by Elle Keaton
He scolded himself. For one thing, after the hookup spectacle at Buck and Joey’s wedding, he was acting on his friend’s advice and taking a break from hookups for a while. He was not having sex. No matter how lonely he got or starved for the feel of skin sliding against his own, it wasn’t worth how shitty he felt afterward.
Besides. Besides, Nate probably wasn’t in the market for a guy who jumped at the sight of his own shadow. And cop, Miguel reminded himself. And, vow of chastity. Christ, he had the attention span of a gnat.
Also. Cop.
A cop who Miguel found intriguing… meaning he should run the other way. Not that Miguel had seen any sign of Nate over the past few days. He’d kind of hoped that they would get around to celebrating Nate’s birthday. Obviously he wasn’t big on celebrating it, but Miguel could have made it fun. Instead Nate’d gotten some kind of cop text and disappeared.
Moving away from the window, Miguel felt chilly despite the summer heat. He grabbed a sweatshirt from one of the still-packed boxes and tried not to feel depressed that at the age of twenty-eight his worldly possessions almost fit entirely into a souped-up mid-’90s Volkswagen GTI. Pulling the sweatshirt on, he popped a coffee into the personal coffee maker he’d splurged on when he went shopping with Nate.
It had been fun hanging out with him, even if he was a cop. If Miguel could figure out how to do it again without making an ass out of himself, he would. He’d set firm personal boundaries with Buck; he could probably do it with Nate. He could have a friend who was just a friend, even one he was attracted to.
Thing was, as hot as Buck was, he was a one-guy guy. Joey James was his guy. Miguel had worked for Buck for almost three years, and during that time Buck had never dated. Miguel hadn’t known for sure if the guy was straight, gay, bi, or possibly ace. They’d become friends by working eight hours a day together. Buck had an easier time talking if his head was stuck under the hood of a car, and Miguel liked to talk regardless, so it all worked out.
Miguel had seen Buck as a kind of project—once he’d gotten over his surprise that a stranger would hire him without references. As good as the guy was at cars, he was shit at his personal life. Had been shit. Miguel took a sip of his steaming coffee, letting the hot liquid roll down his throat. In the end, Buck had figured himself out without much help from Miguel… and now he was happily married.
By seven a.m. he’d unpacked his remaining boxes and stacked the contents around the studio. Unpacking underscored the need for Miguel to look for more furniture, or at least some storage containers. Maybe he could hit Nate up again, have him help make some choices. Miguel wondered what had called Nate away the other day. Probably he didn’t want to know.
He’d harbored the weird hope Nate would randomly show up at his apartment the next day and they could celebrate the Fourth together—Miguel would make good on his promise of a rain check. Instead, Miguel had made an appearance at Dom and Kevin’s BBQ, where Miguel was the oldest by six years.
They were standing around the grill together, monitoring the progress of the hot dogs and patties, when Dom asked, “So, how’d you start? As a mechanic?” Across the cement patio, Kevin was hanging out with a group of friends from the teen center.
Miguel chuckled. “You know I grew up in the system, right?” He’d never hidden his roots from anyone. There was no shame in being a foster kid.
Dom nodded.
“The last home I was placed in, well, I took one look at the place and was immediately trying to figure out how I was going to be able to sneak out, find my friends, get high, whatever.” Miguel was numb by that point in his life, having had to move so many times he couldn’t remember all the places he’d lived. “Mr. Singh took one look at me and had me pegged. I knew it, too, but I tried to be a wise-ass anyway. I can’t explain it. Mr. Singh was this wiry, gray-haired man with heavy eyebrows that twitched when he was angry. He was about three inches shorter than me.
“He let me get settled into my space, thinking I was the smartest kid ever born, before he sprang his trap. I fell right into it. He was waiting on the sidewalk outside; he probably hadn’t even had to wait that long.
“‘Mr. Ramirez,’ Mr. Singh said, ‘it’s a pleasure to see you out this time of night. Walk with me.’ I was petrified. Served me right. What could I do but agree to go on a scary midnight walk with my new foster parent, who was probably planning on tossing me in the river for his trouble. But no, we walked a few blocks—in complete silence. I was seriously imagining what my death was going to be and who would care if it happened (the answer was no one).
“We stopped, I will always remember, on a corner, and stood for a second, Mr. Singh just watching me. We were on a busier street where there were a few small businesses. There were streetlights on each corner; they seemed as bright as the kind in sports stadiums, and vapor was rising from them eerily. Vampires, I don’t know what I thought.
“‘This way.’ Mr. Singh pointed to an auto shop. Great, he was going to murder and dismember me, then crush me with a car. ‘This is my shop.’ He led me inside. Singh’s is a lot like Buck’s place. Family owned and all that.” Miguel waved a hand trying to encompass all he meant by that, by family.
“‘Mr. Ramirez, do you plan on going to prison?’ I couldn’t even speak by that point. I was really just hoping to live to see the sun rise. I shook my head. ‘I will give you one chance. One. You will come here to this shop every day after school. You will watch and learn. When you have learned enough, you will work. When you graduate high school you will have a skill, something more than sneaking out of houses and stealing cars.’ In my defense, Dom, I was only caught stealing a car once.”
Dom’s mouth was hanging open. He snapped it shut, then asked, “So, what did you do?”
“Well, I fucked up a couple times, and I’m sure Mr. Singh had to think long and hard about his offer. But I stuck it out. And in the end, I loved it. Being with all the guys in the shop… they were like the first family I ever had. They gave me crap, advice, helped me with my homework—and taught me almost everything I know about engines. Best three years of my life. Even my case manager was surprised.”
“Wait, so what happened after? After high school?”
“When you’re eighteen you age out of the system—there’s no staying, kids are just put out into the world to fend for themselves. Mr. Singh couldn’t let me stay after that; another kid needed a place. I worked at the shop, though, for a couple years while I got my AA. I guess I figured I owed him that much.”
“Do you still talk to him?”
Miguel grimaced. “Not so much.” Justin happened, and Miguel had alienated anyone he called family. He was still so ashamed he hadn’t reached out to the Singhs. Six years since they had talked. Five years since he had stepped foot in the shop to gossip and laugh with his friends.
Dom let the subject drop… kind of. “How’d you end up in Skagit?”
Because his world as he knew it ended, and there was nowhere. He bought a bus ticket with the last of his money for as far away from Spokane as he could get. Skagit had been just an end point. Lucky for him, it had turned out to be a beginning as well. “Dude, that is a whole separate story.”
“Guys, the grill is totally on fire!” Kevin yelled. Oops. They rushed over to try and calm the flaming grill and save some of the BBQ.
After having a couple obligatory watery beers and a burnt hot dog, Miguel had made his excuses and left for Buck’s, where he watched the fireworks display on TV. Good lord, he was a downer even to himself.
The rest of the week his dreams were populated by Mr. Singh and other people from his past. He was never sure exactly what was happening. Sometimes they were trying to talk to him; other times they seemed to be trying to warn him about something, but Miguel couldn’t hear what they were saying because he had noise-canceling headphones on while he worked. When he woke, he almost felt his head to see if he was still wearing them.
By nine Sunday morning, Miguel was twitchy and out
of sorts. He had to get out of his apartment. Sunday in Skagit meant going to a church or a coffee house. Same same. Deciding it was worth any discomfort he might experience, Miguel headed to the Booking Room.
Skagit’s most popular coffee shop was located in a part of town currently undergoing a facelift by the city. It was also across the street from police headquarters, which Miguel found off-putting.
He knew he shouldn’t paint all cops with a single brush. It was a difficult habit to break when he was faced with the knuckle-dragging mouth breathers who hadn’t yet retired from the force. The younger cops, he conceded, were better. Supposedly the new captain was working hard to bring in diverse and better-educated cops, but it was an uphill battle, and Skagit wasn’t exactly a metropolis.
The shop was only slightly busy. Sara, his ex-girlfriend, wasn’t there. Feeling guiltily relieved, Miguel nursed a triple shot of espresso with a coffee back for a couple hours. He caught up with a few acquaintances who wanted the shoot the breeze, read the news on his phone, and people watched.
The kid ringing up sales and wiping down tables couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen. A name badge declared him to be Angel, and he was stunning. Big dark eyes, dark hair hanging down and covering one eye, flawless pale skin, no freckles or acne. Whatever scars he had were hidden by his clothing or psychological.
Anxiety weighted Angel’s every action; he stiffened whenever the milk screeched as it was being steamed, jolted when customers clattered the dishware in the dish tub, watched every customer who came into the shop from behind his shield of hair.
Miguel could tell Angel was trying to stay calm, but he kept startling at unexpected sounds or loud voices. Cops were often loud. Like it wasn’t enough they could arrest you, put you in handcuffs, keep you from due process long enough to scare the crap out of you—they also had to encroach on your personal space with their booming voices. Miguel identified Angel’s struggle because he recognized it in himself. No matter how many years he spent away from Justin and his own past, it caught up with him at unexpected turns.
Eventually, even with the caffeine, Miguel had a hard time keeping his eyes open, so he walked back to his apartment and heated up an uninspired late lunch/early dinner of canned soup and a stale sandwich he’d grabbed from the gas station deli earlier in the week. Then he went to bed, waking up once during the night when he thought he heard a thump against his front door. When he opened it nothing, and no one, was there.
Chapter Six: Nate
Most agents hate surveillance. Nate loathed surveillance passionately. He found it especially hateful when he was alone trying to keep himself awake, and his partner was on the inside, in danger, where he would be unable to reach her.
He’d been parked alongside the Skagit Valley–Fir Island road since late Tuesday evening, arriving as soon as possible after Klay’s text. The narrow road was rural, rising and dipping along the small hills and depressions crossing the Skagit Valley floor. Farms lay on either side of the road, stretching miles ahead and behind where Nate was parked under a huge stand of cottonwood trees. He left only when he had to, long enough to pee and grab another go-cup of coffee.
He didn’t even get to use his own car. Too flashy. Klay insisted he take one of the cars waiting for auction, so he’d chosen a late-1980s F-150. Once upon a time it had been white with an aqua-blue stripe along the body. Now it was mostly a big dent with a little paint on it. It fit in perfectly, and if anyone saw a medium-height redheaded man sitting in it for long periods, they would probably assume he was waiting for a drug buy or was already high. Nothing like a meth and opioid epidemic as an excuse to sit and stare for long periods of time.
No one looked twice; no cars slowed down to see what he was doing. No one called the cops. No cops even drove out on this backwater road. Nate was dying of boredom. The suspect Gomez heard was supposed to visit his aunt had still not shown up. Nate was sweltering in the truck, and last night he hadn’t left because he’d be too far away if she texted. She hadn’t texted. His mind roiled with the implications: Was she compromised? Injured? Locked up somewhere? Why had Alejandro Rosales not shown? Had he been tipped off? Or was the information faulty? Nate could not turn off the worried thoughts circling his brain.
Also, watching the workers toil in fields muddy from giant irrigation sprinklers gushing water under the heat of the July sun was killing him. Groups of laborers were assigned to different parts of the fields, and a truck very similar to his would drive between them, the driver barking out orders and picking up the boxes that had been filled with produce. This particular farm had several different crops and was supposedly known for its organic produce sold both locally and southward. Nate thought that if most consumers were aware of the conditions their fancy kale was harvested under, they would be horrified.
He wondered what Miguel had done for the holiday. Had to be better than sitting half-awake in a truck all night, listening to the bangs of illegal fireworks going off all over the county. The truck did have a bench seat, so it had that in its favor. Nate wasn’t so tall that he couldn’t make himself kind of comfortable by lying across the seat and shutting his eyes for five to ten minutes at a time.
His phone buzzed. Grabbing it from its perch on the dash, he read the text.
DB – Centralia ID/AR
The message was from Klay. Dead body found in Centralia, identified as Alejandro Rosales. Great. Their closest thing to a lead in this case managed to get himself killed.
Another text buzzed in.
NG?
No. Nate hadn’t heard from Gomez.
sammy trade 15 min.
Once Sammy Ferreira had taken over, Nate spent ten minutes at home under the cool spray of his shower before toweling off and getting dressed again. By nine a.m. he was heading back to the ratty business park where the team had offices.
Klay impatiently awaited him. Leading him into one of the interview rooms, Klay veered off first and grabbed a cup of coffee. “You want one?”
Yes, but not that swill.
Klay read the expression on his face with accuracy. “Yeah, this coffee is shit.”
Nate and Klay were the same height, but Klay could snap Nate in two. Well, he could if Nate weren’t highly trained in several defensive arts. Klay made Nate a little nervous, even after being on the team for a year. They sat down, and Klay placed the file folder he’d brought with him on the small table.
“It looks like Rosales was killed in a robbery.” Klay slid the file over to Nate. Nate opened it and began flipping through the pages. A baby-faced killer lay in a pool of blood on the floor of a 24-hour convenience store. Rosales had been wanted for kidnapping, extortion, and the double murder of his ex-girlfriend and her new boyfriend. Also a few minor drug charges.
“Looks like?” Nate asked.
“Still waiting for forensics on the shells recovered at the scene. As it seems right now, he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Walked in on a burglary in process. The clerk didn’t live either; witnesses are scarce.”
“What does this mean for Gomez?”
“We’re going to keep her where she is for now. May try to get Sammy in there too. Having Rosales kick the bucket like this was a little too convenient. I’m not convinced. This means you need to stick around the area, on call but separate. I don’t want them connecting you and Gomez. You can catch up on those remote trainings you’ve been avoiding. All stuff you’ll need to finish by the end of the year anyway. Might as well get it over with.” Klay had an irritating glint in his eye.
Nate was reasonably certain he didn’t whimper out loud. Remote training was the worst. Who had he pissed off? Hours of mind-numbing procedure videos followed by quizzes? His brain was going to turn to mush.
Klay grinned as if he could read the thoughts running through Nate’s head. “There’s a couple super fun ones.”
“I’m sorry, boss, but you should never be allowed to utter the words ‘super’ and ‘fun.’”
Th
e wicked smile spread wider across Klay’s face. “Would you rather do the ergonomics one? Or ‘Established Hierarchy of How to Check Out Sensitive Materials’?” Klay laughed. “Stick around town, do your normal stuff. Try to stay busy and not worry about Gomez. She’s a capable agent; she knows how to handle herself.”
At his car, Nate let out the groan he had been holding in. Then he started the engine and headed into downtown. He needed a real cup of coffee. He’d never been in this kind of weird work limbo before. Klay had assured him it was just for the time being, but Nate still felt twitchy—off balance. Time on his hands was not something he was used to.
He’d almost made it to the Booking Room—Klay’s friend owned it, so the team generally hung out there—when his phone buzzed with a recognizable ring tone. Nate let it go to voicemail. Apparently his behavior had made the rounds. Now one of his sisters was calling to add her voice to the cacophony of those who thought he was misbehaving. To try and convince him that he should move back home and drop the pretense of a career in law enforcement.
None of them understood him. None of them tried. They all wanted him to force himself to fit into the mold he had been groomed for. Not a single family member had ever stopped to ask what he wanted. What his dream life looked like. It bothered him. It hurt that people who were supposed to accept him and encourage him, instead saw his behavior as traitorous.
He sighed. At himself. Because the other side of the story was, these people were his family. The only one he had.
Before he got out of his car, he jabbed at the screen to return the call. Might as well get it over with.
“Hi, Mel.”
“Nate.” Mel had a deep voice and was the only sibling he looked remotely like. Mel didn’t have the same bright-red hair, but they did share a plethora of freckles between the two of them. She was fourteen years older. Their mother had dutifully had three children in a row, each two years apart. Then eight years passed before Nate appeared on the scene. Something none of his siblings ever let him forget.