak freely under pain medications and coming out of anesthesia," she said. "He told me about you. About your"-- she hesitated --"attachment disorder, let's call it. Camden is a brilliant, highly accomplished man, and an adult. So, normally, I wouldn't ... But-"
Her eyes filled and it startled him. "My son's in love with you, detective. Has been for some time. Years, from what he said."
She cleared her throat, taking possession of herself again. "I have a car waiting out front. You're free to leave. The car will take you to a sort of spa retreat in Bear Creek Canyon. You'll be well-cared for, as you deserve to be, while this is all ... handled."
She waved a hand vaguely toward homicide, then pinned Hunt with a very direct gaze.
"My son would be an extraordinary human being if he'd never heard of the Olympics. My son deserves to be loved."
She walked away.
Hunt went into the bathroom before he peed down his leg.
Hunter
The nice thing about elevators to underground parking is, you can avoid Town cars waiting to whisk you away to luxury spa prison. If I was going to use up all my comp time and get out of town, I was going someplace with a game I could afford a buy-in to at a table sporting piles of colorful chips. With a pool outside.
Where no one would demand anything of me but to bet, pass or fold.
I stopped in VanDevere's office and told him I was taking my comp time. All at once. He said yes, he'd been informed.
Ah. I had thought it was my decision. But this wasn't the time to appear ungrateful. He gave me back the Colt; the lab was done with it. Nugent had brought it down himself. Even the Captain looked impressed at that.
When I got home, I plugged in my cell, set an alarm and put it on "do not disturb," only allowing one number to ring through. Not that I thought Cam would be up to making a phone call, but, just in case.
I leaned against the wall of my shower until the hot water ran out, took some anti-inflammatories and passed out for seven hours. When the alarm sounded at eight, I felt I could have slept another seven. But I had something to do. Something I wouldn't put off.
Shaved, dressed, armed and fed, using my badge liberally and lying shamelessly to
the staff, I found Cam staring at a wall-mounted TV. It was quiet and cool in his room. His laptop was on the bed tray along with a box of funky hospital tissues.
I stopped at the door to foam my hands with disinfectant. He caught the movement and glanced over. The sound went off.
Nearing the bed, I saw the remote in his hand. His leg was tented, both arms had IVs. But he looked great.
I couldn't help smiling. He smiled back, his shy boy smile. He reached for me and I took his hand.
His fingers tightened on mine and he pulled me down to him. "I'm not your little brother," he said.
His hand slipped around my neck and I felt the weight of his thumb lightly against my carotid. He pulled me into a kiss. An open mouthed, tongues stroking, oh fuck this feels good, kiss.
I really didn't want that, now. I pulled back a little. He let me break off, but kept me close with a light hand and an intense gaze.
I'd interviewed a lot of people in this hospital. Been in it myself. I found the right button with barely a flicker of a glance. The bed hummed and dropped. I dropped with it until I was on my knees for him. Where I should be.
"I did everything wrong," I told him. "I did what I tell everyone else not to do. You almost died because of it. LittleBit did die because of it."
His eyes narrowed and he frowned. "Say the rest. The part about you and me."
"I don't understand that part."
His fingers tightened slightly on my throat. "Say it."
"You shouldn't have been there. Or involved at all. I - wanted you there. With me." Tears ran down my face and dripped off my chin onto my shirt.
"I know," he said. "I wanted to be there. It was my choice." He pressed the switch and raised me with the bed. His hand slipped off my neck and down over my chest and stomach and abdomen. And crotch. He eyed me.
"Dude. You're hard."
I slid a hand over the blanket. "So are you." Hang on. "You're catheterized, right?"